Que Será, Será

When she was just a little girl, Gwen loved to ask her parents many little questions:

Then one day, her questions changed, and they were no longer little:

Her father’s eyes would dim, his face would cloud.  His answers were always gentle and kind, soft to the touch.  But while he talked, no matter how hard she tried, Gwen’s own eyes could not pierce the cloud that veiled his true face.

Those not-so-little questions eventually slowed, then ceased, and Gwen grew a few years older.  Then one day, she dared to ask:

“Dad?

“Yes, sweetie?”

“What did Mom's voice sound like?”

Again, those eyes dimmed, and his smile tightened.  The fog rolled in to shroud his face, like a creeping mist from the sea.  Gwen could not truly see her father as he answered:

“Why...do you want to know?”

"I...I can’t remember it, not anymore.  Do we have a recording of her anywhere?”

“No...I...we don’t have anything like that.”  His eyes shifted and Gwen wondered if his words were truly final.  She hoped for more.

“Well...can you tell me what Mom’s voice sounded like?  Was it pretty?”  She had a sudden thought.  “Could she sing?”

His face momentarily brightened with light...

“Oh, she sang.  Sang quite a bit.  To you actually.  She had a beautiful voice.  When I heard it...it sounded like home to me.”

...then regained its shadow, a lightning flash swallowed quickly by a dark cloud. 

Young Gwen struggled to process this.  “To me?  What…what did she sing to me?”

“Oh...lots of little things.  But there was this one she always did.  Especially when you were a baby, and...”  A lift of the eyebrow, paired with the tiniest quirk of the lips.  “...when you wouldn’t stop crying.” 

Her own voice grew soft and wistful as she said, “I wish I could hear it.”

“Well…” her father hesitated and wavered, his mouth opening and closing.  There was a spark of something in his gaze as he looked over her shoulder.  "I...actually might have something for that.”  That gaze hardened.  “Come on.”

They walked to the living room and Gwen waited with growing anticipation as he opened a cabinet.  After some rummaging, he pulled out a thin yellow square and handed it to her with fingers that might have been trembling, just a little.

Two things stared back at her as she held the large, weathered sleeve.  One was the title, ‘Doris Day’s Greatest Hits.’  Another was a beautiful blonde woman with sparkling blue eyes that could have been her own. 

His gravelly voice spoke over her shoulder, “Doris, here…she kind of looks like Nana.  So you could say she also looked like…”  He let out a shaky breath and cleared his throat.  “Nevermind.  There,” he pointed to a line on the cover.  “That song…your mom said that’s the one Nana sang to her.  It’s the one…that she did with you.”

“Can we play it?”

Even in the innocence of her youth, Gwen regretted her question when she saw his thick swallow and heard the tremor in his, “Sure.”

She thought about saying actually forget it, but curiosity won out.  She let him place that vinyl record on their turn table and they sat on the couch together. 

When Gwen heard the words…

…she was immediately flown into a different time, a different world.  An imaginary world where she could still snuggle into a warm lap, where soft arms – smelling faintly of honey and lilac – could still surround her and hold her close. 

With those simple lines, somehow familiar, she imagined asking all kinds of whimsical questions...but she couldn’t imagine their answers.  Oh, how she wished she could ask her things now…

…and perhaps the answers would have sounded like that.  The chorus curled around her like a comforting blanket and Gwen imagined the call of a pretty voice.  For a moment, she felt calm…tenderness…healing…

Until she looked over and saw her father.

He sat there, eyes shut tight, his fist squeezing until knuckles rippled white.  His jaw tensed and shook like the beginnings of an earthquake, like it was being rocked by the very same words that had sent her soaring away.

A fog no longer hid his face, now laid bare.  Its contours were a map to his grief, hinting at the location of every splintering crack that he was hiding from her.

Gwen jumped off the couch and pulled away the needle with a loud skritch.  The resulting silence of the room was even louder, punctuated by slow drags of labored breathing.          

She didn’t know what to do next, she acted on instinct.  Tentative and slow, Gwen opened her arms to pull him into a hug, whispering: 

“Dad…?”  She laid her face on his shoulder.  “M’sorry.”

After several long seconds, Gwen felt his squeeze on her shoulder.  Then the sofa shifted as he stood with glassy eyes, brimming with tears that refused to fall.  His mouth pursed into a taut line, and he walked off to his bedroom without another word.  The click of his door shutting was the last noise he made that day.

Gwen never asked him to play that song again. 

Because on that day, and in the days thereafter, one thing she learned by watching George Stacy was this: 

A Stacy does not cry.  A Stacy grits his teeth, and fights, andfights through the pain. 

Gwen didn’t want to be the reason why he had to fight any more than necessary. 

The years rolled on, and as young Gwen became teenaged Gwen, her tastes changed and evolved, as did her collection of vinyls.  But there was always room on her bedroom shelf for that weathered yellow sleeve, nestled between albums from the likes of Social Distortion and The Stooges. 

And when a day was hard, when a patrol went wrong, when the whole world turned against her…when she badly needed to ask someone will everything turn out ok?   

Gwen Stacy would lie on her bed and pull out that record.  She would turn to that simple, familiar tune and fly away to an imaginary world where a lap waited for her like a warm nest.  Where soft arms were ready for her, smelling of honey and lilac. 

There, she could get a hug that was different than the sturdy, protecting hug of her father.  She could pretend to receive a hug from a mother that she never really knew.

But then, one day…

…Gwen started receiving hugs from a mother again.

She glances at the Morales apartment’s front door.  There.  Like a pale ghost of memory, a hazy vision of Rio wraps her in an exuberant hug.  An unexpected, but welcome ending to her first dinner with her new boyfriend’s family. 

Gwen casts her eye to the sofa, where ten minutes ago she had confessed her sins to Rio.  But.  Instead of condemnation, an opaque, Rio-shaped specter ruffles her hair as she and Miles cram for midterms deep into the night.  Gwen can still remember the lingering touch of Rio’s fingers as they curled around her shoulder.

She walks over to the breakfast table, looking for any distraction while she waits for Rio to return from her bedroom so they can leave for their ‘errand.’  Gwen berates herself.  Her errand, a trip to pick up a pregnancy test kit – which she really should have done on her own, if courage hadn’t failed.  Isn’t she supposed to be a superhero?  Coward.  She examines the picture that lies on top of Miles’ Spider Society planner.

The faces of her Spider-Band friends drool over a platter of sorullitos that Rio has just made, eager fingers picking a piece.  And near the photo’s edge, one of Rio’s hands strokes Miles’ back, the other wraps around Gwen’s waist. 

From the table, she turns to stare at the guest room.  Just weeks ago, a work consult had dragged Dad upstate for the weekend.  She'd lasted one lonely night before she let herself into this apartment and asked Rio if she could stay.  Of course.  Through the doorway, a phantom shade finishes tucking a blanket around Gwen.  It ignores her slightly embarrassed grin and leans in to wrap her in a good night hug.

These ghosts of the past chase Gwen through the dungeon of her mind – haunting her, condemning her.

They condemn, because miraculously, against all odds, the woman in those echoes of memory welcomed Gwen and took her in.  This woman talked like her mother, acted as her mother, made time for her like a mother.

This woman became Gwen's mother.

And then Gwen betrayed her.

She no longer deserves this woman – not her smiles, not her glances, not her touches.  And most certainly of all, Gwen no longer deserves Rio’s hugs. 

In her pocket, she fingers the house keys that Rio had given her two months ago.  Just in-case.  She’d been so touched and overwhelmed to receive it then, but now?  The cool metal burns against her skin like a scorching brand. 

Gwen squeezes her eyes to brace against a rising wave of guilt, surging along with the familiar waves of bile and panic she’s been battling all week.  She releases her grip and begins to snap her hair-tie against her wrist, searching for a pain that will stem the tide of self-loathing, or at least distract her.

Snap snap snap.

But the ticking of the kitchen clock is louder, and it beats a slow, inevitable march towards a future in which the final wave will land and crash – sweeping her entire life away in its wake.

Tick tick tick.

Here comes guilt and panic again, the rising flood threatening to swallow her whole.  Gwen shuffles her feet, her entire body tingling with a question of fight or flight, and flight is winning.  As she flees from memories of Rio, Gwen glances around the room and races headlong towards ones made of Miles.

Gwen looks down again at the kitchen table, this time spying one of Miles’ graphic markers.  She blinks and she’s

Her hand tingles even now, the warmth radiating up her arm and towards her heart.  She glances at the couch again and sees herself

Her breathing evens out and calms as she turns to his bedroom.  She spots his bed peeking through the doorway and there

From windowpanes to markers, shadows of Miles exist everywhere for Gwen to shelter within like a lifeboat in a stormy sea.  And for now the tide recedes, pulling Gwen’s panic back in its wake.  She releases a shaky exhale.  When it comes to Miles, it’s the simple things with him that Gwen keeps closest to her heart. 

As well as the not so simple.

She looks at the coffee table and her focus narrows on Miles’ Physics notebook.  Gwen closes her eyes and remembers her Chemistry textbook lying on top.  She had flung it there in relief and triumph right before she leaned back into Miles’ chest, pulled his arms around her, and shut her eyes – just for a sec, she told herself. 

It had been another long, but successful study session as the two of them staggered towards the end of Fall Semester, with brains overheated and bodies exhausted.  Keeping up with school, Spidering, and Spider Society Reborn?  At the same time?  The three arenas clashed for their time and attention as if Kingpin’s Collider was smashing them together.  The refuge of Winter Break seemed impossibly far away. 

Stress levels high.  Sleep levels low.  But at least they had each other.

Her next lucid memory was the feather-light touch of lips pressing against her forehead.  Gwen blinked in time to see the retreat, then pause, of Miles’ face inches away from hers. 

As she fully awoke, she realized that Miles had shifted her to lie flat on the couch with a pillow tucked under her head.  She glanced down and saw a blanket spread open in his hands, ready to envelop her in its warmth. 

Gwen already felt warmth, but it wasn’t from the blanket.  Acting of their own accord, her arms draped around his neck and pulled his lips to hers.  She might have called it stealing a kiss but was it really stealing when he was always so eager to give?

He hummed, low and deep in his throat, and she sang her response.  After a spell, Miles leaned back, his breath fanning across her face.  His honey-framed pupils grew wide and dark – liquid drops of coal-black night, set within star-bright eyes.

“Miles?” she said with a hoarse voice, then cleared her throat, unworried about awakening anyone in the quiet, sleepy home.  They were all alone – Rio was on an overnight shift and Jeff was pulling another late-nighter.

“Uh hey, Gwen…sorry, I didn’t mean to wake-”

“Why are you so good to me?”

Two coal-black pools lit up with a brief spark of mine you’re mine and she basked in their light.

“Because you’re my girl.”

“Say that again,” she whispered.

“You’re my girl…Mi Amor.”

She drowned in the night sky of his gaze.  She was drowning and drowning and it was the sweetest demise she could imagine – an inevitable fate set against the steady pulse of music that was singing in her blood.

His words reverberated in her mind.  She was his…and he was hers. 

Was it really true?  She considered her love for him and asked herself: Who else could understand her and her insane life in every way like Miles?  Who else understood the call of duty, always lurking, with the threat of death looming in its shadow?  Who else would she trust to watch her back, as surely as she watched his? 

Could anyone else live this life with her?  Love her in the way that Miles loved her?

She knew the answer.

So, she made a choice.

She rose and closed the distance with an “I am your girl,” firmly pressing those words against his mouth.  Of one mind, they deepened the kiss together, intensifying it with searching lips.  Tongues.  Teeth.  Her hands started to explore where they hadn’t explored before, Miles’ body hesitating briefly before melting into her touch.  Seconds passed into time, the very air heating tick by tick.

A ragged gasp.  An unexpected show of strength, firm but gentle.  Miles held her away at arm’s length.  “Gwen…if we don’t stop soon…I don’t think I’m gonna be able to.  Unless…did you want me to stop?” 

She met his strength with her own, used it to bring him back, and trailed light fluttery kisses across his cheek.  Soft breath carried her words directly into his ear:

“I wasn’t planning on stopping.”

She tried to sound confident, but her heart hammered loud and hard in her chest.

Miles too, was unable to keep a tremble from his voice.  “Y-you sure?”

She hovered her lips near his, ghosting over them.  “I’m sure…if it’s with you.”  Leaning back, she gazed at him through half-lidded lashes and hoped for his answer when she asked, “Can I have you?”

He remained silent, agonizingly silent.  It was an innocently phrased question, asked simply…but so, so heavy.  A thousand thoughts ran through her head as she waited; she could barely hear her own breathing over their roar.

The last bit of sweet caramel in his eyes melted away, wholly consumed by black.  Miles’ searing kiss was his reply.

He lifted her off the couch with barely an effort, her legs wrapping around him as he stood.  They stumbled to his bed with less than their usual superhero grace.  But he was careful – always so careful where she was concerned.  And when he pulled his nightstand drawer and a certain purchase was already waiting there?  Her heart warmed at this visible response to the last time they had gotten close and talked about what might be.   

She was ready…and so was he. 

Words fell away as they began to chart a path through unfamiliar ground.  Awkward rustling, clumsy fumbling, and nervous chuckling pinpricked the silence – as nights of newness tend to do. 

She had never thought of herself as a knockout beauty.  She’d known that she was pretty enough, if not a total smokeshow.  But when Miles saw her…really saw her…with the way he was looking at her?  She could have spread her wings and flown.

Miles pulled her closer.  He was burning against her and every nerve she possessed lit ablaze like kindling brushing fire.  Held in his arms, her question of ‘can I have you?’ soon gave way to shared questions of ‘are you ok?’ and ‘is this alright?’ and ‘can we try this?’ 

Eventually…there was no longer a need for questions.  Together, they provided every answer.  And in the end, they gave each other a gift that can only be given once, never again to be exchanged with another.

It wasn’t perfect by the world’s standards.  These things never are.  But it was Miles and there wasn’t anyone else in all the worlds that she would have desired like this.  Or felt safe with.

After their flame had spent and their breath had cooled, she rolled to face him.  She dragged a finger along his chest, stopping midway down his sternum.  That finger felt – as much as her ears heard – his shaky, “Wow…”

“That was a wow for me too.”  Her chuckle welled up from the heart, all giddiness and unstoppable.  “We are definitely doing that again.”

But his eyes dimmed in color, lost their brilliance for a moment.  “Even if you…” he stopped.  Tried again.  “But you didn’t-”

“Miles.”  She interrupted him with a kiss.  Then another to the corner of his mouth.  “It was perfect.  Everything I always hoped it would be.  And it was you.”  She hugged him tighter and beamed as brightly as she could into him.  “So, hell yes, I want that again.  Okay?”  Her smile grew tighter, more determined.  “Hey.  Look at me.  When we remember this night, I want both of us to be happy when we do.  Please?”

She tapped his heart twice, and after a beat he nodded and smiled.  “Okay.  Next time, then.”  The color fully returned to his eyes again, soft and liquid and cozy.  Honey and caramel both in equal measure. 

“I love you, Gwen.”

How many times had she heard these words, yet they still managed to steal her breath away?  On this night, their effect magnified ten-fold.  She could barely utter her reply of “I love you, Miles,” as she slid her cheek to rest on his chest.

In turn, his hand reached to caress the curve of her shoulder and she jolts back from the searing-hot touch.  Rio’s startled face materializes out of thin air, with the hand that nudged her hanging frozen in the air between them.

Rio’s eyes stare at her, bore into her.  They are a darker shade of caramel than Miles’ but shaped so much like his.  They were once so homey, so welcoming…but now?  Completely stony, almost determined in their gleam.    

For a split-second Gwen is certain, positive, that Rio is about to haul back and slap her across the face for daring to think such filthy thoughts about my son – and here in my own home, no less.

Maybe she would deserve it.

“Mija?” 

Gwen grimaces and stiffens.  She doesn’t deserve that title, not anymore.  She wishes Rio would stop throwing it in her face. 

Rio’s hand twitches, inches forward, and Gwen watches its movement in slow motion.  She can’t help the reflex that jerks her out of Rio’s reach.  That hand retreats and falls by her side.  There’s a choked exhale – which is probably just the elder woman letting out pent-up anger to hold herself in check.  To keep herself civil. 

Rio starts, “You…are you...” then pauses, with many possible endings flitting across a face that Gwen can no longer read.  She grieves for the loss of their long-lived connection like the loss of a limb.  Rio finishes with, “…ready?”  Apparently, the blow will not land right at this moment. 

“Maybe.”  Gwen ponders before she ventures a faint “Rio...?”  She's not sure how to phrase this next ask.  She’s asked for far too much today.

“Yes?”

“What pharmacy were we gonna go to?”

“Oh, we have a little one close by.  Two blocks east.  Jorgensen’s, I was thinking.”

“C-can...we go a little further out?  Go to one that’s not…close by?”

Gwen wishes she’s brave enough to just come out and say it.  To say that she doesn’t want to run into Mr. Schisler and Fletcher hunched over their usual bench chessboard.  Nor Señor Robles and his piragua cart.  Or worst of all, Doña Camilla, the neighborhood’s exuberant matriarch – she with the all-seeing eye. 

Gwen wants a piece of nobody, nobody that she’s come to know from the Morales family’s extended circle – a circumference which might encompass a twenty-block radius from where she stands.  But how can she tell Rio that their combined faces have loomed in the background of this week's turmoil, as she’s imagined many, many faces surrounding her…staring at her…

She can’t bring herself to admit that she doesn’t want to hear on their upcoming walk: oh hi there Miles’ girlfriend, what are you doing here at this hour sweetie?  Or an Hola Señorita here’s your usual limón, freshly shaved!  Wait, shouldn’t you be at school?  Gwen can’t bear to say to Rio that the typical bone-crushing hug from Doña followed by her sparkling Buenos dias mi pequeña might actually destroy her.  Because when they and everyone else in the Morales circle find out…when they can see the evidence growing outwards from Gwen’s body?  All those happy faces will turn stern and disapproving. 

Gwen tries to sort all this baggage into a sentence that’ll make sense.  "It’s just...that...” 

As she struggles to shape her thoughts, Rio’s sharp eyes dig and dig into Gwen, ruthlessly cutting her apart with a scalpel.  Why, Rio’s probably already carved her way into her mind, looked around, and is nodding in agreement with the pursed frowns and knitted brows that adorn that space. 

Rio interrupts, “Sure.  Anything you need.”  Did she just sigh in impatience?  “There’s a Walgreens about a half hour walk from here.  And...nobody you or I know really heads out that way.  Would that work?”

Shit.  How’d she even clock me?  How does she always know?

Either she’s super easy to read or she’s just badgered Rio into another ask in an agonizing morning full of asks, both said and unsaid.

Gwen’s about to mumble thanks that’ll work when she notices tiny, nearly imperceptible flecks of blood on the stomach of Rio’s scrubs, peeking out from her coat.  “Actually…Rio…are you sure you’re okay with walking longer?  Did...did you have a bad day at work?” 

Rio chuffs.  “Is it that obvious in my face?”  She pats her own cheek.  “Do I have another wrinkle?”

“No, that.”  Gwen points at Rio’s midsection.  “Looks like a bad day to me, if you’ve got someone else’s blood on you.”

“Ah.  From a bone drill.  The less we say about that the better.  Sometimes I do TMI.”  Rio looks at her for a long, uncomfortable pause.  “Gwen...I live in messes.  It’s what I do.” 

She smiles.  Gwen can't tell if it is forced and if she is simply being polite.  Rio continues, “It’s okay.  You want to go farther?  We can go farther.  No problem.”

Gwen quietly exhales in relief, but it’s short lived.  There’s another reason to dread this trip and its lingering question that hangs overhead by a strand of web, like the sword of Damocles.  They turn and head for the front door, towards their long, terrible walk. 

And that dread is this: It had sounded like Rio had pledged her son’s loyalty, should the worst come to pass. 

But when the two of them find out the answer, and if there is a second pink line on that test kit…would Rio change her mind?  Could her sweet and open face twist into one of hatred and anger?  Would the moment that the second line materializes be the instant where Rio fully comprehends just what Gwen has done to Miles?  Perhaps Rio might spin in her direction and snarl no you can’t have my son, I won’t let you hurt him, go away and never come back, I won’t let you ruin his life, you awful terrible slu-

“Gwen?”

She looks up with watery eyes that refuse to spill.  Not now.  Not ever.  A Stacy does not cry. 

Gwen shakes her head to clear it and realizes she’s paused in the open doorway.  Her hand grips the frame with white knuckles, spasming out of control.  Rio waits expectantly on the other side. 

If that nightmarish excommunication comes true, how then would Gwen feel about what she and Miles did?  Would she…regret it?  But the very idea of renouncing what she shared with him—what she gave to him—tears her apart.  How could something so beautiful, so wondrous, be wrong? 

She takes a step through the exit, passing Rio, towards fate and an uncertain future.  As Gwen walks past, she fails to notice Rio’s trembling fingers reaching for hers, then stopping short and curling closed with a look of something in her eyes.

-🕷-

A brilliant sun shines overhead, kissing Gwen’s skin, cascading across her face.  A faint breeze cools the air and dances with the sunshine’s warming rays.

The drumbeat of Miles’ neighborhood fills the air with its rhythm.  Cars driving by.  The pitter-patter of foot traffic.  Chatter.  Laughter.  Life.

It’s late-spring scenery at its most beautiful.  It’s urban vibrancy at its most glorious.

It’s all awful.

It’s all a reminder of happier days when she’d be walking arm-in-arm with Rio down a street just like this.  Maybe they would’ve been dashing out for a quick errand run to the corner deli, hunting down missing dinner ingredients, and trading Miles-gossip and snickers all the while. 

There’s no arm linked through hers now.  Rio doesn’t want to hold it anymore.  And there sure as hell isn’t any chuckling going on during this walk.

Over the last ten minutes, the silence between her and Rio has been painful.  So painful.  So unnatural.  Every passing second, every footstep on pavement hits a loud awkward beat in Gwen’s mind.

The quiet has dragged on for so long, Gwen isn’t sure what’s worse – letting it fester or breaking it.  And she does have a question to ask Rio, a little one whose possible answer makes her ill to think about.  She snaps her hair-tie against her wrist and takes the plunge.

“Rio?”

“Hm?”

“How long does it take before…you know.  You start getting sick?  The nausea and all that.”

Rio’s face pivots to hers but they keep moving forward.  “That’s if you’re-“

“Yeah,” Gwen cuts her off.  She doesn’t want that word to be spoken out loud.  Especially in public where passersby might overhear.  “…I-I know.  If.” 

“Well...if.”  Rio exhales.  “You could expect morning sickness to start somewhere around four to seven weeks.  And since you said you’re not sure about your cycle…”   Gwen sneaks a glance and the subtle twitch of Rio's eyelashes suggests that her mind is doing the math.  She ducks her face to hide her creeping blush just as she hears, “…then let's just say you’re probably somewhere around five weeks in.”

Gwen snaps back up, brows scrunched.  “Wait what?  I know I’m not that late.”

Rio’s own brows furrow.  “Huh?”  She’s silent for a moment, then says, “Oh.  Oh...uh, no mija.  You calculate pregnancy weeks starting from your last actual period.  I was just taking an educated guess.”

“So the weeks aren’t calculated from when you last…”  Gwen’s speech slows to a crawl as she realizes what she’s about to admit.  Rio lifts an eyebrow and she does not look pleased.  “…um uh…”  Gwen stutters for a few beats more before she hides her face again.

Goddammit.  Stupid mouth.

Gwen mentally begs Rio to stop doing the math.  If she follows the trail of logic back to its source…

The silence returns and it threatens to stretch on and on, with Gwen refusing to look Rio in the eye. 

Rio grants her some mercy and speaks, drawn out and loaded.  “No… The stopwatch doesn’t start from...uhm...”  A clearing of the throat.  “...conception.  Anyways, you could be looking at getting it in two more weeks.  Maybe less, sometimes more.  Everybody’s different.  Some women don’t even get it at all.”  Rio’s voice drops to a whisper but Gwen can still pick out, “Lucky bichas.”  Rio resumes in a normal volume, “But some poor women get it for the entire time.”

Gwen can’t help an “Ugh…great,” from escaping her lips.

“Why are you asking?” Rio trails off and Gwen notices the older woman’s jolt.  Her hazel eyes widen and she quietly gasps, “Wait.  Your internship starts in three weeks.”

“…Yeah.”

“Oh, Gwen…honey.”  Rio sighs and her mien melts into what could be sympathy.  But then, sympathy can be worn like a mask.  Rio’s could very well be hiding her true opinion: you should have thought about this more carefully before you did what you did.

And if Rio really is thinking that, then Gwen can’t blame her – she might even agree.  After Gwen got the worst-case news that she was repeating Junior year, she had worked her ass off to win this summer internship – a shot to get her academic record back on track.  Her college chances might be legit riding on whether she can stand out at Oscorp.  But…she did what she did, and now she is where she is.

Should she just grit her teeth and suffer through a summer of queasiness, vertigo, and sprinting to the toilet so she can vomit her guts out, in between research experiments?

She doesn’t know.

But what if she’s one of the unlucky ones that gets so sick she can’t see straight?  If she can’t do a respectable job and tanks it as an intern – that black mark might be the final nail in the coffin for her colleges of choice.  Should she preemptively quit?

She doesn’t know.

Gwen sinks deep into her own head again, with her professional future just one of many at-risk futures that’s she’s had to consider…or panic over.

A fleeting friction on the back of her hand pulls her back to the present.  A familiar tingle warms her skin, travelling up her arm.  Gwen looks down and finds Rio’s hand whisper-close, her knuckles brushing her own while they walk.  As Rio gives her the side eye, Gwen stuffs her hands into her sweatshirt to avoid annoying her further.  She keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead and goes all-in on avoiding Rio for the rest of the walk.

But the problem is, Rio’s not the only one giving her the side eye.  That old couple they just passed?  The lady definitely gave her the once over.  The guy on the bench over there has gotta be eyeing her down.  Hell, the mother pushing that stroller is staring at her.  Even the toddler is giving her a double look.

Everyone’s got a set of all-knowing eyes, all trained and fixed on her.  There are eyes, eyes everywhere.  And they belong to faces that are chanting softly: we know why you’re not in school, we know where you’re going, and we know exactly why you’re here. 

It’s like someone has cranked up her tension rods way too tight on the snare drum in Gwen’s chest.  Then the jangling trill of a phone joins the noisy din, and she nearly bolts into the road.  Rio gives her a look then retrieves her cell to look at the caller ID. 

“Ay Bendito,” she mutters and turns to Gwen.  “I’m really sorry but can we stop for a minute?  It’s the hospital, I’ve got to take this.  It might be about the little girl.”

“Little girl?”

“This one,” Rio points to the miniscule flecks on her scrubs and there’s a glint in her eye.  "She's alive, though, don’t worry.  They probably want to confirm the doses I was giving her afterwards.”

So, there was something that happened last night, Rio had dealt with a hard shift at work.  As if Gwen didn’t feel bad enough – now she wonders if Rio’s needed elsewhere.  By an actual little girl who actually needs her, not like the one she's pretending to be.  Coward.   

Gwen nods and doesn’t tell Rio that the idea of pausing inside this crush of humanity is damn near giving her a heart attack.  In days past, she might have hidden in the shadow of Rio’s back if she had ever felt ‘off’ in a crowd.  She can’t do that now – she no longer belongs there.  So instead, Gwen clamps her jaw and forces herself to stand still, out in the open, for the little girl’s sake.  For Rio’s sake.  She’s already burdened her with so much today, surely she can tolerate this for a few minutes?

But without the safety of continuous movement, Gwen feels exposed and seen.  Every pedestrian slowly walking by with a glance askance is a threat.

Gwen looks away and up, to the rise of apartment buildings towering over them, her trusty web-anchors in this and every world.  But there’s no relief here – every blank window hides another set of spying eyes, glaring down.  She lifts her view higher still, to the corridor of sky blue that looms over this urban jungle. 

This is her domain.  Her element.  The wide-open air has always been the one place where she’s safe and in control.

It’s his domain as well.  Gwen longs for the twin comforts of sky and Miles with every fiber of her being, wishing that he was flying next to her right now.

A streak of color flashes down then up, catching her eye.  Two doves twirl and loop through the air in perfect synchroneity, as if one mind and body.  As their flight blurs across her vision, red blending upon gray, she remembers soaring through the clear crystal of a late-winter morning, on a day when love was in the air, and she didn’t want to place it out her mind.  She hurtled earthward after Miles, the whipping wind competing with the wireless bud that was singing a song into her ear.  She didn’t want to turn it down, and as she ogled Miles’ streaking black-red form…she most definitely did not want to think of anyone else.

She was technically plummeting, but whenever she sliced through the air with him?  In truth, she was floating.  And with the recent turning of the New Year, she had been floating with him for a while now, she realized with a secret grin behind her mask.  The day was cold, but her heart was warm. 

In all other worlds, she tended to take lead on their swings.  Force of habit, a drummer’s desire to set the tempo, call it what you will.  But in her home world, she was more than content to let him drive the beat ahead of her.  She couldn’t exactly put her finger on why, but it might have had something to do with the fact that when he arced through her sky, it was as if the blue rippled and shimmered behind him, bleeding a watercolor wake like a painting.  And she absolutely was an admirer of the view.

But on this day, she could detect a wobble in the paint strokes that he was brushing.  Little imperfections in the grace of his lines.  She first noticed that he was messing up their typical Saturday route.  He wasn’t supposed to hang a left at 5^th and 51^st, headed to Rockefeller instead of MoMA.  Then there were the off-key warbles that sang from Miles’ Spider-Sense – more so than usual for a typical outing.  One was a ledge that he narrowly dodged but corrected for with an improv flourish (as he realized she was watching).  Another was a semi-truck that whizzed far too near to him for her liking.  And finally, he missed—missed!—a wide-open shot on a runaway pickpocket.  She’d had to clean after him as she soared behind in a swing-by webbing of the perp. 

A normal person wouldn’t have noticed any of these.  An observant person wouldn’t have thought anything of them.  But she was Gwen Mother Effing Stacy, and on that day she was in the pocket and feeling it – her jam buddy was not.  And…she was nothing if not nosy.  Plus, this was Miles and she was taking zero chances – she just had to make sure that his sunshine smile wasn’t hiding a frown.

Her hand touched her earpiece to quiet its song.  She cut her web-line and aimed at a point in space where she sensed they’d collide.

This was not the gentle lofted arc and bridal catch of their prior aerial stunts; she was a blue-tipped arrow streaking straight into his chest.  She didn’t feel sorry – he could take the hit.  At least she thought he could.

His OOF implied otherwise.

“GWEN WHAT THE-!”

Miles’ lenses blew wide, then narrowed into slits, and someone else might have thought he was furious.  But they curled into that familiar welcoming shape whenever she was in his arms and she knew, just knew, that his eyes were smiling behind blank polycarbonate. 

She readied herself to respond.  Voice set to maximum cute.  Lenses shaped to optimal curvature.  She draped her arms into a lazy X behind his neck, nodded her chin, and with tremendous eloquence said:

“Sup.”

The rise and fall of his chest returned to normal, as did his voice.  “Cannnnnnn I help you?”  He drew out the tease then added, “You wanna tell me why Gwen chose violence today?  And decided that her poor, frequently abused boyfriend deserved broken ribs?” 

“Frequently-!?” she sputtered but thought better of it.  Her legs wrapped around Miles to settle in for the flight and she raised a finger.  “Reasons.  One.  Was stress testing the landing pad.  It’s been a while.”  She poked him in the chest.  “Getting a lil’ soft are we?”  She pinched him.  He was not soft where she pinched him. 

She jerked a thumb behind her.  “Two.  When did we agree to get soft on crime in my world?  Totes missed Fingers McGrabby back there.  I dunno bout your Earth, but here in the E Six Five we don’t tolerate that kinda crap.”

“So it’s gonna be Griping About Your Partner Day huh?  You know HQ really oughta put in one of those mandatory workplace conflict classes.  It’s kinda unfair that you’re picking on me before I’ve been trained on handling bossy old ladies.”  She swatted at him as he kept talking.  “I’m completely outta my game here!  And lemme add that I’m feeling really threatened by your fifteen additional months right now, and I’m scared to speak up.”  Her swatting intensified.  “But I'll give it a shot.” 

He cleared his throat.  “Ma’am, if you don’t like the quality of my work, please take it up with HR.  OW!  And stop hitting me.” 

She was laughing at him all the while then snorted, “Psh.  This is what I get for asking you to help me do this patrol shiza.”  She pretended to examine her fingernails through her glove.  “Quality help’s hard to find these days.”

“Hey now, I knew you were behind me!  I was just scaring Grabby to a spot where you’d have an open look.  Because I’m a gentleman…”  He straightened as formally as one could while juggling a girlfriend and their combined momentum.  “…and um, I maybe got distracted while thinking ‘bout you?”

“Flattery and excuses are all I’m hearing.”  She shook her head.  “Morales, you better get that game face back on and lock in or else Imma audition—Miles that’s my ass you’re pinching.”

“Nah.  All in your head.”

She wiggled. 

No, it was not all in her head.  Not that she minded.

“Mister Morales, are you making a pass at me?”

“Always.  Is it working?”

Damn, he’d been having growth spurts recently but did his voice drop another octave?  ‘Focus Gwen!’ she scolded herself.

“...Maybe.  Gotta warn you though, I’m not easy.  Gonna have to gimme something back.”  She flicked his nose.

“Ho boy I might regret this...but I’ll bite.”  He tried to bite her finger but forgot he was masked.  She giggled as he asked, “What’s my hottie girlfriend want?  Keep in mind that I’m strapped for cash, but I can give gifts of hugs, kisses, and portals into your room to squash the big scary bug crawling across your desk.”

Her mind flitted through the possibilities of things she could ask for: you, never leave me, a promise of forever.  But she said none of them.  Instead, she merely said, “I just need you to answer an easy question.”

Miles quirked his head.  “Alright and what’s that?”

“So yeah, uh…”  She hoped that her tone stayed the same – preserving the air of lightness was the move.  “Hey man, is everything alright with you?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean the front man for our lil' garage duo is kinda playin like ass out there-” she waved in the last known direction of Mr. McGrabby.

“Yoooo!  Shots fired.  In the BACK.”

“-and as I’m expected to be the Meg to your Jack White—rip the Stripes—it’d be nice if my band's eye-candy would start hitting his chords on time again.  So why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on in your head so we can sort out your web-performance issues and maybe get you a pill for that–”

“I don’t get paid enough to put up with this.  I demand a raise!  Twenty percent more cuddle time—minimum—and I get to be little spoon for a straight month.”

“Bro, I'm paying you in ass wiggles, you’re making bank as far as I’m concerned.”  She narrowed her eyes but gave him a free wiggle as a bonus.  “You, uh…maybe wanna retract that statement?” 

“Statement withdrawn.  I agree that my compensation is fair and balanced.” 

“Kay, now start spilling.”  She batted her lenses.  “Please.”  He grew quiet for a few seconds.  But that was fine – she was content to rock in rhythm with him and grant him space as he swung them along.  Meanwhile, she noticed that Miles had redirected their path to fly over less crowded, quieter streets. 

He spoke with a casual, “Nothing’s wrong.  Was just…randomly thinkin-”

“Super dangerous.” 

He squinted at her and she held up her hands.  

“Still catchin’ strays out here.”  He sighed dramatically.  “It’s nothing.  Just stupid stuff.  Don’t worry about it.”

“For serious?”

“For serious.”  

She wanted to take their masks off and look at him to confirm it.  And this time, she cursed the opaqueness of their eyewear.  But then she realized there was an opportunity – a chance to dig a little deeper…and get something else she wanted.  A win-win.

“Well Miles...maybe you can tell me more about it when we get back to my place.  Because um...”  She slid a hand to his backside.  “…Dad’s meeting with his Jersey client again.”

“Yeah, that right?”  There was a slight crack as he spoke.  She squeezed, drawing a choked wheeze from him, and she reveled in her power.

“He’ll be gone for a minute...a long minute.”  She hoped the shape she was making with her lenses counted as ‘come-hither’ and resolved to ask for Margo’s opinion later.  “So…”  Her finger traced its favorite pattern on his chest.

“Why Miss Stacy…you comin’ on to me?”

She palmed his shoulder hard.  “Hey...”  Dropped the heavy accent.  “…you bet your sweet ass I am.  Is it working?” 

“Well...you see this is what I might’ve been thinking about.”

“So stop thinking about it and swing us home.” 

“Yeah about that-”

“Hunh, I don’t like how this is sounding.”

“I’ve been tossin’ around…that what we’re doing…”  Miles himself didn’t seem entirely convinced of his next words.  “…Well, maybe we shouldn’t?”

“Yeah I was right that sounded terrible.”  She couldn’t keep the nerves from creeping in.  “But Miles…why?  D-did I do something wrong?”

“What?  No!”

“Then…you’re not enjoying it?”  She cast her gaze down.  “…Or me?” 

“Hey hey hold on, it’s not like that.  It’s just…I....”  He blew out a breath.  “It’s me.  Definitely not you.  I’m…I dunno…feeling guilty.  The more I think about it…I’ve been kinda down about how us being together—like that—has been playing out.  Like it’s one-sided or I’m the only one getting anything out of it.” 

“What??”  At this her head snapped up.  All nerves leached out of her, quickly replaced by disbelief.  And a little concern for where he was heading.  He continued before she could get her bearings.

“And it’s like my head’s telling me ‘I’m just taking from her.’  And I’m not giving anything back.”  He exhaled.  “I mean, I haven’t even gotten you to–”

“Whoa whoa whoa!  Miles.  We talked about this.  I’m...I’m not trackin’ points.  I-I’m not keeping score.”  Gwen stuttered and scrambled before she found her footing.  She could feel him retreating away and her whole body began to tingle with a question of fight or flight – and fight was winning.  She dug in her heels and charged headlong to bring him back to her.

“Miles...all those times we…  It’s not like how we ended up mattered to me.  All I wanted was to be with you in a way that nobody else gets to.  You are all I wanted out of all this.  Not some outcome.  That’s it.  And it’s still true.”

Again, she cursed the opaqueness of their lenses and she thought: his eyes, I need to see his eyes.  Her hand began to reach towards the underside of his mask, secret identity be damned for all she cared – she had to examine his face. 

She stopped when he whispered, “You’re all I wanted too.  Wasn’t sure if what I was bringing to the table was enough, though.”

“You’re enough.  More than enough for me.”  Her hand now rested around the curve of his cheek.  Though insulated by their suits, her palm grew heated even as she willed her own warmth to flow into him.  She thumbed the ridge of his jaw before lifting his mask partway to declare, “And for the record?  I’m definitely enjoying myself.  You always feel fucking fantastic.”  Then she lifted hers and kissed him fiercely to chase any lingering doubt away, her fierceness aided by the pendular force of their swinging.

Miles drew back with a ragged warning, “You know…your Dad…he’s been all up in our grill…to hide the patrol PDA.  He’d be pretty pissed.”

“Dad would be way more pissed if he knew all the things I’m about to do to you.”

He laughed, his real laugh, and she melted in relief and anticipation of what was to come.

“So...home?” she asked.

“Yeah, home.”  And this time there was no note of hesitation. 

“So, take me back then...”  She dragged her mouth next to his ear and breathed with utmost seriousness: “Tiger.”

“Oh hellll-“  His head jerked back in recoil, shaking vigorously side to side.  “No.  Just no, NO.  We ain’t doing that.” 

She cackled. 

“Gwen, stay the hell outta my comics.” 

She cackled harder. 

He kissed her to shut her up, but she didn’t mind.  Warmth and desire flooded through her veins like liquid gold, rays of winter sunshine dancing along her skin.  She was warm and safe and held in his web, and she felt no fear – as long as she was with him.   

And as his lips moved over hers, demanding and needy, she reached to turn her earbud back on.  Music resumed and surrounded her, and it rather felt like it encircled them both.  The drum roll of her heart was banging in time with the beat and why shouldn’t it?  Miles had loosed the fear he’d kept in cages, love was in the air, and she didn’t want to place it out her mind.

She kept her eyes closed for the rest of the flight, and through the stretching and pulling of his lithe limbs, she didn’t need to see.  With her body tight against his, she could sense Miles painting their duet against the canvas of her watercolor sky, a firm confidence returned to the lines of his brushstrokes.

And when he found his way home, he landed with a clunk on her fire escape, holding her bridal style.  She looked dreamily at her living room window and thought he’s gonna carry me inside like over a threshold…then realized with a pang that it was too tight a squeeze.  She began to disentangle herself from him.

Only she couldn’t.  Miles' strong, wiry arms refused to budge.

“Miles?  What…what are you-”

“Don’t wanna let you go just yet.”

“Well samesies but-”

“Hang on tight.  I’ve been working on something new.”

She felt him back up against the far railing with a primed leg, felt his muscles cord, felt him lower them both into a sprinter’s start.  A thwip hissed and her window flew open.  Curious.

She snuck a peek at his face and saw a familiar blue glint sparking through his lenses.  A hand curled around her head, pressing her face into his chest – the world went black.  Panic. 

“Dude wait, wait, this is a terrib—SHIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTT!!!” she squealed as he launched them through the gap like a torpedo.  Without her sight, she braced for a splashing explosion of glass that never came.  In its place was whistling wind, a rattling of wood, then a BAM as their momentum jerked to a halt.

Chest heaving, she opened an eye to survey the damage...and to her shock there was only his braking foot resting on bent drywall.  She looked past him...to find a window still intact, its frame only marginally cracked.  She looked up...at Miles holding her like a knight carrying his princess.  Or a caveman his conquest. 

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

“Uhhhh sorry about the wall, maybe I can patch it before—mmmpf!”

Miles had no chance.  His lips belonged to her, and Gwen Mother Effing Stacy was going to claim her conquest.  She had his head yanked down on lock and Miles did his best to bridal carry her through the house, drunk-weaving a path around furniture like a rock god on a bender.

Yikes, his brushing shoulder dislodged a bookshelf, spilling everything to the floor.  Oh well, they could reorganize later. 

Whoops, her dangling foot knocked over the hallway vase.  No biggie, the shards could be swept into the trash.

Someone’s hand snapped off a huge corner of her desk. 

That… That one was going to be harder to hide.

At least they didn’t lose their humor; they laughed at that ‘my bad’, and the other ‘my bads’.  They laughed when he tossed her onto her bed, and she bounced four feet into the air with a squeak.  They laughed when he tripped over nothing and landed with heavy hands on either side of her.  She propped onto her elbows and still they laughed, their snorts and chortles sounding a background chorus to this – their clumsiest, stupidest, most passionate jam session ever.

She reached to fully unmask him and he returned the favor.  His laughter slowed, trailing off as he looked down.  His eyes – the ones that she had yearned to see – flitted to his own bracketing arms, then the bed, then her.  Was that a second thought she saw hiding in their depths?  Was he doubting himself again? 

No, no, no.

“I…  I love you Gwen.” 

Yes, yes, yes.

Her breath caught at those words, her body—soul—never failing to ignite to their thrill, not since their first utterance.  But today she wanted the mood light, to keep him light, so instead of all the weighty things she wanted to say in return, she merely smirked:

“Yeah?” 

She flicked her hair then laid down, a spray of blonde and pink fanning out against her pillow – a wavy patterned web woven to entice.  She watched him watch her, then pulled him closer – down, down, pulled their duet from the sky down to earth.  Face to face.  His lips near her lips.  His eyes on her eyes, a challenge lofted up to reach him:  

“Show me.”

And he did. 

As always with them, it was their poetry in motion – his art, her song.  It was synchroneity in its wondrous form, found in their secret delight with one another.

They danced and sang their duet, their chords intertwining, a pattern forming.  A harmony began to hone, resonating within her – building and swelling and spreading.  Slowly at first as a ripple in a pond, then surging into a tidal force that swept everything under before releasing her to crash upon the shore.  Waves, waves everywhere before she could understand it.  Waves and pleasure and joy – a brighter, higher song than she had ever known.

Awhile later, both flushed and gasping, they rolled apart to stare at her bedroom ceiling.  She wove her fingers through his and he squeezed in reply.

“Holy shit…” she breathed.

He propped up on an elbow, and the whole of her welcomed the sweep of his gaze.

“Gwen…that…  That was amazing.  You were amazing.”

She smiled at the watercolor sky that hung beyond her ceiling.  “Only because you made me that way.” 

There was silence – comfortable and familiar, but also new and heady.  She chuckled weakly and sighed, “God…it never mattered before.  Still doesn’t.  But now that I’m here…how can you even describe…?”  She trailed off then laughed the kind of laugh when there were no more words.  Miles lifted her hand to his lips and gave it the gentlest of brushes. 

She rolled her tired and limp head in his direction. 

“Can I keep you?”

He faked a whistle that was in all honesty pretty awful.  He released her hand and made a show of holding his chin in thought.  “Hmmm, I dunno, Gwen.  That’s a kinda big ask.  Just warning you…as a kept man, I can be pretty high maintenance.  How long were you thinking about keeping me around for?”

Gwen stared at him – a quippy retort should have flown out of her mouth, but she struggled with her answer.  “A long time.”  She lightened and tried to pass it off as a tease…but it wasn’t really.

Miles’ brows rose and his lips twitched.  He heaved a sigh and drawled, “I suppose I could be fine with that.” 

“Gotta warn you, Miles.  My idea of a long time…it can get pretty long.  You might get stuck with me.”

“Well...that doesn’t sound so bad.  Long time, it is then.” 

She searched for levity in him but there was none to be found – not in his voice, dropped low.  Not in his eyes, dark and serious.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said with a smile that stretched her cheeks and watched in thrall as the night of his eyes lit up in response. 

His finger began to trail friction and fire across her shoulder in swirling loops.  She suspected that he was tagging his name onto her skin.  She wished for ink to flow from his fingertip so she could see; she dreamed of a tattoo that could memorialize his artist’s signature.

A shrill ringing pierced the quiet that was only meant for two. 

Two heads whipped to his wrist, which he lifted with a groan.  A second beeping chirped from her watch, lying atop their suits on the floor.  Two separate calls, two separate summons, two separate missions to split them apart for the remainder of the day.

Duty was calling.  It always called. 

Luckily, they had finished what they had wanted and needed from each other.  But her body still rebelled and grieved at the thought of being separated from his.  She stared at her fallen watch and debate raged within over just… not… answering.  Just the once.  To choose the selfish option that would keep them together for a little while longer.

Could she—wouldshe—ever get to pick Miles over duty?  Over the call of The Society?  Not the warped ‘duty’ that Miguel had demanded – twisted and perverse – but the call from the kinder, gentler, nobler Society Redux.  Could she ever turn it down for him?  Would they ever know a normal life together?

She wouldn’t know on this day.  Duty kept demanding their attention, and they rose reluctantly from her bed to answer.

The shrill ringing fades into gentle tweeting as the two doves continue their looping circuit through Miles’ sky.  Their red and dark-gray hues fade into the horizon, just as a suited Miles had vanished from her rooftop at the end of that special day, backing into his mission’s portal with a longing look.  She swears that his lips had mouthed the words a long time as he fell backwards past its horizon of bending light, his body soon reduced to a singularity infinitely far away from her.

Through the months that followed, those words lingered on, imprinted within her ears and heart – kindling hope for a stable forever that was theirs and theirs alone.  And within new moments they created, these words were sworn again in their hazy afterglow, hinting at a future of something more than fits and snatches. 

But now, they also kindle her pain.  These memories of Miles live in a limbo of awkward duality for Gwen, eliciting joy and fear to rise side by side like intertwining wisps of smoke.  She hates it.  Fear should never be associated with anything Miles.  But while her memories might be her treasures, they’re also the reason why she’s paused on a far too public sidewalk, waiting for Rio to finish her call.  The reason she’s breaking into a cold sweat despite the blooming rays of the late-spring sun.  Why she’s staring into the distance with a thousand-yard stare while touching her lips, awaiting the pronouncement on her future.

Odd...the birds are long gone but their chirping remains.  Or is that another call for Rio…?

The skyline blurs as Gwen jerks hard to the side, with Rio yanking her towards the nearest alley way.  “Were you going to get that?” she hisses in a whisper.  Rio projects a forced smile to either side as they zip by fellow pedestrians.

“Huh?”  It takes a second, but Gwen’s hearing comes back into focus just as Rio gives her wrist a firm shake.

“Alert, alert, Zero Red Spider alert, all affected squads prepare to receive transmission-”

“Shoot!”  Gwen taps the snooze button to buy them some quiet in the crowd.  They scramble into a thin alley and stand behind a dumpster by the time her alarm comes off mute.

“Be advised, requesting all surveillance team leaders to report to briefing room Nine Zero in thirty.  On-calls – Ghost, Spectre, Wraith – have been selected by-name to lead the recon package.  Grade Two threat developing on Eart-”

Rio slams the ‘Dismiss’ button.

“Wha-what are you doing??”  Gwen says.  “Y-you can’t just hit stuff on my wrists!  You could press the wrong thing!”

“I’ve gotten better.”

To be fair, Rio was pretty deft when she cancelled HQ just now and she has gotten better about accidentally bumping either hers or Miles’ wrists.  To Rio’s credit, there haven’t been any ‘whoopsie!' living room portals in a while.  And technically, it’s been four whole months since she shot webbing into Gwen’s virgin banana daiquiri during a family dinner at The Four Horsemen.

Gwen pulls her watch back and begins to re-activate the console.  “I gotta take this call.”

“Not today you don’t.”  Rio’s firm tone freezes Gwen.  “You heard what the voice said.  It said they’re ‘requesting’ your presence.  You can say no.”

A chuff.  “It wasn’t exactly a request.  You don’t get to say no to stuff like this.” 

“It’s not in your nature to say no.  And they know it and they’re taking advantage of it.  Or…maybe you’re looking for a reason to say yes.  Either way, you shouldn’t.  Not now.” 

Gwen releases a rattled breath and in truth, she doesn’t know if it’s in relief from having an excuse to leave, or fear from leaving Rio’s side…and then not having her present when she can no longer delay the inevitable. 

“L-look, I…I should head out, I’ve got a job to do-”

“This is not your job, you are a volunteer, and someone else can cover your shift today.” 

“But-”

“We don’t run from things, Gwen.”  Rio’s stare pierces into her, steady and unwavering.  “Mija…it’s not like I’m asking you to quit that place…”

Oh Rio, you have no idea how much I’ve thought about dialing down Society…for a lot of reasons.

“…but a mother’s first duty is to her child.”  She holds Gwen’s hand, and the pressure is tight like a vise.  Gwen’s skin burns and burns against the touch that she’s been avoiding.  She’s about to start squirming out of her grasp when Rio continues, “With things as…uncertain as they are, you need to take precautions.  Missions are the last thing you should be doing right now.”

“But Jess always-”

Holy crap, do Rio’s eyes nearly bug out of her head.

“That woman was loca and an idiota!” 

Rio had turned her head to vent her fury, but Gwen still raises a hand to ward off the flame from the outburst.

“Yikes, that might be a little harsh on Jess there-”

“I don’t know what else you would call someone who rides a motorcycle, or…or carries—carries!—a helicopter in the third trimester!  ¡Qué Idiota!” Rio snaps into the alley’s wall. 

Her voice softens as she faces Gwen.  “Señora Drew was playing with fire.  You must not.” 

Gwen looks back at her watch, unsure.  Rio pulls on her arm and steps into her space.  Her head dips to find Gwen’s eyes.

“You have a choice.  You don’t think you do, but you do.”

Gwen thinks of choices.  She thinks of the one she made with Miles, long ago.  Then the many other ones that have led to this moment.  And because of them, there are now many more choices that she soon must make – hard ones.  School...her internship...but starting with this one right here – what or who will she prioritize? 

Rio’s urgency cuts through her fog of thoughts.  “Gwen, what if it’s true?  What if you and Miles created a new life?”  Her hand squeezes Gwen’s.  “Mija, please.  You…you could be carrying my grandchild.  A mother protects-”

“-her child.”  A quivering breath escapes through shaky lips.  “Okay.  Not today.” 

Gwen chooses Rio and Miles and herself…and the one who might be.  If her most important choices in life and the fondest memories of her heart have resulted in…in all this?  In that case, she decides she will protect the outcome with new choices.

“Gwen… Thank you.  Gracias.”  Was that gratitude and relief lurking within Rio’s words?  Possibly. 

They re-emerge from the narrow corridor into wide, sunlit streets and Gwen forgets about the faces that watch her.  For a time.

She forgets that Rio has held onto her hand now for many minutes, and her skin has stopped burning from her touch.  For a spell.

Just as Gwen remembers all these things, an arm loops through hers in familiar fashion, pulling tight until their elbows are linked – like a moving train coupling to another.  A quick glance reveals that Rio’s face remains fixed ahead and betrays nothing of her thoughts. 

The warmth from the contact ripples towards Gwen’s chest, and then there’s a fleeting glimmer of what she used to possess in happier days.  She indulges the fantasy for a few steps, but when sobering reality sets back in – when that pull against her elbow begins to feel like an executioner dragging her to the gallows – she removes her arm from that cozy nest.  Lets it fall, limp and cold, back to her side.

Gwen senses the slight angling of Rio’s head, peeking in her direction.  She can't bring herself to match the movement.  She imagines a myriad of looks that might fit on Rio’s face – annoyance, judgement, maybe even sadness for what has been lost or what will be changed. 

But if Gwen had looked, she would have seen a shine of something in Rio’s eyes – fierce and unrelenting, bright and hopeful.  She would have seen a gleam that promised I will stay right here as long as you need me.  I will never grow tired of you.  And when you allow yourself a mother’s touch again, you will have it.

Gwen sees none of this, of course.

But little does Rio know – Gwen has been thinking of a mother’s touch.  Has thought of it and treasured it, ever since Rio gave her that first hug, far in the distant past.  She knows exactly what those motherly touches have meant to her, knows exactly what she doesn’t have right now.

And Gwen remembers what it was like when they never existed.

-🕷-

One day, Gwen lay on her bed, hugging a pillow tight to chest.  She stared at the pale blankness of her ceiling, trying to peer beyond it into the heavens.  The familiar melody washed over her ears, through her half-ajar door, and into an empty house.

She’d had a day.  She needed this.  Then suddenly her Spider-Sense sounded its muted warble, alerting of her dad’s arrival at their apartment entrance.

Her finger clicked her remote and the music stopped right as she heard the slam of the front door.  At his knock, Gwen rolled her head to face the doorway as he entered her room.

“Hiya kiddo.  Hey now, what’s going on with the frown face, Gwennie?  Everything alright?”  He leaned forward and scrunched his face into an exaggerated squint.  With a chuckle meant to be shared, he said, “You look like you got hit with the sad stick.” 

He walked over to the edge of her bed, and she in turn sat with knees drawn up to her chin.  She wrapped her arms around her legs and sighed. 

“Oh…I dunno…I…”

Got a C-minus on my English Lit midterm.

Was chasing a purse-snatcher, and the lucky sonofabitch whacked me with a sneaky cheap shot.

Was returning the purse and the lady screamed when I got closer…and then a crowd started forming around us while yelling ‘murderer!’ and ‘Peter’s killer!’

Swung to band practice and passed by another one of the big billboard screens where YOU were giving an update on MY man-hunt.

Bitched out Betty when she asked why was I ‘still rockin that fugly haircut and when are you gonna grow it back out?’

And a few months ago…

Gwen inhaled shakily.  “…I…”

Travelled to a whole other world.

Made a friend, started to fall for him, and now there’s no way to get back there. 

“…just had a bad day.  Another usual, I guess.” 

And I can’t talk to you about it.

I needed to talk to Mom and I can’t.  And if I could…maybe I would’ve told her everything.

Indeed, if Helen had lived, maybe she would have sung softly and caressed Gwen’s nape as she fessed up to the C-minus.  Her eyes probably would have widened at the reveal of Gwen’s double-life…but then Helen would have held her in a tight embrace as she promised to help her ‘figure out this thing and your father.’   And perhaps Helen would have pulled her head down onto her lap and let Gwen mourn the loss of a flame, when she’d only just begun to feel the spark.

Or maybe she would have simply sat still, listened quietly to it all, and said ‘everything will be okay’ before Gwen could even ask it.  Gwen’s tears would fall, and her mother would sweep them away with the gentle brush of a finger.

And that would have been enough. 

But none of that happened. 

“Bad day huh?  Well, I don’t like hearing how you got a usual one of them.” George put on his most determined smile.  “But.  Good thing they taught us dads how to handle this in our playbook.”

The mattress squeaked under his weight as he settled next to her.  “Alright Gwen, lay it on me.  Gimme all the little rotten bits about your cruddy day.  Line ‘em up and I’ll knock ‘em down.” 

He rubbed her back to encourage, but all she could manage was a raspy, “I...can’t.”

“You...can’t?”  His smile started to dim and she nodded.  “C’mon, it’s me.  You can tell me anything.”

Uh no.  No I can’t, Dad. 

When Gwen remained quiet, he sighed his heavy sigh.  “Well, if not me...who else can you talk to?”  His caressing hand stilled to rest across her shoulders, and he leaned back to look at her.  The fog began to creep in like mist, spreading across his face.  His voice dropped low and quiet, a faint scratch marring its words.  “You know, you and me…?  We’re all we got.”

“I…I know.  It’s okay Dad.  Don’t worry about it.”

There was a furrow in his brow, and he shifted to rest his chin on the crown of her head.  “But I wanted to help fix your bad day.” 

“Maybe…you weren’t meant to fix this.” 

“I…”  His jaw flexed against Gwen’s hair as he struggled to form the words.  And again.  He eventually whispered, “I’m sorry I’m not-.”  He coughed and didn’t complete the thought.   The silence stretched and stretched, growing heavy and leaden. 

George’s other hand rose to complete the embrace and pulled her in, tighter.  Closer.  If not a nest, at least her dad’s arms felt like a sturdy bulwark...for now.  At least...until the day he finally made good on his vow to catch Spider-Woman, when they might very well turn into the walls of a prison. 

She hid her face in his chest, pressing against his shirt – all the better to hide the hitch which was forming in her throat.

Gwen remembered that a Stacy does not cry.

But that little girl, crumbling piece by piece, huddled in the arms of a fortress?  That Stacy wished she could.

-🕷-

When the concrete walls emerge on the horizon, Gwen can’t help the pit of dread from forming.  And it has nothing to do with the fact that she hasn’t eaten in…she can’t remember when.  This place – or any others just like it – is her destination of dread.  This is the very destination she’s been avoiding all week.

Gwen is no stranger to threat and malice.  She had braved the hellscape of dystopian Earth 42 to rescue a stranded Miles – even as she feared confronting those haunted, betrayed eyes that had torn out her heart.  She'd stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Miles on Earth 1610 with webs against dark matter, with buildings crumbling around them, fighting Gargantuan-Spot for the fate of the city.  Since then, she’s executed countless missions for the new Society, in worlds bristling with villainy of human and monstrous origin. 

She’s looked dread terror in the eye many times over and never once flinched.  So why is she flinching at the sight of a simple pharmacy?

Gwen couldn’t bring herself to go alone in her own world.  But she also couldn’t bring herself to tell Miles so he could come with her.  Her dad...likewise out of the question, for now.  She was trapped in a paralyzing quandary. 

So instead, she spent the past week in a state of limbo.  Between her bedroom and school, she’d visited no other location.  Her room was the one place that felt remotely safe, where she could hole up and hide from everything. 

School?  That was different. 

Gwen had only showed her face at Visions Academy out of sheer necessity – she simply couldn’t afford another unexplained absence on her record.  Through force of will, Gwen had dragged her feet through hallways filled with peers and potentially prying eyes.  By that same magic, she made herself as small as possible, avoiding all eye contact and praying for everyone to leave her the hell alone.  It had been hard to hide from Glory and Em Jay – harder still to read the familiar pain in their responses as she begged off practice after practice by text.  Betty…it was easier to ignore Betty.

This had been her existence for the last seven days – home, then school, then back to safety.  Rinse and repeat – except for this last hour where she’d finally given up on stumbling in the dark and sought Rio’s presence like a moth to a flame.  Like a little girl asking her mother to please hold my hand and walk me to my bedroom so you can chase the monsters away. 

Gwen wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted Rio to do when she let herself into the Morales apartment a couple hours ago.  But Rio perceived, then agreed to the ask before Gwen could even understand it, much less voice it.  And she is keeping her word – Rio has shepherded Gwen through the long, scary walk to that dark, scary place and they’re finally here. 

They pause outside the entrance.  If Rio wonders why they’ve stopped, Gwen wouldn’t know.  She can only stare transfixed at the doors sliding open and closed, like the jaws of a beast devouring its prey.

She can do this.  She has to do this. 

If she could face Miguel in the aftermath of Miles’ escape from the original Spider Society… 

If she could withstand blood-red eyes and bared fangs and her expulsion from that place… 

If she could brave the return to her homeworld, her house, her father… 

Then no place should ever count as a destination of dread for someone like Gwen Stacy.

For herself, for Miles, and for the one who might be... she walks through those doors.

Snap, snap. 

On the first step inside, Gwen’s fingertips pluck the band around her wrist as if it will act as a drumbeat to keep her feet moving.  She looks around. 

The overhead lights are garish and blinding like Visions’.  The brimming aisles are tight hallways like the ones that connect her classrooms.  The people shopping throughout are like her schoolmates, especially when all heads swivel to her like she’s a sheriff walking into a saloon full of outlaws. 

This environment…it’s claustrophobic, it’s dizzying, it’s-

“Welcome to Walgreens, ladies.”

That pleasant pitch belongs to a blue-shirted attendant, barely older than Gwen – probably a student at Kingsborough, or Pratt, or Brooklyn College.  He’s kind-looking with a polite posture.  Completely unthreatening.  But he’s still young enough, and his features are close enough for her treacherous mind to turn his face into a weapon…

‘Hey Gwen, welcome back!  What’d you do with your summer… Oh.  Wow.  Uhmm...’

The young clerk’s face morphs into the surprised visage of Harry Osborn three months into the future.  A Harry Osborn with whom Gwen shares 3^rd, 5^th, and 7^th periods.  His eyes have just dropped to the obvious swell of Gwen's baby bump, her sweatshirt useless in hiding the protruding curve.  His mouth hangs open and with nothing else to say, he averts his gaze as he briskly walks away.

Gwen drifts forward into her vision of Visions Academy; she continues alone down the hypothetical hallway, bordered by looming walls of lockers, and filled with ranks of curious onlookers pressing in.  At first, they present an impenetrable mass.  But as she approaches, they part like the Red Sea, forming a new passageway carved out of people. 

And their eyes.  There are eyes, eyes everywhere to follow her mercilessly.

Their thoughts are all carried in the flick of the eyes.  Always down to the evidence, then up to her face.  And when Gwen dares to match their stares, there’s a word that perches high and mighty in the tilt of their gaze.  That word always slides down their upturned noses and flies into Gwen’s face, letting her know exactly what they think of her and her choices.

Gwen finds her desk and hopes she can still fit behind it.  The whole class watches her approach, watches her place a shaking hand to the back of her chair, and-

“Soooo… Um.  Can I help you two find something?”

Gwen’s mind crashes and resets.  The face of ‘Shift Lead Matthew’ – the name tag reads – comes back into focus, bored but growing curious at her indecision.  Gwen’s mouth begins to open but a clot of air lodges in her throat, while he patiently waits like a model employee.  She’s struggling to croak out ‘pregnancy test kits’ without saying the word ‘pregnancy’. 

“No thank you, I know where they are.  Gwen, come on.” 

Rio to the rescue – again.  Gwen with her helplessness – again. 

Coward. 

Rio’s gotta be thinking I’m useless.

As Rio walks off, Gwen fingers her hair-tie and follows.  Her cheek tingles from the brush of curly ringlets as Rio angles her head close.  Quietly she says, “Hey Gwen after that walk, I need to run to the ladies room.  Do you mind giving me a minute?”  She points to a nearby corner.  “The kits are over there, but no need to go by yourself.  Just wait for me here.” 

Yup there it is.  She thinks I can’t handle my business, thinks I’m too chicken shit.  Figures.  I haven’t given her any reason to think otherwise all day…

At this, Gwen’s jaw sets, and she forces courage that she does not possess into words that she can barely express.  “Hey, uh Rio…you don’t need to babysit me.  I…I can pick one up myself and meet you outside.”

Her mind adds so I can get out of this store ASAP.  So I can ask for a double, or triple bag, to hide the packaging.  So I can find a shady spot and stay out of sight till you come back. 

Rio’s eyes dip to the low-center of her sweatshirt, towards the belly pocket. 

Is…Rio doing the ‘flick’ on me too?  Already? 

“Gwen.  You can’t.”

“What, why not?”

“We need to pay for it.”

Confusion descends.  Is Rio suggesting that she was about to steal it?  Spider-Woman as a shoplifter??  Gwen knows that her reputation is forever tarnished in Rio's mind, but has she fallen this low with her?

“I…I…wha-?”

Rio lowers her voice as if someone might overhear.  “I said,we need to pay for it.”

Now fully perplexed, Gwen pulls her wallet from her pocket to prove her innocent intentions, but Rio’s hand blocks it from rising into the open.  She glances around like Gwen just tried to pull out a gun.  “Your money…it doesn’t work here.  Remember?  Different Presidentes on the front?  Your bills…bright blue and all?  Kind of ugly looking if you ask me.  There was that time you almost-”    

“Oh.  Yeah…I forgot.”  The next obvious step injects fear to corrode Gwen’s resolve like acid.  Her chin droops and shoulders slump.  “I guess I got no choice...I’ll just head on home and buy it there, like I shoulda done all along.  I...I’ll tell you how it goes-”

“Gwen.”  Rio’s sharp edge cuts her attempted farewell.  “I will buy it for you, obviously.  You’re not leaving-” She peeks about furtively, “-my world today.  We are doing this.  Together.” 

“Rio...y-you don’t-”

“Stop.”

“I’ll pay you back-”

“With money that doesn’t work here,” Rio says dry and slow.  There’s a slow-motion shake to her head that screams all too loudly girl, you are a dumbass.  There is, however, a tilt of her lips that could be confused with affection.  “Oh Gwen.  I mean, with the kind of day you and I are having, the last thing we need is for you to get arrested for attempting to counterfeit at a store.”

Rio begins to chuckle that oh so infectious chuckle.  Gwen is almost tempted to join her when Rio adds, “Can you imagine if Jeff was the one who came down to pick you up, how would we explain this-”

Temptation gone.  Gwen looks at the floor and Rio falls silent. 

“I’m sorry, mija.  I got carried away.”  Gwen turns back in time to spot Rio’s fingers in mid-reach for her shoulder.  They halt and retreat like they’ve been caught red-handed, Rio looking somewhat guilty as she says, “My treat.  Alright?” 

I guess she wants to know if I fucked up Miles’ life, sooner rather than later.

Or maybe she doesn’t trust my nervous ass to run the test right.

Or both.

“Alright,” she replies quietly.  No stopping it now.  Gwen will find out today one way or another.  Her fingers pluck again.

SNAP. 

Gwen pulls her hair-tie past the breaking point and a gunshot might as well have gone off in the shop.  She cringes, shuts her eyes, and awaits the screaming of patrons.

She opens them when a tender grasp closes around her fingers, lifting her hand parallel to the ground.  Rio pulls back her coat sleeve, revealing a hairband wrapped around her wrist.  She pulls it off and twists the beaded strand into several loops around Gwen’s arm, giving it a light tug for good measure.  Rio tickles the surrounding skin, and the shadow of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. 

She walks away, glancing over her shoulder, her words sounding like the hug Gwen won't permit herself to have.  “To keep you company while you wait.  Be right back.”  

Gwen watches her disappear and her mind starts to turn.  She’s been second guessing every interaction with Rio this entire day.  But this just now was an unmistakable act of kindness.  It was so…normal.  So much like the hundreds, if not thousands, of little moments they’ve shared throughout their entire history.

Could it be that she hasn’t smashed her relationship with Rio beyond repair?  Could it be that the Rio of the past might still exist here in the present? 

Would Rio be this kind if she knew just how badly Gwen abused her trust?

Gwen hasn’t decided by the time she realizes she’s still exposed out on the open floor.  She examines her surroundings and coincidentally, the professional nurse has left her idling next to an endcap filled with medical supplies.  She thumbs Rio’s band like a rosary and edges into the aisle to get out of the public eye.  But those few steps bring her nearer to the looming presence that resides the next aisle over. 

She’s close. 

So much closer to a firm and final answer.  So close to the end of the line.  When one of those waiting boxes – plastered with images of smiling mothers and newborn babies – confirms the verdict she’s expecting?  Then the time for telling will come. 

Her school’s registrar.

Her teachers.

Spider Society teammates.

The Society’s council...or at least Peter.

So many people to tell.  But worst of all...

Dad.

Miles.

Oh God, Miles.  Her stomach lurches at the thought.  When will she tell him?  What will she tell him? 

What will he do, the very minute he knows the truth?  What about the minutes, hours, and days afterwards?

This is not the first crisis that the two have endured.  Their early friendship survived the crisis – one of Gwen’s own making – and emerged reforged, ready to transform into something new.  And the resulting relationship, born of that friendship, has had its frayed moments as well.  Some…fairly recent.  But it survived.  Of course it survived.

But all this?  This is unlike anything they have faced together.

Gwen takes long, slow breaths.  She blinks slowly to find herself surrounded by rows of saline wash, gauze rolls, and medical tape.  As her vision darts between them…

She remembers why she’s here. 

She touches a box of gauze and remembers when they wrapped all around her body – parting gifts from an operation in Miles’ Earth that had gone to hell.  The op was his lead, his call, and…he had nearly died.  She had launched into the fray of battle as a reinforcement to even the odds – to shield his life with hers, gladly offering it in exchange if need be.  She had very nearly paid that price as she carved a bloody path to her besieged Miles, and its receipt ran across her stomach in ugly wounds that had nearly bled her dry.

But she hadn’t; she’d been saved.  In the aftermath, their reunion by her bedside was filled with joy and tears, her body battered and broken, yet miraculously alive – as was he.

Then the darkness came. 

In the weeks that followed, Miles seemed fine – or at least he would to an outsider.  He still faithfully patrolled with her in both their worlds…even if he did seem too vigilant about her safety.  He still performed his duties at Society HQ…even if he stopped inviting her team on his missions.  She chalked it all up to an understandable over-protectiveness that would fade with time. 

But when they were alone, just he and her?  There was something amiss that she could sense yet couldn’t articulate.  And it had nothing to do with him not making love to her since her injury – except for an abortive attempt early afterwards, when they’d both wanted it, when she’d escalated it, but her still-healing body couldn’t handle the pain. 

A month since that fateful mission, when she looked at him, it was as if his outline had become fuzzy – like the artist drawing him had begun to wobble the lines with a trembling hand – allowing dark ink to bleed into spaces where light was meant to shine.  It felt like she was spending time with a pretender, someone trying his hardest to mimic Miles, his eyes often lost in a faraway stare.

She wasn’t alone in noticing; others tried to coax him out of his hardening shell.  No one could dig through to reach Miles, to return light to the young man who had always been made of sunflowers and sunshine. 

Not even Rio, it seemed.  One night over tea, she admitted as much.

“…and Gwen, I see it too.  Something’s eating at him from the inside.  It feels like fear.  Given what almost happened to you…” Rio grimaced and looked out her window.  “…maybe some guilt as well.  I think we can probably guess why.”  She shook her head and spoke to the darkness outside.  “Está peleando con sus fantasmas.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“He’s been so evasive with me.  Have you, Mija?”

Her face dropped.  She was planning on it.  But she knew her upcoming talk with Miles would also likely touch on their recent lack of connection – of all kinds.  And she was scared to even think about her secret life with Miles within Rio’s presence. 

“I’m…gonna try.  I was kinda figuring out my exact approach.”  She glanced at the elder woman.  “Also wanted to check in with you before I did anything.  Make sure I wasn’t stepping on any toes.”

Rio smiled faintly at her and her eyes grew distant.  “Gwen-sita, there is a saying that goes: ‘Para una madre, una hija es para siempre.  Un hijo es un hijo, hasta que encuentra a su esposa.’”

She chewed her lip in concentration as she tried to keep pace but eventually had to admit, “Uh Rio, can you slow your roll a bit?  I only just hit section 3 on Duolingo.”

Rio’s face crinkled and she hummed.  “And I love that you’re trying.  Let me help.  It translates to: ‘For a mother, her daughter is a daughter for life.  Her son is a son until he finds his…wife.’”

Her cheeks started to flush, and their temperature rose under the lamp of Rio’s scrutiny.

“Relax Gwen; we can tone that word down to ‘special someone.’  Anyways, I don't fully agree with all that.  It’s a saying that originated elsewhere and doesn’t exactly reflect what family life was like on the Island.  On the one hand, Miles will always be my son.  When I see him, I will always remember that crying bundle they placed on my chest all those years ago.  No one takes that away from a mother.  But on the other hand…even I can admit that there might be some truth to those words.” 

Rio leaned in closer to her as if sharing a secret.

“Miles will change.  Has been changing.  With you.  Who he will look to first, will change.  Who he will rely on first, will change.  Who he draws comfort from first...”

Rio’s hand curled over hers and gave it a pat.

“We might have reached a point where his Mami’s touch might not be enough to get through to my son.  And…as sad as it may be for me to admit, it might require a different woman’s touch to heal him.”  

She held onto Rio’s words – weighing heavily like a sacred charge – as she hung by a hand outside Miles’ dorm window, dressed in plain clothes.  And not for the first time, she was glad for another constant between their universes – nobody in NYC really bothered to look up.  Least of all the harried students of Visions Academy, with their noses always buried in a textbook.  

She had thought about wearing her suit but felt that might send the wrong signal.  As if she was here for business and not for him – and only him.

One of those meandering students down below was probably Ganke – and even he was concerned.  So much so that when Gwen had texted him, requesting the dorm’s privacy for a ‘long talk’ with Miles, he merely replied with ‘Good Luck’ instead of his more typical eggplant or winky emojis.

She chanced a peek through the glass.  Miles sat hunched over his desk, and her heart warmed at the familiar sight. 

He’s still my Miles.  And we can get past anything as long as we’re together.  I got this.

But before she could slide his window, something caused her hand to stay.  The waning sunlight of late afternoon streamed through to illuminate Miles’ skin…which looked ashen and lifeless.  His hand rubbed slowly over his eyes, then covered a massive yawn.  His foot tapped a frenetic beat, but there was no pattern in it, no rhythm set against some song which was surely blasting within his headphones. 

And contrasting that spastic movement was the jarring stillness of his head, bent over his task.  What was he doing?  Studying?  If he was, then there was not a twitch in his eye, nor a turn of his head for nearly a minute.  Just…blank staring. 

His pencil point twisted and ground aimlessly onto paper – until its tip snapped.  He didn’t even appear to notice.  It was one of his best sketch pencils (part of a set she had gotten him for his birthday). 

She frowned.

As they had increasingly done, her instincts stirred at the sight of Miles acting off.  She reached out, her fingers uncurling onto the glass, and her lips set into a determined line.  She resolved to bring him back to her – fully and completely. 

The window slid open.  He didn’t stir.

She drew closer and still no reaction, though her Spider-Sense began to register his presence like the hum of a tuning fork.  Was his Sense really that deadened to hers?

And then she was behind his chair, with Miles none the wiser.  She didn’t mean to be so silent, to have her footfalls land on his carpet like a lynx’s upon snow, but she couldn’t help it – she wasn’t the leader of Society’s best surveillance squad for nothing. 

She touched his shoulder.

“Gah!”  His chair spun around and he jolted to his feet, arms flailing.  A raised hand briefly clenched into a fist – and the slightest trace of lightning might have flickered between his knuckles.  Then came recognition, and that hand clutched to chest. 

“Geez, man.”

“Sorry, Miles.  Didn’t mean to sneak.”  She leaned in to peck his cheek.

He took a couple small breaths to recover and an all too familiar mask – one not of fabric – slipped into place.  He shook out that clutched hand and flexed its arm for show. 

“S’aight.  But you should know better than to scare the Spider with the fastest twitch at HQ.  I might’ve clipped you on accident.”

She smiled, small but hopeful.  “You can’t hurt me.”

He returned it, his fainter and shadowed.  “A perk of having a Spider girlfriend, I guess.”  The shadow reached his eyes, and they flicked to her stomach.  “But then again there’s a first time for everything.”

“I do seem to have a lot of first times with you.  But usually, they make me feel safe.”

Before she could put an end to their double-talk – always uneasy when half-truths lay between them – he looked at his alarm clock.

“A little early for patrol tonight.”  He appraised her quizzically.  “And you don’t have your suit.”

“Actually…I thought we could stay in.”  The second she said them, she regretted how her words could be misconstrued as something else.  After all, she had used this very line for less innocent intentions in the past. 

His mask slipped a fraction, eyes flicking to her, then his bed.  His mouth opened and her mind started filling in the pleas, the begging-offs, the evasions that she had heard too much over the past month:

I don’t wanna rush it.  Like we did…right after.  I don’t— I can’t see you hurting like that again.

Well we could but…we should play it safe and make sure you’re fully healed up, hundred percent.

We just gotta take it easy with you, okay?  Soon…promise. 

And his voice always sounded like this: 

“Well…we shouldn’t get in the habit of skipping out on patrol.  You know, they say that with great ability comes great accountability.” 

She shook her head affectionately.  “That’s not how the saying goes.”

“Try telling that to him.  And weren’t you the one who taught me that Spider-Man never eases up?”

“That’s…not exactly what I said.  I said when you get knocked down, Spider-Man comes back every time.  So…speaking of which-”

His eyes drifted back to his bed, then his nightstand drawer.  “Uh, yeah…but it’s still probably too soon for-"

“Miles.  I wanted to stay in and just talk.”

“About what?”  He rubbed the nape of his neck. 

“Well…it’s…there’s no easy…”  She sighed.  “Here goes.  You’ve been off lately.  And it’s killing me to see you like this.”  She reached around to take his hand.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about.”  Miles’ eyebrows knitted and his lips thinned into a tight smile.  An outwardly appeasing face, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed.  Your mom and dad…our friends.  Even when you’re with us, it’s like you’re not with us.  You’re distant…like you’re someone different.  They’ve all noticed.”

“Dunno if I agree with all that.  I’m still me.  I’m still out there with you guys, doin’ what I do.” 

“Yeah but when you’re ‘out there’ it’s like you’re—Hunh...”

She broke off when she spotted the sheet of paper on his desk.  It was blank, except for one gray smudge which she touched.  “What’s this?  You were kinda staring at it for a while.”

“Ah, so you were spying on me?  Always knew you were a creeper.”  He paired his words with a faint grin. 

When she merely raised an eyebrow, he let out a sigh.  “I was drawing.  Letting off a lil’ steam.  Or trying to, anyways.”  He released her hand, taking a step away to face the wall.  “Haven’t been able to draw in over a month actually.”

“What?  Why not?”

He wouldn’t answer.  A beat passed.  Then more and more, and she could sense his pain seeping through the silence.  She rubbed her palm between his shoulder blades, right behind where his heart would be.

“Miles…when we got together, we said—we agreed ‘no more secrets.’  Right?” 

“‘We tell each other everything,’” he whispered by reflex – the instinctive reply of the shared language they’d developed, born of their past.

She continued, her voice growing softer.  “I know us having to promise that… That one was on me.  But still…it cuts both ways.” 

His breathing grew haggard and she continued to stroke his back, hoping to coax air and secrets from his lungs. 

“Alright,” he said.  “Guess we’re doing this.  I’m hitting a mental block because…every time I start and I’m staring at a piece of paper…I see you.  Like I normally do.  But then I’m also seeing you with…blood all over.  It’s bleeding and bleeding…and I… I can’t stop it.”  He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes drifting low to her stomach for the second time.  His voice trembled.  “It’s been like that, ever since…”

“Oh Miles.”  She closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him, laying her cheek flat against his spine. 

She squeezed and began to rock him side to side, ever so gently.  “You feel skinny.  And you’ve been looking worse and worse over the past couple weeks.  I…I know you’re not taking care of yourself.”

His head dropped.    

She asked, “Is… You imagining all that.  Is that why you won’t hug me?”

“What?  I hug you.” 

“Not from the front.  Not since my recovery days…it’s always from the side, or the back.  Like you’re trying to avoid…touching me there.  Over the scars.”

She released her arms to slide around him.  She ducked her head to look into eyes that were a dimension away.

“Them being there means I’ve healed.  I won’t break.  I’m not in danger.  They’re just another piece of my history.”

“A history of the night I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Could happen again.  I…I can’t.”  He grimaced and swiped at the corner of an eye.  “I-I remember what life was like without you.  I can’t go back there.”

“And you won’t.  Not if I have anything to say about it.”  She held his wrist and lifted it.  “When was the last time you slept decent?  Your hand’s shaking.  Kinda the rest of you too, if we’re being honest.”

“It’s…been a minute.” 

“How long exactly?”

“About as long as my art block.”  Her heart cracked along with his words.  “Ever since that night…if I’m lucky, I get two hours in.  Sometimes it’s thirty minutes.  Some nights its nothing.”

Her heart tore wide open for her man—her love—who was so clearly struggling.  She looked at Miles with helpless eyes and hated that she couldn’t snap her fingers to banish his demons away.  “How can I help you clear your head?”

He huffed, dark and bleak, then exhaled, long and slow.  “Not sure anyone can.  All I think about every time I close my eyes and see…this…”  His hand rose and hovered inches away from her stomach.  She clasped it and gently flattened their hands on top of her shirt – right over what he feared to touch.  With her thumb, she stroked his knuckles in what she hoped were soothing circles.

Miles screwed his face, tensed his jaw to force the sounds out.  “When I look there, I think about how I’m the one who caused this.  Because I got cocky, and bit off more than I could chew.  Because I wasn’t smart enough, didn’t plan enough…wasn’t good enough.  Because you had to come and save my ass.  And then you almost paid the price for it.”

“Or you could see my scars the way I see them.”

“How’s that?”

“Well for me…when I see them, they’re a reminder of the guy I love more than anything.  A guy I’ll always fight for when he’s in trouble.  Because he’d do the same for me.  And when I couldn’t fight anymore, and I fell?”  She moved his hand slowly under her shirt to lie over roughened flesh.  “This reminds me that my guy got me out of there.  And saved me.”

“I’m not the one who stopped you from bleeding out.”  Her skin by the healed wound quivered and tightened as Miles dragged a shaky finger down its length. “I did this.”

“If you hadn’t carried me to the help, I would have bled out.” 

She guided his hand, up and up, her shirt bunching around their joined wrists.  She placed his fingers directly over the warmth of her pounding heart and willed it to beat harder.  Not because she was panicking, not because she was scared.  But so that its reassuring rhythm might surge through her chest and into his arm, to run through his veins and into his heart.  “You did this.”

She squeezed his fingers.  Miles stared and stared at her, a question beginning to form in his eyes.  He leaned forward, just a touch, before halting.  She mirrored him, inching closer, staring at him through a curtain of lashes.

And then he kissed her, and she kissed him back with a fierceness that sent them tumbling onto the bed, barriers falling away in their wake.  Because she wanted him and she missed him and he was coming back to her.  Because she spent most of her life thinking she would never find someone like Miles.  Because there was a time when she thought she would never see him again, trapped as they were on separate sides of a destroyed collider.

Because whenever they were together like this, she might as well be soaring. 

But there was one last gust of headwind to overcome.

Miles halted and hovered over her.  Everywhere else was skin on skin, warmth seeking warmth, comfort upon comfort.  But still there remained mere inches of air separating the connection she craved. 

“Gwen…  I…I can’t hurt you.  Not again.” 

“You haven’t.  You won’t.”

His gaze pleaded with her for those words to be true, and in return hers pleaded for trust.  Her breath caught and pulse quickened as he inclined his head, the light of acceptance dawning across his face. 

Miles entered her and she nearly wept from the relief.  The relief from two halves made whole again, two broken pieces melding into place – reuniting like shards reforged.

Before either of them could move, she held his cheeks with a gentle touch that demanded his attention. 

“Please…don’t fade out on me like that again…alright?  If you’re struggling with something, I wanna be right there next to you.  We tell each other everything.  Yeah?” 

He closed his eyes, the guilt evident on his face.  When he nodded against her palms, she could feel it releasing into the air along with “No secrets.” 

She whispered “Good” and kissed each of his eyes to open them and absolve him.

Silence stretched for a second, then two – both of them content to lie still and be in the moment together, joined as they were.  Then…

“Miles, never leave me.”    

He looked confused, probably wondering why she was still talking about the recent past she had just banished.

“Yeah, I-I know.  I’m sorry about last month, Gwen, I’ll-”

“No.  Not that.  Miles, I meant…never leave me.” 

And with that request, the extent of her invitation – for which she had laid a trail over many months – assembled in all its fullness.

Would Miles grasp it?  Would he understand the undertone of ‘never’?  She awaited his answer.

“Never.  Never again.”  A shared memory played across his face as he promised, “Gwen, I’m with you.  For a long time.”

His fervent words played at her heart, and it flooded with all the things in all the world she felt for and because of this man – her anchor, her home.

Comfort. 

Belonging. 

Joy.  But most of all…

“God, I love you.  Now—” she said with a mouth of sweetness…right before her tongue turned to lust.  “Fuck me.”

Blue light flared from the gemstone irises of the one Spider with voltage in his veins.  Their sparks danced around slivers of topaz, thinned out by dark pools expanding to take in her light.

He could only groan as his lips crashed onto hers.  She felt the press as he pushed her into the mattress, his weight – his blissful heavy weight – serving a glorious reminder of he’s here, he’s whole, and he’s come back to me.

What they were doing now, they hadn’t done before.  They’d done slow and tender.  They’d done passionate and explosive.  But this was something altogether different.  Today their desire was magma, pent and powerful, sundering mountains to create landscapes anew.

Together, with every shift and movement they reminded each other

Alive, alive, you’re alive, I’m alive.

With every fervent kiss they reminded the other

Mine, mine, you’re mine.

“Fuck- Gwen…I-I–”

Need you.

“I...know…” she gasped, her breaths rapidly coming undone with every reminder. 

Violet fingernails raked over a muscled back – encouraging, exhorting.  Marking.  Claiming.  “M-me too...” 

He fell forward with a cry, his forehead dropping to her cheek as they ascended to ecstasy together.  Chasing the contact, she pressed her face tighter against his and squeezed her eyes.  If stars were exploding like gems behind her eyelids, it was only because he hung them there.  Her cheek was wet, but she couldn’t tell if they were from his tears or hers.

When they descended – after Miles had wiped and hidden his face, after their breathing calmed to fill the silence – she lifted his chin to find his eyes.  With her own, she implored him not to be ashamed. 

“You’ll always have me,” she whispered.

Their fingers linked together, and she promised the same in their touch.

Then they slept in each other’s arms.  He, pushed by exhaustion and insomnia; she, by a desire to follow him into the land of dreams. 

Someone had to keep his demons at bay.

When she awoke, there was a fleeting moment of panic.  Was this all her dream? 

No.  The rustle by her side reassured that what she just experienced was very real.

“Gwen?” he called, scratched and coarse.

She wrapped an arm across his stomach and laid her head upon his chest.  His favorite position for afterwards, she knew. 

“M’here.”

“That was the best sleep I’ve had in...”  Miles became muffled as his hand rubbed his face. 

“A month?”  She gave a little kiss to a dimpled muscle.

“Yeah.” 

“So does this mean I gotta do this every night from now on to make sure you fall asleep?” 

“That actually…would be one helluva service—Hey!  That tickles.”

“Hnh.  Deserve it.  So…how do you feel?”

He stared at the ceiling.  “Tired.  Out of it.  Maybe a little rested, finally.”  He paused.  “And…lighter.” 

She smiled, wide and bright.  “Good.”

“I just hope…”  His jaw flexed in his pause.  “…it doesn’t all come back again.”

“What if you went to see Spider-Shrink?  If you went to see him, I’d go with you.  Or sit in the lobby.  Or be wherever you need me.”

“Ah, I dunno.”

She nudged his shoulder with her cheek.  “Well now, stats out there say 20% of guys in your generation don’t get the mental health support that they need.”

He grimaced at her turnabout phrasing but then relented into a soft smile.  “Maybe.  But I bet if I talk to Doc about…being scared of not having you in my life.  All of a sudden.  With no warning…?  It’s gonna sound so stupid saying it out loud to someone else.”

“It’s not…” she began before deciding on a different tack.  “Hey.  I’m gonna let you in on something.  I’ve decided I’m growing my hair back out.”  She touched her shaved undercut.  “Even it up I mean.”

Miles gave his head a minute shake.  “Uhh what now?  I think I missed something.” 

“Stick with me a bit.  So.  When you and I first met, my hair was a bob cut.  And it was like that because one day, on a dare, Peter was the one who hacked it that short.  It used to be way longer when I was a kid.  Down my back.”

“Whoa really?  Had no idea.”

“Heh.  Yeah.  We were both in big trouble.  But after she settled down, May always teased us about it.  She would tell me all the time that ‘hair holds memories.’  Gave me a wink and said that I should keep it.”  She paused.  “After…Peter died, I kept the bob for a while because it was my way of remembering him.  That was why I might have been more than just a little pissed when you messed it up.”

A poke to the ribs.  She added a teasing lilt for good measure, but Miles still groaned.  “Oh…no, I didn’t-”

Her fingers trailed over his lips to still him before he could grow melancholy.  She continued.

“But then I got to know you.  And you…you were just so…you.  And well, between the polaroid and my hair, I didn’t wanna let your memory go.  It was almost like I wanted to write your history somewhere on me where I could still see it.  To prove to myself I wasn’t crazy and I hadn’t dreamed you up.  That’s why I kept my side-shave while we were separated for that year.  Does that make sense?” 

“In my drawer, there’s three notebooks’ worth of sketches labelled ‘Gwen’ that say that I get it.”

“Then after we took care of Spot and you and me…became this…” she tapped his chest.  “…I was still scared for a while.  Of the other shoe dropping.  Because for me?  It always drops.  Mom.  Peter.  Even Dad…for a bit.”

She paused, gathering the strength to make an example of herself – for his sake.

“And in the early days, I worried about things like…maybe the Society doesn’t have a mission anymore, or the Council suddenly decides it’s too risky to keep doing this dimension-travel stuff and we need to give up our watches, or…or…any reason really.  So, I went all-in on this new HQ.  To keep myself useful.  I mean don’t get me wrong, part of it was because what we do now is important.  And I’m down for it.  But if I’m being honest, the other part of it was to keep my watch.  So you couldn’t vanish from my life again.  And…I kept my hair.  Just in case.”   

He nodded and his arms wrapped around her all the tighter.  They’d talked about surface layers of this fear before.  But she’d never dug this deeply to uncover so much. 

“But Miles?  Lately…with us…I’ve decided I’m done waiting for the shoe to drop.  I don’t want to wear your history in my hair anymore.  I’m not gonna look over my shoulder because…”

She placed a hand to Miles’ cheek and focused every ounce of hope she had into his eyes.

“…I want to look at our future, instead.”

For a moment, nothing.  He stared down at her, and she up at him.  She waited and waited, relief washing through her as he answered.

“Maybe I can help you see the future.” 

“Oh yeah?  How so?”

“Stay here.  Be back.”  He stood, and she grumbled over the loss of his body heat.  But then his toned back caught the soft glow of the setting sun, cascading through his window.  She fell silent to enjoy a view which – she had to admit – was quite…spectacular.  In ancient days, his physique might have been belonged to a knight, or a prince, or a god.

He rummaged through his desk and pulled his chair to sit a few feet away from her, sketchpad and pencil in hand.

“Lemme see if I can show you what you’d look like with a new ‘do.”

“Wouldja look at that, my own personal artist coming in handy.  Lucky me.”

She stretched to sit up, and the blanket rose with her – draped around her shoulders like a mantle.  With fiery sunlight now framing her in golden rays, she felt like a queen.

An errant strand of hair fell across her cheek and she tucked it away, causing a corner of fabric to fall down.  She moved to fix her makeshift cape and cover herself, but...

“Actually,” he stood and walked over to her, fingers outstretched.  “It’s kinda hard to imagine with all this around your shoulders.  Can I...?”   

“Whatever you need.”

They didn't break eye contact as he slid the blanket down to pool around her waist, exposing her – scars and all – to him.  Nor did that connection falter as he rearranged her arms and tucked her legs into a languid lean.  As he returned to his chair, he was finally looking at her again without fear.

Now she felt like a goddess.

Time began to tint, to stretch, to flow slowly like sap from a tree.  She was acutely aware of every heartbeat, her every breath.  Was she the one causing this?  Did some blend of her Spider power and multi-versal journeys transform her into a goddess of time? 

Or was she simply under the spell of that intense hazel gaze, seated five feet away?

Miles’ eyes—oh those electric eyes—peered at her from over the top of his sketchbook as his fingers began to flow.  Those eyes fixated on her, relearning every detail, every freckle, every mole.  With each pencil-sweep that mimicked a curve of her body, his finger caressed that spot. 

She was warm everywhere.

She grew warmer as he gave her gentle instructions: 

“Can you shift your hand?”

“Chin up a bit.” 

“Keep your eyes on me.” 

She was warm going on hot, as he captured her – freezing her into place on paper like sap hardening into amber.

For all they had done earlier, for all that she’d ever done with him – she’d never posed for him in this way.  She’d never been so revealed, so vulnerable…so his.

After minutes – possibly hours – the sun had gone but its light remained, Miles’ dorm now straddling the cozy boundary between day and night. 

Miles perched his pencil onto his ear.  “Done.”

“Let’s see it then.  The new me.”

She rose and let the blanket fall to the floor, his vision briefly entranced by the motion.  And though the distance was short, she managed to saunter over to Miles with an extra sway to her hips, her eyes fixed on his through the rock of every step.

Silently, he tore out the sheet and handed it over. 

A vision of Gwen Stacy, a year or more into the future, stared back at her. 

And it was a vision, for how else could one describe the wavy layers that gleamed brilliant blonde, though Miles had only shades of gray to work with?  Or describe the tousled waves of hair that cascaded to frame her face and land upon delicate shoulders?

She scanned the rest of her figure, immortalized on temporal paper.  Every inch of her was drawn…but respected.  Exposed, but not vulnerable.  Bare, yet powerful.

The Gwen of the future continued to stare back at her, a challenge crafted in the gentle arch of her brow.  With her lips slightly parted, it was almost as if Miles was speaking through her…to her: 

One of my favorite things about you is that you’re a ballerina and I can tell by the way you stand.  Your head’s in neutral, shoulders are high and back, and that cute foot’s always playing around in fourth position.

Yeah, that dimple I drew by the corner of your mouth?  You know I can’t resist kissing it whenever you smile at me.

The freckles on your cheeks…your collarbone…your chest… I can never keep the number straight when I try to count them all.

You’re a bad-ass drummer and you’re always rubbing the callouses on your fingers together, just like I’m showing here on this hand.  And you know what?  I like rubbing them too.

I can’t get over how soft your skin is, especially around the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip by your birthmark.  My fingers never want to rest anywhere else.

When I slide into you, it’s like we were made to be together.  We feel like we’re moving as one – just like when we’re out there swinging.  No Gwen.  No Miles.  Just one body.

And I love every part of that body.  Old and new.

Then she realized – he’d faithfully recreated her most prominent scar.  He’d drawn all of her.

This paper in her hands was not so much a picture, as it was a letter.  A love letter where he had worshipped her every line.  

Now it was her hand that trembled, the sketch waving in its grasp. 

His outline was no longer fuzzy, now solid and strong.  The only darkness to linger within its borders resided in deadly serious eyes, and she was their cause.

She lowered the page and slid onto his lap, sinuous and slow.  Behind them, a solitary pencil clattered to the ground.  From inches away, she stared into jet-black pools that promised dangerous fire and safe warmth, all at once. 

“I love you too,” she whispered, the words feeling feeble in her throat, their sound and shape appearing plain and humble when held against the extravagance of his gift.  For a fleeting moment, she thought to offer more in return, but what else could she say to the man who had the power to illustrate his love with sketches, not speeches?

Her arms encircled his neck, and she leaned in to close the last shred of distance.  She pressed her lips to his, for they had no more words to form.  Only sighs of pleasure escaped to mingle with the flutter of falling paper. 

Then she loved Miles, long past the time when red-purple skies made way for pale moonbeams.  She loved him and loved him until his shadowy room filled with ivory light, and all around them was a beautiful palette of pale upon dark.

-🕷-

Gwen stands alone under the glare of fluorescent lighting – head bowed, eyes shut.  She opens them to find herself in the 'family planning' aisle, her feet having unknowingly carried her there.  Boxes of condoms confront her with blank, expressionless irony. 

The phrase ‘For Contraception. 98% Effective.*’ jumps out from the packaging fine print, echoing in her mind.  She can’t help but wonder which box carries a hidden ‘2%’ that will upend someone else’s life, just like one must have done to her.

And upend her life this will, from the complicated burdens that come with being a teen mom, her mind having played them on an endless reel ever since Gwen first suspected she was late. 

Yet despite the fears, despite the panic attacks, despite brief flashes of intense second guessing, Gwen can’t bring herself to regret what she’s done with Miles.  Not the night they gave themselves to each other, not the day they spent soaring together, not the afternoon when he came back to her.  No, she doesn’t regret one second.  

Her heart forbids it.

But that doesn’t mean there’s zero collateral damage.  The worst of the unintended fallout should be on her way back from the restroom any minute, to emerge from behind her shoulder.

Four weeks ago, Rio had trusted her to bring Miles back to the light.

Two weeks ago, Gwen had happily confided to Rio – with the slightest hint of a boast – ‘You know, I think I got through to him.  He might be turning it around.’  And the elder woman had smiled back with ‘I know.  I can tell he’s coming back to his old self.  It must have been a difficult talk, but they’re the ones that will make you two stronger in the end.  I knew you could do it, Mija.  Gracias.  Proud of you.’

I’m proud of you.  I’m proud of you.  Such a common refrain from Rio, heard after a variety of accomplishments, small to big – from mastering a new salsa step to acing an exam to scoring a dream internship.

I’m proud of you.  Such a lovely and uplifting phrase, when said in the voice of an older woman.  She’d gone without it for so long.

Gwen’s arms wrap around her stomach, and they could very well be encircling her child.  Miles’ child.

Are you still proud of me now?

Of course not.  Gwen braces herself to say goodbye to all that she’s grown to love about Rio:

The twinkling glances, the impish smirks, the all-encompassing hugs.  The quiet walks, the tea chats, the family dinners.

The stabilizing presence of the one adult woman to stay in her orbit since Aunt May.  Her one confidant, her one mentor who’s helped her make sense of an increasingly chaotic and stressful life – from a woman’s point of view.

So instead of saying goodbye to the mother she never really knew, she’ll say goodbye to the one she knew too briefly. 

From there, Gwen will return to the days of lying in bed in her empty room with its solitary record player.  From time to time, she’ll put on a battered vinyl and replay a tune when she needs it, when she needs the comfort of something simple and familiar – though it sings from a voice that she’s never met and doesn’t shine with honeyed notes and constant chuckles and Gwen-sitas.

Gwen looks down the aisle, a few feet over.  Next to the condom section is the dreaded wall of pregnancy tests.  Oddly enough, there aren’t pictures of mothers and newborns adorning their boxes like she’d thought there’d be.  Instead, there’s messages promising ‘99% Accuracy!’ and ‘Results In Minutes!’   

That might be worse.  Mere minutes until a second pink line appears and confirms everything that she expects to lose.

She reaches out with a trembling hand and grabs a kit.  From over her shoulder, she hears:

“Couldn’t wait?”

It’s not Rio. 

And the unknown woman follows up with:

“Aren’t you a little young to be buying one of those?”

Icy spears lance Gwen’s body, freezing her limbs and stealing her breath away.  Her mind scrambles to place the voice as she whips her head around, her heart threatening to launch from her chest.

Thank God, it’s nobody she knows.  But then she does know this woman, to an extent.  It’s a face – among others – that’s been playing on repeat in her mind.  It’s every town’s busybody, the neighborhood’s Holier-Than-Thou.  Old, wrinkled, and with a slight hunch to her back, she fits the archetype perfectly.

Gwen couldn’t be more terrified. 

It’s her eyes, it’s all in the eyes – that same haughty gleam that’s lived in Gwen’s head for a week, multiplied many times over.  This one flicks to the kit in Gwen’s hand, then returns to pick apart the rest of her.  “I do hope he knows.”

Air lodges in Gwen’s throat, shame creeps up her cheeks, and she lowers her head to look away. 

But then Rio descends. 

She swoops in to take Gwen by the elbow and begins to pull her aside, whispering “Come on let’s get out of here.”  She says a crisper “Excuse us” to Gwen’s would-be judge.

They take a few hurried steps, Gwen still clutching the box, when there’s a muttered:

"Kids these days.  No sense of shame.  Sickening."

Gwen slams into Rio’s back as the latter screeches to a halt.  Pressed against her, Gwen feels the depth of every syllable in Rio’s, “Excuse me?"

While Rio turns around, Gwen doesn’t need a Spider-Sense to feel the scrutiny radiating towards her, skimming across her still-fuzzy undercut, her pierced eyebrow, and the pink highlights in her hair.  “Annnd there’s no ring on the finger… Mm.  Maybe you'll learn to cross your legs the next time he sweet-talks you."

Rio says in a tone colder than ice, “Keep her out of your mouth.  For your information, my daughter was grabbing this for me, thank you very much.  Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to assume.”  She snatches the kit right out of Gwen's limp hand, her fingers slack from Rio’s words. 

She…she doesn’t really mean that.  Just Rio coming to my rescue.  Again.

But still…

Gwen shakes her head to clear it, just as those deep-set eyes flit to her, then back to scan Rio head to toe.  “Aren’t you a little old to be buying those?”

Rio shakes the package.  “If this shows me what I think it will, then it’ll be another blessing.  Despite my age.  You know, blessings can come at any age.  Unlike, say…bitterness which seems to set with wrinkles.” 

The old woman narrows her eyes. 

“Well then.  Congratulations on your first real child.”

There’s a flash—a spark—as Rio’s eyes light with fire and for a moment, Gwen swears genetics granted Miles his venom strike, and not a Spider-Bite.

Time freezes when Rio takes a step forward, and Gwen’s seen this snapshot before.  She’s seen the posture, the signals of intent, while patrolling the streets: a hand pulling back, the subtle weight shift, the tensing of the back foot.  There’s the growled “Arpia,” rumbling in a volume that only Gwen’s ear can catch.

She’s witnessed the signs of imminent violence before, but she never thought she’d see them on Rio.

Is she really going to slap this woman? 

Gwen takes no chances.

Her hand flashes to grab Rio’s wrist before she can advance any further, and their eyes briefly connect. 

“Is uh…everything okay ladies?”

Ohmigod. 

Shift Lead Matt has arrived just in time to witness this dumpster lighting on fire, and Gwen’s humiliation is complete. 

Her gaze swings in a semi-circle, landing upon old eyes that condemn, young eyes that beg please don’t start a fight on my watch, and soft eyes that possess something in them that Gwen can no longer fathom.  The soft eyes flick down to Gwen’s hand around her wrist.  A wrist that is connected to an arm that Gwen no longer deserves to hold.

She releases Rio, ducking out of the aisle and into the next, speed-walking towards a destination that she hasn’t determined.  She doesn’t know if she just wants to hide, head for the pharmacy exit, or launch a portal right here in the ‘hair care’ aisle.

All she knows is she needs to get the hell out of here.

“Gwen, wait!” 

Even though she isn’t descended from the owner of this voice, didn’t inherit her genes – Gwen has no choice.  It’s as if they share the same blood.  Every muscle in her body compels her to obey; she halts.

As Rio’s footfalls draw closer from behind, Gwen speaks, her gaze averted, still unable to face her.

“You…you didn’t have to.  Say all…that.”

“I’m sorry Gwen, perhaps I got louder than I intended…but honestly!  People think they can just say anything nowadays!  The nerve of that—”

Gwen turns around to face her.  “No…I meant, what you said about me.”

Rio looks at her for a long beat, longer than Gwen feels comfortable.  She replies in an impossible tone. 

“But you are.” 

There it is again, somehow Rio knows—just knows—how to send a hug through words.  How badly does Gwen want to reply in kind with a real one.  But a poisonous seed of doubt, planted just now, holds her back.  She’s not worth it.  She’s too filthy, too unworthy.

Gwen mumbles, “Not according to her.  To her I’m a–”

“Don’t you dare say that word,” Rio hisses.  “Don’t you dare say that about yourself.  I won’t let you.” 

“Well… B-but…I made a mess of things.  I’m the mess.”  Gwen’s breathing grows shallow.  “A fucking mess.”

“The situation is messy.  Not you.” 

She looks down at the box in Rio’s hand.  “Yeah well…I’m sorry I dragged you into it.” 

“Gwen.  I take care of messes.  It’s what I do.  I don’t mind if some gets on me.” 

“I…”

She continues to stare at the kit, and Gwen drowns in the messes that are waiting for her: school, her Spider legacy, her future opportunities that might never take flight.  They're all fragmenting in front of her.

Gwen shakes her head at the floor.  “…I’m not sure what I am.” 

Her head slowly rises, lifted by the prod of a gentle finger under her chin.  That’s how she’s able to see the widening spread of Rio’s arms.

Gwen doesn’t move and silence seeps into the space between them.  Rio’s arms stay open, not budging an inch, refusing to cede any ground.

“Mija…please,” Rio asks, and it’s almost a plea.

“I wish you would stop calling me that.”

“But…you are.”

Gwen hesitates for a second.  Then two.  She scrapes up the courage to look directly in Rio’s eyes, and...

And it’s like a fog has lifted and now she can see clearly to the other side.  There’s no judgement here; these are not the eyes that have been following her on the long walk, nor the ones haunting her in this pharmacy.  In them, there’s only warmth, and entreaty, and invitation.  Against all reason, these eyes are begging her to come back and stay.

Gwen knows she doesn’t deserve this, but she knows she needs it.  And because she’s weak, so terribly weak, she takes a step.  Then another. 

She steps right into the circle of waiting arms, her forehead hitting dead-center on Rio’s chest.  As the embrace closes, her body goes limp and her hands hang helpless by her sides.  She feels younger and older than her seventeen years – all at once.

Questions start to swirl around her, made from scraps of her tattered future.  But the ones that clamor loudest have the words Miles and Rio written on them:

Did I change my relationship with Miles forever? 

Did I change it for the worse?

Are you going to ever trust me around him again?

What happens to me and you?

Strong hands rub slow circles on Gwen’s back, and miraculously, the questions’ volume fades into a distant murmur.

These arms might not smell of lilac and honey, but they are soft and warm and their steady pressure anchors Gwen.  Centers her.  Rio’s touch is a life-saving rope in a storm-tossed sea, made from strands of calm...tenderness...healing...love.    

Gwen lets these feelings flicker and rise before she tamps down the last of them.  She might be weak, but she still has the wherewithal to recognize that she only merits three, and not the fourth.  A girl who throws her family into turmoil cannot possibly deserve it.

She badly wants to ask Rio a question but before she dares, heated breath flutters against her hair.  “Todo va a estar bien.  It'll be okay.”  A hand lifts from Gwen’s back and begins to stroke her head.  “It’ll be okay.”

“How…?”  Gwen begins to ask and falters, uncertain if she herself meant to finish with ‘…did you know?’ or ‘…do you know?’

In response, those soft arms hold her tighter.  Closer.

“I just do.”

The little girl glows in the light of a mother. 

But the teen, wracked with guilt over what she’s done?  She fades.

Swaddled in this nest... so safe, so warm…

A Stacy does not cry. 

But this one wishes she could.

-🕷-🕷-