threshold potential
Miles helps Peter to sit against a bulking rooftop fan, glad that he seems a little more able to stay conscious now they are on solid ground and not surrounded by delivery guys intent on killing them. Once confident they are safe to take a rest here, he pulls off his mask and clenches and unclenches the hand he used to block a punch that was about to break Pete’s jaw which is beginning to twinge with pain now the adrenaline is starting to wear off.
Pete yanks off his own mask, revealing his pale face and bloodshot eyes, breathless with pain as he tentatively shifts his shoulders side to side to test his own injuries, wincing as his ribs protest the movement. An echo of guilt threatens, but he’s too focused on catching his breath to follow these fragmented thoughts.
“I’m so sorry Miles,” he forces out through gritted teeth. “I messed that one up real bad, didn’t I?”
Miles chokes out a laugh, biting his tongue and cradling his injured hand with his good one.
“You’re hurt,” Pete tries to push himself to stand, still winded, but Miles takes a step forward, blocking him and forcing him to collapse back onto the ground.
“I’m fine,” Miles says tersely.
“Miles, if you’re hurt, you’ve got to be honest, so we can make sure you’re okay and-”
“Really? Coming from the guy who just passed out and landed us in the middle of a fight? Please Pete, just sit down for a minute, shut up and focus on trying to breathe.”
“I’m trying,” he smirks back.
Miles gives him a look that’s at once sympathetic but also very judgemental, and Pete knows to listen to him; not that he’d be able to do anything other than sitting down, shutting up and focusing on trying to breathe right now. These sorts of fights always hurt afterwards, but the sheer number of hits he has taken paired with the dull fever ache in his bones is a deadly combination. He thinks of home, of falling face-first into the couch and rotting there for the rest of the day, but he has to get there first, and right now, he’s in no fit state to move.
“What the hell was that back there, man?” Miles paces a few steps away from him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he replies, trying to convince himself as much as Miles. “I’m fine.”
“You sure as hell don’t seem fine. Seriously Pete, what’s going on?”
He doesn’t know how to put it into words. His discomfort is difficult to name, his symptoms non-specific; a sense that something in his body feels off, but he can’t pinpoint how or what or where. After all this time, he still hasn’t fully grasped the science of how the same complex mutagenic enzymes coded for in his DNA responsible for his spider abilities seem to also mean that illnesses tend to hit him hard and fast, like a cytokine storm in a teacup. Although not his specific area of scientific expertise, he at least knows the ropes when it comes to immunology, but there’s the tricky situation of himself being a sample size of only one, and thus, coming to any sound conclusions about how the spider-bite mutations impact his immune system would be impossible.
He had thought that after the bite, he couldn’t get sick. Putting together his powers, the advanced reflexes, faster healing and the unexplainable fact that the mutations literally changed the shape of his corneas giving him perfect 20/20 vision, he had assumed that this would of course be the case, but ten years experience has unfortunately proven otherwise. His working hypothesis is that although he is likely more resistant to pathogens than the typical human (not that this is a theory he would like to test any time soon), he is not entirely immune. He has also had to learn the hard way (namely through many tissues and several feverishly delirious web swinging patrols) that a well-oiled, functioning, possibly enhanced immune system responding exactly how it should to invading particles is in fact responsible for many of the annoying symptoms he suffers when something does manage to break through his super-spider white blood cell walls. And just like non spider-enhanced people, the standard things that can lower his defenses; namely, a lack of proper nutrition, poor sleep and stress, all of which have been par for the course these past few weeks.
“I’m just tired, Miles,” is all Pete can manage to articulate. “It’s been a long couple of weeks, and I’m a little run down. I’m sorry.”
“You scared the hell out of me back there,” Miles says after a moment. “One minute we’ve got everything under control, the next minute you’re collapsed on the floor about to get the crap beat out of you.”
Tension hangs heavy in the air. Miles is barely even able to look at Pete as he clutches his mask and takes a few steps away, barely able to look at him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Pete,” Miles says simply, terrifyingly calm. “You should have stayed home.”
“You asked for my help with this,” Pete gestures in the direction of the docks, his voice small.
“Yeah, and some help you were.”
“Believe me, I know I messed up here, real bad.”
Miles could push it further, but he can see from Pete’s expression that his mentor already feels bad enough about what has happened as it is, and he’s not the sort to kick someone when they’re already down. Guilt is practically seeping through Pete’s skin, heavy on his brow with the fever sweat beginning to soak through the roots of his hair. Sure, Miles is angry, but he’s not angry at Peter; not really. He’s angry at the situation, at the cards that they have been dealt, at how things have turned out this morning.
Peter himself has given Miles many lessons on this exact thing. Look after yourself, don’t take on too much, that being Spider-man is all about balance. And yet, clearly, the older hero is incapable of listening to his own advice. He pauses, trying to put this into words.
“Remember what you told me when I got all stressed about trying to balance school and this, and everything with my dad and Li and all this Spider-Man thing was still really fresh?” Miles turns to face Peter, his expression softening a little. “ That whole spiel about how to be able to help others, you’ve got to put your own mask on first or something?”
“Jeez, that’s cheesy even for me,” Pete laughs, coughing feebly into his fist as he sits a little more upright, making a point to show Miles that he is listening. “Yeah, sure sounds like something I’d say.”
“This is what you meant by that, right? Knowing when you need to take a break and take care of your own needs first. What was it that you said again?”
“You can’t be New York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if you’re dead?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not dying, Miles.”
“You can’t be New York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if you’re unconscious either.”
“Okay you got me there,” Pete pauses for a moment. “Look, I’m sorry, I know. Believe me, I know.”
Words can’t even begin to explain how sorry he feels. He senses that Miles is still hesitant to make any sudden movements with his right hand, and the sick feeling that it’s his fault sits uncomfortably in his chest. He’s ruined things. Catastrophically, horrifically, terribly ruined things. The plans they had eavesdropped on for the raid on an Oscorp building next week will likely be changed now that Stromm’s men know that they were listening, and now they have nothing; no leads, even further away from foiling Stromm’s plot, all of Miles’ hard work the past few weeks down the drain because of him.
“I just, I don’t know,” Pete feels himself putting his foot in it the more he talks, but he can’t help himself. “Don’t tell me that you don’t get it; that feeling, you know? When New York needs us, it needs us; this city doesn’t let us take a day off.”
“I could’ve handled this morning fine by myself,” Miles smirks, feeling only a little bad for derailing Pete’s argument.
“I know, today was a bad judgment call on my part.”
“Bad?”
“Okay, understatement of the century.”
“Yeah. Understatement of the millennium, more like,” Miles pausing, moving to sit beside Peter. “It’s like what you always say, about the whole with great power comes great responsibility thing. Sure, we have a duty to protect others and look after this city, but that first part’s important to. I’m willing to bet you aren’t exactly feeling greatly powerful right now, huh?”
“Yeah,” Pete shrugs sheepishly, wincing as the simple act of breathing sends a wave of pain through his body. “I guess so.”
“Great power is something we can’t take for granted. You’ve always told me that we need to take care of ourselves, talk about shit when it gets too much, that burnout is the thing that will get us killed if we’re not careful. I just wish you’d take your own advice, Pete.”
“I’ve taught you well. Yeah, okay, okay. I'll try. Thanks Miles.”
He nods, and they sit in silence for a moment, finally allowing themselves to rest after the chaotic start to their day.