Chapter 1
“So,” Aaron says, and if Miles were in a sounder state of mind he’d be paying as much attention as possible to try and figure out how to get the hell out of here , because, really, he’s sort of screwed. The chain around him is doing—well, it’s doing something, because his sparks aren’t doing anything and it is more than disappointing how easily Aaron manages to swing him over his shoulder, lugging him into some sort of attic apartment that looks like the demented twin of the apartment his Uncle Aaron had. The whole thing is dimly lit but a light bulb that looks like it’s seen better lifetimes, and in the corner is a minifridge filled with cans of various knock off beers that he’s been chugging by the minute. There’s a couch, though that’s probably an overstatement, because it’s the most hideous shade of green Miles thinks he’s ever laid his eyes on and tilts oddly to one side, held up by—get this— another BudDark can. He’s tied to a chair that looks like it gets gnawed on by rats in his free time, and, if it wasn’t clear the first time, he’s been kidnapped by his evil doppelganger.
Anyways, this is all to say Miles has a lot of shit on his plate at the moment, even if you ignore the bloodthirsty maniac hunting him down to the ends of the earth. This should mean that he’s currently strategizing some awesome, by-the-skin-off-his-teeth plan that’ll leave Miles Moralés and Not-Uncle-Aaron gaping at his ingeniousness and all those other very important, very smart things a better Spiderman would be doing right now.
But.
But Other–Miles’ cargo pants must be too loose or something because they’ve been barely dangling on the sharp cut of his hips, a strip of dark, smooth skin peaking out and a pool of sweat is building near Miles’ temples and there is something very fucking wrong with whatever the hell is going on with him.
(spiders and doppelgangers and alternate universe just two degrees off from your own and very tight spandex; a recipe for disaster, really.)
“–What are we doing with this kid?”
“ Nothing! ” Miles blurts out at the same time Other-Miles says, “I don’t really know.”
They both turn to stare at him, and Miles crumples into the chair and tries not to die. “Hey, hey, let’s—let's not get rash or something. We can talk all this stuff out, right? Right, guys?”
Silence; he tries very hard not to panic. “ C’mon, man, I was being serious! You gotta—you have to believe me. Please. Uncle Aaron–” He turns to him, eyes wide and maybe a little wet because shit, his favorite uncle is evil and wants him to die maybe sorta. “Uncle Aaron, would I ever lie about something like this? That’d be crazy. I’m not crazy. ”
“Good point,” Aaron agrees, knocking the cap off his BudWeiser bottle on the edge of a desk, “But I ain’t your uncle, and you ain’t my kid. Case in point–” He points a finger, “–that haircut.”
His shoulders hitch, and with a very mature amount of whininess, he asks, “..What's wrong with my hair?”
“You picked one part of it more than the other,” Aaron says.
“And the sides are all grown out and shit. It looks like you have a ‘fro, and I don’t think we’d ever want a ‘fro.” Other-Miles chimes in, breaking his apparently not unbreakable vow of brooding silence just so he can rag on Miles’ hair. What a fucking joke his life has become, these days.
“I think it looks good,” He mumbles, and Uncle Aaron rolls his eyes like he couldn’t care less.
“Happy for you, kid, but seriously,” He motions to Miles' general direction, eyebrow raised. “The hell do we do with him?”
“Kingpin?” Other-Miles suggests, swaying very lightly in his rolly-chair, and Uncle Aaron stiffens before very forcibly relaxing, smile strained.
“Ha. Funny. We can’t just let some–some other you just wander all over the place, that’s stupid. That’s a death wish.”
“Yeah,” Miles interrupts, because this is a conversation he’s pretty sure he’s entitled to also being a part of. “ My death wish. Think of another idea, like, oh, I don’t know, letting me lea– ”
His words cut off with a loud, strangled cry as his atoms tear apart and reform again, and the chair knocks to the floor. Fucking glitches.
Other-Miles jumps, gauntlet already on, and Aaron spills whatever was left in that can on the sleeve of his jacket. The indescribable pain is almost worth it to see the looks on their faces as he chokes out–“You see what I mean, now? I am not from your universe! ”
“What the fuck,” Uncle Aaron breathes. His hand slides down his face, drags his features. “What the shit.”
Other-Miles blinks rapidly, as if trying to make sure his eyes are still working, and because Miles is a freak and also maybe dying, he stares at the faint, soft overcast of his eyelashes, the way the light catches his pupils and blows them up into something indescribable, beautiful. He lets his head thump against the ground, bites at his lip hard enough he tastes blood. If the glitching won’t kill him, whatever this is will.
“Fuck,” Other-Miles curses, suddenly. He stumbles backwards, trips over his foot and collides with the wall. Thin little spiderweb cracks spindle outwards, and the drywall crumples under his palm. “Fuck, okay– fuck . Who the hell are you ? Lie to me and—and you're dead.”
“ Miles, ” Aaron hisses, and he looks as stressed as Miles—both of them, apparently—feels. “Slow the fuck down and wait. ”
“I don’t trust him,” Other-Miles spits, and he holds out the gauntlet like he’s planning on shooting Miles down with it. “I don’t trust him to be in this fucking apartment or alive .”
“If you kill me,” Miles says, and the burst of confidence he gets he isn’t sure where it’s coming from; his body seems to have given up performing like it’s supposed to, and the floor is too comfortable to not be a sign he’s losing it. “If you kill me, you won’t forgive yourself for it. I would know, Miles. I am a Miles.”
“ A Miles, ” Other-Miles says, and it’s a tad hysterical, like he wants to laugh until he starts to choke—himself or, well, himself . “Shit, oh my god. This is great. This is so good. I gotta tell Ganke about this, after.” He rips the gauntlet from his arm and chucks it to Aaron, who catches it like he isn’t sure Other-Miles is on the verge of breaking down or potentially killing something with his bare hands. Either way, he sets it on the coffee table and watches with a hint of apprehension as Other-Miles starts to—
Starts to take his clothes off.
Shit, then.
Shit.
“What are you doing! ” Miles squeaks, because he’s a toddler stuffed into the body of a 5’8 loser and he isn’t exactly sure his brain can compute all of this without melting out of his ears. “ What the hell, dude! ”
“It’s hot,” Other-Miles says in response, and it's rushed as he pulls off his prowler shirt to reveal a thinning wife beater on its last legs. Miles stares at the curve of his biceps with envy and another feeling he would really rather not name. “It’s–it’s hot.”
Miles glances at Uncle Aaron, who stares back as if this is the first time this has ever happened. Maybe it is. “Miles, kid, are you–”
“I’m fine.” Other-Miles cuts off. He swallows thickly, then hops over the back of the couch, reaching into the mini-fridge. His fingers skim the rim of a can Miles can’t see the name of, then turns around like he’s checking to make sure Uncle Aaron is really there and really staring at him before pulling his hand back out, slamming the door shut. “We gotta get more water. You got a glass somewhere?”
“Uh, yeah. You’ve been here. I have a kitchen , Miles.” He frowns, gaze darting between the two of them. “..maybe I shoulda’ checked to see if you aren’t some fucking copy.”
“I’m not,” Other-Miles walks back in, guzzling water. It drips in streams down his chin and the curve of his throat, and Miles does not watch. He doesn’t. “I’m not, and you know that. Now–” His eyes flatten, “You can get out.”
Uncle Aarons eyebrows shoot upwards, “Oh? I can, get out, you say.”
“Yeah,” Other-Miles hisses, but his tough guy facade is rapidly crumbling the more Aaron stares at him. He digs his shoes into the carpet and kicks it up. “It’s just—I gotta, like, practice these things, right? If I’m gonna be doing this–this job.”