Back into the Shadow
Miles was, in fact, not ready to fly.
He thought it was scary jumping off buildings when he first started being Spiderman. But this? Was terrifying in an entirely new way. Miles was in no way, shape or form in control of this freefall at all. His throat had to be raw at this point, from screaming his lungs out. The Prowler swung around Earth 42 in a similar way to Spiderman, only with much more… oomf? Pizazz? Sparkle? However you wanted to word it, his movements had more style and flare than Miles figured he himself did on a good day. (Minus his backflips, front flips, in air summersaults- okay, so maybe Miles had moves of his own. But they weren’t as rugged and sharp as the Prowler. It seemed he had taken a few parkour or perhaps martial arts classes of some kind. In any case, it was obvious he could hold his own in a fight and not just end one.)
It was also entirely different being at the mercy of someone else several hundred feet in the air, rather than yourself. Miles gripped the rope cord tightly in his hands, weight resting in his harness as he was flung across New York. There was a brief bit of slack in the five feet of rope between him and his counterpart, and that was plenty enough to have him flailing for purchase each time the Prowler changed directions.
“I would really appreciate it if you gave me the web shooters back about now,” he yelled over the wind to the Prowler, who barely looked down to glance at his spider version.
“Hush, you’ll throw out my rhythm.” Miles squinted at the Prowler, trying to doge an in-coming bird. He was unsuccessful in his attempts and was hit directly in the face, spitting feathers down on the blocks of streets below. From up here he could see the world in a new view. It almost looked as if this version of Brookly had been through some post apocalyptic movie editing. Large cracks spanned the concrete, people were scarce on the streets and fires were common on corners and in corner stores. Everyone out and about looked shady, including the children. From what Miles had seen of other worlds, this one looked overall like his in an extremely unsettling way. The colors of Pav’s universe were bright and airy, and the architecture was an all out war against itself and its Indian roots rather than a ‘classic’ New York. Neuva York seemed to have a larger difference in architecture as well, defending the fact that it was several generations ahead future timeline wise.
This, though? This was way too close to Miles’ earth for comfort. The colors were a little bit more stagnant, a little bit more contrasting, but overall it was an exact replica of his home. (Plus the chaos and destruction.) It was a reality that could very well come to fruition if he failed his task to save his father and defeat the Spot. It filled him with a new wave of determination and thought processes of how to get the hell out of Earth 42.
But. Unfortunately, that was a problem for a few hours down the road, seeing as he was trying very hard not to piss himself currently. His head throbbed with the altitude and swinging motion, and Miles was always one to brag about not getting car sick easily. He was almost positive he had a concussion, blood rushing in his ears with every heartbeat and dizzy spells overtaking him occasionally. It’d been only a few minutes since they had started swinging across Brooklyn, but those minutes drug on forever. Miles watched common landmarks pass. Big old bridge, his favorite lamppost, the alley where he was first shot, the next alley over where he was first shot with a professional camera… The route was familiar, the way Barnum's animal crackers were, if you grew up on those. A little too familiar.
After a beat-
“No no no, nope, nuh huh, not gonna happen today,” he started squabbling, yanking himself in the opposite directions of the next few turns the Prowler took. He tried to get a leg up to kick his alter ego and was only successful in kicking his own self as they flew. Miles wasn’t sure what kind of noise he made, but it was bad enough the Prowler slowed his pace a little.
“You are obviously in pain. There is only one person who can help with that.”
“In pain- uh,” Miles was at a loss for words (And breath, too really). “In pain? Yeah, not like it wasn’t totally obvious I’d shown up here after a lost fight. But then you and Uncle Aaron tie me to a punching bag, which you used to beat the shit outta me? And you- you-” Miles had been through hell and back. It had been days since he had eaten, and days since he had even laid eyes upon his own universe. He had fought against the Spot several times, was nicked pretty heavily from Miguel in his run from the entire spider society, gotten the hell knocked out of him with Prowler claws and just his uncle’s own fists. Been brained against a kitchen table and the floor and tied to some rope-climbing contraption to be swung across New York and- and this version of himself, which, lets face, is definitely him in an awkward and unsettling way - points out, “You are obviously in pain?!” He was so done with this entire situation.
Not to mention his mother- oh gosh, she was the last person he wanted to see right now. (Mostly because she was one of the only two people he wanted in his life at this exact moment, and seeing a perfectly crafted replica of her was not something he wanted to deal with. )Let alone the embarrassment. He had thrown himself head long into a monologue before getting caught by uncle Aaron. This mother might not know what his favorite color was, or to leave the hall light on at night. This mother might not remember a time when her son wasn’t a bastard, and he did not want to face the consequences of this universe's own Miles G. Morales.
“She’ll fix you right up, since you already got yourself caught. Good actor you are,” the Prowler commented, not bothering to really respond to Miles. The last short minutes of swinging passed with less clarity, Miles somewhere inside his own fury and mindscape, holding onto the knot in his cord for dear life and praying that someone or something would take his pitiful, earsplitting migraine away as well as keeping his panic under control. He squeezed his eyes shut tight when his alter came up on their street, and had to count to a hundred under his breath to hold it all together.
The window was unlocked and Miles refused to help his counterpart haul themselves inside, preferring rather to hang outside the window, feet stuck to the outer wall with all the strength he could muster. “No,” he said, childishly, pulling on his leash. The Prowler rolled his eyes behind the mask.
“Come on, chulo, stop fighting me.”
The two battled in the window sill, pulling back and forth like a kindergarten game of tug-of-war. One moment Miles would have the upperhand, lending all of his weight back on his heels about to pull his alter from the window like a cat into bathwater, and the next Miles would be forced to take a step forward lest he bash his brains against the brick wall again. They bickered, they squabbled, and overall fought like cats and dogs.
“I am literally trying to fix you,” 42 shouted down, only for Miles to reply with a slow quip.
“Fix me? There’s nothing wrong with me I’m fit as a fiddle-”
“Bullshit. Get your ass up here I’m tired of fighting it.”
“Just let me go, man. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
The Prowler scoffed. “Trouble? I’m sure that’s all you would cause me if you got lose. Don’t even know how you’re gonna get back, eh?”
“I’ll figure it out!”
“You are barely holding your head up as it is-” Miles could hear the door to his counterpart’s bedroom open, soft voice calling out. He cringed into his shoulders and tried with one weak last pull to yank his twin off the curvature of the earth to delay his fate as long as possible but instead sent the two of them tumbling down the side of the building. “Yes Mami, one moment!” 42 called up to the window, looking down to cuss Miles out.
“She doesn’t know that you’re-”
“Shut your mouth! I would never treat Mami to that!” Treat his mother to the knowledge that her boy, her son, her baby was out causing trouble and working for kingpin? That he was essentially evil and as rough as rough got for a fifteen year old minus superpowers? Good lord, Miles was starting to think he really wanted a vacation. Home. In his own bed with his own Mami instead of some off brand evil, Mr. Hyde version of himself and his mother. He wanted to go home. He groaned, crashing his head into the wall repeatedly.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to kill myself so I don’t have to deal with this bullshit.” He told his alter. 42 sighed and his shoulders slumped, and he began the process of hauling them into his bedroom. This time Miles didn’t bother to fight it. He tumbled in in a heap, ass over head and didn’t bother trying to untangle himself. Spiders are good at being in positions that don’t require gravity to be a contributing factor, but it was still nice to lay your forehead against the grain of a cool wood floor without worrying about gravity yanking you in a different direction. Ah, the luxuries in life. Miles Gonzalo made quick work of his Prowler attire and unlatching the belay-swing-fly harness thing from the two of them.
“It looks like you did kill yourself,” he muttered to Miles as he reached to open the door for his Mami.
“Haha,” Miles gave sarcastically. Now most would find this a prime opportunity to get the hell out of doge, but Miles was so tired. It felt like every ounce of energy he had ever had in life had fled from his bones in those last few minutes of tug of war. His legs stung with exertion and the claw marks on his shoulder had begun to smart in a new vengeance. At least the harness was off, he lamented, rubbing his fingers across the bruised sections of his hips. But then he remembered that he had to do all this for his dad. His dad had to survive this, and time was a ticking bomb that marched on unknowingly, stopping for nothing and no-one. With a hand on the edge of his drawing table, or, not his drawing table but- he drug himself up into a sitting position. It was a lot harder than he thought it would be, almost sending him into full panic mode at the revelation that his legs were numb again. He grabbed each leg by the ankle and tried to manually shake it out, but that only made a familiar pins and needles feeling spread throughout his body. Great. This was just great.
The door creaked back open when he had pulled one of his ankles behind his head, which was painful in the same way that it was pleasant, and could only stare this version of his mother dumb in the face and say:
“Uhhhhhhh-”
—-------
The entire world was silent after Gwen spilled her testimony. The Morales house had become lost in time as well to the noise pollution of all of New York. No sirens, no cars, no yelling. There were no honks or loud birds or alarms. The neighbors on all sides of the apartment had gone silent, and the only thing Gwen could make out was her own staggered breathing. Jeff just kept repeatedly opening and closing his mouth, looking for the answers in the empty air. Gwen brushed her hands lovingly against Miles' jacket, wishing for all the world that had gone better for her crush. He wasn’t even here, for goodness sake. His biggest secret, the cat had been let out of the bag, and he wasn’t even here to deny or refute or agree or placate or- - he was gone. For what it was worth she wished he was there.
“Get out of my house.” Jeff said, with a sigh of resentment, terror and mourning.
“W-what?”
“Get out of my house right now.”
“Love please think this through-” Rio began.
“I am!” Jeff yelled, standing so quick the chair fell out from under him. Gwen balled her hands up to her chest, pulling on the stings of Miles’ jacket nervously. She had been expecting many reactions, but not for the man to tell her to ‘get out.’ She was trying to think of anything to say, something to placate or - but she couldn’t find the words, frozen in fear and apprehension in the Morales’ kitchen.
Rio tried to calm her husband, but he pushed her slender fingers away.
“I will find my son. And when I do, you say what you will, but there is no such ‘multiverse.’ There just can’t be,” the man was losing steam, focus drifting from Gwen. “There’s no way. Not my son, not my baby.” His eyes closed tight, and Rio finally managed to brush her fingers over his face and down his chest.
“You need a shower,” she mumbled so quiet, and so defeated. Gwen shuffled her feet. She wasn’t used to relationships like this, it had been so long since her parents had been together, let alone in a good spot romantically.
There were nights Gwen would hide under the bathroom sink with the door locked, in that house in Queens, praying for her parents to stop screaming. She couldn’t bear to watch her dad pull her mother’s hair and scream in her face and her accuse him of cheating. She couldn’t even stand to see her own self in the mirror because every time she did, she would be reminded that they didn’t love each other like that anymore, even after they made her. It reminded Gwen that she would never be enough, not for her parents to even love each other. (Or at the least, act like they did.)
“Please stop fighting,” she would beg, sobbing on the couch in that tiny house. She would pull big knots out of her hair that her mother didn’t bother to make her brush, and curl fingernails to bite into the tops of her thighs.
“You don’t understand, Gweny,” her father would scold her before returning to the screaming match. There were several times - albeit, on the very fringes of Gwen’s memory - where she would throw herself into a panic attack.
“I can’t breathe,” she would squeal. “Why can’t I breathe?” She didn’t know what it was to panic at nine years old, only how to. Her dad would sit down on the couch beside her and pull her up under a big arm and force her to sit with him. She didn’t want to sit with him. Her mom would see her picking sides, and she hated that. She didn’t want to be touched, she felt like she was on fire. He would hold her down on the couch and scream at her mother and Gwen would lose her mind.
Then her mom died.
Then she died and left Gwendolyn when she was eleven, and somehow that made their relationship even more complicated. Her dad claimed he had loved her mother, and maybe he had. Gwen didn’t know. Maybe love just looked like hate, from the fisheye lens that was childhood. In any regard, Gwen hated looking into mirrors because she was always reminded of her parent’s love. Or maybe, lack thereof. That was probably for the best, because the apartment she moved into with her dad only had a tiny bathroom mirror, one that was a hidden medicine cabinet and foggy from years of abuse.
A few months after she met Peter he invited her over, and it was the first time she had even been inside his bedroom. Most times they just hung out in the living room since that’s where the playstation was, so there was no point in going to his bedroom. The first thing that stood out to Gwen wasn’t the pink paint or the ‘Princess’ stickers peeling off the wall or the Trans flag makeshift headboard. It was the wall of mirrors that made up his closet doors. “I’ll just wait in the living room,” she told him softly, turning to go back out to the hall.
“No no! Please don’t, I have something I think you’re really gonna’ like!” Peter pulled her by the arm to sit on his bed, and she stared down at the array of stuffed animals on the bed instead of watching him. He rummaged through the closet wall of mirrored hell, and pulled out a suspicious article of clothing. He held it out to her on the hanger, all teeth smiles and expectant gaze.
“It used to be my favorite but uh, boys don’t really wear dresses. So I thought you might like it! I think you can fit into it, I think. I’m pretty sure,” he trailed off, shrugging.
“Boys can wear dresses if they want,” Gwen muttered. Peter laughed.
“Some can, but not me! It’s too obvious about me bein’, well, you know.”
“I don’t see why that matters, so long as your happy.” Gwen told him, and his face was dusted with pink as he shoved the dress towards her.
“Quit procrastinating and put the dress on, Gwen.” She made a spinning motion with her hand, standing up from the bed and facing the blank wall to throw her T-shirt off. She slipped the dress on over her jeans, and was surprised that it did fit better than she thought it would. Though, it was a lot longer on her than it probably was on Peter.
“It is very girly,” she admitted to Peter, turning around to face him. She smacked him right across the chest when she realized he had turned towards her, and he threw a thumb over his shoulder.
“Mirror.”
“Ah.”
“But yeah, it’s a little too girly to pass on me anymore.” The dress was long sleeved and came to about her knees, with a cinched waist to accentuate her boobs. The chest piece was sadly, a little too big and Gwen was scared if she bent over too far someone might cop a look. “You look beautiful,” Peter told her, pulling her hands away from her chest and adjusting the dress for her. He took Gwen by the shoulders and made her face the mirror, fixing her hair and posture. She was scared to look, but did it anyways. Gwen told herself it was for Peter.
That was the first time Gwen stopped looking at herself as just her parents’. The dress was something her mother never would have worn, and her dad probably wouldn’t like that it was so short. (Even though it wasn’t short at all. Especially compared to her ballet competition wear.) Peter ran to his hidden jewelry box and pulled out a long chain necklace, looping it over Gwen’s throat several times and letting one side hang longer than the other.
“Now I need some combat boots,” she joked, and genuinely smiled back at her best friend.
“Very punk-rock chic of you, yes. Definitely yes,” Peter told her, patting her over the shoulder. It was the first time Gwen had been happy as herself, and didn’t feel ants crawling under her skin when someone touched her since she was very young. (Since her parents decided love was a form of hate, or maybe the opposite. )
But at this moment? In front of Miles’ parents, bearing the truth? She felt all of that progress with Peter go flying out the window. She felt like that scared little girl hiding under the bathroom sink, praying for her parents to just please, be quiet. She felt like throwing herself off a bridge, or into an oncoming train. There was panic crawling up and out of her throat before she could stop it, the upset she had been feeling for the past few days taking over her body in one foul moment.
“Oh chiquita, please breathe.” Rio was suddenly in front of her, a cold wash rag in her deft hands pressing against Gwen’s face. Her skin felt like fire ants, and she wanted to push the woman away from babying her. “Sit, sit,” she insisted, and Gwen shook her head without restraint.
“No I- I think that I should go. I’ve been here too long, anyways. I need to check on Peni-”
“Will you tell us? When you find him?” Jeff cut her off. She looked up from backing away from the couple, jamming buttons on her goober repeatedly.
“Of course.” Her words were borderline on a panic, but she spit them out like fire.
“Can we help?” Rio asked, reaching for Gwen to keep her from running. Gwen shook her head, pushing the woman away so she could open a portal right in their living room.
“Nothin’ you can do,” she choked out, bringing up a portal in the Morales home. Items went sailing up, lamps and books and remotes floating towards the ceiling as the center of gravity itself was altered. Gwen stood at the mouth of the portal, staring her best friend’s parents in the face. She told them there was nothing they could do. This might not have angered them, but both shared looks that were extremely unhappy.
Jeff looked seconds away from either strangling her or jumping into the portal with her. There had never been anyone other than a spider use their multidimensional portals, there was no way to know if he would be okay or not. Gwen knew she couldn’t let him jump in, she had made that mistake with his son already. (Not only might it tear him into a million pieces, the other spiders would kill her. She could not let him traverse to other worlds, there were enough people with the ability to do so already. There was no need for more. More than likely the man would be a liability. Probably.)
Without turning around Gwen kept her eyes on Jefferson and Rio Morales. Slowly, she began a backwards free-fall into the portal behind her.
“I’m not tryna’ lose,” she echoed at them as the colors and panic overtook her.
She would not lose another friend again.
She refused.
—---------------------------------------------------------