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It’s a bad day for a Raft breakout.
Ok, scratch that. It’s always a bad day for a prison break. But this one is going to be a little different than usual.
As far as the Spider-Men knew, only some lower-level goons had gotten out rather than any of the high profile villains locked up in the maximum security prison. The scene Miles comes across in Brooklyn as he searches for escaped convicts quickly disproves that information.
It’s Scorpion. Out in broad daylight in the middle of an intersection. He must have been sticking to building tops and shadowy alleys to get far away from the prison, but now the cops have found him.
Needless to say, it’s not looking good.
“Pete, I just found Gargan,” he says, diving down toward the scene below. “He’s in a standoff with the cops.” His face darkens as he catches sight of the cyborg herding a small group of people in front of him. “He’s got hostages.”
“Ok,” Peter says over his comm, voice strained. In the background Miles hears shouts and the sound of something heavy crashing down. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. There’s a—small mob of guys trying to steal a bus.” He grunts, a yell from one of the prisoners cutting into the audio. “Be careful!”
Miles lands on the pavement below, off to the side from the tense line of police officers and the maniac threateningly hovering his tail over the cowering civillians.
“Let them go, Gargan!” he calls.
Scorpion looks over to him, grinning.
“Ah, if it isn’t the newest little spider.” One of the hostages shrieks as he pulls them in closer with his tail. “I was wondering when you’d show. I’d be careful if I were you. One wrong move and these people get it.”
“Why don’t you stop cowering behind them and come out and fight me for real?”
Scorpion chuckles. “Why don’t you make me?”
Miles narrows his lenses, slowly stalking forward. This isn’t going to be easy.
“Alright,” he says under his breath, gauging the position of the hostages in comparison to his enemy. “You asked for this.”
The second Peter knocks out the last of the convicts he’s fighting, he takes off in the direction of the river. He has to stop himself from calling Miles back as he swings toward the Brooklyn Bridge. It could distract him during the fight, and that would be dangerous.
He knows his protégé can handle himself, as he’s proven multiple times now. He also knows that Gargan is one of the trickiest villains he’s fought. The cyborg never plays fair, and while one wrong move with other villains like Electro or Vulture can result in some painful blows, messing up with Scorpion means getting the business end of his tail. He involuntarily shivers as he recalls the agonizing, feverish haze the supervillain has inflicted on him before. It’s a good thing he always carries an antidote now.
He just hopes he won’t have to use it.
When he finally reaches the coordinates Miles had sent him, he hears the fight before he sees them.
The street he turns onto is littered with overturned cars, almost completely abandoned except for a few civillians running for their lives and several police officers taking shelter behind the debris. Miles and Gargan are fighting in the middle of it, the former currently dodging the latter’s tail before landing a series of hits against his enemy’s armor.
Peter can tell from the second he lays eyes on him that something is wrong with the younger Spider-Man. He’s favoring his right leg, just barely ducking out of the way in time as Gargan tries to strike him again. His movements seem sluggish, like some invisible weight is slowing him down. The sight of multiple tears in his suit makes Peter’s heart freeze in his chest. His spider-sense gives its own discordant pang of alarm as he launches himself across the last few buildings, ready to aid his friend in finishing the fight.
As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. Miles charges up his fist and slams it directly into Gargan’s face, making the cyborg stagger. He doesn’t let up, hitting him again and again, until he knocks the villain backwards to splay unceremoniously on the ground.
His posture seems a far cry from victorious as he stares down at his fallen enemy, shoulders wilted and one arm wrapped around his middle to rest over one of the gashes in his suit.
He sways just as Peter lands and runs up to him, just in time to catch his friend as his legs give out from under him.
“Spider-Man? Miles?” he whispers, hoisting him up into his arms.
No response. Miles’ chest raises on a small, stuttering breath.
The police officers are already hurrying forward to secure Gargan. With a quick glance around the street to make sure no one else is in danger, Peter fires a web upwards, launching himself and his friend up onto the nearest building top. Only then does he extract a set of small syringes from a compartment in his web-shooter, rolling down the collar of Miles’ suit and administering the first one into his neck. He takes a second to locate every ugly gash marring the younger spider’s suit, injecting the leftover antidote applicators into the skin just beside the three green-tinged wounds marking his leg and two different spots on his chest. A few spritzes of webbing get any bleeding under control. Thankfully, it seems that Gargan only managed to cut him with his tail rather than stab him anywhere.
“Come on…” Peter mutters, finding a weak pulse beneath his protégé’s ear. His other hand presses over his heart, breathing a sigh of relief as he feels Miles’ breathing slowly deepen from the barely-there gasps from before. His heartbeat still feels weak, but that’s not surprising.
“Ok. I think you’re gonna be ok,” Peter mutters. He’s suddenly glad Miles is unconscious, because those words probably don’t sound very reassuring.
The older Spider-Man waits a little longer, ensuring his friend is not about to worsen, before picking him back up.
“Let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable. And see to those nasty scrapes,” he says, leaping off the building with Miles secured under one arm.
Ms. Morales is out of town. Miles had said his abuela wasn’t in the best of health, so she was off in Puerto Rico visiting with her. Unfortunately for Peter, that means he doesn’t have anywhere to bring Miles except his own house.
The warm orange light of sunset catches on the red of his suit as he shoulders open the backyard door, making a beeline for the large, overstuffed couch in the living room. He deposits Miles there, hurrying to retrieve the medkit from the bathroom. When he returns, he carefully extracts his unconscious friend from his spider-suit, beginning to dress his wounds. He pulls away the protective webbing he had applied earlier, then cleans out the nasty remnants of the venom from the gashes. Peter grimaces as he tosses away cotton swabs soaked in dark red and sickly green.
“What happened?” he mutters, guilt tugging persistently at him. He should have been there to help.
Miles remains conked out while he stitches the wounds and wraps them. Peter only leaves his side to grab some clothes from the clean hamper in the laundry room. For some reason, he finds himself thinking of Aunt May as he awkwardly stuffs an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants onto Miles, smirking despite himself as he remembers being a little kid carried to bed from long roadtrips and unwillingly maneuvered (see: puppeteered) into pajamas. He can almost hear her chuckling at him now.
His mood sobers again as he glances back at Miles’ unconscious face. The only sign of life from him is the slightly unsteady rise and fall of his chest and the slower-than-usual heartbeat Peter’s enhanced hearing picks up when he leans close to his chest.
One stutter from either, and he’s fully prepared to take the kid to a hospital. For now, he settles for dragging up the arm chair beside the couch, grasping one of Miles’s wrists and keeping his fingers over his pulse while he waits.
He can see a thin sheen of sweat on the teen’s forehead, an ominous warning sign of what’s to come. Peter remembers the first time he was ever stung by Gargan, back when he was only a little younger than Miles is now. Even with a hastily-concocted antidote, he had developed an awful fever that had taken a day to go away. He had locked himself in his room, sick as a dog and drifting in and out of delirium. Looking back, he had wondered in those moments if he might be slowly dying. He had felt terrified. And so alone.
He may have built up a better tolerance to Scorpion’s toxin later on, but that had taken time, and a few other instances of being stung. Miles’ immune system has no experience with fighting the harsh venom. He’s at ground zero, with the additional factor of multiple stings throwing him into an awful gauntlet with no preparation. None of that is to mention the more potent hallucinogens Gargan had added into the mix in the past two years.
Peter closes his eyes and sends up a silent prayer that this is going to turn out ok. That reminds him—he grabs up his cellphone, typing out what he hopes is a relatively easy way to break the news to the other party most interested in Miles’ welfare.
Peter: I’m with Miles. He fought Scorpion after he escaped from the Raft and was injured by his tail. I’m keeping a close eye on him. Antidote administered right away. He might be sick for a while. I will update you immediately if he shows any kind of sign of doing worse.
It only takes a moment for a reply to come in.
Rio: Dios Mio, is he in pain? Does he need to go to the hospital? I’m so sorry I’m not there. There are no more flights today but I can try to get on the earliest one tomorrow.
Peter glances down at Miles.
Peter: He’s unconscious. I treated his wounds and am making sure they don’t flare up. Nothing seems bad enough to need a hospital visit, but I’ll keep you updated in case anything changes. It’s of course up to you if you want to come home, but I think we’ll be ok.
The three little dots flicker across the screen.
Rio: Thank you, Peter. I’m sorry again that I’m not there. I do not want the responsibility of taking care of him to fall on you alone.
Peter: It’s no trouble. I’ve been through this myself. I’ll make sure he recovers.
He receives a heart on the text in reply. Peter looks to Miles, giving his wrist a sympathetic pat. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while, buddy.”
The distant sound of voices flickers just on the edge of Miles’ perception. Their tinny pitch prickles at his ears, distorted and unnatural.
His heart begins to pound faster, breath catching in his lungs as pain throbs through his entire body. Somehow it both burns and numbs at the same time. Every one of his muscles feels ridiculously weak, like they’re being weighed down with lead. Miles tries to open his eyes, but finds he can’t.
The voices in the distance continue. Over their sound, something shifts closer by. Miles’ pulse skyrockets. He tries to move, but only achieves a weak flail of his limbs beneath the blanket covering him.
Wait. Blanket?
“Hey, it’s ok.” A hand touches his shoulder from out of nowhere, making him flinch. “You’re safe.”
Miles stops his restless struggles as recognition runs through him.
“Pete?” he mumbles around a swollen tongue. He finally manages to crack his eyes open, but all that greets him is shifting shadows broken up by flickers of light. His breath catches, eyes slamming shut again as a wave of nausea washes over him.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where ‘m I?”
“We’re at May’s.”
“I- I can’t…” he shudders as a new stab of pain hits him directly in the side. “What’s happening?”
“Scorpion stung you, but you’re ok. It’s just going to be a bit of a bumpy trip riding out the effects of his venom.”
Miles groans, distantly remembering a lashing tail…civillians about to get stung, leaping between them and that awful stinger…
“I tried…Did anyone…?” he starts, but falls silent again as the fog clouding his mind seems to thicken.
Pete seems to understand, because his hand gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “No one else was harmed. You did great.”
Miles relaxes as much as he can, still taking deep breaths. Everyone else was ok. That was…that was good. Exhaustion wells up, a welcoming invitation away from the pain.
Pete is here. That means he’s not dying, even if it feels like it. As if to confirm his thoughts, his mentor speaks up beside him again.
“Everything’s ok,” he murmurs. His voice follows Miles down as he slips back into unconsciousness. “Get some more rest.”
There’s fire in his veins, scorching through his whole body. Miles groans, writhing against the agony.
“Hey, hey, easy.” The voice swims out of the confusing void of pain. A warm hand touches his forehead.
Another distressed noise leaves him. What’s going on? Why does everything hurt so damn much? Does he need to move? Get up and fight? His spider-sense tingles restlessly against the back of his neck, trying to warn him of something, but giving no indication of what.
The hand against his forehead shifts. Gentle fingers run through his hair, smoothing his braids back from his sweaty forehead.
“Shh. I know it hurts, but it’ll pass.” It’s Peter that’s speaking to him. His hand repeats the motion through his hair, slow and soothing. Some of the knots of unease loosen in Miles’ stomach. “Try to lie still.”
He tries, but it’s hard. Pete catches hold of his arm and opposite shoulder when another flare of agony through his nerves automatically makes his body jerk. His leg and sides in particular sting, the sharp tug of still-healing wounds making his breath hitch.
“Wha’s wrong with me?” he asks, the question oddly familiar on his tongue. He squints through his lashes, catching the glimpse of a room softly illuminated by one small lamp on an end table.
“Scorpion sting. I gave you the cure. Your body’s just trying to flush the rest of it out now.” Peter doesn’t release him as he shakes in his grip, biting back a quiet whimper. His thumb rubs reassuringly against his forearm. “Can I get you anything?”
Miles mutely shakes his head. Just please don’t leave me, he doesn’t say, feeling a spike of shame at how needy he’s already being.
Luckily, Pete doesn’t seem to be planning on going anywhere. He gives him some type of medicine (Miles isn’t exactly sure what kind) and tells him it will help. His hands eventually release him when his twitching fit lessens, but he leaves one in easy reach by his elbow, a silent invitation in case he needs anything.
Miles closes his eyes again, the pain dying down enough for him to try to rest again. Maybe that medicine is working…
This time, it’s not so easy to sink into the bliss of unconsciousness. Instead, his mind falls into a feverish loop of confusion.
He’s been stung. By scorpion. But where is he? How does he fix this?
Something dark and oppressive looms around him. Anxiety makes his heart beat faster and faster as he fights his way upward, upward. He’s climbing stairs, then the front of a building, then—a mountain?
Stung, stung, stung, but how was he going to—
He catches his name in the distance. Something cold presses onto his forehead, a balm against the heat burning through his skin. The blanket he’s under is pulled away too, but all that ends up making him do is shiver.
Images flicker before him, tinted by acidic green. At first, he’s not sure what half of them are, but then he’s running. His spider-sense twinges, not nearly strong enough to match the overwhelming sense of danger screaming through every fiber of his being.
“Hello, little spider.” From the haze, a wicked tail lashes out at him, slashing into his suit. Miles cries out, the fire burning through him flaring brighter.
He turns the other way, webbing onto a skyscraper that looms up before him to try to get away.
“Are you confused? Scared? You should be.” This time there’s dozens of tails, lashing out at him on all sides. Miles can only dodge them for so long until he’s caught, the momentary weakness allowing the others to descend on him with their wicked stingers glinting with green. He falls to his knees, blinded by agony as their poison cuts into him. One wraps around his middle, squeezing tighter and tighter. He struggles to draw a breath, trapped—
The fire grows hotter. Suddenly, it’s not just inside him, but all around him. Scorpion is gone, but in his place are the ruins of a campaign stage. Miles freezes, horror gripping him.
No. He can’t do this again.
He turns to find him where he knows he’ll be. Near the middle of the steps, beside the smoldering ruin of the podium.
Except this time, he’s awake.
“Miles…” he reaches a bloodied hand for him. “Help…me…”
Miles’ lips move around the word. Everything feels like slow motion as he runs toward him, reaching out—
The stage explodes in a blinding glare.
Miles cries out. “No!”
Something grabs hold of him as he attempts to run into the blazing flames. Gargan again? He doesn’t care. He fights against it, trying to lunge forward.
“I have to save him, I have to save him,” he all but sobs. But whatever has hold of him is stronger than his shaky limbs, and soon he feels himself being gently pulled back to be restrained in someone’s arms.
“Miles, it’s not real. It’s ok.”
For a moment, blind hope touches him as his delirious senses hear a different voice speaking to him.
“Dad?” he asks, feeling something wet run onto his cheek.
A pause. The arms wrapped around him squeeze him a little tighter.
“No, kiddo. I’m sorry.”
He can still feel the heat of the flames on his skin. Still see him disappearing into them.
Miles chokes back a sob.
He’s gone. He’s gone, and it’s all his fault.
“Shh… Breathe, Miles, breathe. It’s ok.” He feels the chest pressed against his back rise and fall deliberately. He tries to copy it, following the movement with his own breaths.
When he’s calmed down some, the presence behind him releases him, and he finds himself being carefully guided to lay back and rest his head against a pillow.
“‘S my fault,” Miles whimpers.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Peter’s voice says from where he kneels beside him.
Miles shudders, taking another shaky breath. The guilt still gnaws at him viciously, more painful than the quiet agony of the poison.
“I miss him,” he whispers, closing his eyes over the tears gathered in them.
“I know.” Peter’s thumb swipes away a stray droplet running down his cheek. “He’d be very proud of you.”
Miles makes another quiet, pathetic noise, which is hushed away gently.
“Go back to sleep,” Peter murmurs. “You’ll be better soon.”
Before his mentor can pull away and meld back into the void, Miles reaches out and catches his arm. Even though his grip is weak, and Peter could pull away easily, he pauses, waiting.
“Can you…stay?” Miles asks in a small voice. He should feel embarassed, because Spider-Man isn’t supposed to be scared, but…
“‘Course,” Pete says softly. “I’ll be right here to keep watch.”
And he keeps that promise, staying by his side as the younger spider eventually falls back into a fitful slumber.
Miles’ stomach churns violently enough to wake him. He barely has time to process the awful nausea creeping up on him before he realizes he needs to get to a trash can now.
He shoves up to his feet, shins hitting what feels like a coffee table. He can’t see well enough in the dark, and the room is already swaying, making him stumble as he tries to find his way around it.
A hand grabs his elbow. “What’s going on—”
“Bathroom,” Miles chokes.
Thankfully, there’s no further questions as he’s quickly guided in the right direction. He barely makes it in time as the harsh overhead lights flicker on, knees painfully hitting the tiled floor as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He’s distantly aware of Peter kneeling behind him. His hand comes to rub circles into his back, the other curling around his shoulder to support him as his body keeps heaving.
“Easy…I’ve got you,” he soothes. He continues to murmur to him, but Miles can’t pick out what he says, just the gentle tenor of his voice.
It’s a good thing Peter is already holding onto him, because when his stomach finally stills again, he almost tilts forward to splay against the porcelain. Instead, he’s drawn back to lean against his friend, Peter keeping him there with one arm wrapped around his middle while the other reaches to flush down his mess.
Miles mumbles something that might be an apology, limbs barely holding his weight as he’s helped up and over to the sink to wash up. Peter doesn’t let go of him until he’s back on the couch, curling tightly into a ball on his side and trying not to moan in pain.
He doesn’t stay conscious long enough this time to hear anything the other spider might say to him, only dimly aware of a blanket being tucked up around him and a hand rubbing his shoulder before he drops away again.
The hallucinations have easily been the worst thing so far.
Miles has quieted down for the time being, but before now, things had been tough. All Peter had been able to do was sit and watch as his friend struggled with whatever terrors were playing out behind his closed eyelids.
At one point Miles had tried to pull away the bandaging over his stings, which resulted in Peter needing to grab onto both of his wrists to keep him from exposing his wounds. His soft chide of, “No, don’t do that,” had been met with the same confusion that everything else he had said had been met with so far.
“Poison,” Miles had panted.
“I know, I’m sorry. I took care of it already,” he had said back, waiting patiently for him to fade out of whatever particular nightmare he had been in at the time before he let him go.
Right now, he’s sitting in the dark and quiet, keeping an eye on the younger spider as he restlessly tosses and turns. He won’t lie in saying he hasn’t nodded off once or twice only to snap back to attention a few minutes later. Last he had checked, it was just around 2am. His eyelids feel heavy, but he refuses to let that get in the way of taking care of his protégé.
His eyes have just slipped shut in another dangerously long blink when his spider-sense hums a warning. At the same time, Miles sits bolt upright, wrapping his arms around his body with a wince.
“What’s up?” Peter asks, standing from the armchair he’s been keeping watch from. He hopes he’s not about to be sick again. Miles needs to keep down the limited amount of water he’s gotten him to drink, never mind the pain killers he’d given him.
The younger spider seems unusally lucid as he whispers, “Really…It really hurts,” and curls in further on himself. His voice sounds weaker than Peter has heard it yet, making his heart beat faster.
He slowly approaches, sitting down next to him on the couch. The dip in the cushion from his weight makes Miles’ shoulder gently bump against his as he settles to face him. Peter puts one hand on his shoulder to keep him steady, the other going up to press the back of his palm against his forehead. Still warm. He’ll give him another dose of medicine soon, just to be safe.
He blinks as Miles leans into the touch, eyes falling shut. He must be exhausted, he thinks with a sympathetic frown. When he slowly pulls his hand away, the younger spider droops forward with it, too out of it to notice. Peter goes to put a reassuring hand on his other shoulder—then lets out a small, surprised sound when he just slumps against him.
Tentatively, he brings his hands up to his friend’s back, supporting him. Miles rests his face into his shoulder, breathing a shaky sigh. Peter instinctively rubs a hand up and down his back, trying to soothe the pain he knows is ravaging his system. Miles relaxes a little more against him in response, and the older spider finds himself unconsciously losing some of the tension that had crept into his own shoulders.
They stay like that long enough that Miles’ breathing slowly deepens back into the telltale tempo of sleep. Peter hesitates for a moment, then slowly leans back against the couch cusions, careful not to jostle him. Miles seems to find some kind of comfort in being held, even if it means being awkwardly half draped over him. He’s not about to disturb him, though, especially given how little real rest he’s gotten so far. It makes it easier to monitor his temperature, at least, he thinks as he shifts one arm to tuck him in more comfortably.
He’ll never admit it, but it’s also a little bit reassuring, being able to feel his friend’s slow inhales, or the quiet thud of his heart. Miles might be in his late teens, but sometimes he still sees the kid he met in that alley two years ago. He doesn’t have a word for the feeling—parental feels the closest, but isn’t exactly right—but he can’t deny he doesn’t feel a small flicker of protectiveness as he keeps watch over him while he sleeps.
“…doing ok…thanks, MJ…”
Soft vibrations rumble against his right ear. The indistinct sound and feeling ebb and flow, their soothing cadence washing over him like waves lapping on a beach. It takes him a moment to realize that the sensation is someone speaking, the steady beat of a heart near his ear confirming that he’s being held.
A chill runs through his sore, defeated body. He huddles closer into the warmth of the arms wrapped loosely around him. One lifts away, and for a second, he feels disappointed that he’s about to be left to the cold all alone. But then it returns a second later, draping the weight of a blanket over him before tucking back around him. Miles sighs softly.
“…no…calmed down…sleeping…”
Something nudges at the back of his mind. There’s a problem, or something that needs to be done? He can’t remember.
A quiet sound of discontent escapes his throat. It’s muffled by the soft, worn fabric his face is nuzzled into.
“…Yeah…not gonna…” Gentle fingertips come to the base of his skull, shifting upwards to slowly run over the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. The bit of tension trying to creep into his body eases back, leaving him limp in his caretaker’s hold. Their fingers continue to rub soothingly near the spot for a moment longer, eventually easing down to rest a warm palm across the back of his neck. Safe, it seems to whisper.
“…Taking care….better soon...”
Miles drifts off again before he can hear anything else.
A hand nudges into his shoulder, disturbing him from the hazy, confusing dreamscape he’s been wandering through for the past few minutes.
Miles cracks open an eye, turning his head slightly to peek at Peter where he crouches beside him on the floor.
“Hey. I just need you to drink a little more and take some medicine.”
His hand tilts up the back of his head, coaxing him to lift it slightly. Something cool nudges at his lips, and Miles blearily brings a hand up to grip the glass being held to his lips.
“Here, drink,” Peter encourages gently. Once the water hits his parched throat, Miles has no problem following the suggestion, gulping down the water like a dying man. The hand holding the glass tips it back a little, forcing him to drink slower.
“How do you feel?”
“Like crap,” Miles manages.
“Better? Worse?”
“‘Same.”
“Ok. Here, take this.” A hand presses two pills into his, guiding his wrist up to his mouth. He downs them with the last of the water. Exhaustion creeps back up on him as Pete sets it down on the coffee table with a soft clink.
“‘This over yet?” he slurs slightly, wilting back down on his pillow. He closes his eyes as a damp, cool cloth is laid across his forehead.
“Almost.” Peter’s fingers grip his wrist, checking his pulse.
“Sorry,” Miles whispers.
“For what?”
“Taking care of me.”
“It’s never any hassle to help you.” He gives his wrist another little squeeze before letting go.
“Threw up,” Miles points out, too bleary to come up with any other points at the moment.
“In the toilet. You didn’t even do it on me.” The old armchair squeaks as Pete climbs back into it. “Not that I would have minded too much if you did. It happens a lot in the field, swinging people to the hospital and stuff.”
Miles grunts, cracking the smallest hint of a smile. Although he can’t see it, Peter relaxes across from him, returning it.
“You’re almost through this.”
When he comes to again, the pain has dulled, and he can see more clearly. Miles looks around a familiar living room, eyes landing on its other occupant, who looks half asleep in the chair pulled up beside him.
“Pete?” he whispers tentatively, making him startle awake.
“Hey, Miles.” He rubs a hand on his face, leaning forward. “You with me this time?”
He nods. Peter gives him a relieved smile, grabbing a water bottle and passing it to him. Miles pulls the cap off and starts drinking, savoring the cool water against his dry mouth.
“Hell of a night you’ve been through. Your fever finally broke almost an hour ago.” Peter leans back in his chair.
Now that he can both see and think more clearly, Miles takes in the dark circles under his mentor’s eyes. “You look really tired,” he rasps.
Peter chuckles. “A little.”
“You can go to bed. I think I’ll be ok.” He hopes he will, anyway. Morning light is starting to just trickle in through the backyard window.
“Mm. I don’t mind waiting a little longer just to be sure.”
As tired as he is, Miles gives him a skeptical enough look that he laughs.
“Ok, point taken. There’s not really anywhere we can both lay down except for May’s bed upstairs. And I don’t know if you really want to tackle stairs right now.”
“I can,” Miles mumbles, already pushing to sit up. He pulls his blanket over his shoulders like a cape. “If there’s a bed for me to pass out on at the top.”
Peter hesitates, then stands up to walk alongside him as he heads for the stairs. Miles doesn’t miss him almost shooting an arm out to catch him when he has to grab the banister on the first few steps.
“I don’t know why I’m…still so tired,” he mutters. “Been resting all night…”
“I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘resting,’” Peter replies.
Miles winces. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, we already had this conversation.”
Miles shoots him a confused look as they make it to the top of the stairs. “We have?”
“Yep. I guess you…probably weren’t lucid, in retrospect.” Peter gently nudges him toward the correct room, sticking close by his side all the way there. “I’ll summarize in saying you don’t get to apologize for having done nothing wrong.”
“I messed up and got stung. That was wrong,” he mutters.
“Nuh uh. None of that was your fault. I’ve been stung before too, probably a dozen times. Would you say that about me?”
“…No.”
“Well, that’s good,” Peter says somewhat humorously. “You had me worried for a sec that I was about to get a lecture. So, it’s settled. Not anyone’s fault but good ‘ol Sting-y himself.”
Part of Miles wants to argue—or ask what else he might have said while he was delirious—but the rest of him is too exhausted to think about much else except passing back out as they enter May’s old room.
Neither of them has the energy to try fussing with the covers, so they both just flop down as is, Miles only bothering to tuck his feet into the blanket he had carried upstairs with him.
He closes his eyes almost the second his head touches the pillow, a bone-deep heaviness rising up through him. When he peeks one eye open to check on Pete, he looks about the same, letting out a deep sigh as he lays on his side to face him.
“You ok?” Pete mumbles into his pillow.
“Yeah. G’night,” Miles mumbles in turn.
A moment after he closes his eyes, the older spider lifts one hand, briefly settling it to rest on the side of his face. Miles doesn’t open his eyes again, but feels an emotion he hasn’t felt very much since his dad passed stir in his chest. Peter’s just checking his temperature one last time, but it feels…caring. Like something family would do. The warmth of the touch lingers when he pulls his hand back.
“G’night,” Pete says, closing his own eyes.
That’s how MJ finds them a few hours later when she comes by Pete’s house, both fast asleep lying side by side.
She smiles, pulling her phone from her pocket and snapping a picture of them before pulling up her messages app. She sends it to Rio, along with a caption: Resting up after a tough night. Another hard-earned win for the spider-men.