contents: general hcs, mention of his father’s death, i call 42-miles ‘wiles’, me sorta bullying him
a/n: after a lot of procrastination and harassment gentle encouragement from @vhstown i’m finally posting my hcs. :3c (they’ve been sitting here since july)
Despite his tough guy exterior and criminal career, he's actually a massive nerd geek. Like: gundham, comics, posters all over his room.
Until you bring up those interests, he won't mention them. But once you start a conversation about them, he can tell you all the lore front to back or tell you where and when each collectible is from. Just listening to Wiles and nodding along will make his day.
Accepting help from others is not an option. Ever. He's an overly D.I.Y guy since his father's death and it's staying that way.
... unless you're very close to him. Wiles will begrudgingly accept your help and then be adamant on repaying you. No matter how trivial it was, he'll show his gratitude through service.
Wiles has great memory and knows all the lyrics to his favourite songs. Go through his playlist and pick something at random- he'll recite them flawlessly!
A good memory also helps with remembering those flashes of songs playing on your lock screen. Just a split second glance? He's adding it to his playlist, maybe listening to it as he works on his latest gear.
Would be a straight A student if he were there half the time. The only thing keeping his total grades down is attendance, where he’s often absent.
However, if he’s in a group project with you, Wiles will put more effort into it. Getting a ‘C’ or GPA point lower is fine if it means keeping Brooklyn safer. What’s not fine is him being the reason for your lower marks.
Unlike his counterpart from 1610, Wiles’ art is more realistic. He tries to capture the subjects’ essence quickly and minimally, so colours are an afterthought.
Accuracy was his pride in art until it came to you. He’d be so nervous in getting your smile right, scribbling failed attempts over and over again. Wiles even resorted to a pencil sketch.
Following the passing of Jefferson, Wiles has gotten much closer to Rio. That’s a no brainer; he was fourteen— a kid. And Jefferson never got to see his son in that overpriced Visions uniform.
Wiles makes an effort to speak more Spanish. He lets his mamí braid his hair even if it hurts like hell. Those stupid telenovelas aren’t that bad on the second watch.
Once upon a time, Wiles used to be a choir boy (keyword: used). He’d love singing hymns and doing nativities before he could read; all for his mamí and dad to see.
However, the christmas after Jefferson’s passing felt… empty. Wiles quickly lost his passion for choir and now just attends mass with Rio at most.
After years of experience being a choir boy, Wiles has the voice of an angel. Not that you’d know, of course— he intends to take that to the grave. But there’s also a deeper, darker secret… he can’t rap to save his life.
An extremely personal and harrowing Musically comment told him so. Following that attack, twelve year old Wiles abandoned his account with only a black profile picture left behind.
Like any other middle schooler, Wiles had a hype beast phase (he denies it). When Aaron got a Hype shirt for Wiles’ 12th birthday, words couldn’t describe how he almost knocked Aaron down with a hug.
The shirt’s first stain had Wiles distraught and furiously searching ‘remove paint on shirt hacks’ on Youtube. His heart would probably stop if he misplaced a gift from you.
Wiles isn’t the best cook, but he can definitely make himself a good meal. With Rio working night shifts and Uncle Aaron doing… jobs, he has to be self-sufficient.
A secret lil’ side project: he’s trying and failing to replicate Jefferson’s mac ‘n cheese. It wasn’t the best, but it was his. Something’s always off when Wiles makes it and he’s not quite sure what.
Sure, cooking isn’t that hard, but baking is like wizardry to Wiles. AP Chemistry and it’s endless calculations felt way easier than making pan de agua with his mamí.
But, mamí didn’t raise no quitter! On a particularly busy birthday, Wiles pulled together a modest little cake for Rio. She burst into tears seeing the shaky ‘!Feliz Cumple!’ written in too-sweet icing.
Calling Earth-42 a wreck is a massive understatement. Shit’s like Gotham, only very real and very deadly. Just breathing in that damn city air makes Wiles’ skin crawl.
Luckily, he’s got an outlet: boxing. A fun hobby he picked up from Uncle Aaron became his release. Wiles might never be in the ring, but Brooklyn’s more than enough.
a/n #2: what the fuck. this was supposed to be short and silly and fun. exsqueeze me how did this… erm. disjointed mess.
summary: It's Hobie's birthday! Or at least it's the day he told you was his birthday... Maybe it is, in a way.
content/warnings: angst if you squint, mentions of a fire, implied underage drinking, confession... no way... no freaking way...
word count: 1.9k
a/n: okay this was meant to be posted on my 18th birthday but i had a levels and they beat my ass BUT ITS OVER YAYYYY i miss writing... whos gonna wait for 2027 bruh im already here... okay enough rambling onto the fic YEAHHHHH thank you to @qiuweyballs for the proofread
"And why do I gotta have my eyes closed for this?"
"Cause you do. Now be quie—" Your hands over his eyes, he still managed to pull you to a halt, a lamp post just a moment away from being crashed into.
"You sure you haven't got your eyes closed too?" You could feel his sly smile form against your hands.
"You were peeking."
"Was not." Of course he wasn't. Stupid Spider sense or something. Whatever.
"Just... come on already!"
Ignoring his amused huff, you took his hand to start walking again. He'd already run late to your place from a midday scuffle with a few tree-borne cats, and now he was saving you from evil lamp posts. It didn't help that you felt yesterday's rain seep into your shoes as you traversed the puddle-filled street, but at the very least it wasn't raining today. If anything, today was nicer than most days — as nice as London could be at this time of year anyway.
"Something special, yeah?" he muttered, mirth still in his voice.
"You'll see!"
"No need to be mysterious. I can do that for you, love."
"Yuck?" A smile was pressed between your lips, despite your reaction. From the back of his throat emerged his typical chuckle, and you felt your face soften without you telling it to. Ridiculous.
Finally, you approached the door. "Tommy's" — you'd been here more times than you could count. Good food and drinks, questionable practices, and the man himself, Tommy. You weren't entirely sure of his last name, if he even had one. He hadn't been thrilled at the prospect of his pub being used for a birthday celebration, but after prying from all of his regulars, he'd finally grumbled "as long as you (Hobie) pay your bloody tab!" The hard part was getting things organised. Decorations, drinks, and cake. Oh god, the cake.
You knew the cake couldn't be too sweet, but it also couldn't be too plain, and big enough to be split between everyone. A lot of people had pitched in, though. Most people really did like Hobie, despite his antics. It made sense —even when he wasn't Spider-Man, he was helping people, making light of the dullest moments, and so incredibly observant it freaked you out sometimes. And you liked him too, if it hadn't been obvious to everybody except for you this past year you'd known him. Hell, maybe you even loved him, if that word had some more time to simmer — if you could figure out what on Earth "love" even meant with someone like Hobie.
So you'd show him. Just how much he was appreciated. Just how much of a Hobie-shaped hole he'd dug into your town.
The pub door creaked open, and you removed your hands as to not let him figure it out before he was meant to.
"Open your eyes," you whispered.
"Happy birthday!"
As soon as he did, a chorus rang out of maybe the worst happy birthday performance you'd heard in your life. You couldn't help but join in, hands clapping together, and it was your turn to smile smugly. You don't think you've ever seen him flustered like this, almost bug-eyed.
That'll show him, bastard, you thought, laughing quietly as he rubbed the back of his neck, before some of his friends had come up to tackle him in embraces and firm slaps on the back. You could make out Tommy's sigh as they ushered Hobie over to the tables, and you followed too, flashing the old pub owner a polite smile.
"Is that… meant to be my face?" You couldn't help but laugh — from what emotion you weren't sure — as Hobie looked at his rather spectacular(-ly rushed) cake. The effort was there, you supposed, if you squinted really hard.
"Nah, don't violate. I tried my best, yeah?" one of his friends said, while the others snickered and laughed along with you. You stepped aside, letting them mingle as you got to the little empty space used for performances, carefully tapping on the microphone.
"Let's get to it, then," you say, drawing the excited energy that had been bubbling around the room towards you. "I'll be hosting today's trivia, and I'm gonna be tough, alright?"
Everyone sat in their usual spots, getting on their usual gossip as pieces of cake were distributed around. The pub felt like itself again, spirits high and birthday cheer blooming around Hobie.
A tall, lanky barman snaked his way around the tables, before he got to the spot where Hobie and his friends sat. You saw as Hobie shot out of his seat to help, and so did his friends, despite the barman's protests. He looked just older than a teenager, but had exhaustion to rival someone much older. He'd also only started working here recently — quiet, but could get the whole pub laughing at the occasional rude patron with his sharp tongue.
"And that's for you, love," Hobie drawled as he put a plate on the empty chair beside you.
"Oh, what would I do without you?" You raised your eyebrows for effect, before Hobie pulled on your cheek lightly. Your hand jutted out for one last slap on his shoulder before he got away, snickering to himself for just a moment.
You should've picked up his expression, his glance at the bag resting at his hip just then, but—
"We doing trivia, aye?" someone hollered at you.
"Yeah, yeah. This isn't any ordinary trivia, though! How much do you know about our birthday boy?"
"Oh, thank you Spider-Man. You always know when to show up."
"No worries, Auntie. Everyone's out safe, yeah?"
"Yes, yes. I just did a headcount."
Hobie smiled, though the woman couldn't see it through his mask, so he nodded too. There'd been an electrical fire at F.E.A.S.T shelter, and while the building was mostly fine, they definitely needed some refurnishing. First power cuts, and now electrical fires — if only today could've just been a cat-saving day.
While May had been calm and reassuring as always, he could see the twinge of worry on her face, barely a shadow on her dark skin, but still enough for him to mirror it too. The shelter was struggling with capacity as it was, and now they had more problems to deal with. He'd just have to volunteer some more, look for more volunteers too, probably.
"Well I best be going, yeah?" he said, giving her a wave. "I've gotta steal more jobs from the police and that."
"Oh of course." The woman chuckled, the sound comforting as always. "You go ahead. God bless you."
Everything was fine now. Another day saved. That was, if he could get back to the party undetected. The familiar tap of your shoes was doing him no favours, though, as it got closer. Another day ruined.
"Now where did you run off— Hey!"
Pulling you into the nearest by-street, he sighed. "Hey yourself. Why're you out here for? You not hosting Hobie-themed trivia?
"I could ask you the same— oh, nevermind. It's fine. Don't even worry." Your words crumbled like the side of that cake, and you shrug. "Everybody's… fine, your friends covered for you. You're taking the longest piss of your life in there right now."
"Great." Another sigh. He shouldn't be the one sighing so much right now, should he? "I'm… sorry, yeah?"
"I know. I get it. We have this conversation, like—"
"Every single time. I know. Look."
Mask pulled off his face, he put a hand on your shoulder, before knocking his forehead gently against yours. Warm. If he closed his eyes, maybe he could fall asleep standing up.
"Yeah?" you asked quietly. "What?"
"…Forgot."
"Oh, piss off…" You pushed him away from you, but he could make out that little smile you were fighting. The change in your breath. He always could. Sometimes he wondered which one of you was really the spider. It seemed like you drew him further into your web with every little curve of your lips. Each smile was a fibre carefully wrapped around his being. Oi, I'm no poet, yeah? Come out of it. Stop.
"It's not my birthday."
"What?"
"It's not my—"
"I heard you the first time. The hell do you mean by that? Today's not your birthday? You told me—"
"You remember the day we met?"
"Why's that even…"
"That's today."
You paused, brows furrowing, before your eyes finally drew towards his.
"When is your actual birthday?" you asked quietly.
"I don't know."
"Isn't it like, registered? On an ID?"
"Dunno that either. And you know Tommy don't ask for IDs."
"Yeah but… you never thought to check?"
Yet another sigh escaped him, feeling like grit salt out of his throat.
"Why today?" you prodded again. "Why did you tell me it was today?"
Truthfully, he hadn't meant to tell you any date, but it was the first that had come to mind with your insistence. One of the few dates from his personal life that he could recall without another thought. The day you met. The day you swore that you couldn't stand him. Not the day he was born, but the day he… finally felt alive.
"You can't figure it out, smarty pants?" he managed, half a smile on his face. You frowned. Wonderful. "Don't give me that."
"You're not giving me anything. I just don't… get it."
"Maybe I'm not. Haven't exactly been clear with you, have I?"
He slipped off his glove, hand to your cheek, heat sinking into your already warming skin. Instead of grit salt in his throat, it was his heart, and suddenly his breath was funny.
"Reason why I don't say nothing is because it don't mean anything. I could tell you that I love you til my voice starts to scratch, and it wouldn't be sincere, you know?"
It was as if you weren't sure what expression to make, but your eyes were gleaming, catching the stray bits of sunlight that had made it past the tall, concrete buildings. In your web.
"The day I met you, I… I didn't see it back then. How much it would change me. How much what I fight for is just as much for me as it is everyone else." Another quiet sigh escaped him, less like grit salt and more like cool wind. "I can't explain that. It's like… certainty. What it means to actually live."
Silence. He didn't know this feeling would come back so soon, the heaviness in his chest.
"How do you do that?" you whispered. "Say everything I don't know how to like it's nothing? I'm gonna punch you, I swear—"
Hobie snickered, before bumping his nose against yours. "How about we stop talking, then?"
"Hate you," you managed to get out, before he muffled your lips with his. It wasn't the most romantic kiss, interjected with each of your laughs and protests and assertions. How you ended up from one wall of the by-street to the other you had no idea. But the feeling of it — it was almost like he didn't have to say all of that beforehand. Everything had been encapsulated into that one kiss. The entire past year, every glance and late night thought and playful shove. Love. If only "love" could live up to that.
"Happy birthday, Hobie" you mumbled, kissing the corner of his mouth just one more time. Drawing one more fibre of the web to a close, as you smiled.
"I appreciate it, bug."
"That trivia would've ended some of your friendships, by the way. Good thing you're still setting a world record in that bathroom."
"That is criminal."
"Come catch me then, Spider-Man."
HOOOOBIEEE how i've missed hobie bro i gotta start writing again ummm lemme know what u thought thank you for reading hit like and subscribe and smash that notification bell idk okay BYE BYE ...
summary: You go to a wedding with Pavitr. There's only so much chocolate two people can have before regretting it.
content / warnings: none just fluff and corny teenage pining
word count: 1.2k
a/n: me and sadi's instagram dms led to this... if u ever go to a wedding there has to be a chocolate fountain by LAW!!! barely edited...
"Uuuuugh. Maybe this wasn't a good idea."
"You're saying that now, Pavi…?"
Truthfully, there was no way this couldn't have happened. The moment the two of you had stepped into the venue, none of the decorations or displays had mattered. The song that was playing was irrelevant. Greeting relatives and friends and surviving smothering kisses were simply a formality.
The moment you two had seen the beautiful, rich, three-tiered liquid heaven tucked away in a corner, it was almost as if two people weren't getting married right across the room. Oh, how naive you had been.
You'd devised a plan to sneak as many chocolate-covered skewers onto a plate as you could, every time you'd visited the fountain. After many awkward stares that read more like concern than judgement, the two of you had racked up enough skewers to build a castle, enough chocolate to fill an ocean, and a stomach ache that could kill ten horses.
"I'm gonna throw up."
"If your auntie sees vomit on your clothes, she'll finish you."
"Not if this stomach ache finishes me first."
Pavitr let out another groan, making the two of you laugh, only serving to make the stomach ache hurt more. The buzz of sugar fizzling under your skin had finally settled, leaving your muscles dull and heavy. Escaping into the wilderness of the venue's outdoor garden helped a little, the cool night air a much-needed contrast to the stuffy, loud and bright dancing arena that had formed inside.
Something like a yawn came out of Pavitr, and you let the laugh out through your nose to save yourself the regret of too much movement.
"Tired, Mr. Fruit Kebab?" you teased, trying to smirk as if you could look anything but like you were in extreme physical discomfort.
"Mr. Fruit Kebab? Now that's just terrible. I was trying to be healthy!"
"What's healthy about drowning fruit with tons of chocolate?"
"At least I'm not going to get heart disease first— Oof! Don't hit me!"
"Don't act like the strawberries you suffocated with sugar are going to save you."
"Still, though!"
He sighed deeply, and you sighed right back. A smile spread across his face, and the garden lights shone like little stars in his eyes. There was no moon in the sky tonight. How could there be? The sun was right in front of you, shining his light right onto you, too shy to open his mouth for too long because the last time he did all his teeth were ruined with chocolate and you'd laughed at him.
"What?" you finally said, deciding not to notice how his smile had somehow snuck its way onto your lips.
"You have chocolate on your face."
"And you're telling me when?"
"It's okay, let me get it."
"You can't tell me where it is? You just have to be chivalrous?" you muttered as he rubbed his knuckle against the corner of your mouth. His hands were impossibly warm, like they somehow always were.
Pavitr gave your cheek a pinch that only just bordered on being painful before pulling away, snickering at your wince.
"Who's getting married anyway?" you asked, clearing your throat. A half-shocked expression appears on the boy's face.
"You didn't care to remember who's wedding I invited you to? Rude!"
"Hey, you've dragged me to a million and one weddings, how am I supposed to remember?"
"I'm joking, you wouldn't know them. Distant relatives." You scoffed at that, but he just shrugged. "And it's boring without you."
"You're bored by weddings? I thought you loved them."
"What I love is the chocolate fountain. It's suspicious how many people here claim to have known me as a baby."
"But is it me or the chocolate fountain? Do you only take me so we can share the guilt afterwards?"
Just a sliver of his teeth showed through his laugh, smile tainted with embarassment. "Don't say it like that!"
"So it's true…" You sighed dramatically, holding your heart with the hand that wasn't on your abdomen. "Prabhakar has been using me all this time."
"No, no…! You're turning me into a drama series villain!" The two of you stifled your laughs, and his head fell beside you, hair brushing your shoulder.
When you had calmed down, he peeked at you through his perfectly-messed up hair, a softer look in his usually mischievous eyes.
"I'd go to a wedding with you even if there was no fountain, you know."
"Oh, I'm so reassured," you drawled, rolling your eyes.
"I'm serious. Just you. No fancy ceremonies or anything." Warmth seeped into your hand as he took it in his. Your snark had vanished as fast as it came.
"That's not much of a wedding," you mumbled, wondering how on Earth he'd managed to get so close to you in such a short time.
"Do you realise the point of a wedding is love?"
"Almost forgot you were a hopeless romantic."
"Hey, I'm not hopeless! And a chocolate fountain just makes it better, is all."
Pavitr gave your hand a squeeze. The moon and stars were shining again.
"…You're talking in riddles again," you huffed, shaking your head to hide your expression. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying that when I get married I'd want those two things there. Chocolate fountain, and you."
"You think I won't be at your wedding?" You'd be happy if he got married, of course. You'd be older. More mature. Less… bothered by silly feelings.
"Oh, you'd definitely be there. There would be no wedding otherwise."
"You'd cancel your wedding if I didn't come? That's ridiculous."
"Oh, no. I'd cancel my wedding if there was no chocolate fountain."
"What—"
"Beta, your cousins from home are here! Come and greet them!"
The voice of Pavitr's auntie got the two of you to let go of each other's hands, and finally stand up. Your stomachs protesting at the sudden movement, and your hand was maybe a little sweaty.
"Is Aarush's family here?" you asked, recalling the little boy and that had followed you around with his little siblings and clambered all over Pavitr last time.
"Yeah, it looks like it." He let out an exhausted breath, preparing himself for even more exhaustion. "We turn into his babysitters whenever he comes."
"You're good with him, though. You're probably his favourite cousin."
"Is that a good thing?" You shared one more laugh, and a little bit of a wince, before walking back into the venue.
A shiver passed through you as you did, and only then did you realise how cold it had been outside. You hadn't noticed at all, though. Even the coldest nights could be thawed by the sunrise.
"Do you realise the point of a wedding is love?"
"I'm saying that when I get married I'd want those two things there. Mainly you."
"Oh, you'd definitely be there. There would be no wedding otherwise."
It was only when you got home when you realised why Pavitr had been giving you that amused look the rest of the evening, and it wasn't because his little cousin was climbing all over him.
Never again were you having so many sweets. Your stomach was still swirling. It had also made you ridiculously oblivious. You wish you'd hit him harder.
And so, your night was scare of sleep, and full of ridiculous, sugary sweet thoughts. How many tiers could chocolate fountains go up to? Your stomach felt funny. Your face was sore from smiling so much.
Getting married to the sun, huh? Easier said than done.
Worst thing was, he was probably smiling too.
🕸🔭🪀
thank you for reading !!!! i know ive been inactive i have exams in two weeks and cannot focus on ANYTHING for the life of me ough but im still here .... i hope i can write a lot in the summer hehe
a/n: i love this girl to death you don't even know man... thank you to my friend sadi for talking to me about this character at less than ideal hours 🙏 i hope you like these! a little shorter than my other ones but i don't have much to go off okay...
When she originally gets her powers she's at the mosque for Friday prayers and her hands get stuck to the carpet and she's just stuck in prostration. Everyone sheds a tear from how dedicated she is to her religion but really and truly she's praying the skin of her hands isn't ripped off 😭😭😭 The whole mosque is empty and my girl is STILL there.
Definitely the talk of the town for a while. Loved and hated by Muslim aunties alike. There's a chunk of the carpet missing that's in the shape of her hands. Everyone just knows thats her spot.
Apparently her last name is supposed to represent the House of Windsor... I don't really have anything to add except for the fact that I think it's really funny. I feel like she actually does have a Desi or Muslim last name but really plays into the "Bri'ish" joke at Spider Society except they take her 100% seriously and now she's stuck with the Windsor on her spider ID (and she cringes bad whenever she sees it.)
Hijabi activewear for life. Wears it everywhere for practicality and also the crazy UK heatwaves.
TfL warrior. She can quite literally swing to places when she becomes Spider-Woman but she can't give up her aesthetic tube girlie lifestyle. Has her book and headphones and everything and endures the horrible ear pop on older lines with a straight face. She's kind of serving but the restaurant is empty cause it's London and nobody really cares. (Also I feel like London would be really annoying to swing through cause everything is shaped so differently and the train is probably faster..)
Loves sports. Totally feels embarrassed and tries to act uninterested but is a beast on the court. Plays every single sport you could think of but lover of basketball and badminton (she is not a coconut when it comes to badminton like me OKAY!)
Cannot cook to save her life (she's trying okay... I AM NOT PROJEC)
Has so many frankensteined hijabs in her closet from making suits. Feels like a total genius when she figures it out and geeks out about it to other spiders at HQ even if they've heard it like a billion times.
I think she knows a woman who's a lot like Jessica Drew in her universe so she's more friendly with Jess than anyone else would be. They totally like to gossip over coffee and tea and the bajillion strange UK biscuit variations in the break room (she DESPISES the 2099 cafeteria food).
Her universe's Uncle Ben is an electrician and he sometimes drags her around to his engineering jobs. She's there begrudgingly but definitely has a eureka moment when she remembers something niche and engineery he explained to her while working at someone's house when she's on a sneaky little mission.
Humanities babe. I know all the spiders are STEM people but I like to think she's into humanities and absolutely just free balls all the tech stuff and actually gets pretty good at it. Maybe explodes a few things. I think she's one of those people in her class that LOVE to debate. An absolute menace in history and politics.
She's from East London. No elaboration needed.
That's about it for now! BIG UP MY DESI GIRLS!!!!!!!! YEAHHHHHHH
thank you for reading! check out my atsv masterlist here!
SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life one in the middle of the semester, the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 5 / EPILOGUE
chapter summary: You and Miles share a few months of normalcy. And maybe something new, too.
content/warnings: depictions of miles (whipped) morales
word count: 1.5k
a/n: wahoo we did it guys thank u to @/qiuweyballs forever for proofreading LETS FREAKING GO MAN
"You sure it's five dollars?"
"Four dollars, ninety-nine," the man behind the counter replied, grinning until his eyes were barely visible behind his tinted glasses. "Completely positive, young man."
"Aight, sure. Here."
While Miles was sure the man had definitely stuck another price on top of the original one, he didn't really want to stay in this rickety old comic book store any longer. Miles' hand had gotten kind of sweaty from holding yours by now — not that he minded. It was totally fine that he was also sweaty everywhere else he had skin. When had he gotten this sweaty? He was done with puberty. He was a man. He was your… Uh…
"Are we going?"
Your voice broke his trail of thoughts as his eyes jump from the counter to you. Right. You'd agreed to go out with him. And at the end of this, if he would just stop sweating, maybe you'd go out with him again. And it wouldn't be to Marge's like the first thing he suggested when he was totally out of it before realising that probably wasn't the best place for a date.
"Miles?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah. My bad."
He snatched up the comic book, the man's squinted eyes never leaving him. That head of silvery hair had once been closer to brown, maybe when comic books didn't go for five whole dollars. "NO REFUNDS. EVER." passed him by as he left the store, his hand still in yours, trying so hard to not move but also to get into a less sweaty position. This was the last comic book he'd ever buy, damn it.
It was coming to the start of spring, and that meant the day was a little more ideal for a date. Visions did like to run things a lot more intensely, but you'd finally managed to make it to your next break. The two of you had more time to spend together now that most exams were over, and you'd spent the whole of today going to places that Miles had wanted to show you for a while.
In-between that, there had been a lot of explaining too — to both you and Uncle Aaron. He'd told you everything from the start, even if piece by piece on lunch breaks, or texts, or late night phone calls that you somehow managed to pick up regardless of the time. He told you how he'd gotten into Visions, why he was "so good at math" it annoyed you. He told you what happened to his dad, who his uncle was, what his Prowler gig was. He told you about college, and about his mom. Thank God you and his mom got along. It had been pretty tense when she'd found out he'd tried to quit school.
Being back in Visions, Miles had also told you all about his new roommate, Ganke. Devising ways to get out of school was particularly annoying, with Ganke staying up all night to work on some thesis. Ultra-smart. Way too good at video games. Maybe a little better at physics than him. What type of high-schooler has a thesis to work on anyway? He didn't mind the guy, though. It was nice to kick back and play games with someone again.
The most recent thing he'd told you, however, had been rather short. One word and one action he'd decided on in a split second while you were working on math homework together. He'd taken some… advice. Usually his uncle's advice would be good and thoughtful, but this little incident had been chipping away at his mind all week.
"Hey." That god-damned shoulder touch.
"…Hey yourself?"
The silence. It was the loudest thing he'd ever heard.
"You gonna… ask me out now?"
"What?" His voice had shot up about nineteen octaves. The highest thing he'd ever heard.
"I mean, what is this?"
"I didn't say… Wait—"
"What?"
"Wait, wait, no— Yes—"
"Miles?"
"Can I take you out? Please?"
You laughed, and his face had gotten stuck. It was one of your cute laughs. No, every one of your laughs was cute. No, wait, yes—
"Hey, look, it's the superhero you like."
MIles turned to see what you're looking at, and nearly spins himself around 360 degrees in the process. Totally on purpose, because he was cool. Not because he was still sweating.
"Oh, yeah," he commented, squinting at the cosplayer. "Huh."
"There's tons of people dressed up…"
"Probably Comic-Con, or something."
You just nodded thoughtfully, looking around at all the cosplayers passing by. Maybe the Prowler thing would pay eventually, or he could get an actual part-time job. He could take you both.
Miles let out a sigh, before feeling your hand squeeze his.
"We've been out for a while." There you were again, the bustle of the city muffling behind the sound of your voice. There was a little smile on your face, and he found the corners of his mouth were trying to lift up without his knowledge. "You wanna go back to yours?"
And so he was back in his room. That walk had been way too short to think of ways to be cool. You'd been in here a few times by now, studying, playing video games, peeking at the figurines he'd put away to potentially sell. Reading the comics he liked, even if their price was starting to make him wince a little. You seemed to like it, though, even if his room was starting to become barren of things he might as well have grown out of by now.
"The food was good," you started, as the two of you settled down in his room.
"Hope that place stays open," he muttered, trying to reel in the sense of weariness in his voice.
"Why wouldn't they? It looks like they're doing well."
"Exactly. They get bought out as soon as they do."
"Oh."
Way to sour the mood, Morales. How is that even relevant?
"You're right, though," you contemplated, frowning a little. "It feels like everything's getting bought up recently. Even Vision's cafeteria changed companies."
"Eugh, don't remind me," he replied, rolling his shoulders to make a show. "That food is lethal."
"You'd think Visions of all places would have decent lunch."
"Exactly. At least they've still got vending machines." He couldn't believe he didn't know you could cheat them until you showed him. This vending machine business was lucrative.
"True."
Miles tried looking at you, but only got to looking at your knee. His heart stops when he feels your arm around him, and he finally meets your expression. That little gleam in your eye doesn't go unnoticed.
"Thanks for the date," you start.
"Anyti—" Your lips pressed against his cheek before he could finish.
Miles fought valiantly, but the grin that formed on his face fought harder.
"Did you uh… did you miss?" he muttered, without thinking. Did you miss…? Did I miss all fifteen years my mom raised me?!
"No…?" you replied, laughing awkwardly. God, he totally just bombed it. "Do you… want to?"
Okay, he didn't just totally bomb it. He had a chance. Did he even really wanna kiss you yet? No, yeah, he really did. Why can't I move?!
"I don't know how to… how to… you know."
He had only planned so far ahead. Miles had no idea how to kiss someone.
"Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Just do it."
He closed his eyes, feeling your hand give his a little squeeze, before he felt the faint brush of breath against his lips. And then he felt warmth. The taste of lip balm he'd let you borrow. He was kissing you.
Miles kept his eyes closed, but his hand had found the small of your back anyway, pulling you closer. The kiss had only lasted for a few moments, but when he finally opened his eyes, the world was a lot brighter than he remembered. Your smile was a lot brighter than he remembered. His face was a lot hotter than he remembered.
"The next one's on you," you murmured, simply. He could feel the words against his skin, tickling his face. You were insanely good-looking this close.
"Cool." His voice came out in a slightly breathless mumble.
His lips found yours again, and his eyes fell shut. He felt his shoulders relax. His heart had finally started to slow from its pounding. He wasn't sweating anymore.
And he was kissing you. You were his. He sure as hell was yours.
"Stay," he murmured against your mouth, his eyes on yours.
"How long?"
"Forever."
"Forever?" The two of your quiet laughs are muffled with another kiss.
"Yeah," Miles replied, as his hand went up to cup your cheek. "I got so much more to tell you."
thank you so much for reading aint no love! could not appreciate all of the love (haha) on this series 💗💗💗 this was so crazy but so fun i never thought id be able to complete a longer thing of writing like this but here we are!
a big thank you to my friend chewy too who had to listen to me rant about this series at pretty unethical times of the day and also read through all my not so lovely drafts 🫡🫡🫡
if you have any questions about this universe or series or anything in general my inbox is open!
reblogs and replies are much appreciated as always, and you can find my atsv masterlist here!
SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 4 / PART 5 / EPILOG. →
chapter summary: [MULTI-POV] Miles has been a ghost, so you decide to do your own digging. Your answer might have just found you first.
content/warnings: graphic depictions of violence and injury grieving, death
word count: 8.7k (WHAT)
a/n: hey 😁 there's gonna be a teeny tiny epilogue after this one but this is the official end to aint no love! thanks to @/qiuweyballs forever for proofreading this series wouldn't exist without him 🙏
"I need that edit by 3pm, Watson!"
"Got it."
Even if the office was filled with the constant clack of keyboards, or desk phones ringing, or even Jameson himself barking right by her ear — as he was right now — MJ still had to keep up her persona. Agreeable, non-confrontational, all part of company protocol. There was no time for personal opinions or rebuttals, other than Jameson's; she was sure everyone would start coming in tin hats if it meant keeping their jobs.
"You're falling behind, you know," he continued as she quickly clicked off of the email she was working on. "Going to that school fair of yours set you at least a week behind!"
"It was one afternoon, sir. And I'm all caught up, the edit's not due until—"
"The edit is due when I say it's due. You out of all people should understand how things work around here by now. Get it done!"
The man sauntered off without much opportunity for her to reply, a cup of coffee crumpling between his fingers that he probably had yet to take a sip of. The poor intern that had made it would be the next to get an earful when he did try it, she was sure. Too much sugar! Not enough milk! Did you make this with your eyes closed? she recalled. MJ had heard it all by now.
Jameson didn't really have the gall to fire her — she knew that at the very least. The article could wait, however. Visions was yet to release a statement about their fired teacher, and the article would just look like all their other ones — speculatory and clickbait-y with not very much actual information. The Sinister Six ones certainly did well though, always on their broadcasts and the front of their website. Even NNC didn't have as much notoriety as the Bugle did with its less-than skeptical audiences.
The Visions student, right. With a few pasted links and a couple attachments, along with a lackluster "Good luck!" tacked on the end, she hit send. Good to know kids still have dumb email addresses.
She didn't take being abandoned a second time at the fair personally, really — everyone was fifteen once — but she couldn't help but wonder what had happened. It was almost imperceptible, but she knew when a smile looked off. There was something noticeably different about you when you had come back.
"MJ, uh, can I get your business card by any chance?"
"You know what a business card is?" she had joked, but it hadn't done much to ease the discomfort. "Yeah, sure. Contact me if you need anything."
"Yeah, thanks."
You'd asked for articles. Specifically on the Chameleon, and on the recent Prowler activity. You hadn't told her much, just that you needed help compiling some information for school. Some... presentation. MJ wasn't sure whether it was a lie or not, but it was all publicly available information anyhow.
You'd also wanted any information on Visions "teacher", Garrett East. His arrest had been for identity theft, and nothing more. Not many had reported on it as of yet, given he was detained so recently, but you were an insider. He had apparently been your calculus teacher, and the man that he had stolen the identity of had supposedly gone missing a few months before Garrett returned in his place. At least, that's all she had of her article. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to send it to a random high school student before her own boss, but it also wasn't like the man had any real idea what went on in his company. It was a wonder they managed to get through the quarter.
It was just a favour for someone nice she'd met. Maybe it'd repay her in some way in the future, most likely not. Regardless, she couldn't help but smile a little when she noticed her phone light up, a "thank you" text under your name. If only she actually had a work phone number, and it wasn't just her regular one. Visions students making connections already, it seemed.
The time on the screen was 2:41pm. She was met face to face with her wallpaper once again — a low-lit picture of her and a brown-haired man with glasses, the two of them smiling, red faced and dressed like their college selves. Peter Parker, her fiancé. They were holding those terrible beers he'd sworn by. He was a photographer, but this was one of the only pictures he'd taken of them together. It was shot on a bite-sized digital camera they'd bought for college, but never ended up using much. Now, it was all she really had.
Maybe the Chameleon really had come back when Peter had gone missing. Maybe it had something to do with you, with Visions
You probably already had a lot on your plate. And so did she. If she had anybody to chase, it was Otto Octavius. He'd offered Peter an internship in Manhattan. She'd never seen the man herself, only heard from him how good of a person he was, how this was going to get him a job and that it'd be good for them. That he'd finally get some use out of his degree and get to pursue science instead of taking "crummy" pictures for the Bugle. That they could save up for their wedding, and...
That was in Manhattan. The disappearances now were in Brooklyn. And even then, it was coming close to a year since he had disappeared.
She was always running in circles, at the command of an old man with a head too big for his body.
2:43pm. MJ turned off her phone, sliding it into her pocket.
Better get this edit finished.
2:43pm. Wednesday.
Ideally, with a couple days off of school, you would probably be at home, or maybe even out doing something fulfilling with your life. Maybe you could've even gone somewhere with Miles, if he hadn't up-and-disappeared along with every trace of him.
Your unread messages to him faded to black, leaving you to stare at your own face. Maybe you could've used those extra days to sleep, if it hadn't been for the chilling glow of purple eyes or the melting disfigured face that threatened to materialise everytime you closed your eyes.
What did he even like? Comics that he'd mentioned to you once? Of course he'd want to go to a comic book store with you after you'd made fun of him for seeming to want to deal with criminals himself. If only he'd come save you from Brooklyn Public Library right now. You were certain it couldn't get any more swampy in here with all the Visions students scrambling to do their off-day work right now.
Reading through the reply to a ballsy request you'd given to the Bugle's head journalist, you had a few questions in mind other than the ones concerning your disappearing, sort-of friend. Was all this research really practical? Maybe not. Would it help you sleep to know that the guy that had been teaching you calculus since the start of sophomore year was actually posing as a man that had gone missing months ago?
Another very normal thing that only seemed to happen to you.
Maybe you just attracted bad luck. That girl in your history class had joked about it last year, after you'd bumped into your teacher and every single paper he'd been holding had fallen to the ground in one scattered disaster. She wouldn't let it go, and it appeared that your brain wouldn't either.
Or like that time you went to Oscorp on a visit day and happened to be the only one there, trapped with a shapeshifting monster and the Prowler on the 90 millionth floor of that god-damned tower.
Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe you were cursed — or maybe you just walked into these situations on purpose. Like right now, sifting through years of articles on real criminals, with nothing but a hunch or fifteen.
The Chameleon had been arrested, like Miles had said, eight years ago on accounts of identity theft, much like your "teacher" but also very little like your teacher. According to what you were reading, Dmitri Smerdyakov been dubbed "the Chameleon" for a string of carefully orchestrated take-overs of big companies after impersonating their CEOs. His defence had argued that the big names in these companies were gone because they "wanted to be free of the burden of running their own companies".
You didn't have to be a journalist to make a face at that.
There was no mention of shapeshifting, as you'd seen with Wellston and Stromm. Just a couple lousy identity theft charges that didn't add up to their total amount anyway. This guy had more luck than you'd ever had.
The only other person that had seen any "shapeshifting" happen was Miles, and although he'd seemed surprised, something about his reaction was strange. You couldn't place it, but there was some sort of analytical twinge in his eyes, as if he was solving a math problem and not looking at someone shapeshift for the first time. You didn't know anything, really. Miles seemed like he did, though. If only you could bump into him and wring it out of him. And maybe go buy overpriced comic books with him and forget about the fact that your teacher had been arrested and midterms were coming up and maybe even become actual friends.
If only you were that lucky.
If only it was that easy to move past, as well. The fact that someone that had been involved in disappearances 8 years ago might be mixed up with this, along with the recent uptick in missing people made you feel uneasy. Surely any detective would have put two and two together by now, but remembering the fact that the shapeshifter had turned into a literal police officer dissolved any reassurance that thought might've brought. You were in a public library surrounded by unoptimistic college students, parents with their kids and even some of your own classmates, but the feeling was completely your own, tucked away behind a computer screen and a booked monitor session.
You couldn't be scared, though. You'd already seen probably the scariest thing in your life, kind-of almost died, and been wound up in so much craziness you knew so little about. If only high school had prepared you for researching literal criminals.
"Your 30 minute session is over. You will be logged out shortly."
God damn it.
If only Brooklyn Public Library's computer sessions weren't 30 minutes. You didn't want to log back in anyway, not if someone had booked after you. You could go back home, the library had just been an excuse to get out, really. Not that you'd made a whole new email and signed in as a guest on the computer. Not that you were paranoid.
Picking up your bag and checking your messages one last time you made a beeline for the exit. Well, less of a line and more of a strange obstacle course through the swarm of people. And of course you had to knock into someone. Just your luck.
"Hey, sorry," you mumbled, hands raising just a little in apology. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah..." The person dusted themself off a little with a frown, before looking up to meet your eyes.
Rafael?
"Hey, it's you," he realised, eyes widening as if he'd just gotten lucky.
Out of all places...
"I... gotta go."
"No, no, wait. I need you to do something."
Of course you do.
"I really don't have the time," you whispered back, as he caught up to your advance towards the doors.
"Uh, hey, listen... You talk to Miles, right? Like, he's your friend?"
"Yeah...?" No...? You weren't even sure at this point.
"Uh, look, I need you to tell him something..."
"What, you're in love with him?" you spat, finally looking at him again. "Cause it seems like it. You're always talking about him. Always talking to me about him."
"What?! No the f*ck I'm no—"
A much louder "shhhhhh!" got your attention. The librarian didn't look too pleased. Neither did any one of the people who turned to look at you.
"I'm not gay, man!"
So, the two of you were now out on the street as Rafael defended his sexuality with nothing but exasperated hand gestures.
"I didn't say that."
"Okay, well I'm not. Damn, why are you acting weird for?"
"Your face is red."
"I'm black!"
"That melanin isn't doing anything for you."
"Shut the f*ck up!"
You rolled your eyes, hiding the way the corners of your mouth were starting to lift with a deep exhale. The poor guy was not very discreetly checking his face right now with the back of his hand.
"What, then? What did you wanna say to him so bad?" you asked, instantly making him retract his hand from his cheek.
"Forget it."
"No, tell me. You got us all the way out here for no reason?"
He gave you a look, before promptly looking away, mumbling something under his breath.
"Didn't hear that." That made him groan loudly. It was akin to a petulant child, if not a few octaves deeper.
"I'm... sorry."
Huh?
"You're... sorry?" you repeated, making him let out a huff.
"Look, I..." Rafael met your eyes again, his narrowing uncomfortably. There was something strange in his expression. "My mom's missing. I dunno who to tell. I know I messed up and I... I get it now. I get it. The thing with his dad."
Oh sh*t.
Remorse. That was what you were seeing in his eyes. Or maybe regret. Neither you thought you'd ever see from him.
"Tell him I'm sorry. Or don't. Whatever," Rafael muttered, kicking a bottle cap on the ground until it skittered to a halt by a dog, who found interest in it as its owner tried to tug it along the pavement.
"You can't tell him yourself?" you replied, brows furrowing. As bad as you felt, this was a personal matter. You weren't about to be a parrot for the guy that hadn't grown out of his bullying phase.
"You think he'd listen?"
"It's understandable if he doesn't."
"And what if he doesn't come back?"
"Why..." What? "Why wouldn't he come back?"
"I... dunno. Why can't you just tell him?"
Huh. "Why wouldn't he come back, huh?"
Rafael gives you a sort of reserved look, as if he's contemplating whether or not to lie to your face.
"I heard something about him while I was in that office. He's like... withdrawing from the school."
"He's... what?" Withdrawing from the school? Could he even withdraw that fast? "Why?"
"I dunno, damn! Just... forget it. I don't know why I even asked you man."
Rafael turned to leave, a scowl forming on his face.
"Hey," you called out, looking away before he could meet your eyes. He didn't turn around, though.
"What?"
"...I'm sorry about your mom," you managed, before he could go far enough. "I hope they find her."
"Yeah," he muttered, before throwing his hood over his head.
And now your friend, not-friend, study buddy was gone. The only person you kind of got along with at all outside of just one class. Another person missing. Rafael's mom. Maybe you needed to get out of Brooklyn for college. You certainly wouldn't miss the subway all too much, you thought, crammed in-between people.
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
As soon as you got out of the station and into the street, you were met with a familiar face among the people passing by. Instead of the Visions uniform, he was in a jacket too big for him, crinkled sweatpants and purple Jordans.
Miles. Calc-wiz. Mr. Disappearing Act. Withdrawn from the school, now in front of you and definitely already getting on your nerves.
He was looking at you, a hint of surprise in his otherwise smoothed-over features.
"Miles?"
"Yeah. Can we... talk?" His cheek dimpled with the awkward half-smile you'd only seen a couple times, but you were so strangely familiar with. You didn't know whether to freak out at him in front of a crowd of people or head home and hope that he didn't follow you.
"...Sure," is what comes out of your mouth.
Just your luck.
"~Ain't no love—" Skip.
"~Ha, sicker than your average—"
"Poppa twist cabbage off instinct..." Skip.
Miles was getting sicker than average of his uncle's playlist. Maybe working in silence was better.
He took out his earbuds, setting them on his mess of a desk and picking up the screwdriver again. Uncle Aaron was busy, "out of town", as his voicemail said. Probably doing something Miles wasn't supposed to be involved in. He'd be back in a day or two, as always. Never in one place too long.
Even for someone so experienced, he knew this was his uncle's first real "vigilante" gig. Uncle Aaron wasn't getting paid, nor was he working under someone trying to solve a cold case Jeff had been involved in with his colleagues. His dad was no detective, but always seemed to want to help out, and the police were getting desperate with all the recent missing person's cases. There was no real pattern, and sometimes people would be returned just fine. That's what the police were hoping for.
Dr. Stromm had disappeared for about 2 weeks, and returned to his normal work at Oscorp. That could be excused for a vacation off of work, for all anyone knew. Wellston, however, was still missing. Probably dead. Just a couple had turned up dead. It was so unpredictable that they all seemed unrelated, but the kinds of people going missing were all of use — scientists, lawyers, bank tellers. Wellston had been getting his PhD while teaching before he went missing. All people of use to the Chameleon.
Whoever his uncle was working for at the same time as all of this likely had no idea. He was probably working for that person right now, even when they had this case to deal with.
Miles had only been up to this after his dad had passed, and he knew he wasn't as polished as Aaron — not after what happened at Oscorp. Those gauntlets couldn't focus their energy, even if they were more powerful and he could charge shockwaves through the air almost instantaneously, and he had bragged about it a little too much when they'd tested it in the garage.
Now, he had faint lines on his skin from the excess heat, and had been taking them apart and rebuilding them for weeks in his room. His visor needed work too. It was way better in depth, but the resolution sucked. Even then, he was sure he could make something better than what his uncle had. Rigorous training wasn't enough to do this sort of work. He had to do his own thing, even if he was taking up the same schtick. Eventually his uncle's beard would gray and he'd have to be the real Prowler.
He was a good guy, after all. Like his uncle, like his dad.
By deduction, the Prowler was a good guy too. But he wasn't the Prowler today. He was Miles. The Miles that had been shouted at for trying to quit school again. The Miles that was fifteen and spent his days off building crappy gear.
Maybe on a day like this he could spend time with other people like he did in middle school. Go to a fast food place, or go to Micah's house to play video games, or hang around in some parking lot and run when he and his friends accidentally set off a car alarm. The sun was setting outside his window now. It felt like those evenings where he was reluctant to be taken home by his dad, after he was at Micah's playing GTA on Micah's older brother's console, laughing and screaming, Micah's sister shouting at them to shut up from the hallway.
Miles puts the visor down, walking up to his window and pushing it open. The air didn't get any warmer around this time of year, a cold wind brushing past his face as he stuck his head out to look at the city below.
Above him was the half-finished mural. A colourful backdrop of red and blue, and purple. His dad's face without the glasses, hat without the logo, the text outline without the actual text.
"Captain Jeff Morales. Husband, Hero, Father," read the ghost of the text.
His dad wasn't missing. There was no hope of him turning up one day, and that he could leave the mural unfinished and paint it over with something else. There was no hope that he'd wake up one night and instead of finding himself grasping at air it would be his mom shaking him awake to tell him his dad had come home.
His dad was dead. His dad was facing him right now and smiling like he did every morning before he left the house. His dad was painted on a brick wall, missing his glasses.
Miles knew he wasn't smiling for him. He was smiling for the city. He was the face of PDNY, captain for half a day alive and for the rest of eternity until Brooklyn forgot him, deceased. The mural had made him feel better when he hadn't been able to leave his own bedroom and decided to get up and start it with his uncle, but now he felt all sorts of emotions swirling through him. Regret, anger, grief, all of it at the same time — only to stop right at his tear ducts, tightening his throat.
He hadn't cried back then; his mom shared the pain of the both of them, even now. Even when they went to his tombstone, she was the only one that had cried as he'd kept a reassuring hand on her back.
Selfish, were the tears that blurred his vision, not heavy enough to roll down his face.
He sat, staring, eyes stinging yet soothed by the moisture. The sun cast a halo around the building, the mural in shadow and the city behind flooded in red-orange light.
"Husband, Hero, Father."
Was he a hero before he was his father? He had painted that himself. He knew his dad was a good guy. Was he a good guy before he was a good dad?
His thoughts were interrupted with the buzz of his phone in his pocket. There was a message on the notification bar, overtaking the text he'd been yet to reply to from his mom.
Are you the miles talking to me right now
1m ago
It was you.
Cause you're acting weird
And you just read my message without taking out your phone
What the...?
no wtf are u talking abt
Read 4:51PM
where ru
Read 4:51PM
His fingers hovered above the keys, glancing briefly at the gauntlet at his desk.
With a guy that looks exactly like u
You're the real miles right
He wracked his brain for something, anything as he ran back towards his desk.
6 liters per hour
Read 4:53PM
What???
OH
Okay calc genius help me out please?????
He let out a breath between his teeth, shoving his gauntlets in his backpack and throwing on his gear haphazardly.
The Chameleon. Becoming him.
I'm at Marge's on moore st
ok just stay there go into the bathroom
Read 4:55PM
don't leave til i text u
Read 4:55PM
What are u gonna do??? the restaurant is empty
He's gonna look for me
He was acting so weird if that's not u then it's probably chameleon right
So you did believe him about the Chameleon. Or maybe you were the Chameleon and just being incredibly smart. He couldn't be 100% sure. Not like he ever was. Swooping out of his window, he threw his hoodie down to hang off the fire escape stairs before starting to run up the side of his building, shoes vacuuming him to stand horizontally.
probably
Read 4:55PM
ur gonna take him outside in a couple min
Read 4:55PM
Why???
just trust me
Read 4:55PM
ill be there in 3m
Read 4:56PM
The sky was now a shade of blue-purple, the reds and oranges dissolving behind the skyline. It was getting dark, and fast.
Okay
Manoeuvering through the maze of buildings with his shoes keeping him a thousand feet from being heard or seen, Miles headed for Moore Street with the little map in his peripheral vision. When he got there, all that welcomed him was a lone street lamp that had yet to turn on, a couple of closed local grocer's and a dimly-lit diner named "Marge", a discoloured space next to it the shape of an "s". Close enough.
Sifting through the modes on his visor, he settled when he saw the outline of two people. One strangely shaped like him and one strangely shaped like you.
He climbed down a little, dimming the lights on his gear completely as he receded into a small alley. The guy definitely looked like him physically. Tall, handsome, standing outside the bathroom, shifting on his toes...? Creasing my Jordans? Seriously?
Oh, yeah he had you to deal with. And himself, apparently.
leave now
Read 4:58PM
Miles had about zero idea how to, but he needed to figure it out in about 30 seconds from now.
K
You made your way out of the bathroom, and he moved to the side of the diner you were closest to from outside to get a better view.
"...Gotta go home..."
"...Lemme walk you..."
As you left the store into the empty street, he could make out the slight twinge of nervousness on your face as you looked around ― probably looking for him and finding nobody.
"Hold on, I gotta text my parents..." You took out your phone, turning yourself a little to obscure the screen.
"Yeah, that's cool." Sounded almost exactly like him. Creepy.
go into that alley on your right and run home
Read 5:00PM
Ur kidding
you gotta trust me
Read 5:00PM
At that moment, you took one last look at your phone before turning into the alleyway. You were just a couple quick steps into the alley when his doppelganger grabbed yourshoulder.
"What the hell are you doing, Miles?!" you shouted suddenly, trying to pull yourself free, only to be thrown against the wall of the alleyway.
"I'm doing you a favour. You're not going to school anymore," he responded, his tone suddenly flat and nothing like it was a moment ago.
"What are you talking about? I'm just trying to go home."
His doppelganger was now featureless, his face melting away into the blankness Miles still couldn't describe. The panic on your face is visible from yards away. Miles just has to catch him off-guard. Without hurting you. He could do that.
"So you are the Chameleon," you muttered, still trying to pry his hands away as his grip wrinkled your clothes further.
"Ah, so you did figure it out. Excellent." That definitely didn't sound like him anymore. "You were always the most interesting in that class of yours."
"You... You were the one who was at those after-school classes, huh? And at Oscorp. And that... fair." That you were right about. "What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem is that I need a little something from your school, and you seem like the easiest solution."
"Couldn't you do that while you were a teacher? You got that other guy to be arrested in your place. Aren't you done?"
"It looks like you have me all figured out. Except for one small thing."
"What?"
Something glistened by your neck. Sharp. Metal. He had a knife pressed to your throat, the blade just managing to dent your skin.
"You're going to die."
Missing. Sometimes they turned up. Other times they were probably dead. If he didn't figure this out, you were dead already.
"I'm... I kind of figured that too, you know."
"Oh, really? Aren't you something?" There was something like a grin on his face, but it was too misshapen to really tell. "So unaffected. So controlled."
"How do you even... turn into these people? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Take a guess. An educated guess is always better than nothing." His voice pitched up into Wellston's awkward sing-song, repeating what he used to say in class. Near-perfectly.
"Why are you so sure you won't get caught?"
"That's not an answer, and I can't exactly reveal such things, you know."
"Not even when you're about to kill me?"
"Oh, unfortunately not."
"Go f*ck yourself." That made the man laugh. If he wasn't in this situation right now, Miles might have managed a smile at that.
"Yeah, go f*ck yourself," he muttered, voice being caught half-way into his modulator in a grainy, deep sound.
In an instant, Miles soared above the two of you, foot smashing itself right in the centre of the Chameleon's face, his knife clattering to the floor. As he stumbled back, you got up, taking the opportunity to run, footsteps hard against the pavement.
Suddenly, the Chameleon was stuck between the wall and Miles' knee, steadying himself with his hands against the brick. Miles could make out some kind of morphed look of glee on his face as his clawed hand clamped him to the wall by both sides of his neck. The lips and teeth were starting to form through the flesh, and Miles let the energy build up in the converter as the smile fell into place, cell by cell.
"You don't want to kill me," he stated, simply.
"Pretty sure I do." Miles' claws just scraped at the skin starting to form at his neck. The quiet whirr of his gauntlet starts to become audible.
"You can't kill me. I am everywhere."
If everywhere is right in front of me, I mean...
"I know what you're doing, Dmitri. It ends here."
"I know what you're doing, Prowler."
He finally sees it, what's forming on the man's face. It's him.
"One of my best students, I never would have guessed," he started, grinning wildly, with some sort of overwhemled excitement.
Miles felt his mouth go dry, his face under the mask paralysed as the one staring at him continued to smile.
"The DNA that I retrieved from you is that of... Miles Gonzalo Morales."
It was as if the shockwave forming in his gauntlet slowed with time itself as he came to stare. He was looking at himself. Smiling. Grinning. Crazed. Miles Gonzalo Morales.
"Kill me. I have my assets, and subordinates. They will end you. Your mother, Rio. The hospital she works at. Your uncle, Aaron."
The quiet whirr in his gauntlet faded into silence. He felt his hand retreat, leaving the Chameleon, still posing as Miles, grinning, unblinking, and flat against the wall.
"Oh, you've made a very good choi―"
SLAM!
Metal met with bone, an audible crack following as Miles' clawed fist met the wall, the Chameleon's face smashed between the two.
"You mother... f*cker..." he breathed out, voice choked through the sudden rush of blood, smearing against the wall as he lifted his face from it.
Miles pointed his gauntlet at him again, the whirring renewing itself to a high-pitched scream, light purple expanding between them and tearing through the alleyway like fire.
"Muerto el pollo." (Job done.)
The man's reforming grin was overtaken by the brightness of the blast, energy snapping into one focused point before hurtling through the air, right at the Chameleon.
Miles felt his ears start to ring. His body was lightweight. Airborne.
His back hit something hard, and suddenly the lightness was replaced with an erratic clawing spreading up his arm. The light flickered into sparks that led fire under his sleeve, eating away at his skin. Burning. The blindness faded away, eyes managing to focus. All he could see past the smoke was a figure approaching him, and a hysteric laugh that grew louder and instantaneously changed pitch.
"So confident," is what he could make out through the ringing in his ears that had bled through his head into a sharp, disorienting pain. "I almost thought you had me."
Ripping the burning gauntlet off of himself, he noticed something jammed in the converter as he shook the heat from his arm. Some sort of sabotaging device. He'd had just a few seconds before the burning would've made it past his skin. The Chameleon had planned this.
Looking to his other gauntlet, he noticed the same device, ripping it out before crushing it under his foot. Never twice.
Swallowing back the cough building up in the back of his throat, Miles made a move for the Chameleon, before catching his figure turn left ― running.
Coño. (F*ck.)
Launching himself up, Miles locked onto the man, hurtling through a series of alleyways, fluidly dodging every obstacle in his way as if to waste no time. He could not let him get into a crowd and disappear. This had to end here, even if he had no god damn plan and his uncle was sure to scold him when he got back. He wasn't going to let you or anyone else get killed by this crazy f*ck.
Miles threw himself down into the next alleyway, hearing heavy, fast footsteps, someone approaching in his vision.
Just a little closer.
SLAM!
He threw the Chameleon down onto the ground, noticing he'd already changed appearance.
That face. No, this wasn't the Chameleon.
It was... you. And you were looking right at him. Terrified.
"Please, please let me go," you mumbled, gasping for air in-between words... "I... You're the... Prowler, I― Please― The... That guy's after me and..."
Your head fell against the concrete, an exhausted look in your eyes as you caught your breath.
"Please. I didn't... I didn't do anything. I can keep quiet about you, I haven't told the police anything. About Oscorp. Nothing."
"I know it's you, Chameleon." You would've ran far away by now, he was sure.
"I―I swear I'm not. I'm not him, I don't know how to prove it to you, but... I called my friend for help and... he never came. Please. Please let me go. I don't know where the Chameleon is right now."
Another set of footsteps came towards the both of you.
"I'm right here, Prowler," emerged another voice from the alley.
It was... you?
"Come on. Weren't you looking for me?" the other you continued, half-hidden in shadow. "Come get me."
So the you on the floor... was actually you. And this...
"Please, that's... that's him, you've gotta let me go," the you that was on the ground muttered, exasperated. There was a waver in your voice. In the way your eyes widened looking at him. Almost like confusion.
The Chameleon was right there. Admitting that he was in fact the Chameleon. While he was trying to run away.
"Please," he heard below him, a quiet, desperate whisper in the silence.
You both looked identical. Even though he'd injured the Chameleon, the both of you were unscratched. You both sounded the same too, from what he could decipher. No real way to tell you apart. And his only answer right now felt like a trick.
He kept eyes on the you standing before him, barely making out a face. Something was there, in the way that you looked, the way you stood. Something strange, something he couldn't figure out fast enough to make any decision.
And then, he felt a little pinch. One that suddenly exploded and tore through his flesh, wrangling with every one of his nerves as his body seized. You had lost your scared, desperate expression, your face now distorting along with his vision into that of a smile.
"I understand," a voice started, ringing through his head as if it was everywhere. "You want to help me."
The pain was clawing its way through his body from a point in his leg. He turned his head, noticing the discarded needle beside him. He'd managed to ease his hand just close enough to administer it. You ― no, the Chameleon, lifted himself from the ground, before Miles felt his head spin hard with a kick.
"I admire you, your wit," he called out, letting out a laugh as he started to walk towards you. "Turning against your own savior. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."
No, no... There was... there was no way you were working with him. There was no way you...
"You have proven yourself. You'll be better than... than that Garrett fool. I've changed my mind."
Miles rummaged in his utility belt for something, anything. He had no idea what he'd been given, but it was already running through his blood, reaching his brain and poisoning every part of it.
"Your friend over there is going to be unconscious in about half a minute. Why don't you take care of him? I'll be a fool to kill you once you do."
Get up, Miles.
His head throbbed with the sound of your footsteps, each one getting louder and louder. His limbs were weakening. He could barely lift his head.
Get up!
"Dad... Dad? No no no... Get up, get up!"
The gauntlet was slowly slid off of him, now in your hands as his arm fell uselessly onto the ground in front of him.
The gauntlet clipped onto your arm, fingers moving as yours did. He felt the metal claws just scrape his helmet, a faint clink echoing through his skull.
Miles didn't want to look at your face, but he couldn't find it in him to look anywhere else. There was that something from before in your expression that he couldn't quite place, and he still didn't have an answer. It bothered him, for some damn reason. Not the fact that he had his own weapon pointed to his brain as he was losing consciousness. Not the fact that he couldn't move. Not the fact that his last thoughts were about the look on your face and not his mom, or his dad.
Whirrr...
That brightness that the Chameleon had been staring at before was now staring right at him. Overwhelming, blinding, all-encompassing. He felt the faint heat on his skin, as his eyelids grew heavy. Something like warmth in contrast to the cold metal, if just for a second. Something like knowing in your eyes. Something hopeful, saving, loving. Even if just for a second. Even if his brain had made it up to let him succumb.
He wished he could smile, and not be terrified. He wished he could be like his dad, who had smiled.
"Take care of your mom for me, Miles. I ain't gonna be around forever."
And he reached for his helmet. To show you his face, to hope you'd stop once you saw him. He reached, before his arm fell limp beside him once more.
Sorry. I'm so sorry.
"Hey, hello?"
"Hey!"
"Prowler? ...Are you dead?"
God, what did you have to do if he didn't respond...? Breathing, pulse...
"What the..." you heard, before he exploded into a painful-sounding coughing fit, tinged by some kind of voice changer. The Prowler lifted his head, and you could make out az kind of shadow where his eyes were behind the dull, unlit screen. "Huh...?"
"Hey, uh. The... Chameleon..."
Gesturing to the pile on the floor, the Prowler seemed to tense a little at the sight. It was the Chameleon, or... what was left of him. His face charred and caved in by the likes of a certain purple energetic blast. Right, you, had to explain that, the de-powered weapon in your hands.
"Sorry for... I didn't know what I was doing, that was―"
"You killed him?" came out a quiet, modulated voice.
That was...
You killed him. With the Prowler's weapon.
You were defending yourself. You were defending him. That man was a...
Thunk!
The metallic arm hit the ground as it rolled out of your arms, looking into the hollow shadows of the Prowler's eyes.
You didn't know anything about any of these people, and you were deep into their world. It was one that you had never thought you'd see, and now you had nothing to dig yourself out of it. You decided to trick him and when Miles was too late to figure it out you had...
You had killed someone. Turned the blast on him within a split second, watching it sear through his skull in a merciless flurry, stab after stab of burning hot energy wracking more and more screams. Right until the weapon had run out of energy. Until your finger grew numb from the trigger inside the device and the alleyway had gone silent. The man that had haunted your mind for months was unmoving before you, ripped of all features, all life.
Murder. Manslaughter. This man had connections. They'd come after you. After everyone you knew and loved. After Miles.
You should've stayed home.
The ache of adrenaline surged through your heart, your muscles, begging. Begging you to move. To run. To get up.
Get up. Run. Run away. Scream for help. Do something.
You felt the scratch of brick, arms enveloping the rest of you as you backed into the wall.
Hide.
All the breath in your lungs seemed to leave at once as you desperately tried to breathe it back in, hearing the air rush in and out of your mouth over and over. It was loud. So loud. The blast had been so loud. He had screamed so loud―
"Hey."
The hand on your shoulder was warm, free of any metal.
"It's... alright," you heard him say.
How could he say that?
"How can you say that?" Your voice was muffled. Wavering. Pathetic.
Would they believe you? With that stupid, pathetic, voice, whoever it was that found you ― would they believe you?
"How can you say that...?" you repeated, pressing your face further into your knees. The touch on your tensed shoulder felt offensive. Mocking.
"You're gonna be okay."
"How am I gonna be okay?"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"How do you know that?"
You were looking at him now, breath hitched, eyes wide. You tried to sound frustrated, angry, but all that came out of your throat was a sound that told the Prowler "I am scared" in every language.
The Prowler hadn't killed you. He was comforting you. In any other circumstance, you could've laughed at the thought. To your knowledge, this Prowler hadn't killed anyone, or put everyone he loved in severe danger. Maybe you were worse than him.
"Why won't you answer any of my questions...?" you mumbled hopelessly, burying your face in your hands. You could smell concrete, dust, and ash ― invisible, yet incriminating.
Hiss... Click!
You felt hands wrap around your wrists, carefully pulling yours away from your own face. Just as you looked up, you could see the mask dismantling itself, disappearing behind his head.
What was left was a face. The Prowler's face.
No, this is...
Brown, maybe green-ish eyes. They were a smooth coppery colour under the dim light, bright among the shadows underneath his eyes. A black-red was drying on his skin, under his nose and creeping past his cracked lips. Two braids, coming unfurled at the ends, coming all the way back up to the top of his head. A soft face with harshness painted all over it. An exhausted, pained and worried expression.
"Hey, pana."
The face you had so prayed to see blurred into a watery mess as you threw your arms around him, squeezing your eyes shut against his jacket. His arms followed, settling over yours, one palm circling your back and the other settled between your shoulders.
You didn't think you'd held anyone tighter. You didn't know someone could hold to the point that their arms were shaking around you.
"Miles..."
You felt his head rest beside yours, the contours of his face melding against your shoulder. Warmth was running down your face ― blooming in your chest.
"I've got you."
"Mij— Oh... Oh my!"
You'd scrubbed your eyes hard as you could, and Miles had fixed himself up into a giant hoodie and jeans, but you were almost certain that the woman in front of you was utterly convinced that the both of you had been run over by a subway train. Miles' mom, standing with a vacuum cleaner that contributed nothing to the silence. Her jaw was inching closer to the floor the longer the silence stretched out.
"Uh... hola, mami. This is my friend," Miles offered, not sounding any less like he'd been met face first with the headlights of New York public transportation.
"Hi, Mrs... Morales."
The woman propped the vacuum cleaner against the wall, letting out a quiet sigh. She had beautiful curly hair, and was now wearing the sharp-softness of her son's face in a polite, and concerned smile. You didn't want to turn to check if Miles still had blood on his face.
"Is this a bad time...?" you started. "I can—"
"Oh, no, no, I just... I haven't even made dinner yet, I didn't expect—" The woman lets out another breath, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so rude. What are you two... What have you been up to?"
"We just... you know," Miles gestured with his hands, charading less than nothing in the air.
"You know...?" she replied, eyes squinting.
"I uh, already ate. Don't worry about it, Mrs. Morales," you continued, giving her what you hoped looked like a smile on your face. "Miles just wanted to show me something. It'll be quick."
"Uh, yeah. That."
"You're not staying for dinner?" she called out, as Miles dragged you into his room. "I was gonna make pastelón—"
"I'll come help you in a sec, mami."
Miles closed the door to his room, and the two of you shared a look as you heard the long, muffled sigh from outside. With the sound of the vacuum cleaner whirring in the hallway and disappearing into another room, the two of you sat on the edge of the twin-size bed, the frame creaking uncomfortably.
The room wasn't particularly big, crowded with posters and various newspaper clippings — many about the Prowler. There were crates tucked away beside his closet, faces of toy figurines and comic books peeking out of them. A lone screwdriver sat on his desk, a stack of notebooks beside it. The backpack you'd seen him take to school was hanging on the back of his chair, a study guide for "Invisible Man" peeking out of it. All that was on his bedside table other than papers was a frame. A young boy, missing a tooth, on the shoulders of an older man, the two of them beaming through the picture.
"You hurt or anything?" he asked quietly, making you remember that he was next to you. "Like, injured?"
"No, I'm... fine." You took half of a breath before your lungs started to ache, swallowing back the dryness of your throat. Mostly fine. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. My mom's a nurse, so... I kinda..."
"Oh... Yeah, yeah." Huh.
Mrs. Morales certainly didn't seem to know about her son's... part-time job.
You noticed a set of blueprints on the wall, resembling the clawed arms he had stashed away without you or his mom seeing.
"You made those...? The claw-glove things?"
"They're gauntlets."
It was somewhat like the tone of voice he used when he was explaining a calculus question — not condescending, but somewhat tired and fed-up.
"Right..." Gauntlets. Sure.
The vacuuming stopped, and a few moments later the clinking of cookware could be heard.
"You staying for dinner?"
"Huh...? Um, I don't wanna bother your mom."
"Please...? I'm gonna get it if you go home without eating." Something about that made you laugh, even if it was a half-hearted sound that fizzled out before it could really sound like one.
"She seems nice," you mused.
"She is. She tries."
Something of a smile tugged at his lips as a quick snort of air left him, his eyes now on yours.
"I got a lot of explaining to do, huh?" His smile faded a little as the words left his mouth.
"You do. Maybe... Maybe not now, though."
"Yeah. Not now."
In your peripheral, you could make out his arm inching closer to yours. The tips of his fingers just brushed your knuckles, leaving just a spark of feeling against your skin. His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed, and—
"Miles, ¡ven a cortame estas cebollas! (Come and cut these onions for me!)"
"Oh! Um— Okay!"
The bed squeaked again as he stood up, and you could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek. You closed your hand as the lingering feeling of his touch disappeared.
"...You sure I can stay for dinner?"
"You sure you just asked me that?"
"Alright, alright."
You gave him a little more of a smile, and you could see him fighting to not return it as he looked back at you.
"i'm gonna... go and—"
"Yeah, you do that, Miles."
He handed you his phone, or, a phone.
"You can... play some music, if you want. It's connected to that speaker. Just not too loud, yeah?"
You noticed there was no SIM card in it. He pointed to the little speaker sitting by the window sill, peeking out behind a hung up jacket and a school blazer.
"...Thanks."
The door to his room shut, and the murmured voices of Miles and his mom faded as you selected a song. You recognised some of them, ones you'd heard people sing along to on the street or in the cafeteria of your school. This one stood out, though.
It started slow, and the man's voice was rich, full of life and emotion. It was strangely melancholic against the uplifting instrumentals.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of the city..."
You stood up, walking to the window to get a better listen of it. Lifting up the blinds, your eyes caught something in the darkness. A giant painting of Jefferson Morales. Miles' dad. It was half-finished, but his smile was there.
You couldn't help but think how he looked so much like Miles.
"~Ain't no love, cause you ain't around..."
An almost inaudible rustle caught your attention as you tuned to look at the jacket you had touched. Something had fallen out of its pocket while you were trying to move the speaker. It was a piece of paper, something written on it.
Reaching down, you moved to put it back in the pocket, before noticing what was peeking out of it.
Unfolding just the edge of it, you recognised the title of a Spanish lesson you had a while ago, back when Rafael had been bothering you endlessly. Opening it up entirely, you found what he'd been making fun of Miles for.
There were a series of drawings around scrawled Spanish vocabulary and messy grammar rules. One was of your teacher, Mrs. Hernández, turned away, writing on the board. The other was of the picture of the landmark in the article you had been given, "Arco de"-something. The colour of the building was done in yellow highlighter, but looked rather technical and accurate nonetheless.
The one on the back made you almost drop the paper.
It was you, with such a likeness. Some lines had been erased and re-drawn around your mouth, as if he'd been trying to decide on an expression. Within the creases of the paper you were holding right now, though, you found yourself smiling — just slightly, like if you'd been laughing at something with the rest of your class. Your head was tilted slightly downwards. The drawing version of you was just a little cuter than you were sure you looked like, Miles' stylisation making your eyes shine a little and your lips curve just the right way.
By the time your stomach had stopped fluttering, the song was coming to a close. You quickly re-crumpled the paper and carefully put it back into the jacket, walking over to sit on his bed again.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of this town..."
"...You never come back this late, mijo..."
"...We just bumped into each other and started talking. You know, like how at the store..."
"...Your tías are different, Miles..."
He really does have a lot to explain, you thought to yourself, unable to stop the corners of your mouth from lifting up, just slightly.
Your questions would just have to wait until after dinner.
SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 4 / PART 5 / EPILOG. →
chapter summary: [MULTI-POV] Miles has been a ghost, so you decide to do your own digging. Your answer might have just found you first.
content/warnings: graphic depictions of violence and injury grieving, death
word count: 8.7k (WHAT)
a/n: hey 😁 there's gonna be a teeny tiny epilogue after this one but this is the official end to aint no love! thanks to @/qiuweyballs forever for proofreading this series wouldn't exist without him 🙏
"I need that edit by 3pm, Watson!"
"Got it."
Even if the office was filled with the constant clack of keyboards, or desk phones ringing, or even Jameson himself barking right by her ear — as he was right now — MJ still had to keep up her persona. Agreeable, non-confrontational, all part of company protocol. There was no time for personal opinions or rebuttals, other than Jameson's; she was sure everyone would start coming in tin hats if it meant keeping their jobs.
"You're falling behind, you know," he continued as she quickly clicked off of the email she was working on. "Going to that school fair of yours set you at least a week behind!"
"It was one afternoon, sir. And I'm all caught up, the edit's not due until—"
"The edit is due when I say it's due. You out of all people should understand how things work around here by now. Get it done!"
The man sauntered off without much opportunity for her to reply, a cup of coffee crumpling between his fingers that he probably had yet to take a sip of. The poor intern that had made it would be the next to get an earful when he did try it, she was sure. Too much sugar! Not enough milk! Did you make this with your eyes closed? she recalled. MJ had heard it all by now.
Jameson didn't really have the gall to fire her — she knew that at the very least. The article could wait, however. Visions was yet to release a statement about their fired teacher, and the article would just look like all their other ones — speculatory and clickbait-y with not very much actual information. The Sinister Six ones certainly did well though, always on their broadcasts and the front of their website. Even NNC didn't have as much notoriety as the Bugle did with its less-than skeptical audiences.
The Visions student, right. With a few pasted links and a couple attachments, along with a lackluster "Good luck!" tacked on the end, she hit send. Good to know kids still have dumb email addresses.
She didn't take being abandoned a second time at the fair personally, really — everyone was fifteen once — but she couldn't help but wonder what had happened. It was almost imperceptible, but she knew when a smile looked off. There was something noticeably different about you when you had come back.
"MJ, uh, can I get your business card by any chance?"
"You know what a business card is?" she had joked, but it hadn't done much to ease the discomfort. "Yeah, sure. Contact me if you need anything."
"Yeah, thanks."
You'd asked for articles. Specifically on the Chameleon, and on the recent Prowler activity. You hadn't told her much, just that you needed help compiling some information for school. Some... presentation. MJ wasn't sure whether it was a lie or not, but it was all publicly available information anyhow.
You'd also wanted any information on Visions "teacher", Garrett East. His arrest had been for identity theft, and nothing more. Not many had reported on it as of yet, given he was detained so recently, but you were an insider. He had apparently been your calculus teacher, and the man that he had stolen the identity of had supposedly gone missing a few months before Garrett returned in his place. At least, that's all she had of her article. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to send it to a random high school student before her own boss, but it also wasn't like the man had any real idea what went on in his company. It was a wonder they managed to get through the quarter.
It was just a favour for someone nice she'd met. Maybe it'd repay her in some way in the future, most likely not. Regardless, she couldn't help but smile a little when she noticed her phone light up, a "thank you" text under your name. If only she actually had a work phone number, and it wasn't just her regular one. Visions students making connections already, it seemed.
The time on the screen was 2:41pm. She was met face to face with her wallpaper once again — a low-lit picture of her and a brown-haired man with glasses, the two of them smiling, red faced and dressed like their college selves. Peter Parker, her fiancé. They were holding those terrible beers he'd sworn by. He was a photographer, but this was one of the only pictures he'd taken of them together. It was shot on a bite-sized digital camera they'd bought for college, but never ended up using much. Now, it was all she really had.
Maybe the Chameleon really had come back when Peter had gone missing. Maybe it had something to do with you, with Visions
You probably already had a lot on your plate. And so did she. If she had anybody to chase, it was Otto Octavius. He'd offered Peter an internship in Manhattan. She'd never seen the man herself, only heard from him how good of a person he was, how this was going to get him a job and that it'd be good for them. That he'd finally get some use out of his degree and get to pursue science instead of taking "crummy" pictures for the Bugle. That they could save up for their wedding, and...
That was in Manhattan. The disappearances now were in Brooklyn. And even then, it was coming close to a year since he had disappeared.
She was always running in circles, at the command of an old man with a head too big for his body.
2:43pm. MJ turned off her phone, sliding it into her pocket.
Better get this edit finished.
2:43pm. Wednesday.
Ideally, with a couple days off of school, you would probably be at home, or maybe even out doing something fulfilling with your life. Maybe you could've even gone somewhere with Miles, if he hadn't up-and-disappeared along with every trace of him.
Your unread messages to him faded to black, leaving you to stare at your own face. Maybe you could've used those extra days to sleep, if it hadn't been for the chilling glow of purple eyes or the melting disfigured face that threatened to materialise everytime you closed your eyes.
What did he even like? Comics that he'd mentioned to you once? Of course he'd want to go to a comic book store with you after you'd made fun of him for seeming to want to deal with criminals himself. If only he'd come save you from Brooklyn Public Library right now. You were certain it couldn't get any more swampy in here with all the Visions students scrambling to do their off-day work right now.
Reading through the reply to a ballsy request you'd given to the Bugle's head journalist, you had a few questions in mind other than the ones concerning your disappearing, sort-of friend. Was all this research really practical? Maybe not. Would it help you sleep to know that the guy that had been teaching you calculus since the start of sophomore year was actually posing as a man that had gone missing months ago?
Another very normal thing that only seemed to happen to you.
Maybe you just attracted bad luck. That girl in your history class had joked about it last year, after you'd bumped into your teacher and every single paper he'd been holding had fallen to the ground in one scattered disaster. She wouldn't let it go, and it appeared that your brain wouldn't either.
Or like that time you went to Oscorp on a visit day and happened to be the only one there, trapped with a shapeshifting monster and the Prowler on the 90 millionth floor of that god-damned tower.
Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe you were cursed — or maybe you just walked into these situations on purpose. Like right now, sifting through years of articles on real criminals, with nothing but a hunch or fifteen.
The Chameleon had been arrested, like Miles had said, eight years ago on accounts of identity theft, much like your "teacher" but also very little like your teacher. According to what you were reading, Dmitri Smerdyakov been dubbed "the Chameleon" for a string of carefully orchestrated take-overs of big companies after impersonating their CEOs. His defence had argued that the big names in these companies were gone because they "wanted to be free of the burden of running their own companies".
You didn't have to be a journalist to make a face at that.
There was no mention of shapeshifting, as you'd seen with Wellston and Stromm. Just a couple lousy identity theft charges that didn't add up to their total amount anyway. This guy had more luck than you'd ever had.
The only other person that had seen any "shapeshifting" happen was Miles, and although he'd seemed surprised, something about his reaction was strange. You couldn't place it, but there was some sort of analytical twinge in his eyes, as if he was solving a math problem and not looking at someone shapeshift for the first time. You didn't know anything, really. Miles seemed like he did, though. If only you could bump into him and wring it out of him. And maybe go buy overpriced comic books with him and forget about the fact that your teacher had been arrested and midterms were coming up and maybe even become actual friends.
If only you were that lucky.
If only it was that easy to move past, as well. The fact that someone that had been involved in disappearances 8 years ago might be mixed up with this, along with the recent uptick in missing people made you feel uneasy. Surely any detective would have put two and two together by now, but remembering the fact that the shapeshifter had turned into a literal police officer dissolved any reassurance that thought might've brought. You were in a public library surrounded by unoptimistic college students, parents with their kids and even some of your own classmates, but the feeling was completely your own, tucked away behind a computer screen and a booked monitor session.
You couldn't be scared, though. You'd already seen probably the scariest thing in your life, kind-of almost died, and been wound up in so much craziness you knew so little about. If only high school had prepared you for researching literal criminals.
"Your 30 minute session is over. You will be logged out shortly."
God damn it.
If only Brooklyn Public Library's computer sessions weren't 30 minutes. You didn't want to log back in anyway, not if someone had booked after you. You could go back home, the library had just been an excuse to get out, really. Not that you'd made a whole new email and signed in as a guest on the computer. Not that you were paranoid.
Picking up your bag and checking your messages one last time you made a beeline for the exit. Well, less of a line and more of a strange obstacle course through the swarm of people. And of course you had to knock into someone. Just your luck.
"Hey, sorry," you mumbled, hands raising just a little in apology. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah..." The person dusted themself off a little with a frown, before looking up to meet your eyes.
Rafael?
"Hey, it's you," he realised, eyes widening as if he'd just gotten lucky.
Out of all places...
"I... gotta go."
"No, no, wait. I need you to do something."
Of course you do.
"I really don't have the time," you whispered back, as he caught up to your advance towards the doors.
"Uh, hey, listen... You talk to Miles, right? Like, he's your friend?"
"Yeah...?" No...? You weren't even sure at this point.
"Uh, look, I need you to tell him something..."
"What, you're in love with him?" you spat, finally looking at him again. "Cause it seems like it. You're always talking about him. Always talking to me about him."
"What?! No the f*ck I'm no—"
A much louder "shhhhhh!" got your attention. The librarian didn't look too pleased. Neither did any one of the people who turned to look at you.
"I'm not gay, man!"
So, the two of you were now out on the street as Rafael defended his sexuality with nothing but exasperated hand gestures.
"I didn't say that."
"Okay, well I'm not. Damn, why are you acting weird for?"
"Your face is red."
"I'm black!"
"That melanin isn't doing anything for you."
"Shut the f*ck up!"
You rolled your eyes, hiding the way the corners of your mouth were starting to lift with a deep exhale. The poor guy was not very discreetly checking his face right now with the back of his hand.
"What, then? What did you wanna say to him so bad?" you asked, instantly making him retract his hand from his cheek.
"Forget it."
"No, tell me. You got us all the way out here for no reason?"
He gave you a look, before promptly looking away, mumbling something under his breath.
"Didn't hear that." That made him groan loudly. It was akin to a petulant child, if not a few octaves deeper.
"I'm... sorry."
Huh?
"You're... sorry?" you repeated, making him let out a huff.
"Look, I..." Rafael met your eyes again, his narrowing uncomfortably. There was something strange in his expression. "My mom's missing. I dunno who to tell. I know I messed up and I... I get it now. I get it. The thing with his dad."
Oh sh*t.
Remorse. That was what you were seeing in his eyes. Or maybe regret. Neither you thought you'd ever see from him.
"Tell him I'm sorry. Or don't. Whatever," Rafael muttered, kicking a bottle cap on the ground until it skittered to a halt by a dog, who found interest in it as its owner tried to tug it along the pavement.
"You can't tell him yourself?" you replied, brows furrowing. As bad as you felt, this was a personal matter. You weren't about to be a parrot for the guy that hadn't grown out of his bullying phase.
"You think he'd listen?"
"It's understandable if he doesn't."
"And what if he doesn't come back?"
"Why..." What? "Why wouldn't he come back?"
"I... dunno. Why can't you just tell him?"
Huh. "Why wouldn't he come back, huh?"
Rafael gives you a sort of reserved look, as if he's contemplating whether or not to lie to your face.
"I heard something about him while I was in that office. He's like... withdrawing from the school."
"He's... what?" Withdrawing from the school? Could he even withdraw that fast? "Why?"
"I dunno, damn! Just... forget it. I don't know why I even asked you man."
Rafael turned to leave, a scowl forming on his face.
"Hey," you called out, looking away before he could meet your eyes. He didn't turn around, though.
"What?"
"...I'm sorry about your mom," you managed, before he could go far enough. "I hope they find her."
"Yeah," he muttered, before throwing his hood over his head.
And now your friend, not-friend, study buddy was gone. The only person you kind of got along with at all outside of just one class. Another person missing. Rafael's mom. Maybe you needed to get out of Brooklyn for college. You certainly wouldn't miss the subway all too much, you thought, crammed in-between people.
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
As soon as you got out of the station and into the street, you were met with a familiar face among the people passing by. Instead of the Visions uniform, he was in a jacket too big for him, crinkled sweatpants and purple Jordans.
Miles. Calc-wiz. Mr. Disappearing Act. Withdrawn from the school, now in front of you and definitely already getting on your nerves.
He was looking at you, a hint of surprise in his otherwise smoothed-over features.
"Miles?"
"Yeah. Can we... talk?" His cheek dimpled with the awkward half-smile you'd only seen a couple times, but you were so strangely familiar with. You didn't know whether to freak out at him in front of a crowd of people or head home and hope that he didn't follow you.
"...Sure," is what comes out of your mouth.
Just your luck.
"~Ain't no love—" Skip.
"~Ha, sicker than your average—"
"Poppa twist cabbage off instinct..." Skip.
Miles was getting sicker than average of his uncle's playlist. Maybe working in silence was better.
He took out his earbuds, setting them on his mess of a desk and picking up the screwdriver again. Uncle Aaron was busy, "out of town", as his voicemail said. Probably doing something Miles wasn't supposed to be involved in. He'd be back in a day or two, as always. Never in one place too long.
Even for someone so experienced, he knew this was his uncle's first real "vigilante" gig. Uncle Aaron wasn't getting paid, nor was he working under someone trying to solve a cold case Jeff had been involved in with his colleagues. His dad was no detective, but always seemed to want to help out, and the police were getting desperate with all the recent missing person's cases. There was no real pattern, and sometimes people would be returned just fine. That's what the police were hoping for.
Dr. Stromm had disappeared for about 2 weeks, and returned to his normal work at Oscorp. That could be excused for a vacation off of work, for all anyone knew. Wellston, however, was still missing. Probably dead. Just a couple had turned up dead. It was so unpredictable that they all seemed unrelated, but the kinds of people going missing were all of use — scientists, lawyers, bank tellers. Wellston had been getting his PhD while teaching before he went missing. All people of use to the Chameleon.
Whoever his uncle was working for at the same time as all of this likely had no idea. He was probably working for that person right now, even when they had this case to deal with.
Miles had only been up to this after his dad had passed, and he knew he wasn't as polished as Aaron — not after what happened at Oscorp. Those gauntlets couldn't focus their energy, even if they were more powerful and he could charge shockwaves through the air almost instantaneously, and he had bragged about it a little too much when they'd tested it in the garage.
Now, he had faint lines on his skin from the excess heat, and had been taking them apart and rebuilding them for weeks in his room. His visor needed work too. It was way better in depth, but the resolution sucked. Even then, he was sure he could make something better than what his uncle had. Rigorous training wasn't enough to do this sort of work. He had to do his own thing, even if he was taking up the same schtick. Eventually his uncle's beard would gray and he'd have to be the real Prowler.
He was a good guy, after all. Like his uncle, like his dad.
By deduction, the Prowler was a good guy too. But he wasn't the Prowler today. He was Miles. The Miles that had been shouted at for trying to quit school again. The Miles that was fifteen and spent his days off building crappy gear.
Maybe on a day like this he could spend time with other people like he did in middle school. Go to a fast food place, or go to Micah's house to play video games, or hang around in some parking lot and run when he and his friends accidentally set off a car alarm. The sun was setting outside his window now. It felt like those evenings where he was reluctant to be taken home by his dad, after he was at Micah's playing GTA on Micah's older brother's console, laughing and screaming, Micah's sister shouting at them to shut up from the hallway.
Miles puts the visor down, walking up to his window and pushing it open. The air didn't get any warmer around this time of year, a cold wind brushing past his face as he stuck his head out to look at the city below.
Above him was the half-finished mural. A colourful backdrop of red and blue, and purple. His dad's face without the glasses, hat without the logo, the text outline without the actual text.
"Captain Jeff Morales. Husband, Hero, Father," read the ghost of the text.
His dad wasn't missing. There was no hope of him turning up one day, and that he could leave the mural unfinished and paint it over with something else. There was no hope that he'd wake up one night and instead of finding himself grasping at air it would be his mom shaking him awake to tell him his dad had come home.
His dad was dead. His dad was facing him right now and smiling like he did every morning before he left the house. His dad was painted on a brick wall, missing his glasses.
Miles knew he wasn't smiling for him. He was smiling for the city. He was the face of PDNY, captain for half a day alive and for the rest of eternity until Brooklyn forgot him, deceased. The mural had made him feel better when he hadn't been able to leave his own bedroom and decided to get up and start it with his uncle, but now he felt all sorts of emotions swirling through him. Regret, anger, grief, all of it at the same time — only to stop right at his tear ducts, tightening his throat.
He hadn't cried back then; his mom shared the pain of the both of them, even now. Even when they went to his tombstone, she was the only one that had cried as he'd kept a reassuring hand on her back.
Selfish, were the tears that blurred his vision, not heavy enough to roll down his face.
He sat, staring, eyes stinging yet soothed by the moisture. The sun cast a halo around the building, the mural in shadow and the city behind flooded in red-orange light.
"Husband, Hero, Father."
Was he a hero before he was his father? He had painted that himself. He knew his dad was a good guy. Was he a good guy before he was a good dad?
His thoughts were interrupted with the buzz of his phone in his pocket. There was a message on the notification bar, overtaking the text he'd been yet to reply to from his mom.
Are you the miles talking to me right now
1m ago
It was you.
Cause you're acting weird
And you just read my message without taking out your phone
What the...?
no wtf are u talking abt
Read 4:51PM
where ru
Read 4:51PM
His fingers hovered above the keys, glancing briefly at the gauntlet at his desk.
With a guy that looks exactly like u
You're the real miles right
He wracked his brain for something, anything as he ran back towards his desk.
6 liters per hour
Read 4:53PM
What???
OH
Okay calc genius help me out please?????
He let out a breath between his teeth, shoving his gauntlets in his backpack and throwing on his gear haphazardly.
The Chameleon. Becoming him.
I'm at Marge's on moore st
ok just stay there go into the bathroom
Read 4:55PM
don't leave til i text u
Read 4:55PM
What are u gonna do??? the restaurant is empty
He's gonna look for me
He was acting so weird if that's not u then it's probably chameleon right
So you did believe him about the Chameleon. Or maybe you were the Chameleon and just being incredibly smart. He couldn't be 100% sure. Not like he ever was. Swooping out of his window, he threw his hoodie down to hang off the fire escape stairs before starting to run up the side of his building, shoes vacuuming him to stand horizontally.
probably
Read 4:55PM
ur gonna take him outside in a couple min
Read 4:55PM
Why???
just trust me
Read 4:55PM
ill be there in 3m
Read 4:56PM
The sky was now a shade of blue-purple, the reds and oranges dissolving behind the skyline. It was getting dark, and fast.
Okay
Manoeuvering through the maze of buildings with his shoes keeping him a thousand feet from being heard or seen, Miles headed for Moore Street with the little map in his peripheral vision. When he got there, all that welcomed him was a lone street lamp that had yet to turn on, a couple of closed local grocer's and a dimly-lit diner named "Marge", a discoloured space next to it the shape of an "s". Close enough.
Sifting through the modes on his visor, he settled when he saw the outline of two people. One strangely shaped like him and one strangely shaped like you.
He climbed down a little, dimming the lights on his gear completely as he receded into a small alley. The guy definitely looked like him physically. Tall, handsome, standing outside the bathroom, shifting on his toes...? Creasing my Jordans? Seriously?
Oh, yeah he had you to deal with. And himself, apparently.
leave now
Read 4:58PM
Miles had about zero idea how to, but he needed to figure it out in about 30 seconds from now.
K
You made your way out of the bathroom, and he moved to the side of the diner you were closest to from outside to get a better view.
"...Gotta go home..."
"...Lemme walk you..."
As you left the store into the empty street, he could make out the slight twinge of nervousness on your face as you looked around ― probably looking for him and finding nobody.
"Hold on, I gotta text my parents..." You took out your phone, turning yourself a little to obscure the screen.
"Yeah, that's cool." Sounded almost exactly like him. Creepy.
go into that alley on your right and run home
Read 5:00PM
Ur kidding
you gotta trust me
Read 5:00PM
At that moment, you took one last look at your phone before turning into the alleyway. You were just a couple quick steps into the alley when his doppelganger grabbed yourshoulder.
"What the hell are you doing, Miles?!" you shouted suddenly, trying to pull yourself free, only to be thrown against the wall of the alleyway.
"I'm doing you a favour. You're not going to school anymore," he responded, his tone suddenly flat and nothing like it was a moment ago.
"What are you talking about? I'm just trying to go home."
His doppelganger was now featureless, his face melting away into the blankness Miles still couldn't describe. The panic on your face is visible from yards away. Miles just has to catch him off-guard. Without hurting you. He could do that.
"So you are the Chameleon," you muttered, still trying to pry his hands away as his grip wrinkled your clothes further.
"Ah, so you did figure it out. Excellent." That definitely didn't sound like him anymore. "You were always the most interesting in that class of yours."
"You... You were the one who was at those after-school classes, huh? And at Oscorp. And that... fair." That you were right about. "What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem is that I need a little something from your school, and you seem like the easiest solution."
"Couldn't you do that while you were a teacher? You got that other guy to be arrested in your place. Aren't you done?"
"It looks like you have me all figured out. Except for one small thing."
"What?"
Something glistened by your neck. Sharp. Metal. He had a knife pressed to your throat, the blade just managing to dent your skin.
"You're going to die."
Missing. Sometimes they turned up. Other times they were probably dead. If he didn't figure this out, you were dead already.
"I'm... I kind of figured that too, you know."
"Oh, really? Aren't you something?" There was something like a grin on his face, but it was too misshapen to really tell. "So unaffected. So controlled."
"How do you even... turn into these people? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Take a guess. An educated guess is always better than nothing." His voice pitched up into Wellston's awkward sing-song, repeating what he used to say in class. Near-perfectly.
"Why are you so sure you won't get caught?"
"That's not an answer, and I can't exactly reveal such things, you know."
"Not even when you're about to kill me?"
"Oh, unfortunately not."
"Go f*ck yourself." That made the man laugh. If he wasn't in this situation right now, Miles might have managed a smile at that.
"Yeah, go f*ck yourself," he muttered, voice being caught half-way into his modulator in a grainy, deep sound.
In an instant, Miles soared above the two of you, foot smashing itself right in the centre of the Chameleon's face, his knife clattering to the floor. As he stumbled back, you got up, taking the opportunity to run, footsteps hard against the pavement.
Suddenly, the Chameleon was stuck between the wall and Miles' knee, steadying himself with his hands against the brick. Miles could make out some kind of morphed look of glee on his face as his clawed hand clamped him to the wall by both sides of his neck. The lips and teeth were starting to form through the flesh, and Miles let the energy build up in the converter as the smile fell into place, cell by cell.
"You don't want to kill me," he stated, simply.
"Pretty sure I do." Miles' claws just scraped at the skin starting to form at his neck. The quiet whirr of his gauntlet starts to become audible.
"You can't kill me. I am everywhere."
If everywhere is right in front of me, I mean...
"I know what you're doing, Dmitri. It ends here."
"I know what you're doing, Prowler."
He finally sees it, what's forming on the man's face. It's him.
"One of my best students, I never would have guessed," he started, grinning wildly, with some sort of overwhemled excitement.
Miles felt his mouth go dry, his face under the mask paralysed as the one staring at him continued to smile.
"The DNA that I retrieved from you is that of... Miles Gonzalo Morales."
It was as if the shockwave forming in his gauntlet slowed with time itself as he came to stare. He was looking at himself. Smiling. Grinning. Crazed. Miles Gonzalo Morales.
"Kill me. I have my assets, and subordinates. They will end you. Your mother, Rio. The hospital she works at. Your uncle, Aaron."
The quiet whirr in his gauntlet faded into silence. He felt his hand retreat, leaving the Chameleon, still posing as Miles, grinning, unblinking, and flat against the wall.
"Oh, you've made a very good choi―"
SLAM!
Metal met with bone, an audible crack following as Miles' clawed fist met the wall, the Chameleon's face smashed between the two.
"You mother... f*cker..." he breathed out, voice choked through the sudden rush of blood, smearing against the wall as he lifted his face from it.
Miles pointed his gauntlet at him again, the whirring renewing itself to a high-pitched scream, light purple expanding between them and tearing through the alleyway like fire.
"Muerto el pollo." (Job done.)
The man's reforming grin was overtaken by the brightness of the blast, energy snapping into one focused point before hurtling through the air, right at the Chameleon.
Miles felt his ears start to ring. His body was lightweight. Airborne.
His back hit something hard, and suddenly the lightness was replaced with an erratic clawing spreading up his arm. The light flickered into sparks that led fire under his sleeve, eating away at his skin. Burning. The blindness faded away, eyes managing to focus. All he could see past the smoke was a figure approaching him, and a hysteric laugh that grew louder and instantaneously changed pitch.
"So confident," is what he could make out through the ringing in his ears that had bled through his head into a sharp, disorienting pain. "I almost thought you had me."
Ripping the burning gauntlet off of himself, he noticed something jammed in the converter as he shook the heat from his arm. Some sort of sabotaging device. He'd had just a few seconds before the burning would've made it past his skin. The Chameleon had planned this.
Looking to his other gauntlet, he noticed the same device, ripping it out before crushing it under his foot. Never twice.
Swallowing back the cough building up in the back of his throat, Miles made a move for the Chameleon, before catching his figure turn left ― running.
Coño. (F*ck.)
Launching himself up, Miles locked onto the man, hurtling through a series of alleyways, fluidly dodging every obstacle in his way as if to waste no time. He could not let him get into a crowd and disappear. This had to end here, even if he had no god damn plan and his uncle was sure to scold him when he got back. He wasn't going to let you or anyone else get killed by this crazy f*ck.
Miles threw himself down into the next alleyway, hearing heavy, fast footsteps, someone approaching in his vision.
Just a little closer.
SLAM!
He threw the Chameleon down onto the ground, noticing he'd already changed appearance.
That face. No, this wasn't the Chameleon.
It was... you. And you were looking right at him. Terrified.
"Please, please let me go," you mumbled, gasping for air in-between words... "I... You're the... Prowler, I― Please― The... That guy's after me and..."
Your head fell against the concrete, an exhausted look in your eyes as you caught your breath.
"Please. I didn't... I didn't do anything. I can keep quiet about you, I haven't told the police anything. About Oscorp. Nothing."
"I know it's you, Chameleon." You would've ran far away by now, he was sure.
"I―I swear I'm not. I'm not him, I don't know how to prove it to you, but... I called my friend for help and... he never came. Please. Please let me go. I don't know where the Chameleon is right now."
Another set of footsteps came towards the both of you.
"I'm right here, Prowler," emerged another voice from the alley.
It was... you?
"Come on. Weren't you looking for me?" the other you continued, half-hidden in shadow. "Come get me."
So the you on the floor... was actually you. And this...
"Please, that's... that's him, you've gotta let me go," the you that was on the ground muttered, exasperated. There was a waver in your voice. In the way your eyes widened looking at him. Almost like confusion.
The Chameleon was right there. Admitting that he was in fact the Chameleon. While he was trying to run away.
"Please," he heard below him, a quiet, desperate whisper in the silence.
You both looked identical. Even though he'd injured the Chameleon, the both of you were unscratched. You both sounded the same too, from what he could decipher. No real way to tell you apart. And his only answer right now felt like a trick.
He kept eyes on the you standing before him, barely making out a face. Something was there, in the way that you looked, the way you stood. Something strange, something he couldn't figure out fast enough to make any decision.
And then, he felt a little pinch. One that suddenly exploded and tore through his flesh, wrangling with every one of his nerves as his body seized. You had lost your scared, desperate expression, your face now distorting along with his vision into that of a smile.
"I understand," a voice started, ringing through his head as if it was everywhere. "You want to help me."
The pain was clawing its way through his body from a point in his leg. He turned his head, noticing the discarded needle beside him. He'd managed to ease his hand just close enough to administer it. You ― no, the Chameleon, lifted himself from the ground, before Miles felt his head spin hard with a kick.
"I admire you, your wit," he called out, letting out a laugh as he started to walk towards you. "Turning against your own savior. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."
No, no... There was... there was no way you were working with him. There was no way you...
"You have proven yourself. You'll be better than... than that Garrett fool. I've changed my mind."
Miles rummaged in his utility belt for something, anything. He had no idea what he'd been given, but it was already running through his blood, reaching his brain and poisoning every part of it.
"Your friend over there is going to be unconscious in about half a minute. Why don't you take care of him? I'll be a fool to kill you once you do."
Get up, Miles.
His head throbbed with the sound of your footsteps, each one getting louder and louder. His limbs were weakening. He could barely lift his head.
Get up!
"Dad... Dad? No no no... Get up, get up!"
The gauntlet was slowly slid off of him, now in your hands as his arm fell uselessly onto the ground in front of him.
The gauntlet clipped onto your arm, fingers moving as yours did. He felt the metal claws just scrape his helmet, a faint clink echoing through his skull.
Miles didn't want to look at your face, but he couldn't find it in him to look anywhere else. There was that something from before in your expression that he couldn't quite place, and he still didn't have an answer. It bothered him, for some damn reason. Not the fact that he had his own weapon pointed to his brain as he was losing consciousness. Not the fact that he couldn't move. Not the fact that his last thoughts were about the look on your face and not his mom, or his dad.
Whirrr...
That brightness that the Chameleon had been staring at before was now staring right at him. Overwhelming, blinding, all-encompassing. He felt the faint heat on his skin, as his eyelids grew heavy. Something like warmth in contrast to the cold metal, if just for a second. Something like knowing in your eyes. Something hopeful, saving, loving. Even if just for a second. Even if his brain had made it up to let him succumb.
He wished he could smile, and not be terrified. He wished he could be like his dad, who had smiled.
"Take care of your mom for me, Miles. I ain't gonna be around forever."
And he reached for his helmet. To show you his face, to hope you'd stop once you saw him. He reached, before his arm fell limp beside him once more.
Sorry. I'm so sorry.
"Hey, hello?"
"Hey!"
"Prowler? ...Are you dead?"
God, what did you have to do if he didn't respond...? Breathing, pulse...
"What the..." you heard, before he exploded into a painful-sounding coughing fit, tinged by some kind of voice changer. The Prowler lifted his head, and you could make out az kind of shadow where his eyes were behind the dull, unlit screen. "Huh...?"
"Hey, uh. The... Chameleon..."
Gesturing to the pile on the floor, the Prowler seemed to tense a little at the sight. It was the Chameleon, or... what was left of him. His face charred and caved in by the likes of a certain purple energetic blast. Right, you, had to explain that, the de-powered weapon in your hands.
"Sorry for... I didn't know what I was doing, that was―"
"You killed him?" came out a quiet, modulated voice.
That was...
You killed him. With the Prowler's weapon.
You were defending yourself. You were defending him. That man was a...
Thunk!
The metallic arm hit the ground as it rolled out of your arms, looking into the hollow shadows of the Prowler's eyes.
You didn't know anything about any of these people, and you were deep into their world. It was one that you had never thought you'd see, and now you had nothing to dig yourself out of it. You decided to trick him and when Miles was too late to figure it out you had...
You had killed someone. Turned the blast on him within a split second, watching it sear through his skull in a merciless flurry, stab after stab of burning hot energy wracking more and more screams. Right until the weapon had run out of energy. Until your finger grew numb from the trigger inside the device and the alleyway had gone silent. The man that had haunted your mind for months was unmoving before you, ripped of all features, all life.
Murder. Manslaughter. This man had connections. They'd come after you. After everyone you knew and loved. After Miles.
You should've stayed home.
The ache of adrenaline surged through your heart, your muscles, begging. Begging you to move. To run. To get up.
Get up. Run. Run away. Scream for help. Do something.
You felt the scratch of brick, arms enveloping the rest of you as you backed into the wall.
Hide.
All the breath in your lungs seemed to leave at once as you desperately tried to breathe it back in, hearing the air rush in and out of your mouth over and over. It was loud. So loud. The blast had been so loud. He had screamed so loud―
"Hey."
The hand on your shoulder was warm, free of any metal.
"It's... alright," you heard him say.
How could he say that?
"How can you say that?" Your voice was muffled. Wavering. Pathetic.
Would they believe you? With that stupid, pathetic, voice, whoever it was that found you ― would they believe you?
"How can you say that...?" you repeated, pressing your face further into your knees. The touch on your tensed shoulder felt offensive. Mocking.
"You're gonna be okay."
"How am I gonna be okay?"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"How do you know that?"
You were looking at him now, breath hitched, eyes wide. You tried to sound frustrated, angry, but all that came out of your throat was a sound that told the Prowler "I am scared" in every language.
The Prowler hadn't killed you. He was comforting you. In any other circumstance, you could've laughed at the thought. To your knowledge, this Prowler hadn't killed anyone, or put everyone he loved in severe danger. Maybe you were worse than him.
"Why won't you answer any of my questions...?" you mumbled hopelessly, burying your face in your hands. You could smell concrete, dust, and ash ― invisible, yet incriminating.
Hiss... Click!
You felt hands wrap around your wrists, carefully pulling yours away from your own face. Just as you looked up, you could see the mask dismantling itself, disappearing behind his head.
What was left was a face. The Prowler's face.
No, this is...
Brown, maybe green-ish eyes. They were a smooth coppery colour under the dim light, bright among the shadows underneath his eyes. A black-red was drying on his skin, under his nose and creeping past his cracked lips. Two braids, coming unfurled at the ends, coming all the way back up to the top of his head. A soft face with harshness painted all over it. An exhausted, pained and worried expression.
"Hey, pana."
The face you had so prayed to see blurred into a watery mess as you threw your arms around him, squeezing your eyes shut against his jacket. His arms followed, settling over yours, one palm circling your back and the other settled between your shoulders.
You didn't think you'd held anyone tighter. You didn't know someone could hold to the point that their arms were shaking around you.
"Miles..."
You felt his head rest beside yours, the contours of his face melding against your shoulder. Warmth was running down your face ― blooming in your chest.
"I've got you."
"Mij— Oh... Oh my!"
You'd scrubbed your eyes hard as you could, and Miles had fixed himself up into a giant hoodie and jeans, but you were almost certain that the woman in front of you was utterly convinced that the both of you had been run over by a subway train. Miles' mom, standing with a vacuum cleaner that contributed nothing to the silence. Her jaw was inching closer to the floor the longer the silence stretched out.
"Uh... hola, mami. This is my friend," Miles offered, not sounding any less like he'd been met face first with the headlights of New York public transportation.
"Hi, Mrs... Morales."
The woman propped the vacuum cleaner against the wall, letting out a quiet sigh. She had beautiful curly hair, and was now wearing the sharp-softness of her son's face in a polite, and concerned smile. You didn't want to turn to check if Miles still had blood on his face.
"Is this a bad time...?" you started. "I can—"
"Oh, no, no, I just... I haven't even made dinner yet, I didn't expect—" The woman lets out another breath, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so rude. What are you two... What have you been up to?"
"We just... you know," Miles gestured with his hands, charading less than nothing in the air.
"You know...?" she replied, eyes squinting.
"I uh, already ate. Don't worry about it, Mrs. Morales," you continued, giving her what you hoped looked like a smile on your face. "Miles just wanted to show me something. It'll be quick."
"Uh, yeah. That."
"You're not staying for dinner?" she called out, as Miles dragged you into his room. "I was gonna make pastelón—"
"I'll come help you in a sec, mami."
Miles closed the door to his room, and the two of you shared a look as you heard the long, muffled sigh from outside. With the sound of the vacuum cleaner whirring in the hallway and disappearing into another room, the two of you sat on the edge of the twin-size bed, the frame creaking uncomfortably.
The room wasn't particularly big, crowded with posters and various newspaper clippings — many about the Prowler. There were crates tucked away beside his closet, faces of toy figurines and comic books peeking out of them. A lone screwdriver sat on his desk, a stack of notebooks beside it. The backpack you'd seen him take to school was hanging on the back of his chair, a study guide for "Invisible Man" peeking out of it. All that was on his bedside table other than papers was a frame. A young boy, missing a tooth, on the shoulders of an older man, the two of them beaming through the picture.
"You hurt or anything?" he asked quietly, making you remember that he was next to you. "Like, injured?"
"No, I'm... fine." You took half of a breath before your lungs started to ache, swallowing back the dryness of your throat. Mostly fine. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. My mom's a nurse, so... I kinda..."
"Oh... Yeah, yeah." Huh.
Mrs. Morales certainly didn't seem to know about her son's... part-time job.
You noticed a set of blueprints on the wall, resembling the clawed arms he had stashed away without you or his mom seeing.
"You made those...? The claw-glove things?"
"They're gauntlets."
It was somewhat like the tone of voice he used when he was explaining a calculus question — not condescending, but somewhat tired and fed-up.
"Right..." Gauntlets. Sure.
The vacuuming stopped, and a few moments later the clinking of cookware could be heard.
"You staying for dinner?"
"Huh...? Um, I don't wanna bother your mom."
"Please...? I'm gonna get it if you go home without eating." Something about that made you laugh, even if it was a half-hearted sound that fizzled out before it could really sound like one.
"She seems nice," you mused.
"She is. She tries."
Something of a smile tugged at his lips as a quick snort of air left him, his eyes now on yours.
"I got a lot of explaining to do, huh?" His smile faded a little as the words left his mouth.
"You do. Maybe... Maybe not now, though."
"Yeah. Not now."
In your peripheral, you could make out his arm inching closer to yours. The tips of his fingers just brushed your knuckles, leaving just a spark of feeling against your skin. His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed, and—
"Miles, ¡ven a cortame estas cebollas! (Come and cut these onions for me!)"
"Oh! Um— Okay!"
The bed squeaked again as he stood up, and you could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek. You closed your hand as the lingering feeling of his touch disappeared.
"...You sure I can stay for dinner?"
"You sure you just asked me that?"
"Alright, alright."
You gave him a little more of a smile, and you could see him fighting to not return it as he looked back at you.
"i'm gonna... go and—"
"Yeah, you do that, Miles."
He handed you his phone, or, a phone.
"You can... play some music, if you want. It's connected to that speaker. Just not too loud, yeah?"
You noticed there was no SIM card in it. He pointed to the little speaker sitting by the window sill, peeking out behind a hung up jacket and a school blazer.
"...Thanks."
The door to his room shut, and the murmured voices of Miles and his mom faded as you selected a song. You recognised some of them, ones you'd heard people sing along to on the street or in the cafeteria of your school. This one stood out, though.
It started slow, and the man's voice was rich, full of life and emotion. It was strangely melancholic against the uplifting instrumentals.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of the city..."
You stood up, walking to the window to get a better listen of it. Lifting up the blinds, your eyes caught something in the darkness. A giant painting of Jefferson Morales. Miles' dad. It was half-finished, but his smile was there.
You couldn't help but think how he looked so much like Miles.
"~Ain't no love, cause you ain't around..."
An almost inaudible rustle caught your attention as you tuned to look at the jacket you had touched. Something had fallen out of its pocket while you were trying to move the speaker. It was a piece of paper, something written on it.
Reaching down, you moved to put it back in the pocket, before noticing what was peeking out of it.
Unfolding just the edge of it, you recognised the title of a Spanish lesson you had a while ago, back when Rafael had been bothering you endlessly. Opening it up entirely, you found what he'd been making fun of Miles for.
There were a series of drawings around scrawled Spanish vocabulary and messy grammar rules. One was of your teacher, Mrs. Hernández, turned away, writing on the board. The other was of the picture of the landmark in the article you had been given, "Arco de"-something. The colour of the building was done in yellow highlighter, but looked rather technical and accurate nonetheless.
The one on the back made you almost drop the paper.
It was you, with such a likeness. Some lines had been erased and re-drawn around your mouth, as if he'd been trying to decide on an expression. Within the creases of the paper you were holding right now, though, you found yourself smiling — just slightly, like if you'd been laughing at something with the rest of your class. Your head was tilted slightly downwards. The drawing version of you was just a little cuter than you were sure you looked like, Miles' stylisation making your eyes shine a little and your lips curve just the right way.
By the time your stomach had stopped fluttering, the song was coming to a close. You quickly re-crumpled the paper and carefully put it back into the jacket, walking over to sit on his bed again.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of this town..."
"...You never come back this late, mijo..."
"...We just bumped into each other and started talking. You know, like how at the store..."
"...Your tías are different, Miles..."
He really does have a lot to explain, you thought to yourself, unable to stop the corners of your mouth from lifting up, just slightly.
Your questions would just have to wait until after dinner.
SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 4 / PART 5 / EPILOG. →
chapter summary: [MULTI-POV] Miles has been a ghost, so you decide to do your own digging. Your answer might have just found you first.
content/warnings: graphic depictions of violence and injury grieving, death
word count: 8.7k (WHAT)
a/n: hey 😁 there's gonna be a teeny tiny epilogue after this one but this is the official end to aint no love! thanks to @/qiuweyballs forever for proofreading this series wouldn't exist without him 🙏
"I need that edit by 3pm, Watson!"
"Got it."
Even if the office was filled with the constant clack of keyboards, or desk phones ringing, or even Jameson himself barking right by her ear — as he was right now — MJ still had to keep up her persona. Agreeable, non-confrontational, all part of company protocol. There was no time for personal opinions or rebuttals, other than Jameson's; she was sure everyone would start coming in tin hats if it meant keeping their jobs.
"You're falling behind, you know," he continued as she quickly clicked off of the email she was working on. "Going to that school fair of yours set you at least a week behind!"
"It was one afternoon, sir. And I'm all caught up, the edit's not due until—"
"The edit is due when I say it's due. You out of all people should understand how things work around here by now. Get it done!"
The man sauntered off without much opportunity for her to reply, a cup of coffee crumpling between his fingers that he probably had yet to take a sip of. The poor intern that had made it would be the next to get an earful when he did try it, she was sure. Too much sugar! Not enough milk! Did you make this with your eyes closed? she recalled. MJ had heard it all by now.
Jameson didn't really have the gall to fire her — she knew that at the very least. The article could wait, however. Visions was yet to release a statement about their fired teacher, and the article would just look like all their other ones — speculatory and clickbait-y with not very much actual information. The Sinister Six ones certainly did well though, always on their broadcasts and the front of their website. Even NNC didn't have as much notoriety as the Bugle did with its less-than skeptical audiences.
The Visions student, right. With a few pasted links and a couple attachments, along with a lackluster "Good luck!" tacked on the end, she hit send. Good to know kids still have dumb email addresses.
She didn't take being abandoned a second time at the fair personally, really — everyone was fifteen once — but she couldn't help but wonder what had happened. It was almost imperceptible, but she knew when a smile looked off. There was something noticeably different about you when you had come back.
"MJ, uh, can I get your business card by any chance?"
"You know what a business card is?" she had joked, but it hadn't done much to ease the discomfort. "Yeah, sure. Contact me if you need anything."
"Yeah, thanks."
You'd asked for articles. Specifically on the Chameleon, and on the recent Prowler activity. You hadn't told her much, just that you needed help compiling some information for school. Some... presentation. MJ wasn't sure whether it was a lie or not, but it was all publicly available information anyhow.
You'd also wanted any information on Visions "teacher", Garrett East. His arrest had been for identity theft, and nothing more. Not many had reported on it as of yet, given he was detained so recently, but you were an insider. He had apparently been your calculus teacher, and the man that he had stolen the identity of had supposedly gone missing a few months before Garrett returned in his place. At least, that's all she had of her article. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to send it to a random high school student before her own boss, but it also wasn't like the man had any real idea what went on in his company. It was a wonder they managed to get through the quarter.
It was just a favour for someone nice she'd met. Maybe it'd repay her in some way in the future, most likely not. Regardless, she couldn't help but smile a little when she noticed her phone light up, a "thank you" text under your name. If only she actually had a work phone number, and it wasn't just her regular one. Visions students making connections already, it seemed.
The time on the screen was 2:41pm. She was met face to face with her wallpaper once again — a low-lit picture of her and a brown-haired man with glasses, the two of them smiling, red faced and dressed like their college selves. Peter Parker, her fiancé. They were holding those terrible beers he'd sworn by. He was a photographer, but this was one of the only pictures he'd taken of them together. It was shot on a bite-sized digital camera they'd bought for college, but never ended up using much. Now, it was all she really had.
Maybe the Chameleon really had come back when Peter had gone missing. Maybe it had something to do with you, with Visions
You probably already had a lot on your plate. And so did she. If she had anybody to chase, it was Otto Octavius. He'd offered Peter an internship in Manhattan. She'd never seen the man herself, only heard from him how good of a person he was, how this was going to get him a job and that it'd be good for them. That he'd finally get some use out of his degree and get to pursue science instead of taking "crummy" pictures for the Bugle. That they could save up for their wedding, and...
That was in Manhattan. The disappearances now were in Brooklyn. And even then, it was coming close to a year since he had disappeared.
She was always running in circles, at the command of an old man with a head too big for his body.
2:43pm. MJ turned off her phone, sliding it into her pocket.
Better get this edit finished.
2:43pm. Wednesday.
Ideally, with a couple days off of school, you would probably be at home, or maybe even out doing something fulfilling with your life. Maybe you could've even gone somewhere with Miles, if he hadn't up-and-disappeared along with every trace of him.
Your unread messages to him faded to black, leaving you to stare at your own face. Maybe you could've used those extra days to sleep, if it hadn't been for the chilling glow of purple eyes or the melting disfigured face that threatened to materialise everytime you closed your eyes.
What did he even like? Comics that he'd mentioned to you once? Of course he'd want to go to a comic book store with you after you'd made fun of him for seeming to want to deal with criminals himself. If only he'd come save you from Brooklyn Public Library right now. You were certain it couldn't get any more swampy in here with all the Visions students scrambling to do their off-day work right now.
Reading through the reply to a ballsy request you'd given to the Bugle's head journalist, you had a few questions in mind other than the ones concerning your disappearing, sort-of friend. Was all this research really practical? Maybe not. Would it help you sleep to know that the guy that had been teaching you calculus since the start of sophomore year was actually posing as a man that had gone missing months ago?
Another very normal thing that only seemed to happen to you.
Maybe you just attracted bad luck. That girl in your history class had joked about it last year, after you'd bumped into your teacher and every single paper he'd been holding had fallen to the ground in one scattered disaster. She wouldn't let it go, and it appeared that your brain wouldn't either.
Or like that time you went to Oscorp on a visit day and happened to be the only one there, trapped with a shapeshifting monster and the Prowler on the 90 millionth floor of that god-damned tower.
Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe you were cursed — or maybe you just walked into these situations on purpose. Like right now, sifting through years of articles on real criminals, with nothing but a hunch or fifteen.
The Chameleon had been arrested, like Miles had said, eight years ago on accounts of identity theft, much like your "teacher" but also very little like your teacher. According to what you were reading, Dmitri Smerdyakov been dubbed "the Chameleon" for a string of carefully orchestrated take-overs of big companies after impersonating their CEOs. His defence had argued that the big names in these companies were gone because they "wanted to be free of the burden of running their own companies".
You didn't have to be a journalist to make a face at that.
There was no mention of shapeshifting, as you'd seen with Wellston and Stromm. Just a couple lousy identity theft charges that didn't add up to their total amount anyway. This guy had more luck than you'd ever had.
The only other person that had seen any "shapeshifting" happen was Miles, and although he'd seemed surprised, something about his reaction was strange. You couldn't place it, but there was some sort of analytical twinge in his eyes, as if he was solving a math problem and not looking at someone shapeshift for the first time. You didn't know anything, really. Miles seemed like he did, though. If only you could bump into him and wring it out of him. And maybe go buy overpriced comic books with him and forget about the fact that your teacher had been arrested and midterms were coming up and maybe even become actual friends.
If only you were that lucky.
If only it was that easy to move past, as well. The fact that someone that had been involved in disappearances 8 years ago might be mixed up with this, along with the recent uptick in missing people made you feel uneasy. Surely any detective would have put two and two together by now, but remembering the fact that the shapeshifter had turned into a literal police officer dissolved any reassurance that thought might've brought. You were in a public library surrounded by unoptimistic college students, parents with their kids and even some of your own classmates, but the feeling was completely your own, tucked away behind a computer screen and a booked monitor session.
You couldn't be scared, though. You'd already seen probably the scariest thing in your life, kind-of almost died, and been wound up in so much craziness you knew so little about. If only high school had prepared you for researching literal criminals.
"Your 30 minute session is over. You will be logged out shortly."
God damn it.
If only Brooklyn Public Library's computer sessions weren't 30 minutes. You didn't want to log back in anyway, not if someone had booked after you. You could go back home, the library had just been an excuse to get out, really. Not that you'd made a whole new email and signed in as a guest on the computer. Not that you were paranoid.
Picking up your bag and checking your messages one last time you made a beeline for the exit. Well, less of a line and more of a strange obstacle course through the swarm of people. And of course you had to knock into someone. Just your luck.
"Hey, sorry," you mumbled, hands raising just a little in apology. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah..." The person dusted themself off a little with a frown, before looking up to meet your eyes.
Rafael?
"Hey, it's you," he realised, eyes widening as if he'd just gotten lucky.
Out of all places...
"I... gotta go."
"No, no, wait. I need you to do something."
Of course you do.
"I really don't have the time," you whispered back, as he caught up to your advance towards the doors.
"Uh, hey, listen... You talk to Miles, right? Like, he's your friend?"
"Yeah...?" No...? You weren't even sure at this point.
"Uh, look, I need you to tell him something..."
"What, you're in love with him?" you spat, finally looking at him again. "Cause it seems like it. You're always talking about him. Always talking to me about him."
"What?! No the f*ck I'm no—"
A much louder "shhhhhh!" got your attention. The librarian didn't look too pleased. Neither did any one of the people who turned to look at you.
"I'm not gay, man!"
So, the two of you were now out on the street as Rafael defended his sexuality with nothing but exasperated hand gestures.
"I didn't say that."
"Okay, well I'm not. Damn, why are you acting weird for?"
"Your face is red."
"I'm black!"
"That melanin isn't doing anything for you."
"Shut the f*ck up!"
You rolled your eyes, hiding the way the corners of your mouth were starting to lift with a deep exhale. The poor guy was not very discreetly checking his face right now with the back of his hand.
"What, then? What did you wanna say to him so bad?" you asked, instantly making him retract his hand from his cheek.
"Forget it."
"No, tell me. You got us all the way out here for no reason?"
He gave you a look, before promptly looking away, mumbling something under his breath.
"Didn't hear that." That made him groan loudly. It was akin to a petulant child, if not a few octaves deeper.
"I'm... sorry."
Huh?
"You're... sorry?" you repeated, making him let out a huff.
"Look, I..." Rafael met your eyes again, his narrowing uncomfortably. There was something strange in his expression. "My mom's missing. I dunno who to tell. I know I messed up and I... I get it now. I get it. The thing with his dad."
Oh sh*t.
Remorse. That was what you were seeing in his eyes. Or maybe regret. Neither you thought you'd ever see from him.
"Tell him I'm sorry. Or don't. Whatever," Rafael muttered, kicking a bottle cap on the ground until it skittered to a halt by a dog, who found interest in it as its owner tried to tug it along the pavement.
"You can't tell him yourself?" you replied, brows furrowing. As bad as you felt, this was a personal matter. You weren't about to be a parrot for the guy that hadn't grown out of his bullying phase.
"You think he'd listen?"
"It's understandable if he doesn't."
"And what if he doesn't come back?"
"Why..." What? "Why wouldn't he come back?"
"I... dunno. Why can't you just tell him?"
Huh. "Why wouldn't he come back, huh?"
Rafael gives you a sort of reserved look, as if he's contemplating whether or not to lie to your face.
"I heard something about him while I was in that office. He's like... withdrawing from the school."
"He's... what?" Withdrawing from the school? Could he even withdraw that fast? "Why?"
"I dunno, damn! Just... forget it. I don't know why I even asked you man."
Rafael turned to leave, a scowl forming on his face.
"Hey," you called out, looking away before he could meet your eyes. He didn't turn around, though.
"What?"
"...I'm sorry about your mom," you managed, before he could go far enough. "I hope they find her."
"Yeah," he muttered, before throwing his hood over his head.
And now your friend, not-friend, study buddy was gone. The only person you kind of got along with at all outside of just one class. Another person missing. Rafael's mom. Maybe you needed to get out of Brooklyn for college. You certainly wouldn't miss the subway all too much, you thought, crammed in-between people.
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."
As soon as you got out of the station and into the street, you were met with a familiar face among the people passing by. Instead of the Visions uniform, he was in a jacket too big for him, crinkled sweatpants and purple Jordans.
Miles. Calc-wiz. Mr. Disappearing Act. Withdrawn from the school, now in front of you and definitely already getting on your nerves.
He was looking at you, a hint of surprise in his otherwise smoothed-over features.
"Miles?"
"Yeah. Can we... talk?" His cheek dimpled with the awkward half-smile you'd only seen a couple times, but you were so strangely familiar with. You didn't know whether to freak out at him in front of a crowd of people or head home and hope that he didn't follow you.
"...Sure," is what comes out of your mouth.
Just your luck.
"~Ain't no love—" Skip.
"~Ha, sicker than your average—"
"Poppa twist cabbage off instinct..." Skip.
Miles was getting sicker than average of his uncle's playlist. Maybe working in silence was better.
He took out his earbuds, setting them on his mess of a desk and picking up the screwdriver again. Uncle Aaron was busy, "out of town", as his voicemail said. Probably doing something Miles wasn't supposed to be involved in. He'd be back in a day or two, as always. Never in one place too long.
Even for someone so experienced, he knew this was his uncle's first real "vigilante" gig. Uncle Aaron wasn't getting paid, nor was he working under someone trying to solve a cold case Jeff had been involved in with his colleagues. His dad was no detective, but always seemed to want to help out, and the police were getting desperate with all the recent missing person's cases. There was no real pattern, and sometimes people would be returned just fine. That's what the police were hoping for.
Dr. Stromm had disappeared for about 2 weeks, and returned to his normal work at Oscorp. That could be excused for a vacation off of work, for all anyone knew. Wellston, however, was still missing. Probably dead. Just a couple had turned up dead. It was so unpredictable that they all seemed unrelated, but the kinds of people going missing were all of use — scientists, lawyers, bank tellers. Wellston had been getting his PhD while teaching before he went missing. All people of use to the Chameleon.
Whoever his uncle was working for at the same time as all of this likely had no idea. He was probably working for that person right now, even when they had this case to deal with.
Miles had only been up to this after his dad had passed, and he knew he wasn't as polished as Aaron — not after what happened at Oscorp. Those gauntlets couldn't focus their energy, even if they were more powerful and he could charge shockwaves through the air almost instantaneously, and he had bragged about it a little too much when they'd tested it in the garage.
Now, he had faint lines on his skin from the excess heat, and had been taking them apart and rebuilding them for weeks in his room. His visor needed work too. It was way better in depth, but the resolution sucked. Even then, he was sure he could make something better than what his uncle had. Rigorous training wasn't enough to do this sort of work. He had to do his own thing, even if he was taking up the same schtick. Eventually his uncle's beard would gray and he'd have to be the real Prowler.
He was a good guy, after all. Like his uncle, like his dad.
By deduction, the Prowler was a good guy too. But he wasn't the Prowler today. He was Miles. The Miles that had been shouted at for trying to quit school again. The Miles that was fifteen and spent his days off building crappy gear.
Maybe on a day like this he could spend time with other people like he did in middle school. Go to a fast food place, or go to Micah's house to play video games, or hang around in some parking lot and run when he and his friends accidentally set off a car alarm. The sun was setting outside his window now. It felt like those evenings where he was reluctant to be taken home by his dad, after he was at Micah's playing GTA on Micah's older brother's console, laughing and screaming, Micah's sister shouting at them to shut up from the hallway.
Miles puts the visor down, walking up to his window and pushing it open. The air didn't get any warmer around this time of year, a cold wind brushing past his face as he stuck his head out to look at the city below.
Above him was the half-finished mural. A colourful backdrop of red and blue, and purple. His dad's face without the glasses, hat without the logo, the text outline without the actual text.
"Captain Jeff Morales. Husband, Hero, Father," read the ghost of the text.
His dad wasn't missing. There was no hope of him turning up one day, and that he could leave the mural unfinished and paint it over with something else. There was no hope that he'd wake up one night and instead of finding himself grasping at air it would be his mom shaking him awake to tell him his dad had come home.
His dad was dead. His dad was facing him right now and smiling like he did every morning before he left the house. His dad was painted on a brick wall, missing his glasses.
Miles knew he wasn't smiling for him. He was smiling for the city. He was the face of PDNY, captain for half a day alive and for the rest of eternity until Brooklyn forgot him, deceased. The mural had made him feel better when he hadn't been able to leave his own bedroom and decided to get up and start it with his uncle, but now he felt all sorts of emotions swirling through him. Regret, anger, grief, all of it at the same time — only to stop right at his tear ducts, tightening his throat.
He hadn't cried back then; his mom shared the pain of the both of them, even now. Even when they went to his tombstone, she was the only one that had cried as he'd kept a reassuring hand on her back.
Selfish, were the tears that blurred his vision, not heavy enough to roll down his face.
He sat, staring, eyes stinging yet soothed by the moisture. The sun cast a halo around the building, the mural in shadow and the city behind flooded in red-orange light.
"Husband, Hero, Father."
Was he a hero before he was his father? He had painted that himself. He knew his dad was a good guy. Was he a good guy before he was a good dad?
His thoughts were interrupted with the buzz of his phone in his pocket. There was a message on the notification bar, overtaking the text he'd been yet to reply to from his mom.
Are you the miles talking to me right now
1m ago
It was you.
Cause you're acting weird
And you just read my message without taking out your phone
What the...?
no wtf are u talking abt
Read 4:51PM
where ru
Read 4:51PM
His fingers hovered above the keys, glancing briefly at the gauntlet at his desk.
With a guy that looks exactly like u
You're the real miles right
He wracked his brain for something, anything as he ran back towards his desk.
6 liters per hour
Read 4:53PM
What???
OH
Okay calc genius help me out please?????
He let out a breath between his teeth, shoving his gauntlets in his backpack and throwing on his gear haphazardly.
The Chameleon. Becoming him.
I'm at Marge's on moore st
ok just stay there go into the bathroom
Read 4:55PM
don't leave til i text u
Read 4:55PM
What are u gonna do??? the restaurant is empty
He's gonna look for me
He was acting so weird if that's not u then it's probably chameleon right
So you did believe him about the Chameleon. Or maybe you were the Chameleon and just being incredibly smart. He couldn't be 100% sure. Not like he ever was. Swooping out of his window, he threw his hoodie down to hang off the fire escape stairs before starting to run up the side of his building, shoes vacuuming him to stand horizontally.
probably
Read 4:55PM
ur gonna take him outside in a couple min
Read 4:55PM
Why???
just trust me
Read 4:55PM
ill be there in 3m
Read 4:56PM
The sky was now a shade of blue-purple, the reds and oranges dissolving behind the skyline. It was getting dark, and fast.
Okay
Manoeuvering through the maze of buildings with his shoes keeping him a thousand feet from being heard or seen, Miles headed for Moore Street with the little map in his peripheral vision. When he got there, all that welcomed him was a lone street lamp that had yet to turn on, a couple of closed local grocer's and a dimly-lit diner named "Marge", a discoloured space next to it the shape of an "s". Close enough.
Sifting through the modes on his visor, he settled when he saw the outline of two people. One strangely shaped like him and one strangely shaped like you.
He climbed down a little, dimming the lights on his gear completely as he receded into a small alley. The guy definitely looked like him physically. Tall, handsome, standing outside the bathroom, shifting on his toes...? Creasing my Jordans? Seriously?
Oh, yeah he had you to deal with. And himself, apparently.
leave now
Read 4:58PM
Miles had about zero idea how to, but he needed to figure it out in about 30 seconds from now.
K
You made your way out of the bathroom, and he moved to the side of the diner you were closest to from outside to get a better view.
"...Gotta go home..."
"...Lemme walk you..."
As you left the store into the empty street, he could make out the slight twinge of nervousness on your face as you looked around ― probably looking for him and finding nobody.
"Hold on, I gotta text my parents..." You took out your phone, turning yourself a little to obscure the screen.
"Yeah, that's cool." Sounded almost exactly like him. Creepy.
go into that alley on your right and run home
Read 5:00PM
Ur kidding
you gotta trust me
Read 5:00PM
At that moment, you took one last look at your phone before turning into the alleyway. You were just a couple quick steps into the alley when his doppelganger grabbed yourshoulder.
"What the hell are you doing, Miles?!" you shouted suddenly, trying to pull yourself free, only to be thrown against the wall of the alleyway.
"I'm doing you a favour. You're not going to school anymore," he responded, his tone suddenly flat and nothing like it was a moment ago.
"What are you talking about? I'm just trying to go home."
His doppelganger was now featureless, his face melting away into the blankness Miles still couldn't describe. The panic on your face is visible from yards away. Miles just has to catch him off-guard. Without hurting you. He could do that.
"So you are the Chameleon," you muttered, still trying to pry his hands away as his grip wrinkled your clothes further.
"Ah, so you did figure it out. Excellent." That definitely didn't sound like him anymore. "You were always the most interesting in that class of yours."
"You... You were the one who was at those after-school classes, huh? And at Oscorp. And that... fair." That you were right about. "What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem is that I need a little something from your school, and you seem like the easiest solution."
"Couldn't you do that while you were a teacher? You got that other guy to be arrested in your place. Aren't you done?"
"It looks like you have me all figured out. Except for one small thing."
"What?"
Something glistened by your neck. Sharp. Metal. He had a knife pressed to your throat, the blade just managing to dent your skin.
"You're going to die."
Missing. Sometimes they turned up. Other times they were probably dead. If he didn't figure this out, you were dead already.
"I'm... I kind of figured that too, you know."
"Oh, really? Aren't you something?" There was something like a grin on his face, but it was too misshapen to really tell. "So unaffected. So controlled."
"How do you even... turn into these people? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Take a guess. An educated guess is always better than nothing." His voice pitched up into Wellston's awkward sing-song, repeating what he used to say in class. Near-perfectly.
"Why are you so sure you won't get caught?"
"That's not an answer, and I can't exactly reveal such things, you know."
"Not even when you're about to kill me?"
"Oh, unfortunately not."
"Go f*ck yourself." That made the man laugh. If he wasn't in this situation right now, Miles might have managed a smile at that.
"Yeah, go f*ck yourself," he muttered, voice being caught half-way into his modulator in a grainy, deep sound.
In an instant, Miles soared above the two of you, foot smashing itself right in the centre of the Chameleon's face, his knife clattering to the floor. As he stumbled back, you got up, taking the opportunity to run, footsteps hard against the pavement.
Suddenly, the Chameleon was stuck between the wall and Miles' knee, steadying himself with his hands against the brick. Miles could make out some kind of morphed look of glee on his face as his clawed hand clamped him to the wall by both sides of his neck. The lips and teeth were starting to form through the flesh, and Miles let the energy build up in the converter as the smile fell into place, cell by cell.
"You don't want to kill me," he stated, simply.
"Pretty sure I do." Miles' claws just scraped at the skin starting to form at his neck. The quiet whirr of his gauntlet starts to become audible.
"You can't kill me. I am everywhere."
If everywhere is right in front of me, I mean...
"I know what you're doing, Dmitri. It ends here."
"I know what you're doing, Prowler."
He finally sees it, what's forming on the man's face. It's him.
"One of my best students, I never would have guessed," he started, grinning wildly, with some sort of overwhemled excitement.
Miles felt his mouth go dry, his face under the mask paralysed as the one staring at him continued to smile.
"The DNA that I retrieved from you is that of... Miles Gonzalo Morales."
It was as if the shockwave forming in his gauntlet slowed with time itself as he came to stare. He was looking at himself. Smiling. Grinning. Crazed. Miles Gonzalo Morales.
"Kill me. I have my assets, and subordinates. They will end you. Your mother, Rio. The hospital she works at. Your uncle, Aaron."
The quiet whirr in his gauntlet faded into silence. He felt his hand retreat, leaving the Chameleon, still posing as Miles, grinning, unblinking, and flat against the wall.
"Oh, you've made a very good choi―"
SLAM!
Metal met with bone, an audible crack following as Miles' clawed fist met the wall, the Chameleon's face smashed between the two.
"You mother... f*cker..." he breathed out, voice choked through the sudden rush of blood, smearing against the wall as he lifted his face from it.
Miles pointed his gauntlet at him again, the whirring renewing itself to a high-pitched scream, light purple expanding between them and tearing through the alleyway like fire.
"Muerto el pollo." (Job done.)
The man's reforming grin was overtaken by the brightness of the blast, energy snapping into one focused point before hurtling through the air, right at the Chameleon.
Miles felt his ears start to ring. His body was lightweight. Airborne.
His back hit something hard, and suddenly the lightness was replaced with an erratic clawing spreading up his arm. The light flickered into sparks that led fire under his sleeve, eating away at his skin. Burning. The blindness faded away, eyes managing to focus. All he could see past the smoke was a figure approaching him, and a hysteric laugh that grew louder and instantaneously changed pitch.
"So confident," is what he could make out through the ringing in his ears that had bled through his head into a sharp, disorienting pain. "I almost thought you had me."
Ripping the burning gauntlet off of himself, he noticed something jammed in the converter as he shook the heat from his arm. Some sort of sabotaging device. He'd had just a few seconds before the burning would've made it past his skin. The Chameleon had planned this.
Looking to his other gauntlet, he noticed the same device, ripping it out before crushing it under his foot. Never twice.
Swallowing back the cough building up in the back of his throat, Miles made a move for the Chameleon, before catching his figure turn left ― running.
Coño. (F*ck.)
Launching himself up, Miles locked onto the man, hurtling through a series of alleyways, fluidly dodging every obstacle in his way as if to waste no time. He could not let him get into a crowd and disappear. This had to end here, even if he had no god damn plan and his uncle was sure to scold him when he got back. He wasn't going to let you or anyone else get killed by this crazy f*ck.
Miles threw himself down into the next alleyway, hearing heavy, fast footsteps, someone approaching in his vision.
Just a little closer.
SLAM!
He threw the Chameleon down onto the ground, noticing he'd already changed appearance.
That face. No, this wasn't the Chameleon.
It was... you. And you were looking right at him. Terrified.
"Please, please let me go," you mumbled, gasping for air in-between words... "I... You're the... Prowler, I― Please― The... That guy's after me and..."
Your head fell against the concrete, an exhausted look in your eyes as you caught your breath.
"Please. I didn't... I didn't do anything. I can keep quiet about you, I haven't told the police anything. About Oscorp. Nothing."
"I know it's you, Chameleon." You would've ran far away by now, he was sure.
"I―I swear I'm not. I'm not him, I don't know how to prove it to you, but... I called my friend for help and... he never came. Please. Please let me go. I don't know where the Chameleon is right now."
Another set of footsteps came towards the both of you.
"I'm right here, Prowler," emerged another voice from the alley.
It was... you?
"Come on. Weren't you looking for me?" the other you continued, half-hidden in shadow. "Come get me."
So the you on the floor... was actually you. And this...
"Please, that's... that's him, you've gotta let me go," the you that was on the ground muttered, exasperated. There was a waver in your voice. In the way your eyes widened looking at him. Almost like confusion.
The Chameleon was right there. Admitting that he was in fact the Chameleon. While he was trying to run away.
"Please," he heard below him, a quiet, desperate whisper in the silence.
You both looked identical. Even though he'd injured the Chameleon, the both of you were unscratched. You both sounded the same too, from what he could decipher. No real way to tell you apart. And his only answer right now felt like a trick.
He kept eyes on the you standing before him, barely making out a face. Something was there, in the way that you looked, the way you stood. Something strange, something he couldn't figure out fast enough to make any decision.
And then, he felt a little pinch. One that suddenly exploded and tore through his flesh, wrangling with every one of his nerves as his body seized. You had lost your scared, desperate expression, your face now distorting along with his vision into that of a smile.
"I understand," a voice started, ringing through his head as if it was everywhere. "You want to help me."
The pain was clawing its way through his body from a point in his leg. He turned his head, noticing the discarded needle beside him. He'd managed to ease his hand just close enough to administer it. You ― no, the Chameleon, lifted himself from the ground, before Miles felt his head spin hard with a kick.
"I admire you, your wit," he called out, letting out a laugh as he started to walk towards you. "Turning against your own savior. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."
No, no... There was... there was no way you were working with him. There was no way you...
"You have proven yourself. You'll be better than... than that Garrett fool. I've changed my mind."
Miles rummaged in his utility belt for something, anything. He had no idea what he'd been given, but it was already running through his blood, reaching his brain and poisoning every part of it.
"Your friend over there is going to be unconscious in about half a minute. Why don't you take care of him? I'll be a fool to kill you once you do."
Get up, Miles.
His head throbbed with the sound of your footsteps, each one getting louder and louder. His limbs were weakening. He could barely lift his head.
Get up!
"Dad... Dad? No no no... Get up, get up!"
The gauntlet was slowly slid off of him, now in your hands as his arm fell uselessly onto the ground in front of him.
The gauntlet clipped onto your arm, fingers moving as yours did. He felt the metal claws just scrape his helmet, a faint clink echoing through his skull.
Miles didn't want to look at your face, but he couldn't find it in him to look anywhere else. There was that something from before in your expression that he couldn't quite place, and he still didn't have an answer. It bothered him, for some damn reason. Not the fact that he had his own weapon pointed to his brain as he was losing consciousness. Not the fact that he couldn't move. Not the fact that his last thoughts were about the look on your face and not his mom, or his dad.
Whirrr...
That brightness that the Chameleon had been staring at before was now staring right at him. Overwhelming, blinding, all-encompassing. He felt the faint heat on his skin, as his eyelids grew heavy. Something like warmth in contrast to the cold metal, if just for a second. Something like knowing in your eyes. Something hopeful, saving, loving. Even if just for a second. Even if his brain had made it up to let him succumb.
He wished he could smile, and not be terrified. He wished he could be like his dad, who had smiled.
"Take care of your mom for me, Miles. I ain't gonna be around forever."
And he reached for his helmet. To show you his face, to hope you'd stop once you saw him. He reached, before his arm fell limp beside him once more.
Sorry. I'm so sorry.
"Hey, hello?"
"Hey!"
"Prowler? ...Are you dead?"
God, what did you have to do if he didn't respond...? Breathing, pulse...
"What the..." you heard, before he exploded into a painful-sounding coughing fit, tinged by some kind of voice changer. The Prowler lifted his head, and you could make out az kind of shadow where his eyes were behind the dull, unlit screen. "Huh...?"
"Hey, uh. The... Chameleon..."
Gesturing to the pile on the floor, the Prowler seemed to tense a little at the sight. It was the Chameleon, or... what was left of him. His face charred and caved in by the likes of a certain purple energetic blast. Right, you, had to explain that, the de-powered weapon in your hands.
"Sorry for... I didn't know what I was doing, that was―"
"You killed him?" came out a quiet, modulated voice.
That was...
You killed him. With the Prowler's weapon.
You were defending yourself. You were defending him. That man was a...
Thunk!
The metallic arm hit the ground as it rolled out of your arms, looking into the hollow shadows of the Prowler's eyes.
You didn't know anything about any of these people, and you were deep into their world. It was one that you had never thought you'd see, and now you had nothing to dig yourself out of it. You decided to trick him and when Miles was too late to figure it out you had...
You had killed someone. Turned the blast on him within a split second, watching it sear through his skull in a merciless flurry, stab after stab of burning hot energy wracking more and more screams. Right until the weapon had run out of energy. Until your finger grew numb from the trigger inside the device and the alleyway had gone silent. The man that had haunted your mind for months was unmoving before you, ripped of all features, all life.
Murder. Manslaughter. This man had connections. They'd come after you. After everyone you knew and loved. After Miles.
You should've stayed home.
The ache of adrenaline surged through your heart, your muscles, begging. Begging you to move. To run. To get up.
Get up. Run. Run away. Scream for help. Do something.
You felt the scratch of brick, arms enveloping the rest of you as you backed into the wall.
Hide.
All the breath in your lungs seemed to leave at once as you desperately tried to breathe it back in, hearing the air rush in and out of your mouth over and over. It was loud. So loud. The blast had been so loud. He had screamed so loud―
"Hey."
The hand on your shoulder was warm, free of any metal.
"It's... alright," you heard him say.
How could he say that?
"How can you say that?" Your voice was muffled. Wavering. Pathetic.
Would they believe you? With that stupid, pathetic, voice, whoever it was that found you ― would they believe you?
"How can you say that...?" you repeated, pressing your face further into your knees. The touch on your tensed shoulder felt offensive. Mocking.
"You're gonna be okay."
"How am I gonna be okay?"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"How do you know that?"
You were looking at him now, breath hitched, eyes wide. You tried to sound frustrated, angry, but all that came out of your throat was a sound that told the Prowler "I am scared" in every language.
The Prowler hadn't killed you. He was comforting you. In any other circumstance, you could've laughed at the thought. To your knowledge, this Prowler hadn't killed anyone, or put everyone he loved in severe danger. Maybe you were worse than him.
"Why won't you answer any of my questions...?" you mumbled hopelessly, burying your face in your hands. You could smell concrete, dust, and ash ― invisible, yet incriminating.
Hiss... Click!
You felt hands wrap around your wrists, carefully pulling yours away from your own face. Just as you looked up, you could see the mask dismantling itself, disappearing behind his head.
What was left was a face. The Prowler's face.
No, this is...
Brown, maybe green-ish eyes. They were a smooth coppery colour under the dim light, bright among the shadows underneath his eyes. A black-red was drying on his skin, under his nose and creeping past his cracked lips. Two braids, coming unfurled at the ends, coming all the way back up to the top of his head. A soft face with harshness painted all over it. An exhausted, pained and worried expression.
"Hey, pana."
The face you had so prayed to see blurred into a watery mess as you threw your arms around him, squeezing your eyes shut against his jacket. His arms followed, settling over yours, one palm circling your back and the other settled between your shoulders.
You didn't think you'd held anyone tighter. You didn't know someone could hold to the point that their arms were shaking around you.
"Miles..."
You felt his head rest beside yours, the contours of his face melding against your shoulder. Warmth was running down your face ― blooming in your chest.
"I've got you."
"Mij— Oh... Oh my!"
You'd scrubbed your eyes hard as you could, and Miles had fixed himself up into a giant hoodie and jeans, but you were almost certain that the woman in front of you was utterly convinced that the both of you had been run over by a subway train. Miles' mom, standing with a vacuum cleaner that contributed nothing to the silence. Her jaw was inching closer to the floor the longer the silence stretched out.
"Uh... hola, mami. This is my friend," Miles offered, not sounding any less like he'd been met face first with the headlights of New York public transportation.
"Hi, Mrs... Morales."
The woman propped the vacuum cleaner against the wall, letting out a quiet sigh. She had beautiful curly hair, and was now wearing the sharp-softness of her son's face in a polite, and concerned smile. You didn't want to turn to check if Miles still had blood on his face.
"Is this a bad time...?" you started. "I can—"
"Oh, no, no, I just... I haven't even made dinner yet, I didn't expect—" The woman lets out another breath, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so rude. What are you two... What have you been up to?"
"We just... you know," Miles gestured with his hands, charading less than nothing in the air.
"You know...?" she replied, eyes squinting.
"I uh, already ate. Don't worry about it, Mrs. Morales," you continued, giving her what you hoped looked like a smile on your face. "Miles just wanted to show me something. It'll be quick."
"Uh, yeah. That."
"You're not staying for dinner?" she called out, as Miles dragged you into his room. "I was gonna make pastelón—"
"I'll come help you in a sec, mami."
Miles closed the door to his room, and the two of you shared a look as you heard the long, muffled sigh from outside. With the sound of the vacuum cleaner whirring in the hallway and disappearing into another room, the two of you sat on the edge of the twin-size bed, the frame creaking uncomfortably.
The room wasn't particularly big, crowded with posters and various newspaper clippings — many about the Prowler. There were crates tucked away beside his closet, faces of toy figurines and comic books peeking out of them. A lone screwdriver sat on his desk, a stack of notebooks beside it. The backpack you'd seen him take to school was hanging on the back of his chair, a study guide for "Invisible Man" peeking out of it. All that was on his bedside table other than papers was a frame. A young boy, missing a tooth, on the shoulders of an older man, the two of them beaming through the picture.
"You hurt or anything?" he asked quietly, making you remember that he was next to you. "Like, injured?"
"No, I'm... fine." You took half of a breath before your lungs started to ache, swallowing back the dryness of your throat. Mostly fine. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. My mom's a nurse, so... I kinda..."
"Oh... Yeah, yeah." Huh.
Mrs. Morales certainly didn't seem to know about her son's... part-time job.
You noticed a set of blueprints on the wall, resembling the clawed arms he had stashed away without you or his mom seeing.
"You made those...? The claw-glove things?"
"They're gauntlets."
It was somewhat like the tone of voice he used when he was explaining a calculus question — not condescending, but somewhat tired and fed-up.
"Right..." Gauntlets. Sure.
The vacuuming stopped, and a few moments later the clinking of cookware could be heard.
"You staying for dinner?"
"Huh...? Um, I don't wanna bother your mom."
"Please...? I'm gonna get it if you go home without eating." Something about that made you laugh, even if it was a half-hearted sound that fizzled out before it could really sound like one.
"She seems nice," you mused.
"She is. She tries."
Something of a smile tugged at his lips as a quick snort of air left him, his eyes now on yours.
"I got a lot of explaining to do, huh?" His smile faded a little as the words left his mouth.
"You do. Maybe... Maybe not now, though."
"Yeah. Not now."
In your peripheral, you could make out his arm inching closer to yours. The tips of his fingers just brushed your knuckles, leaving just a spark of feeling against your skin. His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed, and—
"Miles, ¡ven a cortame estas cebollas! (Come and cut these onions for me!)"
"Oh! Um— Okay!"
The bed squeaked again as he stood up, and you could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek. You closed your hand as the lingering feeling of his touch disappeared.
"...You sure I can stay for dinner?"
"You sure you just asked me that?"
"Alright, alright."
You gave him a little more of a smile, and you could see him fighting to not return it as he looked back at you.
"i'm gonna... go and—"
"Yeah, you do that, Miles."
He handed you his phone, or, a phone.
"You can... play some music, if you want. It's connected to that speaker. Just not too loud, yeah?"
You noticed there was no SIM card in it. He pointed to the little speaker sitting by the window sill, peeking out behind a hung up jacket and a school blazer.
"...Thanks."
The door to his room shut, and the murmured voices of Miles and his mom faded as you selected a song. You recognised some of them, ones you'd heard people sing along to on the street or in the cafeteria of your school. This one stood out, though.
It started slow, and the man's voice was rich, full of life and emotion. It was strangely melancholic against the uplifting instrumentals.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of the city..."
You stood up, walking to the window to get a better listen of it. Lifting up the blinds, your eyes caught something in the darkness. A giant painting of Jefferson Morales. Miles' dad. It was half-finished, but his smile was there.
You couldn't help but think how he looked so much like Miles.
"~Ain't no love, cause you ain't around..."
An almost inaudible rustle caught your attention as you tuned to look at the jacket you had touched. Something had fallen out of its pocket while you were trying to move the speaker. It was a piece of paper, something written on it.
Reaching down, you moved to put it back in the pocket, before noticing what was peeking out of it.
Unfolding just the edge of it, you recognised the title of a Spanish lesson you had a while ago, back when Rafael had been bothering you endlessly. Opening it up entirely, you found what he'd been making fun of Miles for.
There were a series of drawings around scrawled Spanish vocabulary and messy grammar rules. One was of your teacher, Mrs. Hernández, turned away, writing on the board. The other was of the picture of the landmark in the article you had been given, "Arco de"-something. The colour of the building was done in yellow highlighter, but looked rather technical and accurate nonetheless.
The one on the back made you almost drop the paper.
It was you, with such a likeness. Some lines had been erased and re-drawn around your mouth, as if he'd been trying to decide on an expression. Within the creases of the paper you were holding right now, though, you found yourself smiling — just slightly, like if you'd been laughing at something with the rest of your class. Your head was tilted slightly downwards. The drawing version of you was just a little cuter than you were sure you looked like, Miles' stylisation making your eyes shine a little and your lips curve just the right way.
By the time your stomach had stopped fluttering, the song was coming to a close. You quickly re-crumpled the paper and carefully put it back into the jacket, walking over to sit on his bed again.
"~Ain't no love, in the heart of this town..."
"...You never come back this late, mijo..."
"...We just bumped into each other and started talking. You know, like how at the store..."
"...Your tías are different, Miles..."
He really does have a lot to explain, you thought to yourself, unable to stop the corners of your mouth from lifting up, just slightly.
Your questions would just have to wait until after dinner.
SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, the other by total accident.
SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 3 / PART 4 / PART 5 ->
chapter summary: [DUAL POV] This was probably not how sophomore year was supposed to go.
content/warnings: mentions of death and loss, mentions of vaping (😭)
word count: 4.0k
a/n: hi ive had. a very interesting year of high school myself my bad for the wait 😭 thank u all 4 sticking around for... a YEAR??? and thank u @/qiuweyballs for the proofread as always my guy
and there will probably be a part 5 and an epilogue after this part ermmm yea 4 parts is not it guys
"Jesus Christ…"
By the look on your face, you were probably thinking the same thing.
"Miles…" Your voice was a whisper, eyes still fixed at the gym doors. “What the hell is going on?"
His arms fell to his sides in response. All the same questions you were going to ask were circulating through his head already, but he didn't have a single answer in response. His chest was beginning to hurt as he held his breath, thinking of what to say — what to do.
"Mijo, someone's calling you. Is this your friend?”
"Mami, uh, yeah, from school."
"¿Se llamas 'pana'? ¿Es latino? (You call them 'buddy'? Are they latino?) Wait—! Why did you hang up?"
"I'll call 'em back later, 's not that serious right now."
"Oy, ¡no seas maleducado! (don't be rude!) I'm sure your friend wants to talk to you."
"Right, yeah. Totally. Right when we're about to see dad."
"You have to make time for people, Miles. I know you're busy with school, but you can't expect anything from others if you don't give."
"Lo sé, mamí." (I know, mom.)
"If only you showed it! You might smart in your academics, but in real li—"
"Alright, alright! I'll call back later…!"
“I'll tell you later,” is what came out of his mouth, his eyes at his hands, which disappeared into his pockets. Some friend he was.
“I’m not goin’ to Visions to make friends, Uncle Aaron.”
“Nobody's putting it against you if you do.”
“Nobody would have to.”
Miles noticed your expression again, eyebrows furrowed at his answer. It lacked any semblance of the person he’d come to know. That grit, that quick-thinking look in your eyes, the one he saw when you faced Rafael, when you pulled the alarms at Oscorp… that look that told him that even if something were to happen to you, you’d somehow make it out in one piece — totally missing.
Some god damn vigilante, pulling you into his sh*t.
"I think you should head back."
The words felt useless, tumbling out of his mouth and landing by his feet. Some part of him hoped you'd run before he could see the mistrust in your eyes.
"What are you talking about?” you respond, finally meeting his eyes.
What were you talking about?
"I've seen him before, Miles. That guy… Wellston… You don't get it, he—"
"You two!"
Miles winced, realising he’d bit his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the sudden voice, or the fact that he almost told you “I know.” It didn't really matter, he decided. Weber didn't look very pleased.
"Are we loitering here, or are we actually going to go and volunteer?" Neither of you could manage an apology as you made a start for the gym.
With the clack of Ms. Weber’s heels behind you two, Miles reached into his pocket, he pulled his phone out.
Home late today, got that job fair
Delivered
Tqm mami
Delivered
Today was going to be a long day.
"What are you mumbling to yourself about?" you whispered, the sharp of your elbow brushing his arm.
"Nothing," he mutters, pressing his lips shut. Talking to himself like a crazy person definitely wasn't helping his case here.
"What do we do?”
"We?" It was his turn to give you an incredulous look.
"We, us, me and you. Does it matter? That thing is at a high school job fair, Miles—"
“If you don't find a way to leave…” he murmured through his teeth, turning and catching Weber's gaze for a moment too long. Right. Her. "You know what? Just trust me."
“Trust you to do what?”
“I’m gonna leave. You’re gonna stay right here.“
“What? Why?”
Beep!
With the tap of Weber’s key card by the doors, tacky decorations, dreary fluorescent lights and stands in various stages of being set up came into view. Visions’ state-of-the-art careers fair. Miles shut his eyes for a moment, squeezing the ache out of them.
“ENROL IN OUR STUDENT PROGRAM TODAY!” read a stand above a picture of young people in lab coats, all smiling in strangely the exact same way. Oscorp still had the balls to come, of course. The actual young people at the stand looked much less enthusiastic than their pictured counterparts, their supervisor barking orders.
“Young Leaders: Get into politics!” — “Apprenticeships at Fisk Industries” — “Join the future of tech with BESTMAN TELECOM”.
Nothing like a bit of colourful text to cover up a couple of questionable practices.
“JOIN US” one read, rather simply. The PDNY.
Miles’ eyes lingered on the smooth police blue behind the pictured police officers. It was the same blue that he’d seen in adverts on the subway, peeking out from graffitied billboards, on his dad’s uniform.
He wondered what had happened to his dad’s co-worker. He wondered what the hell a man with the bright yellow visitor’s badge was doing pretending to be Police Constable Daniella Williams at some random school careers fair.
“JOIN US”.
He wondered if his dad had seen the same poster he was looking at right now.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Make yourselves useful!” Right. Weber.
You followed him as he walked into the gym, right past the PDNY stand.
He didn’t know how he was going to break it to you that this was probably going to be the last time you'd see him — at least, at school.
If the Prowler was good at one thing, it was hiding.
Wellston, Williams, Stromm…
As hard as you tried, everything was hopelessly melding together in your head. Amidst the dull murmur of people getting things together, all you could think of was that melting face back at Oscorp, every crevice burned into your memory by the light of the Prowler's blast.
You tried to avoid looking at the woman, as if she'd deform before your eyes as soon as you did. You’d met P.C. Williams before, back when you were a freshman and this fair was actually meant for you. She still had the same cropped hair and thick glasses. Well, this thing did, anyway.
Miles wasn’t looking at you right now. It was good that he wasn’t, you thought. There was a crease between his brows, one he had when he was thinking of what to write in English Lit, or frowning at his phone in the hallways. You had no idea what he was thinking about right now, though.
“You're leaving?” you muttered, despite yourself.
The boy took in a breath, but the sigh you expected didn’t follow.
“I’m gonna leave, and you’re gonna cover for me.”
“To do what? Are you gonna call the cops or something?”
Stupid idea.
“Stupid idea," he replies, shaking his head.
I was gonna say that, damn it.
What if he somehow knew this shapeshifter person? You shook the thought from your head — he’d been just as shocked as you had when he saw Wellston shapeshift.
But he was the one to pull you into that hiding spot in the first place — almost like he’d been anticipating it. He went with you to the extra class too. He went on the subway with you even though he seemed to get more irritated every stop you passed, and he clearly didn’t live that far out.
“Miles,” you started, eyes narrowing at him, even if he wasn’t looking at you. “Are you—”
“Morales!” A flicker of annoyance tinged the boy’s expression as he turned to face the source of the voice.
Emerging through the crowd — buzz cut, shiny earrings, colourful suit —Principal Evans stepped into the space between you two.
“Could I talk with you a minute?” Her lips were pressed into an impossibly thin line.
“…Sure.” Miles turned away, but not before giving you an awkward look. For a second, it convinced you that you two were back in AP Calc, and Wellston was going on a tangent about something a little too personal again.
“Don’t you got somewhere to be?” The look Principal Evans gave you was more expectant.
You nodded by instinct, walking away before you could say anything at all.
Finding yourself at the back wall of the gymnasium, concealed rather poorly by the tacky banking stand, you turned to see “The Daily Bugle” in fancy serif, the trumpet logo plastered everywhere it would fit. A red-haired woman pinning up some papers glanced back and smiled at you. She was pretty, eye makeup immaculate and lipstick as clean as her smile — a journalist, of course.
“Are you here to help?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah…” you mumbled out, straightening out your shoulders. The least you could do right now was be useful, while hoping Evans wouldn't keep Miles too long.
“Good, because the kid who was supposed to help out here just up and disappeared.” She let out out a laugh, the professional edge in her smile softening. It eased your nerves just a little. “Mind helping me out with these? I’m Mary Jane Watson, by the way — just MJ right now, though. I'm a journalist at the Bugle.”
“Sure, MJ.” You smiled back, a little dubiously, before reaching for some of the papers.
“NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL PROWLER SPOTTED AT OSCO—”
“Nope,” you whispered under your breath, picking out another headline.
“Did you say something?” MJ asked.
“Oh, no, nothing.”
You bit your lip, flicking through the papers. “Where’d the other kid go?”
“I have no idea. He wanted to use the bathroom, but it’s been 20 minutes. Pretty sure his name was Rafael.”
“Rafa—” The paper flopped, half-open in your hands. “Oh…”
“Was that a bad idea? Is he notorious at your school or something?” she jokes. You manage a sort-of grin.
“Kinda? I didn’t think he’d be at the careers fair.” Rafael of all people… “Are you the only one here?”
“Pretty much. It was my idea to come, everyone’s busy at the Bugle, right?”
“Probably, yeah.”
Miles was still talking to Evans. Whatever he was going to do, you had to cover for it… Did you really? What if you were covering for something crazy? What was crazier than this? Was he just going to ditch you? Why was he talking to Principal Evans all the time anyway?
“Mary— MJ,” you started.
“Yeah?”
“Do you… would you happen to know anything about Oscorp? You know, with the Prowler…”
“Oh, I wish. Oscorp’s been dead silent. Everything’s 'just speculation' for now.”
“Why are they sure it's the Prowler, then? Couldn’t it have been someone else?” Like, the weird shape shifting monster thing?
“He’s been a big problem for Oscorp lately. A security breach doesn’t seem too out of character for him.”
“Security breach?”
“No details on that, unfortunately. Are you interested in journalism, or just curious?”
“Just curious…" you reply, a weird laugh leaving your mouth. "Who knows, though?”
Like you’d ever willingly go into the press — at least, not the Bugle. J. Jonah Jameson and his conspiracies were not at the top of your job prospects.
“That looks good," MJ says, giving you a nod as you straightened out the display of leaflets and little trinkets on the table. “Glad you came by — I don’t think the other kid’s coming back, though.”
“Yeah, probably not…”
Eyes falling on the exit, you saw someone waving as they made their way out — a woman in a police uniform.
P.C. Williams.
Miles was still talking to Evans. He looked frustrated, almost upset, even — definitely not noticing what was going on right now.
“Uh, Mary— I mean, MJ. I’m… just gonna use the bathroom real quick.”
“Oh, uh, okay. Just make sure to come ba—”
Sorry, MJ.
Walking right by Miles’ field of view, and with Principal Evans’ back to you, you mouthed what you hoped would come across as “HE’S LEAVING” as the doors shut behind Williams.
“Where are you going?” A girl with her hair in an erratic half-bun and crossed arms stopped you, standing in front of the door. Great. Maybe you’d have to start hating these seniors more than the freshmen.
“Bathroom,” you mumbled, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.
“That’s what the last guy said,” remarked a boy much taller than the girl, hair coloured in a way that probably wasn’t allowed at school. He was also crossing his arms. Tweedledee and tweedledum.
“No, you don’t get it, I really gotta go—”
“You can't wait for 10 minutes?” the girl replied, a demeaning furrow in her brows.
“I—” You swallowed, realising you were wasting time. He could be anywhere, or any-one right now.
Click!
“Hey!”
Doors shutting behind you and feet carrying you past the changing rooms, you dashed outside, ushering past the growing congregation of freshmen and hoping you weren’t being followed right now.
Wellston was walking into the main reception.
Walking closer, you could make out just who was leaving the reception: a woman in a police uniform, visitor’s badge in hand.
P.C. Williams. You felt like you were losing it.
Feet stuck to the ground, you could only stare as she approached you.
“Hey, sorry, you’re a student here, right?” She gave you a smile, looking around briefly. “Which way is the job fair? I always lose my way around here.”
“Um…” You blinked a little uselessly. “Over—”
“It’s that way. Big blue and yellow sign. Can't miss it”
You turned to see Miles, thumb pointing towards the gymnasium.
“Thank you!” The woman nodded at him, before walking away.
When she was far enough, Miles turned to you.
“What’d you see?” he said, reaching into his pocket. You tried to recount it.
“I— Wellston just left from the reception. At the exact same time as that police lady— Who are you texting right now?”
Miles was tapping away at his phone incessantly, pausing to look up at you when you stopped talking. When he saw your less-than amused expression, he almost sheepishly looked back down at his phone again.
“Hello? Earth to Morale—”
“Just gimme a sec, damn!”
You could tell he was trying to school the frustration on his face, the way his cheek in from biting the inside of his mouth.
“…That's it,” he suddenly muttered out loud.
“What? That's what?”
“That guy's the…” Miles presses his lips together, stopping himself.
“The what?” You almost wanted to shout at him, but it probably wasn't a good idea considering that
“The Chameleon, Jesus, are you—” He let out an exasperated breath, running a hand over his face. You were glad he didn’t finish that sentence. “He’s involved with the Sinister Six.”
"Isn't the Prowler part of the Sinister Six too? It's looking a lot more than six people lately, Miles."
"The Prowler's not a part of the Sinister Six."
"What's the difference? I know you're into comics and stuff, but these aren't supervillains, they're real criminals!"
“Rude.”
"Like you haven't been!"
You let out a groan as he continues with his phone, looking behind you two occasionally.
“Who the hell is the Chameleon anyway?”
“Shapeshifter. In prison eight years ago. In schools now, for some damn reason.”
“We were eight eight years ago, why do you even know that?”
"Do you not watch the news?"
"Rude."
It's his turn to groan, shaking his head.
"Who are you texting?"
"My uncle." You were half-expecting him to say his mom.
“What's your uncle gonna do? Is he a police officer too?”
His jaw shifts at that, before you both notice the forboding presence in the distance.
Principal Evans.
“Look, my mom’s real sick and I had to leave, got it?”
As soon as the words left, he did too, sprinting straight for the reception.
“Oh my God…” you muttered under your breath, hand pressed against your forehead, waiting for your next impending doom.
“You.” Defeatedly, you turned to the woman, her arms crossed. She had Rafael standing next to her, who looked even more defeated. “Just where did you run off to?”
“The bathroom—”
“Do not lie to me.” You tried not to wince at her tone. “There are bathrooms in the gymnasium.”
“I thought they were locked, so I… went to my dorm’s bathroom.” The woman furrowed her brows at you, as if trying to get something more out of you. The breath was still in your throat, hoping your terrible lie would hold up.
“Your dorm's bathroom… And where’s Morales?”
You felt Rafael’s eyes on you for a moment.
“His, uh…” You tried to recall what garbage excuse he’d just told amongst the muddle in your head. “His mom’s sick or something, I dunno, he had to go home…”
“Right. I’ll be makin’ sure to call her.”
Sorry, Miles. Sorry, MJ. Sorry, Principal Evans. Better start practising your apologies now.
It was his problem. Kind of definitely yours too.
“The fair’s about to start, I need y’all back in there this instant. And Ortiz, you’re goin’ straight to my office.”
Despite the nagging urge to poke fun at Rafael, the two of you walked back in silence. You had a rough idea of what he was off doing, considering the overwhelming smell of artificial strawberry coming from him. Maybe Evans would finally expel him. Vaping wasn't the most noble way to go, though.
Regardless, it was his problem. You wondered why it felt like it was yours too. Maybe it was because you were both in trouble, or because you somehow got involved in everyone's problems regardless. To think you'd finally get used to this school in sophomore year.
“Are you interested in journalism, or just curious?
"Just curious. Who knows, though?"
Maybe MJ could help — after a little apology, probably.
"We can't go after him right now."
"Why not?" MIles murmurs into his phone as he fumbles with the hoodie and mask he'd hastily thrown on. The receptionist hadn't been at the desk, but he did not want his face in someone's line of sight.
"That might not even be him, Miles."
"I thought his victims were supposed to be dead."
"One's definitely alive."
"Yeah, and she's at the fair. Wellston didn't even show up to class."
"Your ma's gonna be happy." God damn it. He could already hear her lecture. Mijo, sneaking out of school?!
"Shut up," he mutters, to nobody in particular.
"Don't talk to me like that, Miles."
"Sorry."
He turns into the main street, spotting Wellston. Looks like he hadn't shape-shifted yet. The streets were flooded with school kids now. Some were piling out of his old middle school, pulling faces and make strange noises at him. Still the same as ever.
"You still following him?"
"Trying."
Moles were made for hiding. This one was steadily speeding his way through the crowd as Miles tried to match his pace. There were just a few more by-streets to pass before the station, meaning he'd have to make his move before he'd lose the chance to.
As a new flood of people came through, Miles found himself just a foot or two away. With a quick jut of his elbow, the man's briefcase-looking bag came tumbling off of his shoulder, kicked around on the pavement by a million people's feet. Miles pummeled the bag with a kick, and it spinned easily into the darkness of the nearby alley, as if it weighed nothing. Wellston looked at him with uncertain eyes, as if he'd derived some shred of what was going on, but started walking for the alleyway anyway.
"I got him, don't even worry about it," he murmurs into his phone, before following him, feet silent against the concrete. He can make out the faint sigh of his uncle as the sound of the city temporarily fades away.
As Wellston reached down to pick up his bag, Miles shoved the man to the wall, his body obscured from view by a dumpster. As he scrambled to face him, Miles' foot pinned him right back where he was, dug right against his stomach.
"Huh, what a—"
"If you scream, you're not coming out of this damn alleyway," he taunts, shoving his phone in his pocket so his uncle couldn't hear how terribly he was deepening his voice right now.
"Okay, okay. What do you want? My wallet? Here—" The man let out an uncomfortable grunt as Miles forced his foot a little harder against him.
"I want to know who you are." Aside from the creepy ass teacher following my friend around.
"Who I…? I—I'm William. William Wellston. I'm twenty-six and work at Brooklyn Vi—" The man's face scrunched up in pain at the sudden tilt of Miles' foot against the bend of his torso.
He could hear the quiet crack of claws, somewhere in the distance. So his uncle had shown up.
"Wrong answer. One more chance."
"Alright, alright! I'm… God, why me…?" If the man took any longer, Miles was sure he was going to put his other foot into the equation. "I'm Garrett. Garrett East. I used to be an accountant at Manhattan Tax Services."
Garrett… who the f*ck now?
"Who's William Wellston, then?"
"I… oh my God, I deserve this, don't I? He's… another guy. I stole his identity. His life."
"How so?"
"You… you're not going to tell anyone, right? I am dead if my boss finds out. And that's not that Evans lady."
"You're dead if you don't cough it up right now."
Miles was expecting the Chameleon to be a little more formidable for an international criminal, but the tiny, indignant little squeak that came out of his mouth was less than.
"Oh my god, okay! I'm… my boss is… he's really good at costumes, and fixed me up to look like this guy — I didn't know he was dead, okay!"
"Costumes…? Don't lie to me."
"I'm serious! I mean, uh, this is sort of a costume, but I look like this every day now."
"You're not a shapeshifter?"
"I'm not a… what?" The man's exasperated expression turned to one that of what appeared to be… genuine confusion. It almost felt like Miles had been slapped in the face.
"…What did I tell you, Chameleon? Don't lie to me. Or is he your boss?"
"Chameleon? What… No, my boss is… My boss is a guy called Dmitri. Couldn't tell you his last name, it's Russian I think."
"Dmitri Smerdyakov." Damn name ain't even that hard. "So… the Chameleon."
"I don't know who the Chameleon is—"
"Where were you at 3:00pm today?" Wellston was missing from class, that's for sure.
"I… My boss told me to leave and… hide out. I had a class at the time, but he sounded angry so I didn't want to argue. I'm… kind of fired now."
"For one class?"
"He's made me do that a lot of times. Told me to give him my keycard and… look I don't know, okay! This Dmitri guy, you wouldn't want to know him. And my life is basically over, for the second time."
The man looked at Miles as if he was going to break down crying, and the boy felt a lot more awkward as he tried to piece things together before that happened.
"Where's your boss?"
"I don't… please. I don't know. I don't know who you are either!"
Before Miles could even let out a breath, a purple-green flurry whizzed by his peripheral, followed by a thump of feet. One clink of the metal claws got the man spluttering.
"Okay, okay! He's the Chameleon, the shapeshifter! He's been taking my place, and, uh, he's trying to take over this kid's life too! He's, Jesus, please don't hurt me. You're the Prowler aren't you…? The two of… oh god."
Miles could care less about being identified right now, or the fact that it took his uncle about 2 seconds to get more information out of this bastard that had been lying to him for 2 minutes straight. This kid. He felt his chest tighten.
"This kid?" he mumbled, knowing his uncle wouldn't respond. He had to keep up the strong and silent schtick, as he put it. Now was not the time to marvel at the corniness of that, though. "Who?"
Miles thought he might be sick when he heard what came out of the miserable man's mouth.
It was your name.
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thank you for reading, reblogs appreciated! find my atsv masterlist here!
summary: It's hard to stay in your own body sometimes. At least Hobie's right there with you.
warnings: v self-indulgent (so may not be a very accurate depiction of dissociation erm...), dissociation / derealisation / depersonalisation (those terms are distinct but just in case :p), anxious behaviour, hurt/comfort-ish, hobie is trying his best? (he's not ur therapist but it's okay) & not proofread
word count: 1.9k
a/n: been struggling to get out of a dp/dr funk recently so. here we are! no gif lemme keep this one on the down-low fr 😭 img is of camden town from pinterest
🕸️📞🎸
"Hello? Hello...?"
The muscles in your shoulders tightened at the sound of the voice, obscurely louder than anything else around you — around you being the market, that was. Just how long had you been here?
You felt a burning ache in your eyes as you looked around, taking in the blur around you before meeting the expression of the man in front of you. The owner of the food truck, of course. He had an impatient look on his face, but it was too much detail to be anxious about.
"Sorry, uh..." you offered quietly, cut off by another loud voice behind you.
"Just hurry up and pay, mate! We haven't got all day!"
Your jaw tensed, crunching uncomfortably as you fumbled for something in your pockets. Trying to find cash of some sort, the world became still again, and you could barely register what they were saying before you put whatever you could find on the window sill of the truck.
Something that sounded unpleasant, another shout, maybe, followed behind you as you walked out into the open pavements of the market. Your hands felt funny, breath dry and head heavy and so light at the same time. It felt like you were floating, but also sinking so deep under water you were moving slow motion against the thick water. It was somewhat comforting, that image.
Maybe you should just sit down, let yourself fall backwards and sink. Maybe you'd wake up in bed, and fully be able to open your own eyes again. When was the last time you could do that? When was the last time you woke up? This morning, surely. It seemed so far away; maybe you should walk home, find home — it was somewhere near here. Where were you walking?
Why was the ground getting so close to your face—
"Hey, hey! Oi!"
Before your weight could fall forward anymore, you felt a hand move around your stomach. Tongue stinging too, you realise you'd bitten it. The urgent touch became more gentle, as the haste wore off and you were helped to your feet. You tried to pick up the sounds to form a "thank you", but all you could do was stare strangely as you met a face you could just about recognise.
"Don't mean to scare you, darling."
It was your boyfriend, is what you told yourself. Hobie.
"Didn't get your change..." He held out the coins in his hand, some of which were probably already yours . "And you're trippin' over yourself."
It would sound too weird if you tried to laugh, so you didn't bother.
"My bad, just out of it." Right, is what he must've thought.
"Been out of it for a while, huh?" He taps your cheek twice, bringing your attention to him. You hadn't realised you'd been staring dead straight into his chest — not anywhere near his face. "Your patty's all squashed, love."
His fingers moved gently between yours, prying the poor warm paper from your hand. The patty you had bought had started to singe the tips of your fingers, and the tips of your fingers had already broken apart the bread of the patty.
You didn't have much will to complain, but the corners of Hobie's mouth turned down in a frown. He took your hand, the pad of histhumb brushing the lingering heat off of your fingers
"What's going on? You hungry? Tired? Upset...?" All you could give him was a useless shrug — it'd probably be easier to fix if you could describe it; if only. "Hm..."
The back of his hand was cold against your forehead. Or maybe you were cold; he never really got cold after all.
"You wanna go home?"
"Hm?" you murmured, Hobie observing you. You weren't supposed to go home; you'd get over it. Fresh air and a walk was supposed to help, anyway — not like it was. "Thought you wanted to stay."
"We can always come back another time. You don't look like you're enjoying yourself."
His hand moved to your shoulder, brushing his lips over your forehead. It was definitely you that was cold.
"I think you should have my patty, too," he added, placing his in your hand.
Arm moving fully around your shoulder, the two of you started to walk back.
"It'll be warm out, soon," Hobie comments, as if trying to be inconspicuous. He pulls you closer to mams for a lady walking her dogs: little white lap dogs that turned their heads to look at you, or maybe Hobie. You tried to remember if the last time you saw them was today or last week.
"Ah, yeah..." you said, realising he was waiting for you to say something — something of more substance, probably.
"Sure bloody hope so," he continued, something like humour in his voice. "Been freezing my bum off for the past month."
Your steps felt big against the ground, like the ground was pushing back up, and you were going to float away if Hobie let you go. All you could do was just hope he didn't.
"It better not rain, though. I'll go mad if it does. Nothing's good in the rain, 'specially not food. Meant to have a street party soon."
Remembering the patty in your hand, you took a bite before Hobie had to remind you. It was veg — not beef like he'd usually have. In fact, he complained about the veg usually. Still, today, he'd wanted a veg patty. You held onto that fact like it was the first thing you'd ever been told, as you walked together.
As he continued talking, you had reached the riverside. It looked onwards to the canal, the water coloured by the orange sun. Everything always looked so different on the way back; the air was still, and it was evening by now.
"Mine or yours?" Hobie asks, as you reach the by-street.
"Mine, if you come with me."
"I ain't gonna leave you behind, or nothin'."
He cracks a smile, and you reach for his hand time time as you took the turn to your home. There were shops that passed by, but you didn't pay enough attention to figure out what they were.
And you weren't sure when you ended up in bed, probably after making conversation for a bit and changing, because you were now in your own bed, arms and legs and Hobie's chest encasing you in a relaxed hug. You were wearing a shirt that fit weirdly on you. It was likely his — the one shirt he had without lint on it. His head wasn't entirely on your shoulder, but he was close enough to press a kiss to your temple — it left a warm, tingling feeling, as did the rest of his weight against you.
"Is there something wrong specifically?" he asks, voice a quiet, smooth vibration next to you.
"Dunno, I just... feel weird. Mentally, I mean," you admit, turning your head to lean it against his. "I think this is helping, though."
"Yeah? You want me to do anything else?" You just wanted to keep yourself awake; you wanted to keep hearing his voice.
"Want to hear you talk more."
"As long as you talk as well." Your quiet sigh was audible enough to him, it seemed. "C'mon love, you've gotta talk, or you'll be stuck up there forever."
With your demeanor seeming to give up with you, he pressed another kiss to your face, near the corner of your mouth this time. It usually got a smile out of you, but you didn't know if you had the energy to. He lingered there, still.
"How about we start with right now?" he muttered, hand on your shoulder. "You gonna tell me about those new decorations in your room? Or all those new clothes in your closet? Or how your bathroom doesn't have the nice-tasting toothpaste anymore?"
"Hobie... What the hell..." You frowned. And then the smallest laugh escaped out of you, because you frowned, and then he laughed, because it was all he really needed.
"I'm serious, though. Let's start from the top?"
"Like... from when I was born?" That got a laugh out of him, thankfully. Your smile, though little, didn't seem to disappear just yet.
"Well, if you want," he replied, pulling his arms tighter around your sides. "I was thinking more like, this morning?"
This morning... A little worry creeped inside your stomach as you came to face how little you could really recount right now. The light brush of Hobie's thumb against your cheek kept you at bay, however, and you took in a deep breath.
"Well, today... we went to the market together," you started, taking his hand from your shoulder and holding it in your own. You toyed idly with his fingers, thumb brushing over his rings as your mind fell into blankness again.
"And it rained all morning," Hobie said, after a beat of silence, fingers gently squeezing yours.
"And... this little kid slipped in the mud," you murmured.
"Ah, he did. Rough, weren't it?"
"Mhm," you replied, and at the silence, you tried to continue. "Poor thing. His dad looked horrified."
The quiet chuckle against your back made your words seem somewhat more trustworthy, and you finally decided to just let yourself speak, about anything that came to mind.
"...And then we went to look at clothes. None of them were your size."
"And then we... got lost for a bit. Ended up in this shop that sold china."
"Oh yeah, there were those funny bird-lookin' ones."
"And then we walked around for a bit..."
Truthfully, he wasn't sure if it was actually helping or not, but at the very least, that fuzzy look in your eyes that scared him a bit had eased
"And now we're home," you concluded, and he kissed the side of your head as if to confirm.
"Yep. Where are we?" The question was pretty straightforward, but you took the chance to answer regardless.
"In my room... On my bed." The mattress creaked just a little as you readjusted your position, moving closer against him. "And I'm still with you."
"Uh-huh. Still here."
"It's getting dark out, though." Looking out at the dimming sky through your window, you took another breath in, not as deep as you would've liked.
"I can stay," Hobie reassured. His voice gave no reason for you to doubt it.
"Could you?"
"A hundred percent. Not a second I don't wanna spend with you."
Hobie brushed his nose against yours, before pressing a momentary kiss to your lips.
"Look," he started, voice low and soft, slightly more serious. "I'm not exactly sure how to help, but whatever you need, I'll be here."
Turning to face him again, you returned his kiss, holding it a little longer to feel the warmth of his lips against yours. Hobie held you like you were the world, and everything in it; if you didn't need to, at least you wanted to.
"Can we just keep talking?" Your voice sounded different, but not strange — a bit less tense, more certain.
"We can talk about anything you want; we've got all night."
You narrowed your eyes in thought for a moment, and he looked at you as if he already knew what you were thinking.
"...Could you scratch my back too?"
Hobie grinned, and so warmly — so easily. You felt a smile tug at your lips too, breath sinking back into your chest and the ever-present weight starting to lift from your body.
"Yeah, sweetheart — of course. Want me to switch the light off?"
You decided to nod, saving your words for when you finally laid in the darkness, curled up against him. Murmuring soft, yet sure words between each other, his fingers grazed your back in a gentle back-and-forth. And as your voice faded, he pressed another kiss to your forehead, pulling you further into him and the covers.
Breath quiet and even, you inevitably drifted into sleep. His hand was still on your back, feeling each breath of yours as it came and went, like the shore lapping against the land. And he'd breathe right with you, even when you couldn't hear him — even if he'd have to do it all over again tomorrow.
Always, he promised himself, and you. Always, until your breath returned — until you returned.
🕸️📞🎸
thank you for reading urrrr never written a comfort fic before n ik this is kind of diff but hopefully some of my usual stuff soon 🙏
rbs appreciated if u liked it, atsv masterlist here!
content/warnings: mentions of drinking, mentions of violence, implied abandonment (?), depictions of fictional dystopian govt + police
a/n: it's about time innit 😭😭😭 a couple little thoughts about the guy that has taken over my brain for the past 6 months give it up for spider punk ‼️ very much inspired by @qiupachups's hcs go check em out
Hobie tends to code-switch a lot depending on who he's around. At the Spider-society, he tones his accent down so people can understand him, but speaks in his natural accent around the mandem & people he likes (e.g. Miles 😁) He's the menace EVER though so he dials the Cockney up to 100 when he's fighting cops outside of the East End because they don't understand it 💀
Even though his handwriting is... atrocious, it's actually because he's picked up the style of ransom notes. In his universe, any sort of communication can be intercepted, so it's better that he can't be identified by his handwriting. That's why it's always changing, and he's half-decent at forgery too.
Speaking of writing, he can do a bunch of pen tricks. It's almost annoying how good he is at it, and if you were to ask him how, he'd just shrug. He's just that guy, you know?
His universe's Aunt May is a lovely lady from the West Indies and she runs F.E.A.S.T in Camden. They're not actually related, but he'll always see her as his aunt. She definitely helped him out after a rough patch in his life, and he volunteers often at the shelter. Everyone there has just accepted the 7ft punk walking around a couple days a week giving out breakfast and coffee.
Hobie is also bizarrely resourceful. He has a LOT of plants in his boat, and some of them grow vegetables! He knows all about gardening and makes the best preserves and soups. It's a good time to be at F.E.A.S.T when Hobie comes in with his little cloth bag full of veggie goodness.
About the rest of his family, Hobie's parents... He doesn't even know who they are himself, to be honest — not like he wants to. However, he does have siblings and a few close cousins. They're all separated, but Hobie does his best to find them. He's the oldest of them all (so far, at least?) and though they don't see him much like a brother at first, he makes sure they're taken care of, regardless of how much younger they are than him. They're always running around F.E.A.S.T, so on the days where Hobie isn't there, he can be sure that Aunt May has a few little helpers (though they're quickly growing taller than her...)
Good with animals. Even the ones that seem a bit rabid warm up to him after a little while. He knows when to leave them alone, when to give them attention, what to feed them, etc. That's why it's not unusual to see them following him around, and a bunch of kittens at his feet eating while he eats his own lunch.
Not actually a big drinker. I like to think he only has a couple of drinks or is just an insane heavyweight because there's no way he's gonna be dismantling the dictatorship if he's piss drunk. There's been a couple times where he's knackered after a night out, though. Just another reason to hate mornings, it looks like.
Most of the stickers on his guitar are from different shows and rallies he's been to, and/or organised, but only a few out of the hundreds he's been to (there's only so much space on a guitar, after all.) It's almost like a little look through his life since he joined the punk scene. Besides, who wouldn't want to beat your local government-made villain over the head with a picture of a cartoon dog?
Absolutely, utterly, undeniably terrible at singing — or is he? Not exactly. He can hum just fine, so singing should be a piece of cake, right? He's alright at a few songs, but "happy birthday" isn't exactly something you'd be performing at the Royal Opera House (he does anyway, but that's a story for another day. Fisk's 56th birthday goes just swimmingly with Spider-Punk on the front of the news.)
Despite that, he's not particularly fond of being known as "Spider-Punk". His Spider identity isn't really meant to be identified, despite how loud his whole get-up is. He's got a lot of people depending on him, and he's careful to never leave a trace of his real identity. That also means, however, that pretty much every punk in the area has a target on their back — let's just say Hobie's got a little "BEATING UP BLUE BOTTLES 101" on a Saturday morning for all his punk friends.
Since the government's got little recording devices and cameras everywhere, Hobie's taken it upon himself to... "borrow" them. He's got a couple mates good with tech, so he's on the scene pretty fast with his own crime-tracking network — pretty sick.
In fact, Hobie's friends (in his universe and others) are pretty useful for more than a few things. For pretty much every situation, he "knows a guy", whether that's related to tech, music, clothing, art, putting together a bunch of random stolen parts to make a dimension watch...
iN CAse
it dON'T
WoRK ouT
— HoBie
🎸💫🕸️
@phoenixinthefiles (since i alr tagged chewy lol)
hey hey hi these r a bit shorter than usual but i just wanted to put these little thoughts out there ^^ might make a part 2 if i have any more thoughts idk we'll see!
rbs super appreciated have a good day and check out my atsv masterlist here!
a/n: he's not Real guys he's not (mitski starts playing)
“You're tickling me…!”
“Just how am I tickling you?”
Though you held your laugh behind pursed lips, a snort escaped from the boy in front of you — the boy who was so desperately trying to finish your mendhi before it got too dark for you to go home.
“Pavi, seriously, we're not gonna finish if you keep doing that.” You tried to frown, but your face was stuck in the ache of a grin. He probably felt the same.
“I'm just trying to keep your arm straight!”
“It is straight!”
“It won't be when I have to do the other side.” You gave him a dubious look, and he seemed to mirror it.
“You're doing my whole arm?”
“I wanted to, but…”
“But what?”
Pavitr's gave you one of those unreadable smiles which you could never tell were teasing or not, looking at you through the dark tousled curls that shrouded his face. Without much thought, you reached out carefully, brushing away his hair with the very tips of your fingers.
His irises caught the colour of the decorative lights around his room, and the way his expression softened made it seem like he was looking at you with all the tenderness in the world. It was hard to look away, and you felt your heart squeeze with embarrassment as a quiet laugh escaped his lips.
“But what…?” you asked again, hoping your voice didn’t sound weird.
“You’ll probably have to stay if I do.”
“Ah…” You nodded, as if it’d hide your disappointment. “Well, you know I can't, so…”
“I know.” He gently lifted your hand again to straighten it out, the tip of the tube grazing your skin with a coolness as faint as an exhale. As he worked on a flower in the middle of your forearm, you noticed his own hands were stained. Pavitr didn't seem to mind, or mention it at all, so you decided to let him focus.
There was a silence between you two, all except for the muffled clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, where his aunt was cooking. Well, you called her auntie too; in fact, you'd never gotten so close to anyone as you did Pavitr and Maya Auntie. A part of you hoped it went both ways.
“How'd you learn to do this anyway?” Your question made him lift his head slightly. “Auntie said you’re even better than her at it.”
A quiet chuckle left him, and he finished the flower off with a small circle in the centre. “My cousins at home taught me. They always begged to practice on me anyway.”
“Really?” The image amused you: a bunch of young girls drawing all over a younger and scrawnier Pavitr’s arms ruthlessly with mehndi while he begrudgingly sat still.
“Yep, and then I started doing it for them before Diwali, birthdays… Nothing big, just simple designs.”
You looked down at your arms, decorated beautifully with intricate designs that just somehow connected together. Whenever you thought he was done, he added more flowers and swirls and patterns, and suddenly it felt like the design would be incomplete without it. He was doing it from the top of his head too; if only you could understand how. All you had to do was sit and wait, and take care not to smudge it. Maya Auntie even suggested that you should avoid doing the dishes at home, so the colour would stay longer. Fat chance, you thought, watching how quickly your arm was being embellished.
“And you call this simple?” you muttered, almost shaking your head.
“Anything’s simple when it's for you, right…?”
Suddenly, he winced, but not at you. Pavitr’s hand hesitantly moved away from the part he was just working on, and there was just the tiniest smudge running across one of the petals. Your lips pressed together out of reflex, but you quickly regretted it when you saw the flash of worry across Pavitr’s face. The brightness seemed to leave his eyes; your reaction was the real mistake.
“Wait, I'll fix it,” he said quickly, reaching to wipe it away with the corner of his shirt.
“Hey, no no no.” You moved your hand away, furrowing your brows at him. “Why ruin your shirt?”
“It would wash out,” he replied sheepishly.
“Not for a while.” Shaking your head, you tried to keep yourself calm. Why’d you have to do that? “It's okay, it's just a little smear.”
Pavitr frowned. It was only slightly, but you felt your stomach twist in guilt. All you wanted nothing more than to touch his cheek, reassure him; not without messing up his face, you couldn't. He really wanted to get it perfect.
“You could just get a tissue from the kitchen, or something,” you suggested.
“It’ll dry by then.”
“No it won't, Pavi.”
You tilted your head down at him, trying to get him to meet your eyes. His fingers tightened around your arm, but he wouldn’t look at you.
“I’ll figure it out, okay? It'll still look pretty…”
“Hey, it's fine, it does look pretty—” The words caught in your throat as he reached up with his free hand, his fingertips brushing your face.
“…What is it?” you managed to mumble out, surprised by his sudden touch. His palm moved to cup your face, hand warm. When he opened his mouth, his voice was just warm.
“Could you stay? Just a little longer — it'll be worth it, I promise.”
There were a lot of things you wanted to say to Pavitr, as he waited for your response, but “no” wasn't one of them.
“Okay.” You tried smiling, feeling his palm against the soft of your cheek. “I'll trust you. Just don't tickle me."
There was a slight light-heartedness to your words, and he mirrored your smile. His was always slightly boyish and a little crooked, but somehow managed to hold the entire world in it.
“Thank you, chellam,” he murmured, touch lingering for just a moment before he dropped his hand. You’d never heard him call you that before.
“…What did you just say?”
“Beta!”
Auntie's voice rang out from the kitchen before he could answer, and you caught the playful glint return to his eyes as he turned to shout back.
“I'm almost done!” You raised an eyebrow at him as he turned to look at you again. “Huh?”
“Chellam?” you repeated, noticing the way his eyes, and his smile, widened when you said it.
“En chellam,” he replied, giving your cheek a soft pinch. You couldn’t hold back your snicker this time.
With your heartbeat in your ears, and flirting now in the equation, you knew Pavitr was far from “almost done” with your menhdi. He still had the rest of your arm to do, and a little mistake to fix, but it was okay, you thought. He’d figure it out — for you.
🪀🔭🕸️
oh wait nevermind i do "en chellam" means like... "my darling" in tamil i believe but is not necessarily romantic it's just a casual term of endearment (correct me if im wrong im a coconut)
