Some kind of fight-or-flight thing, Peter had called his invisibility, Miles remembers as he huddles behind the TV, but he's starting to wonder if that's true.

Because his entire body is screaming flight, fear like he's never felt before curdling cold in his belly and leaching into his limbs, but he's never felt more visible. At least in the subway he'd been able to run, to put that pounding of his heart to good use. If he runs now, even if he manages to turn invisible, he'll be heard.

Part of the problem is that the Prowler's moving so quietly himself. Miles thinks he can hear the claws, maybe, the faintest high-pitched whine like tinnitus cutting over everything else, but he can't track Prowler's footsteps past the rushing in his ears. His own breathing echoes like a thunderstorm in comparison, stark rasping in the frozen silence of the apartment.

He opens his mouth, trying to breath slow and soft even though his heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest, and realizes as his chin moves that his face is still bare.

He snags the bottom edge of his mask and yanks, every brush of cloth and movement a jolt of panic up his spine. He breathes deep and desperate against the scratch of the fabric on his face, trying not to pant.

He can hear the footsteps now, if barely: they're slow, separated, and Miles' heart refuses to quiet. Trying to control his breathing isn't helping. His new, secondary sense is a constant, hair-raising prickle up his neck and spine, a low wail of warning instead of an immediate, piercing scream.

Prowler's moving, he thinks, stepping so slowly across the room like he's just waiting for Miles to reveal himself, and he's pretty sure he's getting that all through sense, not hearing.

He doesn't need to guess, anyways. Prowler's shadow creeps along the ceiling ahead of him, the streetlight outside giving him away with elongated, reaching spikes. Miles follows that shape with his eyes, frozen in place.

Does Prowler know he's here? He must, Miles decides—there's no reason for him to be here, otherwise. He's thankful now that Uncle Aaron isn't home; the only person Miles has put in danger is himself.

But that also means he's being stalked, and he's left everyone who might have helped him hours away and out of reach.

Invisible, he pleads with himself, staring down at his all-too-visible hands and then left to the edge of his hiding spot. If Prowler just goes to check the kitchen first… Please, just this once. Invisible invisible invisible—

Prowler whips around the corner—crouched low, claws out, looking right at Miles—and pounces.

Miles shrieks—doesn't mean to, but his sense goes from low warning to klaxon-red-alert in .2 seconds as claws come whipping at his face. He flings himself away almost before he's registered the actual danger, but fire sears along his scalp to his temple and knocks him hard to the ground in an awkward, sideways tumble.

Miles doesn't stop, can't stop: he curls and shoves into a roll just as Prowler lands where he'd been lying. He scrambles to get up, bear-crawling like a little kid until he can shove back up to his feet. His head throbs with every beat of his pulse. He barely feels it, background noise, but there's blood running hot in little streams down his cheek, dribbling in to catch at the corner of his eye.

His mask is gone, Miles realizes, a little plunge of horror opening in his stomach despite everything else. You need to hide your face, Spiderman had said, so desperately that Miles had taken it to heart, but Prowler must have caught the loose fabric of the mask on his claws.

Miles won't be getting it back.

He flings himself forward towards the window instead. If he can just get out, if he can just get away—

Prowler yanks him back, claws latching into the back of his costume—into his back beneath, too, lancing lines down under his shoulder blade. Miles gasps, a garbled noise of pain and panic that he can't quite stifle, until Prowler does it for him by flinging him into the wall.

He bounces off, shoulder numbing from the impact, and hits the punching bag on the rebound before tumbling breathless to the floor. Prowler's there in the next moment, leaping in like a pouncing cat. Miles kicks up at him, scrabbling backwards across the floor, but Prowler immediately snags his ankle and hauls him back into striking range.

Miles flails, kicking and thrashing, noises ripping themselves out of his throat every breath. He nearly knocks Prowler's hand loose with a good kick, but then Prowler just slaps his legs sideways to the floor in one harsh shove, jumps over, and pins him, dropping to kneel on Miles' chest.

And now he can't breathe. Prowler's huge: taller and heavier, and stronger than Miles. There's a deep, burning pressure where he's kneeling and he has Miles' entire torso easily pinned under his shins, trapping his left arm against the floor, too.

Miles tries to buck, tries to throw him, but he can barely do more than squirm. Prowler only bears down harder in turn, catching the wild punch Miles sends at his face in one clawed hand.

Then he swings the other back to strike, claws splayed out wide and gleaming.

Miles recoils so hard that his head bounces off the floor. He can't even cover his face, can only squeeze his eyes shut and curl his chin down, bracing. No no, please no, I don't want to—

A breath.

Two.

Miles sucks the third breath in like a prayer and cracks one careful eye open.

And Prowler's just...sitting there.

Miles' heart jerks painfully when their eyes meet, but Prowler looks almost a little like Miles had managed to zap him. He's frozen stiff, threatening claws now hovering down to the side—his eyes look huge in the darkness, that faint white glow giving just the slightest of his expression away.

He still doesn't strike.

What—? Why did—? Why—? Miles' brain is running frantic loops, scrambling to find a foothold: something, anything, please.

He doesn't want to die.

His pulse is thick in his throat—he can barely breathe, barely think—but he opens his other eye and forces himself to meet Prowler's unreadable stare head on.

"Please," he rasps, almost unable to get the word out, the pounding in his chest only worse now with this tiny, tiny sliver of something that might be hope. "Please—"

He feels Prowler jerk, movement through the weight on his chest, and the claws holding his fist let go. Miles yanks his hand back to his chest, not willing to throw another punch now that Prowler's stopped: not with blood still clumping his lashes together, sticking his back to the floor.

Something's wrong. Something's changed. If Miles can just—

But a split second later, he catches a low, heavy hum, like the vibration of a phone. Or it is a phone, Miles understands as Prowler raises a hand up to his ear. And if he answers—

"Hello, Mr. Fisk." Prowler's voice is a deep growl, like the rumble of distant thunder, and all of Miles' blood runs cold. Kingpin.

There's a faint buzz at the edge of Miles' hearing, a rise and fall of words he can't quite make out. In response, Prowler says, "Apologies, sir. Wasn't a good time to talk."

He's still looking down at Miles—and then, slowly and clearly deliberately, he releases him, shifting himself from Miles' chest down to kneel on the floor.

Miles gasps in a deep breath, lungs finally open to expand, air sharp and cold in his chest. He lifts his head to track what Prowler's doing—what is happening here?—but before he can think of anything like escape, Prowler settles back on his heels and then rests a heavy, clawed hand on Miles' chest.

Miles freezes up, tensing instinctively, but the claws don't dig in. It's a warning, but a gentle one in comparison. Don't move.

"No sir, wasn't any trouble," Prowler says, and that— Is he lying? "I got the security tapes from the tunnel right here."

Miles pants: his heart is still pounding, his chest too tight, and it feels like he can't keep up at all. From the tunnel? Does he mean—?

"If the kid's out there," Prowler rumbles, eyes still locked on Miles, knee to his hip and claws at his heart, "I'll find him."

He's lying. To Kingpin. Miles stares, struggling to keep his expression from twisting into something incredulous. Why would—?

"You know me, sir. I don't ever quit," Prowler claims, short enough that Miles can't tell if the pronouncement is pride or impatience. But he sounds, for all the world, like he doesn't already have what Kingpin wants him to find.

Miles breathes deep to steady himself and then pushes up to lean on his elbows, slow and wary. And Prowler lets him—the claws stay, crooking slightly into Miles' costume, but nothing more.

Then the tinny buzz of Kingpin's voice dies away and Prowler drops his hand from the earpiece, all his attention swinging fully back to Miles.

Miles licks his lips and opens his mouth, struggling to think of something besides why—?

Except then Prowler pulls his claws away, reaches up, and slides his own mask off entirely.

And Miles can't—

It's like a kick to the chest, stealing his breath, and he can't—

"Miles," Uncle Aaron says, soft on an exhale, brows furrowed and eyes pinched where he's not half-hidden in shadow. "Miles, I—"

"Uncle Aaron?" Miles squeaks, and then shoves one hand up to his mouth, because his heart is still thump-thump-thumping like he needs to hide, and even those two words are too much, too loud. His fingers slide across his chin—half of his jaw is wet, tacky and cool. Miles pulls his fingers back stained black in the low light, and he blinks down at them blankly, feeling almost one step removed from his body even as he remembers the ache in his scalp.

"Shit," Uncle Aaron hisses, so low Miles thinks maybe he wasn't supposed to hear, and leans in closer, one long, looming shadow. "Here, lemme see—"

He reaches out as he speaks, a flashing silhouette of claws stretching out towards Miles' face, and—

—a jolt against the cuts on his back, the TV stand hard against his spine where he's shoved himself. Miles gasps a breath in and out, disoriented, pulling his hands in from where he'd raised them without meaning to. He curls his knees up then too, not sure why except that something in him wants to be small, and tucks his trembling fingers between his chest and his thighs.

Uncle Aaron looks like he's been slapped.

"Oh," he breathes, and then he's fumbling his hands down near the floor, the claws sliding off with a pneumonic hiss. "Oh, Miles, no. I'm not—"

"You— You're the Prowler?" Miles can hear the strain in his own voice, but he doesn't know how to stop it. Doesn't know why he's asking, even; he already knows the answer.

He's shivering now, he realizes, hard through his whole body. Uncle Aaron's voice is familiar, soothing like comfort in spite of everything, but that frantic flight instinct leaves him raw as it trickles away, hollowed out in the center, and he tucks his elbows behind his thighs too, cold and quivering.

Uncle Aaron's kneeling upright now, hands bare and slender as he reaches out to wrap fingers around one of Miles' knees. Miles twitches, torn between wanting to shove himself further into a corner and the urge to burrow into Uncle Aaron's chest. Because Uncle Aaron's here, and that's all Miles has wanted for days. Just not...not like this.

"It's okay," Uncle Aaron says, voice rough under the coaxing. Miles just barely hears him swallow, the slightest tug through the fingers on his knee. "It's okay, Miles. You're safe. I didn't— I'm not gonna hurt you."

Miles lets that tug uncurl him just a little, peering hard through the dim light to see Uncle Aaron's expression. He looks almost unreal in a way, all dark spaces and sharp edges until he leans down lower to meet Miles' eyes on a level. With the streetlight spilling across his face, he's just...Uncle Aaron, though there's something haunted in his expression, and he's holding almost unnaturally still.

"Miles," he says, low and soft like he might have done for Miles years ago, when he'd been smaller and still woke him up with nightmares. There's something rawer in it now, though, something that sounds drawn almost as tight as Miles feels. "Please."

It sparks against the empty, wounded thing in Miles' chest, and he should probably go, escape while he still can. He knows that. He just wants—

Uncle Aaron lets go of his knee, sliding back like he's about to draw away, and Miles stumbles up to his knees to reach out, stomach dropping. If he leaves... "Wait—!"

But Uncle Aaron meets him halfway, bundling him into a hug that Miles can feel in his bones. Miles' back stings an unfriendly reminder at the movement as they almost overbalance, but Uncle Aaron just lets himself fall backwards onto his butt and drags Miles onto his lap like he's five, tucking him in close and warm and safe.

"There we go— I got you, I got you," Uncle Aaron murmurs, and lets Miles wrap a strangling arm around him in turn without a peep of protest. Miles feels the press of lips against his unbroken temple, breath in his hair as Uncle Aaron curls around him and presses their heads together, rocking him ever so slightly.

He doesn't smell quite right—like leather and bleach instead of the usual spice of his aftershave—but he's warm and gentle, and so, so familiar and Miles can't hold distance any longer. He tucks himself in as close as he can get and holds on, shivering and gasping in that close, tight embrace.

He has no desire to move, at all, but then something brushes unexpectedly against the wounds on his scalp, sending a throbbing sort of sting down across his skull, and he flinches, a wordless noise of protest escaping without thought.

"Shhh, shh shh, I know. I'm sorry," Uncle Aaron croons to him, and Miles' eyes are burning now and he can't make them stop. He ducks his head instead, pressing his face to the thick cowl of the cape over Uncle Aaron's collar—he can't stop, he can't stop, why can't he stop? Uncle Aaron is more careful this time, fingers tracing under the cuts, his voice a steady thrum that Miles feels as much as he hears. "I'm so sorry, Miles. Swear, I didn't know it was you."

Miles is shaking, insides and outsides, his thoughts a helpless, rough jumble and his guts cold and queasy. He feels like he's watching someone else breathe when he gulps in the next quivery inhale, like his head is too heavy, thick in more ways than one. Everything about his body feels wrong, slow and weighty—off-balance, one step to the left.

It takes a lot more breaths before they stop shivering out. He thinks maybe they sit there together for a while, but he doesn't bother to keep track. He feels it anyway when Uncle Aaron finally unfolds and shifts, picking him up under his back and knees, but he can't work up the urge to protest.

He knows they're moving, knows Uncle Aaron is still speaking to him, low and comforting, but he feels like he's out of focus, like a bad recording. He can't quite track what's being said; doesn't see the need to. He's content to stay as he is until Uncle Aaron puts him down on the kitchen counter and disengages, stepping just a little away with a hand at his shoulder when he sways.

Miles blinks at him, eyes blurring and bleary; the kitchen lights are on now, but his eyes feel thick, dry like grit, and the headache that's been lurking for days now throbs in warning.

With the lights on, though, the apartment loses the last of the frozen, spooky atmosphere that Prowler had brought in ahead of him, becomes something Miles' mind knows as safe. Uncle Aaron is fully himself in the light too, frowning down at a first aid kit that he'd pulled out without Miles noticing.

He's still in most of his Prowler gear and Miles looks it over, watching the cape flick and flare at his heels, mobile as a cat's tail as he turns to run something under the sink faucet.

Spiderman doesn't wear a cape, he remembers, but Uncle Aaron clearly knows how to do it properly. Something cool and wet touches his cheek, interrupting the thought, and he flinches, aches and pains flooding back into his awareness front and center.

"Back with me?" Uncle Aaron asks, fingers coming to Miles' chin as he swipes a damp cloth in careful presses up his cheek towards the cuts.

"...yeah," Miles says once he recognizes that the pause is there for him to answer. "Yeah, I'm…"

He thinks maybe he'd meant to say fine, but every part of that would be a lie right now. He's spared the need to answer when Uncle Aaron dabs the cloth directly to the cuts, and he hisses his breath out at the pain instead.

"Sorry," Uncle Aaron mutters, low, though he doesn't draw the cloth back. He'd said that already, Miles remembers, and it's not…

They've apologized to each other before—he's generally freer with it than Miles' dad. But there's something under these ones, small and raw like shame, that Miles doesn't like, that makes him want to reach out. But on the other side…

"You're the Prowler," Miles tries again, not really sure what question he's asking, or even if he's asking anything at all.

Uncle Aaron presses the cloth firmly against his head, fingers on his chin not letting him draw away from the sting—holding pressure, Miles realizes after a second, but for a moment he thinks he still won't get a response.

"Didn't ever want you involved in this," Uncle Aaron finally says, quiet in a way that highlights the silence of the kitchen around them even more. "I know what I am, but you weren't ever supposed to be… I didn't know it was you, Miles. You gotta believe that much."

And Miles does, if only because Uncle Aaron could have just kept his mask on and finished the job with no one any the wiser. He also understands what that means about what Uncle Aaron would have done to anyone else.

Miles had known that already, though. Or should have known that. He's read all the comics, Prowler's pieces included. If even some of them have a shred of truth—

"You lied to Kingpin," he says instead, because there's no way they're getting through every issue in one night, but there's a few things he needs to know now.

Uncle Aaron goes still—a heavy, waiting sort of stillness that makes Miles watch him closely in turn. He's still got his hand to Miles' head, though, and after a moment he sighs softly through his nose, the slump of his shoulders rippling down the edges of his cape like water shimmering.

"You were there, that night," he says, part question, but mostly statement. There's no need to ask which night he means. He only twists his lip when Miles finally nods. "Then you saw things you shouldn't've, and he wants you gone. Don't matter who you are to me, or anyone else, after all this."

"But you're not gonna—?" Miles starts, and can't quite make himself finish the question, for all that he very much needs to be sure. Uncle Aaron's jaw tightens, expression drawing tight and pinched.

But he doesn't tell Miles off for asking.

"No," he says, voice rough, but very firm. He looks away, staring down at the first aid kit instead, but then he reaches out to curl his free hand lightly around Miles' closest calf, fingers tucking under his knee. "No, I'm not."

Miles breathes out, lets himself slump a little further. Maybe he should wonder if Uncle Aaron's lying, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't think he'd have the energy even if he did.

He looks back at Uncle Aaron, stiff and still avoiding his eyes, and leans over into him without thinking about it, cheek to his shoulder. It's a little awkward with him still trying to keep pressure, but Uncle Aaron just squeezes his leg gently in response and then takes his wrist, nudging his hand up to hold the cloth instead.

"What were you doin' down there that night in the first place?" he asks, moving back slowly enough that Miles manages to sit back straight with something approaching grace, even though his head swims. His tone is serious, but not angry, at least, and he tugs on the sleeve of Miles' costume as he speaks. "And runnin' around in this? Miles, what's going on?"

Miles hesitates. Uncle Aaron clearly knows some of it, coming from the other side, but how honest should he be?

He's not a good liar on the best of days, though, and he's just...so tired.

"Spiderman, that...that night—I think he knew he wasn't gonna make it. He asked me to blow up the collider," Miles finally admits, and hurries to get the rest out when Uncle Aaron stiffens. "He said it put everyone in danger. The whole city."

"He—" Uncle Aaron starts, heated, and then snaps his mouth shut. Miles watches him, wary, on the verge of bristling. If he claims Spiderman was lying—

"Kingpin's got science types for that. 's what the test runs were for, to make it safe," Uncle Aaron tells him, almost forcibly level like it's not what he actually wanted to say, and Miles can't keep himself from scoffing.

"Kingpin doesn't care. I went to Alchemax—"

"Miles—"

"—and I heard Doc Ock and she said," Miles barrels on, determined now, "that it wasn't safe, that dimensions were crashing into each other, and she needed more time. But he said no, twenty-four hours. He doesn't care."

Uncle Aaron stares at him for a long, long moment, and then his shoulders drop down again.

"Alchmax ain't somewhere you should be snoopin'," he says instead of addressing Miles' words, and shakes his head when Miles opens his mouth to retort. "I mean it, Miles. Heard about you and your friends pullin' that little stunt right from Octavius, and you don't want her lookin' at you any more'n Kingpin."

"We had to—" Miles starts, flaring up hot at the dodge, but Uncle Aaron lifts a hand.

"I ain't sayin' you're wrong," he says, and he sounds tired too, words dragging rough, but he meets Miles' eyes straight on and that soothes some of his indignation. "Kingpin's been...off for a while now, 'specially since he built this thing. And Octavius is crazier'n a shithouse rat, so she'd do it, too. But you shouldn't be gettin' mixed up in this, Miles. If they'd caught you at Alchemax—"

"Someone has to—"

"Not you," Uncle Aaron insists, sharp and forceful, and Miles knows why, he does, especially now. But he's already been not good enough tonight, over and over and over again, and hearing it in Uncle Aaron's words burns up in him like acid. He swings his head to stare out the window, blinking hard and fast. "Miles, you are thirteen. You got no business goin' anywhere near men like Kingpin—"

"I don't got a choice!" Miles bursts out, heat like lava bubbling in his chest. "If I don't do it, then one of the other spiders has to, and if they do it they'll die—"

"Other spiders?" Uncle Aaron breaks in, eyes narrowing, and Miles stops cold, realizing just how much he hasn't explained yet. Should he even—? But maybe he doesn't need to: Uncle Aaron looks more calculating than confused. "Those your friends from Alchemax?"

"Yeah," Miles hesitates, because trusting Uncle Aaron—trusting Prowler—is one thing when it's just him. Bringing the others in complicates things.

But Miles had come here for advice, before it'd all imploded, and if he's already mentioned them… "When Spiderman got, uh...shoved into the collider, I guess it...brought some others out? Spider people, I mean. From...other dimensions."

Something warm trickles down his cheek and he realizes he'd yanked the cloth away in his distraction, clenching it in his fist. It's stained almost entirely red now, damp in his hand, and he swipes at the slow dribble and then balls it up again, worms squiggling in his gut. He'd wanted help, before, but how is he supposed to explain—?

"All those supers and they want you to go in—?" Uncle Aaron starts, sounding more than a little riled up, though Miles gets the feeling it's for him, not at him. Still, he shakes his head quickly, wincing when his headache throbs behind his eyes.

"I want to go in," he insists, and tries to make it confident even though clearly no one else wants him to do it—Uncle Aaron included, by his stern look. Miles hunches his shoulders; he has no idea how he expected this conversation to go before the night had gone off the rails entirely, but he's sure it wasn't this.

"The others weren't the only things coming through the collider," he admits before Uncle Aaron can tell him off again, and stares down at the webbing pattern on his too-short sleeve. He'll have to get a new one, he thinks, but then, maybe he shouldn't bother. He's never felt less like Spiderman. "The night before, when we went down together—I got bit by a...by a spider. That's why I was down there at all, after: to find it, 'cause I started getting...well. Powers."

Oh, and it doesn't take Uncle Aaron long at all to arrange all his pieces together—he opens his mouth as though to ask a question and then freezes, staring at Miles, realization washing over his face.

"...you sure?" he finally asks, and Miles nods.

"Spiderman knew as soon as he saw me," he says, and he'd known Spiderman for less than an hour, but something inside him still stings like loss all the same. "Offered to teach me, before he…"

There's a long, fraught pause.

"Ah, hell," Uncle Aaron sighs, like he can't think of anything else to say, and looks him over, close, like he thinks something should stand out now that he knows. Miles resists the urge to stick to something as proof. He'll only end up breaking it.

"I'm not any good at it," Miles admits quietly, but he doesn't feel any better for saying it out loud. Feels worse, maybe, like he had earlier with the others. Small. Disappointing. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling tiles, not sure he wants to see Uncle Aaron's expression. "I can't make the powers work. I can't even stop sticking. But if I can't shut down the collider, then one of the others'll have to stay in this dimension and do it, and then they'll die. Doc Ock said so. So I just need to… I just—"

"Miles." Uncle Aaron's voice is sharp enough that Miles jerks his head back down, heart skipping a few beats. There's nothing, though, just Uncle Aaron, stiff and bristling like an arching cat, staring wide-eyed at him but not meeting his eyes.

Because—Miles discovers when he looks down at himself— he's now invisible.

He isn't quite sure what kind of noise rips out of his throat: almost a laugh, except he'd have to dredge actual humor up past the urge to slam his head back against the cupboards behind him in sheer frustration. Uncle Aaron twitches at the noise and then reaches out, tapping uncertainly against Miles' jaw before tracing a careful path to his forehead.

The touch doesn't dispel the invisibility—not firm enough, maybe—but Miles can see the vague outline of his own chest rippling like heat waves over pavement. Uncle Aaron slides his hand to lay flat on Miles' forehead and the ripples get stronger. "Spiderman didn't have invisibility, I know that much."

"Why can't I—? None of this ever works when I want it to," Miles moans, because what use is a power that only works when he's ashamed? Uncle Aaron's fingers brush against the edge of the claw wounds at his temple and he flinches away.

Uncle Aaron draws back immediately, too—and it turns out Miles' blood becomes visible once it's off him. Uncle Aaron stares down at the red on his fingers for a long, long moment and then glances up at the level of Miles' cheekbones, something new in the set of his jaw.

"Why's that?" he asks, tone strangely neutral like he's only curious, and Miles shrugs listlessly before remembering why that won't work.

"I don't know. I haven't even had time to learn any of the normal spider stuff, and none of the others have the same powers." Miles kicks his heels against the counter, fighting a hard itch in his chest that makes him want to pace. Everyone else figured their powers out without help anyways, so why can't he? "They don't think I can do it: the others, I mean. They don't want me to help stop the collider 'cause I can't make my powers work. But I can't let someone die, just 'cause I'm not—"

He snaps his mouth shut before he can say good enough, but it's there now, burning the edges of his tongue. And right on the heels of that thought is but you already let someone die, didn't you?

It curdles in his stomach, nauseating and thick, and Miles bows his head as it stings in his cheeks. He didn't mean to— But it's like quicksand, that idea, and his mind feels so slow, and no matter how he turns it—

"How long you had these powers, Miles?" Uncle Aaron asks, and Miles realizes only then that they'd been sitting in silence for a few seconds. "Since the subway, you said. So what, three, four days?"

"Three, I think," Miles offers, turning to look at his uncle as he tracks a quick, dim path through his murky memory. Uncle Aaron's staring out at the window, shoulders tight, a grim sort of blankness on his face—like whatever thoughts he's having aren't ones he wants to share.

He tilts his chin to look back in Miles' direction at his words, though, for all that Miles is still invisible, and something in his expression shifts.

"Three days, then. You learn how to draw in three days?" Uncle Aaron asks, and it almost feels like a non-sequitur to Miles, a topic out of left field. Uncle Aaron takes advantage of his silence. "Or ride a bike? How 'bout those fancy physics equations that school likes to throw at you?"

"It's not the same thing," Miles protests, catching on.

"Sure," Uncle Aaron agrees, in that way he has which means he's not agreeing at all. "It's somethin' the human body and brain weren't ever made to handle, and yours ain't even finished growin'. So you think maybe you might be askin' a bit much?"

"Peni's even younger than me, and she's got it down," Miles protests. Peni might not be the best choice, he thinks a second later, considering the wide variation in her powers, but he's also pretty certain he couldn't have handled half of what she'd described when he'd been eleven.

"Yeah? And when'd she get her powers?" Uncle Aaron returns, implacable, and Miles...doesn't know, but he doesn't think it was recent. "Not three days ago, I'm guessin'."

"I don't know," Miles admits, reluctant for reasons he can't quite place. It doesn't feel like Uncle Aaron's right—but Miles understands what he's trying to do. And right or not, it reaches some part of him that had curled up tight and hid the moment the others had turned away, soothing despite his doubts.

He sees a flicker—his legs, color shimmering just briefly into view. Uncle Aaron catches it too, clearly, and shifts to bracket him, hands on the counter on either side of Miles' knees, leaning down at almost exactly the right height to meet his eyes.

"Look. When I say I don't want you involved with things like this, it's 'cause I know the worst that can happen. I've been the worst that can happen," Uncle Aaron tells him bluntly, eyes steady and so serious, for all that it must feel like he's talking to the kitchen wall from his perspective. "Parker was Spiderman for years and years—couldn't touch him for most of 'em and then boom. One bad night. Didn't matter how good he was."

Miles tries not to think of it, tries not to remember, but his cuts are still aching, a dull background throb with every beat of his heart, and that stands as its own example. His cheek is wet again, but the bloody cloth feels damp and sticky in his hand, no help at all at this point, and he lets it drop to the counter, where it flickers into view.

Uncle Aaron turns his eyes down to it for a few long moments and then back to Miles in silence, as though to punctuate.

"But this? You think 'cause you ain't superhero ready right off the bat, it means you ain't good enough?" Uncle Aaron continues then, quick and fierce, and Miles prickles at the echo of his own thoughts, because Uncle Aaron's always been a little too good at reading him. "That's bullshit."

Miles straightens his back a little at the sheer intensity with which Uncle Aaron says it: like he wants to bury every possible doubt under the straight force of his words. He's so certain, and Miles…

"I never wanted you to see the Prowler for lots of reasons, most of 'em even good ones," Uncle Aaron tells him, and he sounds like he's admitting to a fault, something shameful. "But if I'm honest, the first reason is 'cause I'm selfish. I wanted you to look up to me, and Prowler ain't someone anyone looks up to."

"I do look up to you!" Miles insists, because Prowler or not, that's always been true, and with that little spark of not-quite indignation, his body fades properly back into view.

Uncle Aaron smiles then, just a little, a short, subtle twist at the corner of his mouth.

"See, but there's the thing, Miles. I ain't anythin' to look up to, 'cause you've always been somethin' more." Miles opens his mouth to protest and Uncle Aaron shakes his head once, almost gentle. "I might'a given you a boost when you asked for it, or an ear when you needed it, but you been makin' your way to somethin' bigger and better for years on, now, and you're gettin' there all on your own."

Miles squirms a little—he knows Uncle Aaron loves him, but hearing something like this laid out bare is more than he knows how to deal with. Uncle Aaron snags his chin gently, though, bringing his head up, and he looks so intent when Miles meets his eyes, earnest like he wants Miles to believe, and Miles can't help, but listen.

"You're the best of all of us, Miles. And I know damn well that when you settle into these powers, you're gonna be somethin' the world ain't ready for." Uncle Aaron says, rock-hard certain like fact, and Miles insides are warm and unsettled and yet nothing like before. "But that don't mean you gotta be the best right off, all day, every day. You gotta give yourself some space to learn, and there ain't no shame in gettin' it wrong."

Miles swallows, tucking his chin down into Uncle Aaron's hand so that he can look away, his eyes stinging very faintly.

Because he has been getting it wrong, pretty much since he got bit, but this is the first time it's felt like...like maybe that's normal. Like he can ask for help, for advice, and it won't be...won't be a weakness, or a failure, that he isn't already on the right level. Like someone might help him get to the right level. Miles pulls in one long, deep breath, lets Uncle Aaron's faith settle behind his breastbone like a candle flame where his own had started to gutter

This, he thinks, is what he'd been looking for.

Still. He knows it hasn't changed the issue. The other spiders won't want him to help—though he can see now, with a little distance, that it's because they don't want him to die. Doesn't seem to matter that that's what he wants for all of them.

The main issue has always been time.

"But the others can't wait on me. If I get it wrong now—" Miles starts, and Uncle Aaron raps him gently on one knee with his knuckles.

"Then you get it wrong. Tellin' me you're gonna let that stop you?" Uncle Aaron tips his head just a little to the side, as though prepared to wait out any argument Miles might offer. Like none of Miles' doubts will be able to shake him. "Might be smarter to stand back, maybe. But every time you say why you can't do this right, you go straight on to why you're gonna do it anyways, you know that?"

Had he? Miles hadn't done it intentionally. But…

"I have to," he says, because the thought of sitting back and letting another spider die, because they think he isn't ready, is—

No. Not this time.

And nothing's really changed, no, but somehow it feels like he has a platform to stand on instead of drowning in the rush of everything he doesn't know. However shaky the start, however much he has left to learn, it no longer feels like an insurmountable climb.

Someone believes in him.

He breathes in deep and lifts his chin. Pulls from Uncle Aaron's voice and says it like truth to make it so. "I'm going to. I can feel them too, you know, the others, and it's like they're...important, now. I can't just stand back and watch."

"Thought you might say that, or I'd have spent longer arguing," Uncle Aaron says, wry like he doesn't quite approve, but he looks...not upset, like Miles would have thought. Proud, maybe—a low glimmer in his eyes that only settles Miles further. "Nothin' that says you gotta do it alone, though."

It takes Miles a long moment to understand.

"You—?" He sounds a little too incredulous, maybe, but Uncle Aaron just shrugs one shoulder in agreement. "What about Kingpin?"

"I've made my choices, there. Weren't really ever a choice to begin with." Uncle Aaron raises his chin, eyes narrowing. "If you're goin' in there to fight, I'm gonna be there to back you. No arguments."

Miles doesn't have any—doesn't want to have any. If he can go into this with Prowler there to help—

He'd hoped for reassurance when he'd first made his way here, and it feels like he's come away with that and more, the weight sitting on him so much lesser for sharing. He feels light, almost—still stiff and bruised and bleary, but there's a spark in his chest like hummingbird wings, buzzing in his veins.

"Other spiders probably won't like you," he warns, but he knows it comes out closer to giddy than anything else.

"Well, tough," Uncle Aaron snorts, but there's something soft and pleased in the crinkle of his eyes. He offers Miles his hand, palm up—just to hold or to help him down, Miles isn't sure, but when he reaches out to take it, his own fingers spark, that effusive feeling inside him snapping out like static.

He whips his hand back before he can launch Uncle Aaron across the room, at least, and when he opens his hand again the sparks are gone. But he stares at his fingers and remembers

—warm-close-safe, lips to his forehead, best of all of us, the world ain't ready—

—and with the shimmer still lurking in his chest, it feels almost simple, in a way he'd not managed before, to spark.

It crackles down his arm, livewire strong, and then Miles is holding lightning at his fingertips, dancing in his hands.

"Do I even want to know what that is?" Uncle Aaron says, but he leans in even as he says it, intent eyes reflecting a crackling blue. Miles blows out his breath and lets it go again before he can touch, his own eyes prickling like static under his lids.

"I got spider venom," he crows, delight ballooning out in his chest because he's finally, finally done it. He curls his fingers into little biting fangs and grins at Uncle Aaron's look.

Except grinning sends sparks of fire along his scalp and he hisses, wincing at the next trickle of blood running across his cheekbone.

"That's gonna need stitches," Uncle Aaron says, begrudging, and twists his lip in clear apology when Miles jerks his head up to protest. "'less you'd like to explain to your folks what clawed you in the face? As it is, better hope you got Parker's quick healing, or you'll be doin' that anyways."

"I go to get stitches and they'll know, too," Miles points out, but Uncle Aaron makes a short noise in his throat.

"Think I go to the hospital every time?" He smiles when Miles peers at him and offers his hand again. "Least I can do is fix you up, after causin' it."

Miles takes his hand without incident this time, though sliding down off the counter makes him wince as he remembers his other hurts. "Can you get my back too, then?"

Standing turns out to be a riskier move than he'd anticipated, too, after he'd settled into something like equilibrium on the counter. His back stings, of course, but his head swims too and his legs actually shake—and Uncle Aaron's making worried noises, nudging him around to get at his back, and Miles actually has to hang onto the counter for a moment to steady out.

"—know I'm the one that put 'em there, but say somethin' next time, Miles." Uncle Aaron's grumbling, but he stops when Miles just blinks up at him, still a little woozy. "Sheesh. You sleep at all in the last three days either?"

Actually, Miles...doesn't think so? A catnap here or there, but there just hasn't been time.

"Little bit?" he says, since it's sort of true, but Uncle Aaron doesn't seem fooled.

"Well, y'look like shit," he says candidly, and Miles snickers, mostly out of surprise. Uncle Aaron shakes his head. "Not just talkin' about the bits I did, either. And you don't think that long with no sleep might'a been part of your problem?"

"Oh." Miles blinks, rolling that over in his head. His teachers have always been pretty big on sleep, at Visions. "I guess so."

Uncle Aaron scoffs, very lightly.

"Yeah. C'mon then, hero," he sighs and puts a very careful hand to Miles' back to push him along to the couch. "Let's get you fixed up.

And it turns out—Miles learns, between stripping out of his ruined costume shirt and fetching some towels out of the bathroom—that there's a lot about Uncle Aaron that he never got to see. Like what looks like heavy-duty medical supplies he keeps hidden under a pried-up floorboard beneath the carpet. Miles is too tired to go snooping through the equipment and vials in there, but he suspects his mother would have things to say.

"Shouldn't need stitches in your back," Uncle Aaron tells him, after a much closer look. "Got away there with just grazes. Didn't go into the muscle at all."

"Didn't feel like grazes," Miles grumbles, and Uncle Aaron rests a hand on his head for a moment, in what feels like both comfort and apology, before he cleans them out—ouch—and bandages them up.

Then it's up to his head, and Miles flops out on the couch, towels layered out beneath him while Uncle Aaron prods at his scalp.

"Pretty sure you got some healing powers in there, or these would'a bled a lot more," Uncle Aaron tells him while bunching his hair up out of the way. "Still don't wanna risk 'em closing this wide, but it ought'a speed things up for you."

"Yaaay," Miles acknowledges wryly, waving his fist in clumsy celebration at the ceiling. Now that he's lying flat, despite the sting of the cuts, the urge to drift off is...strong. Very strong.

"Really ought'a shave your head if we're doin' it properly," Uncle Aaron adds, and then chuckles when Miles jerks awake at that. "Nah, not this time. We're goin' for subtle here."

"Very funny," Miles grouches at him, watching as Uncle Aaron fills a needle from one of the vials he'd pulled out.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Nice to laugh when it's my fault," he acknowledges wryly. He's smiling a little, but it's something soft and fond, not mocking, and Miles lets it smooth his faint annoyance back down. "Take a rest, Miles. This might take a while."

"Can't sleep too long. Gotta get back to the others in time," Miles reminds him, but oh, does he want to close his eyes.

"And you'll be better for sleep, even just a few hours," Uncle Aaron says, and taps Miles' chin. "I'll wake you bright and early, promise."

"Well, if you promise," Miles yawns, and finally lets his eyelids droop. He's awake for the shot, for the weird numbness in his scalp, and past that he knows—

a tugging, shallow and strange under his skin—

a sound like humming, familiar and deep—

the world moving under him, rocking like a boat, and then it's solid again, soft and warm. Something brushes against his forehead, gentle like butterfly wings.

And down he sinks.