Chapter Text
'Begin your sweep. Find the Anomaly.'
From his cramped hiding space, he hears the command. Flat, unbending, emotionless - yet paradoxically icy with hatred. It cannot be reasoned with, or bargained with. Appeals to logic and emotion alike will meet with only one possible outcome: failure. A force that absolutely will not stop or yield or relent, ever - until Miguel O'Hara closes those feral claws around his neck.
His refuge is so flimsy, pathetic, he swears she must see him. He knows she will, sooner or later. So his every coiled sinew and tensed muscle readies for the inescapable.
He's been on the run before. From her, even.
But not like this.
This time, she's leading the hunt.
He remembers the moment they took her from him. It took them all. Noir and Ham and Hobie and Peter and Peni and Pavitr and Margo. To drag him away from her, from them. A last hand held out to her - mirroring hers held out to him.
He remembers her last words to him - before they took her from him.
'Come back for me.'
Right now, he doesn't know if he can.
He doesn't even know if any part of her wants him to anymore.
Or even if, in the prison of her own mind, there's any part of her left.
It should've been him. Yet she gave herself up for him. Noir and Ham and the rest of the Gang were ready to go down fighting for him - for them. They would've massacred Miguel's goons in droves. But inevitably, the Society's sheer weight of numbers would've overwhelmed them. So Gwen made an offer Miguel couldn't refuse: Let The Original Anomaly go. Let their friends go.
And in exchange: herself.
The worst part? He hadn't ever had the chance to forgive her.
Ironic then, that so shortly after he'd lost her forever, she'd come back to him.
Or at least, a version of her did.
A pale imitation. A living ghost. Of a friend he cannot properly grieve, for she's not even truly dead (even as she's suffering a living death). Yet still he grieves. (And he cannot let her go when he sees her face everyday.)
Even if she wears Gwen's face, even if in too many ways to count she actually is Gwen, she'll never be Gwen.
Not my Gwen...
He's grateful for this new Spider-girl's help. He truly is.
And yet.
He loathes himself for even thinking this. But his revulsion cannot still the hateful thought worming its way into the deepest recesses of his mind. The more he tries to tamp it down, the more it haunts him, even as a solitary tear slides, barely noticed, down his face. His plea for the ghost's forgiveness, for the abhorrent question he simply cannot stop asking himself.
If they wouldn't take me, why didn't they take her instead of Gwen?
The thought passes, like a fleeting shadow. He reminds himself that, for all her supposed flaws, Other-Gwen is his ally. Perhaps even, in time, he may finally admit out loud that she is also his friend.
But the shame of even having this thought stays with him. It will linger a long time.
They had him. Or they should have.
The Society goon trying to fix him in a chokehold was somehow too damn clumsy to actually catch him in a firm grip. But then again, Ben Reilly was never exactly the brains of the outfit.
He was, however, landing several vicious blows. What he lacked in brains, he made up for in brute strength. (What could you expect from a brute, anyway?)
At his peak, Miles would've easily disposed of this jerk with a single charged venom blast, or a well-timed dropkick while cloaked.
He was not at his peak.
Months on the run, barely any food or sleep. He ran and fought with the wild ferocity born of desperation and despair. But he was running on fumes.
Reilly never passed up a chance to taunt or beat him. As usual.
'I'm just buttering you up, Morales...'
Reilly really was just a meathead.
'... Your little girlfriend's coming to finish the job.'
But even he had enough grey matter in that dented noggin to land the occasional verbal shot.
If Miles had heard this the first time, he might've given a shit. But then again, Reilly was nothing if not predictable.
So Miles just shot back his usual stony stare. The one that telegraphed: I'm just so done with this shit.
But beneath that nonchalant - even bored - exterior, his hurt and rage and despair seethed. To his eternal misfortune, Reilly would soon find out how deep it all went.
Even so, that didn't stop him from mouthing off like a moron.
'What's the matter, Morales? Can't an old pal say "hi"?' That mocking sneer. Grating on his ears as ever. Even amidst getting the pulp thrashed out of him, he reflexively rolled his eyes. Such a drama queen.
'You? Say "hi"? Gee, your vocabulary's really grown, Reilly!'
The goon flinched. Even with his doubtful intelligence, he knew when Miles was calling him a dumbass.
Just to drive the point in, the anomaly quipped breezily: 'Want me to read you a bedtime story?'
That did it. The goon's fingers hadn't even finished loosening involuntarily when he slipped from Reilly's grasp and delivered a backflipped kick to his jaw. Vicious, well-timed - and most well-deserved.
'Okay, so hear me out okay, just hear me out, just off the top of my head, I can think of "The Three Billy Goats", " Three Blind Mice", "The Three Little Pigs"...' His bones groaned and creaked, his muscles screamed and strained. But even though he felt the bile rising inexorably in his throat and his words spilling out of him faster and faster and faster - he willed himself to deliver his snarks exquisitely, impeccably.
That included sending them home with perfect timing. He furrowed his brow, affecting a facade of mock (or, really, mocking) concern. '... but I ain't sure you can count that high, man.'
Reilly screamed.
Raged.
Impotent.
Exhausted as he was, a single thought coursed through Miles's head.
I can do this all day.
A mantra of determination. Or madness. (Honestly, at this point, he couldn't tell which was which, or if there even was a difference anymore.)
And so he fought. And fought. And fought.
Neither side could land a finishing blow. Miles had already beaten Reilly's would-be reinforcements senseless.
For now, it was just the two of them.
He and Reilly were deadlocked.
Things got markedly more interesting, however - when she showed up.
Not Gwen, of course. Or rather, not his Gwen. But Gwen Stacy, any Gwen Stacy, would always spice things up. Especially if that Gwen was also a Spider-Gwen.
'Hola! Chico la gota, Meathead!'
Her deliberately mangled Spanish would probably have been more appropriate for riling up Miguel. Still, points for trying.
That doesn't still his frustration toward her bubbling up. So brash and cocky and silly...
It's an anger born of disdain, yes. But also of concern (though - very much unlike the disdain - he'd never be caught dead admitting it to her - at least not in public).
And - to his own surprise - that anger commingles with an abrupt, fast-swelling burst of relief and happiness at seeing her, even if she is supposedly just Gwen's living ghost to him.
(If he hadn't been so stressed, he might've realised it. That Gwen was probably a heck of a lot like this when she was starting out herself. Come to think of it, so was he.)
In any case, she succeeded in her objective: snatching the goon's attention away from him. Which meant the beating slackened (somewhat).
And stopped entirely, when she dropped her mask and riveted him with sapphire blue eyes, at once icy and smouldering.
He knew something was up when Reilly stopped talking - unfortunately, an all too rare phenomenon.
He wasn't entirely sure, but out of the corner of his (one) unswollen eye, he swore he thought he saw her fingers shifting, oh so subtly. Subtly, but clearly, she was signalling. But to who...? Where...?
And - of course - Reilly didn't stop talking for long.
'Shooters on the ground and hands in the air!' The gears ground (ever so slowly) in that thick skull, before he hastily tacked on: '... where I can see them!'
Even beaten half to death, Miles couldn't stifle the exasperated groan that escaped his split lips.
Keep yappin', Cap'n Obvious...
Other-Gwen's eyes widened, fear and shock dancing across them, as though intimidated by the hulking meta-human. She'd only gotten her powers months ago herself. So perhaps it stood to reason that she still hadn't realised she actually matched the meathead strength for strength.
Perhaps.
She complied without question, making a show of slowly unclasping the web shooters from her wrists, lowering them deliberately to the floor, and stepping away with her hands coming up...
... and then she leapt backwards, sprang herself up into the air, and unleashed a barrage of webs from her fingertips.
Despite his tense relationship with Gwen's double, Miles couldn't help smirking with satisfaction - and pride. Organic webbing. In any universe, Gwen Stacy is amazing.
Other-Gwen's web onslaught plasters Reilly to the ground. Every strand finds its mark, her webs rapidly cohering into a near-adamantine snare, nigh-unbreakable even for the musclehead. Her organic webshooters significantly outrange known synthetic variants. Not that Reilly ever had a chance to return fire.
As if on cue, another fusillade accompanies Other-Gwen's massive web strike - this one made of actual bullets. Noir unloads his tommy gun mercilessly. And if you were anyone remotely affiliated with Miguel O'Hara, deciding between Hitler's buzzsaw and supremely pissed-off Chicago typewriter would be a - decidedly - tough choice... But heck, no one ever said the ol' dame never got things done.
She lays down just the perfect cover. For Other-Gwen to swing in - and swing away with Miles.
'Mr Morales, your four o' clock's here.'
Noticing his queasy expression, she follows up (even more) wryly: 'Don't rupture your spleen, man.'
Her droll humour belies a simple truth.
And Miles knows it. No matter what (or which), Gwen always comes back for him.
So he will always come back for her.