Chapter Text
Hobie's safehouse was a decidedly sparse affair.
It wasn't even quite a house, really. The boat was so rickety and leaky, Miles half-wondered if the Spider Society's real plan after all was to drown him.
He was glad for the Spider-Punk's help. Really, he was. After Miles had spent the good part of the day feeling overshadowed, the anarchist had been the only one to stick up for him during that intervention from hell.
Took a punk to stand up to the Fanged Fascist. Who knew...
The sardonic thought floated in his head. Drifting through his mind like so much mental flotsam.
Unfinished.
Daring - almost taunting - him to complete it.
In his reverie, he'd lost track of how long it'd been. Before the traitorous musing resolved itself.
... unlike some "heroes"...
... heroes like certain "friends" of his were.
Friends he now thought of strictly in the past tense.
'"You're the only friend I ever made since Peter died."'
She stopped.
Her words. Word for word. Coming from his mouth.
Another lie.
Heat rising in his spleen. Knot twisting in his gut.
Face reddening, contorting. Lips curling.
'Miles, you're my best friend.'
Lies. Lies. All lies.
LIAR.
He remembered being made to feel small.
Hobie smashing the energy barrier effortlessly. After he'd poured his all into barely budging it.
Of course she'd light up when Hobie showed up.
She'd literally kicked him when he was down after all, way back in janky old hobo Spider-Man's shack. (And for that matter, just where did that guy get off on using a baby as bait? Guess 'the fate of the Multi-Verse' justified all manner of douchebaggery and dickery.)
'I should've never come to see you!'
And he took that rage, so artfully concealed under the lamest of 'Dang!'s. So casually thrown out, as though he'd just stubbed a toe or dropped a book on his foot. As opposed to, oh, say, having the girl you pined for stomp on what was left of your ripped-out heart - minutes after trying to leave your life forever and -
'... I'll never see him again.'
Of course he'd thrown it right back in her face. Wishing he'd never felt the surge of hateful satisfaction when she teared up. Yet helpless to stop himself from relishing the tiniest vengeance he'd finally wrung from her.
And that was after she'd led him. By the nose. Into Miguel's den. Knowing full well that even if she didn't know exactly what Dark Broody Dracula had in store for Miles, it could never have been good.
After all, they'd talked about this.
... and of course, that's why they'd never come to see him.
His lips quivered, as though saying it would make the awful truth real. But say it he did.
And say it he had to.
'I was.'
Even when it tore a new hole in his core. Even when he thought he had nothing left to break anymore.
There was always more.
Always, always more.
He half-wondered if this was how he'd turn into the Prowler. Meet the destiny the Spider-Verse had hidden for him, in its hatred for Miles Morales and New York-1610B.
Through it all, he studied every curve and line of her face.
He'd once thought he'd never see her again.
He now questioned whether he'd ever want to again.
Or if he'd even want to want to.
'I didn't want to lose you, Gwen.'
It was true. It always had been.
Yet, so was this.
He needed her to hear it.
And he needed to hear it, too.
'But right now... you're losing me.'