Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dinner table felt like a trap.
Because it was.

Miguel sat like a statue—posture perfect, voice silent.
Phin chewed gum, elbow on the table, eyes glued to Miles like a bored snake playing with its prey.

And Gwen?
She hadn’t unclenched her fists since they walked in.

Miles could hear her heartbeat.
Too fast. Too tight.

Then it happened.
Phin reached into her coat.

Clink.
A syringe rolled across the wood.
Clear fluid. Familiar design.
Adrenaline.

“Your favorite,” she said sweetly.

“No,” Miles said instantly.
Gwen’s fingers found his under the table, clutching so tight it almost hurt.

“I’m clean,” he muttered. “I’m done.”

Miguel’s gaze didn’t flinch.
“You’re never done,” he said.
“Not until we say you are.”

He didn’t give a signal.
Didn’t need to.

Phin lunged.
Gwen shoved her chair back, too slow—Phin grabbed her by the wrist, twisted it up behind her back, and—

Stab.
The adrenaline hissed in.

Gwen screamed.
Not a little yelp.
A broken, ragged scream that ripped straight from her lungs.

Her body jerked violently. Knees hit the floor. Hands clawing at air.
She gasped like drowning.

“NO!” Miles tried to leap forward, but Miguel stood, blocking him—shoving him back with one arm like he was weightless.

“You want it to stop?” Miguel asked. “Then take the hit.”

Gwen sobbed on the floor.
“I—I can’t—” she stammered.
Phin grinned, needle ready again.

“No, please—don’t—” Gwen begged, her voice hoarse and barely there.
Her muscles spasmed. Her mouth trembled.

Stab.

Another dose.
Another wave.
Her head slammed against the floor as her body convulsed.

“STOP!” Miles roared, the sound tearing from somewhere primal.
“I’LL KILL YOU!”

He flung Miguel back with a venom blast—no thinking, no holding back. The wall cracked. Miguel staggered.

Miles was already moving.
Fist glowing, lungs burning.

But Phin—fast, cruel—grabbed Gwen again, pressed the third needle to her neck—

Miles froze.
Just one breath too long.

“You try to stop me,” Phin said, “and I end her.”

Gwen was barely conscious, tears streaking down her cheeks, eyes fluttering, lips whispering something like “don’t do it, please don’t take it”—

She was in shock.
He could see it.
Her pulse erratic. Skin pale. Hands trembling uncontrollably.

“I’ll do it,” Phin warned.

Miles stepped forward, empty hands raised.
Voice shaking.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Just—stop hurting her.”

“Take the hit,” Miguel said calmly, like it was nothing.
“Prove you’re still useful.”

He looked at Gwen.
Her chest convulsing. Her mouth open. Silent.

And he broke.

He screamed, but not from pain.
From rage.
From helplessness.
From hate.

Then—

He snapped.

“I’m not your toy anymore!”
Venom exploded from his skin, crackling in every direction.

Phin flew back, slamming into the counter, the syringe skidding away.

Miguel charged—
But Miles was faster.
Venom strike to the gut. A fist to the mask. An elbow to the chestplate.

He fought like a wildfire.

Gwen crawled to the wall, gasping, barely awake.

Miles moved through the storm with one goal: protect her.
Keep her alive.
Keep her safe.

Miguel staggered. Phin cursed. The apartment trembled.

And finally—

They left.

Not with a threat. Not with a parting shot.

With silence.
Defeated.

⸻

Miles collapsed next to Gwen, his arms shaking as he pulled her into him.

“I didn’t take it,” he whispered.

She cried into his chest. Not from fear.
From relief.

“You fought back,” she breathed.

And he held her tighter.
“I’ll always fight back. For you.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was dim again.
Quiet again.
Safe again.

But not inside her.

Gwen sat by the window, legs pulled to her chest, forehead against the cool glass. Her body had mostly stopped shaking. Her pupils had returned to normal. Her heartbeat—steady, finally.

But her mind was on fire.

She could still feel it.
That flash.
The flood.
The rush.

The way her body snapped awake like lightning had kissed every nerve.
How alive it felt.

She hated it.
She missed it.

Miles moved behind her, a blanket in hand. “You’re cold,” he said gently.

She didn’t respond.
Didn’t even blink.

“Gwen…?” he asked, crouching beside her.

Her voice was paper-thin. “It felt good.”

Miles stilled. “What?”

She turned to him, eyes distant, ashamed.
“I didn’t want it. I hated it. But… my body didn’t.”
She clenched her fingers into her palm.
“It made me want more.”

His face crumbled.

“I get it,” he whispered.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”

He sat beside her, their shoulders touching, two ghosts in the half-light.

“When I first took it,” he said, “it wasn’t just the power. It was the quiet.”
She glanced over.
“The voices, the pressure, the pain—it all went quiet. For ten seconds, I wasn’t broken.”
He paused.
“And then I was worse.”

Gwen closed her eyes.
“I thought I was stronger than this,” she breathed.
“You are.”

“No.” Her voice hardened. “I want it again. I hate that I do. But I do.”

Miles looked at her for a long moment.
Then—

“You’re not alone in this,” he said.

She blinked.
“What?”

“You didn’t choose this, Gwen. They forced it on you. But if you think I’m gonna let them turn you into me—” he swallowed, hard—“then I’ll burn the whole multiverse before that happens.”

She didn’t speak.
But when he pulled her into him, she didn’t resist either.

⸻

Later that night, when he was asleep, Gwen stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
Eyes hollow.
Pulse steady.

Her hand hovered near the cabinet.

There was nothing in there. She knew.
She’d made sure.
So why was she still reaching?

She pressed her forehead to the mirror.
“I’m not him,” she whispered.

But part of her wondered what it would feel like
one more time.

————-
Gwen started changing on missions.

Small things at first.
She moved faster than needed. Jumped from higher places. Delayed using her webs just to feel the wind slam her ribs.

One night, during patrol, she dove between two collapsing buildings—without warning Miles—grinning through the debris, landing hard on a rooftop with her knee scraped and her lungs heaving like she’d just tasted god.

“You’re insane,” Miles panted, catching up to her.
She just smirked.
“Relax, I had it.”

But her hands were shaking.
And she loved it.

⸻

By the end of the week, she was chasing adrenaline like it was oxygen.

Waking up early to train.
Swinging too fast.
Laughing too hard.
Breathing like every moment was on fire.

And Miles noticed.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked one night.
She shrugged. “I’m just pushing myself.”

But the way her eyes darted around, how she kept touching the side of her neck where the syringe hit—it didn’t feel like pushing.
It felt like craving.

And Miles knew the look.
He’d lived it.
He’d died in it.

⸻

It happened on a rooftop, three blocks above Midtown.
A drop too high for even experienced Spider-People to land clean.
But Gwen jumped anyway.

“MILES!” she shouted midair, laughing, wild, unstoppable.

He lunged after her—caught her by the wrist just before she cracked the pavement. The jolt nearly tore his shoulder.
He slammed her against the wall, webbing wrapping around them both.

Her face was flushed, heart thundering, pupils blown.

And Miles lost it.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

She blinked, still breathless.
“I was fine—”

“You’re not fine,” he roared.
“You’re high. And there’s no needle, but it’s the same damn thing.”

Gwen flinched.

“You’re doing everything I did. The rush, the danger, the obsession—you’re addicted and you don’t even see it!”

“You think I want this?” she snapped.
“You think I chose to wake up every night and miss it?”
Her fists balled.
“I can’t not feel it, Miles. It’s in my blood now.”

He stepped back like she slapped him.
“You sound just like me before I crashed.”

She looked away. “Maybe I’m stronger.”

That broke him.

“No,” he growled. “You’re not stronger. You’re me. One week away from lying. Two days away from using. One fall from not getting back up.”

She opened her mouth—but he cut her off.

“You knew how much it cost me to get clean. You watched me suffer. You held me down when I was screaming, Gwen. And now you—you chose this?”

Tears slipped down her cheek, fast and silent.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered.

“Then stop,” he said, voice like iron.
“Because if you don’t… I’ll lock you down myself. I’ll do everything you did to me and worse.”

She looked at him—terrified.
Not of him, but of the truth in his voice.

“And I won’t be soft,” he added.
“Not this time.”

Chapter Text

Gwen dove off the rooftop like the world couldn’t touch her.

She twisted through smoke and concrete, flipping past broken scaffolding and flying straight through a shatter of glass. The cut on her shoulder opened again—she didn’t care.

When she landed, she skidded across the gravel rooftop, laughing as her chest heaved.

It wasn’t funny.
It was necessary.

She needed that pulse. That rush. That fire in her blood.

“Miles, did you see that?”

He landed a second later, silent, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.

“You didn’t wait,” he said. His voice was low, shaking with restraint. “You were supposed to check in.”

“There wasn’t time,” she said, brushing dirt off her suit.

“You made the time. You wanted to jump.” His eyes burned. “You didn’t have to do that, Gwen. You wanted to feel it again.”

“Stop,” she snapped. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not.” He took a step toward her. “You’re chasing it. You’re putting yourself in danger to feel what they did to you.”

A new voice joined them.

“Yeah. We noticed.”

Hobie dropped down behind them, adjusting his mask and looking pissed. “You nearly took out the comm tower. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I had it under control,” Gwen muttered.

“No,” Miles said, stepping in front of her. “You didn’t.”

“Why are you all ganging up on me?” Gwen’s voice rose. “I haven’t taken anything. I’m not injecting myself. I’m just—I’m just pushing limits.”

“Bullshit,” Hobie said. “You’re addicted to the fall, not the drug. Different leash, same collar.”

Gwen’s fists tightened.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound just like me,” Miles said, and the words made her flinch. “You sound like I did when I was lying to your face.”

“I’m not you.”

“You’re worse,” he snapped, and instantly regretted it. But the words were out.

Gwen looked at him like he’d hit her. “You think I want this?”

“I think you want the rush. And I think you’re going to get yourself killed chasing it.”

She turned away, jaw trembling. “You don’t understand what it’s like to wake up and miss it. That feeling. That—lightning in your chest.”

“I do.” Miles stepped forward again. “I lived it. I hated it. And I missed it too. But I fought it. You’re not fighting anything. You’re diving straight into it and calling it strength.”

Hobie crossed his arms.

“He’s right. You’re crashing, Gwendy. Whether you admit it or not.”

She stayed quiet.

Miles stared at her for a long moment.

“You want to burn yourself out? Fine. But I’m not letting you take me with you.”

Her voice cracked. “Then what—what do I do?”

He took a breath. His hands were shaking.

“You detox.”

Her eyes widened. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I can handle it—”

“No, Gwen. You can’t.” His voice shook, but didn’t soften. “And I’m done pretending you can.”

She stepped back. “You can’t make me—”

“I can.” Miles stepped forward. “And I will.”

Hobie nodded slowly. “You helped clean him up. Now we clean you up.”

And Gwen?
She finally stopped running.

But that didn’t mean she was ready.

—————

The rooftop was quiet.
Too quiet.

Brooklyn hummed below them, unaware of the war happening ten stories up. Not between enemies—but between people who used to hold each other when they broke.

Gwen adjusted her gloves. Fast, sharp movements. She was jittery, restless.

“Ready?” Miles asked, landing across from her.

“I’ve been ready,” she said.
Too quickly. Too hard.
Her voice didn’t have fire—it had edge.

They started slow.
Dodging, light jabs, standard routine. They’d done this a hundred times before.

But Gwen didn’t stop at the usual.

She pushed forward—aggressive, reckless.
Swung too close. Hit too hard. Didn’t dodge when she could’ve. Took the brunt of Miles’ counter like she wanted to feel it.

“Gwen, ease up—”

“Hit me.”

Miles blinked. “What?”

“Stop pulling your punches. Hit me, Miles.”

He stepped back, confused. “Gwen, I’m not—”

She came at him again, wild.
Landed a fist against his side, then another to his jaw. He winced, stumbled—then caught her wrists mid-swing.

“Why are you doing this?” he hissed.

“Because I need to feel something.”

His grip tightened. “Gwen, no.”

“Why not? You wanted to fight when it was you. You wanted to be punished. I do too.”

“This isn’t training anymore—this is self-destruction.”

She yanked herself free and shoved him. “Then destroy me!”

That was it. That was the break.
Miles snapped.

He lunged without thinking—tackled her to the ground.

And in that second—

Venom sparked.
A full-body jolt exploded from his chest and through his fingers.

It struck her like lightning.

Gwen arched under him, mouth falling open in a half-scream, half-gasp that echoed off the rooftop.

And then—she laughed.

Not mocking. Not cruel.
She laughed like it saved her.

Miles froze.
His hands shook against her sides, his eyes wide in horror.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Gwen…”

She exhaled, eyes glassy, heartbeat wild. “Do it again.”

“No,” he breathed. “No, no—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to—”

She reached for him. “Please.”

He scrambled off her like she was fire. “This isn’t healing. This is addiction.”

“I need it,” she choked.

“No. You need help.”

She sat up, trembling. “That shock—it made everything quiet. Like nothing mattered for a second.”

Miles looked at his hands like they were weapons. “I hurt you.”

“I liked it.”

And that broke him.
Because that’s what he used to say.

Back when he was spiraling.
Back when Gwen held him screaming through the night.

Back when pain was easier than recovery.

“I’m not doing this,” he said, backing away. “Not to you. I can’t.”

And Gwen?
She just stared at the sky like she was afraid the stars would stop spinning.

Chapter Text

They locked the windows.
Removed every medkit.
Flushed every stimulant.

Miles sealed the adrenaline vials himself.
Then webbed them into a wall.
Then shattered them with his own hands.

No more second chances.

⸻

Gwen was locked in.
Miles and Hobie took turns watching her.

She begged at first.

“I just need one drop. One hit. Just one, Miles, please—”
Her hands shook as she crawled across the floor.
“I can’t breathe.”

He didn’t answer.
He stood above her with dead eyes and said nothing.

The same way she had once stood over him.
Back when he was shaking, foaming, screaming.

Now it was Gwen’s body that convulsed.
Now she was the one scratching her arms, eyes rolling back, throat too raw to scream.

⸻

Three days in, she stopped talking.
Only cried.
Dry, gasping sobs that sounded like they were being pulled from the bottom of her ribs.

Miles sat outside the room, back against the wall, hands pressed over his ears.

He hated this.
Hated hurting her like this.
But she needed to feel it.

Feel what she did to him.
Feel how deep the venom goes once it’s in.

⸻

By day six, she was up again.
But quiet.
Too quiet.

“I’m better,” she said.

Miles looked her over.
Her arms were bruised from slamming into the walls.
Her voice was hoarse.
Her hair was soaked from cold sweats.

But her eyes—they were focused again.

He nodded.
But he didn’t let her out of his sight.

⸻

A few nights later, they trained again.
Same rooftop.
Different rules.

Miles kept it slow. Controlled.
But Gwen started picking at him.

“You’re slow,” she said.
“You used to move like lightning.”

He said nothing.

“Come on. Where’s that fire? Where’s your high?”

“Stop,” Miles warned.

“You miss it too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I do. But I fight it.”

She lunged harder.
Tried to force him into overdrive.
Tried to make him snap.
Tried to push him toward that sweet, horrible moment where the shock would take over.

But he caught her wrists.
Held her in place.

“No.”

She tried again.
“Come on. Hit me. Shock me. You liked it when I screamed.”

And his voice went ice.

“I’m not that person anymore.”

Her face twisted.
Something between shame and desperation.
“You don’t love me anymore,” she muttered.

“That’s not what this is,” he said. “I love you so much I’m willing to be the villain in your recovery story.”

She froze.
He let her go.

“You can hate me all you want. But I’m not letting you turn into me.”

Then he walked away.
And Gwen stood there, broken and still.

Because for the first time—
She saw the cost.
Really saw it.

And it hurt more than the withdrawal.

——————
It started with a patrol.
Simple, clean, quiet.

A runaway bus. A collapsing scaffold. A loose powerline.
Nothing they couldn’t handle.

Miles and Hobie swung fast, clean, together like clockwork.
Gwen trailed behind.
Focused. Steady. Fine.

Or so they thought.

⸻

Until she saw the building.

Ten stories up.
Cracked ledge.
No safety net.

A bystander was stuck on the edge—frozen, paralyzed by fear.

Hobie called it first. “I’ll get her.”

But Gwen didn’t answer.
Didn’t wait.

She launched.

A perfect arc. Beautiful, almost. But wrong. Too fast.
She didn’t web the ledge. Didn’t brace.
She slammed into the glass just above the civilian and fell.

Freefall.

Down five stories before she caught herself—barely.
Her web stuck. Her arm snapped back from the force.
She hit the wall hard. Bone-jarring. Head ringing.

But she grinned.

Because for a moment—
Everything was awake again.

⸻

Miles landed beside her in seconds.

“What the hell was that?” His voice cracked with panic.

“I slipped,” Gwen lied. “I misjudged.”

“You didn’t even reach for your web until it was too late,” he growled. “You wanted the fall.”

Hobie landed behind them. “Nah. Nah, I saw it. You dived for the ground. That wasn’t instinct. That was craving.”

Gwen stood, wincing. “I handled it.”

“You hit concrete!” Miles snapped. “You could’ve died!”

“But I didn’t!” she shouted back. “And for one second, it all went quiet again.”

Hobie’s voice dropped, hard and flat. “You’re not clean.”

“I am! I haven’t taken anything—”

“It’s not about the needle anymore,” Miles said. “It’s in your head, Gwen. You’re chasing near-death because you think it makes you feel alive.”

She went quiet.
The adrenaline was still fading. Her heart raced from the fall, but her chest felt hollow.
She didn’t argue.

Because deep down, she knew they were right.

She was slipping.
Again.

And this time, there might not be another hand to catch her.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk on the way home.
Not a word.

Miles didn’t even look at her.
Not during the swing. Not when they landed. Not when she rubbed her bruised shoulder and tried not to limp.

Hobie didn’t follow.
He just said, “Get your head straight, Gwendy,” and vanished into the night.

⸻

Inside the apartment, Gwen stood by the wall.

Miles paced.
Fast. Restless. A storm with no thunder.

She tried.
“Miles—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t say anything right now.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to sound like that.
Like he was scared to look at her.

“I thought we were past this,” he said finally, voice low. “I thought you wanted to get better.”

“I do,” she whispered.

“Then why?” His eyes lifted, raw and furious. “Why jump like that? Why fall and smile like it was a game?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I swear, I don’t. It’s like—like I wanted to feel something. Like maybe if I hit hard enough, the guilt would go away.”

Miles stared.

“And when I fell…” she looked at the floor, cheeks flushed, throat tight, “for one second, everything inside me shut up. The noise, the ache, the need to be perfect. It all just… stopped.”

He didn’t respond.
Not at first.

Then, quietly:
“That’s what I used to say. Right before I crashed the hardest.”

Gwen looked at him. Her eyes were wet now.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Scared that I’m broken forever.”

“You’re not,” he said, but it didn’t sound confident.
It sounded tired.
Like he wanted to believe it.

She stepped closer. “Please don’t give up on me.”

“I’m not giving up.”
His voice cracked.
“I’m giving space.”

She froze. “What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t keep patching your wounds while mine keep reopening.”
He looked at her—really looked.
“I love you. But if I keep watching you destroy yourself, I’ll fall with you. And I can’t go back to that place.”

She took another step. “I can change.”

“I know,” he said. “But right now, I can’t carry both of us.”

Gwen covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then fight for you the way you fought for me,” he whispered.

He walked to the door.
Paused.

“I’ll be back. When I see you again. Not the addiction.”

And then he left.

Not out of hate.
Out of love.
The kind that hurts like hell.

——————-

The apartment was cold.

Not in temperature—
in absence.

Miles hadn’t been back in two days.
No texts. No updates.
Just silence.

Gwen curled up on the couch, her hoodie too big, her skin too tight.
Everything inside her itched.
She checked the bathroom cabinet again.
Empty. Still.
She already knew. She just had to make sure.

⸻

A knock.

She froze.

For one stupid second, she thought—
Miles.

She opened the door.
And hell smiled back at her.

Phin.
In leather and smirks and lipstick like blood.

“Miss me?” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “Wow. You look like someone who got dumped and detoxed.”

“Get out,” Gwen said, too quietly.

Phin held up a hand. “Relax. I’m not here to fight.”
She pulled something from her pocket.

Small. Silver. Familiar.
A syringe.
Glinting like it was dipped in lightning.

Gwen’s breath caught.

“Brought you a gift,” Phin said. “Call it a reminder. Or a goodbye. Or maybe a little reunion with that version of you that actually felt something.”

“I don’t want it,” Gwen muttered, but her eyes were stuck on it.

“Oh, babe.” Phin smiled wider. “That’s not what your pulse is saying.”

Gwen’s hands curled into fists.
“I’m done with that.”

“Are you? Because last I checked, you dove off a building just to feel your bones rattle.”

Phin stepped closer.

“You were so proud of breaking Miles. I didn’t even need to finish the job. You did it for me. Turned him into a junkie. Then got your own hit. Cute, poetic irony.”

Gwen looked like she was going to throw up.

“That’s not true.”

“Oh? Then why do you want this so bad?” Phin dangled the syringe inches from her fingers.

Gwen was breathing fast. Hands shaking.
The craving roared.
She ached for it.

But—

“No,” she whispered. “I’m not you.”

Phin’s grin dropped.

“What’d you say?”

“I said get out.”

Then—
the door slammed open.

Hobie.

Tall. Quiet. Dangerous.

His eyes locked on the syringe, then on Phin.

“Leave. Now.”

Phin rolled her eyes. “Oh great, the anti-establishment babysitter’s here.”

“I said leave,” he repeated, stepping between them. “Before I put that needle through your other wrist.”

Phin held up both hands.
“Touchy. You two deserve each other.”

And just like that—
she was gone.

⸻

Silence.

Hobie didn’t look at Gwen for a long time.

When he did, it hurt more than yelling ever could.

“You were gonna take it.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie. I saw you.”

Gwen turned away. “I said no.”

“But you wanted it.”
His voice was low. Cold.

She didn’t answer.

He kept going.

“You let him walk away, and you were about to crawl back into the one thing that nearly killed him.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“He trusted you,” Hobie snapped. “With his life. And when he finally healed, you picked up the same poison and said hit me harder.”

Her breath hitched.

“You want to know why he left?” Hobie’s tone dropped to a whisper. “Because watching you break yourself reminded him too much of who he used to be. And he’d rather be alone than go back there.”

Gwen’s hands were shaking now. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Neither did he,” Hobie said. “But he still fought for you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes.

Hobie moved toward the door.

“I’m staying on patrol. Don’t open the door again unless it’s Miles—or the devil himself.”

And then he was gone.

And Gwen?
She curled up on the floor and cried.

Not because she lost the fight.
But because—for a second—she wanted to.

Chapter Text

Miles hadn’t really slept in days.

Not the kind of sleep that mattered. Not the kind that repaired anything.

He drifted in and out of unconsciousness—crashing on rooftops, slumped across subway benches, curled in alleyways beneath the neon hum of a city that didn’t stop for heartbreak. Sleep came in jagged bursts, stretched between guilt and memory. And when it came, it never lasted. Every time his eyes shut, they played the same reel on loop.

Her—falling.

Sometimes he caught her. Sometimes he didn’t.

Sometimes she hit the ground so hard he felt the pavement crack in his own bones.

But the worst ones?

The worst were when she smiled on the way down.

As if she’d accepted it. As if she forgave him for not saving her.

As if she was already gone.

He hadn’t gone back to the apartment. Not since that night. Not since the crash of water on his face, the rooftop blows, the silence that followed. Gwen hadn’t said goodbye—but she hadn’t had to. Some things end without words. They just fade.

Still, he watched her.

From rooftops.

From the places between windows and clouds.

He’d catch glimpses of her during patrols—when she thought no one was looking. When she fought harder than she should’ve. When she landed just a little too rough. When she moved like she didn’t care if she walked away whole.

That’s when he knew.

She wasn’t okay.

And neither was he.

But tonight?

Tonight felt different.

The sirens screamed across Brooklyn Heights, cutting through the smog and noise with sharp insistence. He was already moving before the report even finished broadcasting—instinct overriding thought, adrenaline flooding his limbs like it had been waiting for something to justify its return.

A crane had snapped—high above the skyline. Half of an unfinished top floor now dangled ten stories above the street, steel beams curled like fingers frozen mid-collapse. Scaffolding buckled. Concrete cracked. Sparks rained down from a live cable. And a woman—a worker, maybe an engineer—was trapped beneath a sheared girder still anchored midair. She was too high for a ladder, too low for a chopper. A single tremor from the wind could snap the rest loose.

Miles landed on a nearby ledge, crouched in shadow.

And saw Hobie arrive.

Sharp. Focused. Furious.

Webs flew from his guitar-strapped gauntlets, anchoring the structure before it could tilt further. He shouted something to the firemen below—direct, clipped. The kind of voice people listened to in crisis.

And that’s when he saw her.

Gwen.

She wasn’t supposed to be on this call.

Miles knew it.

She wasn’t on the dispatch log. She wasn’t even cleared for this district tonight.

But there she was—perched halfway up a skeletal stairwell, mask pulled back, hair whipping in the wind, eyes locked on the trapped woman.

Already moving.

Already in too deep.

Already going in alone.

Miles landed on the rooftop across the street, heart slamming in his chest like a warning siren no one else could hear. The wind hit him hard—carrying smoke, dust, and the distant whine of panicked sirens—but none of it mattered. His eyes were locked on her.

Gwen was already climbing.

No harness. No gear. No backup. No webs.

Just her fingers, bloodied from old scabs and fresh scrapes, gripping exposed steel and jagged concrete like they were the only things keeping her tethered to this world.

Her body moved like instinct—fast, reckless, sure in a way that terrified him. She wasn’t being careful. She wasn’t hesitating. It was like watching someone run into a fire barefoot just to prove they didn’t burn anymore.

The wind howled louder the higher she climbed, tossing her hair into her eyes, buffeting her against the beams. One hand slipped—just for a second. A boot missed its mark. She dangled. Wobbled.

And then she laughed.

A sharp, breathless, almost euphoric sound.

Miles nearly threw up.

He slammed his palm against the rooftop ledge, trying to push down the bile in his throat, the scream in his lungs. His fists trembled. Not from fear—but from something worse. From knowing exactly what this was. From recognizing it. The high. The need. She wasn't doing this to save someone. She was doing it to feel again.

Her comm was still on. He heard Hobie’s voice crackle to life through the static.

“Gwen—stop. We can handle this. Back off before you get yourself killed.”

Her voice came back a second later. Calm. Even.

“I’ve got it. I need to.”

Miles closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He’d said those words. Once. Over and over. Until Gwen had slapped the lie out of his mouth.

And now here she was, wearing his ghost like a second skin.

Hobie’s voice sharpened. “What you need is to back the hell down before you paint the sidewalk red.”

But Gwen didn’t listen.

She never did when it mattered most.

She reached the beam—half-twisted, groaning under its own weight—and pulled herself up with the grace of a dancer and the recklessness of someone who’d already accepted the consequences. She walked along it like a tightrope, arms out for balance, her steps feather-light over bent steel and crumbling concrete.

Below her, the woman—pinned beneath a half-collapsed column—looked up through smeared goggles, face bloodied, lips quivering. She sobbed something unintelligible. Gwen didn’t flinch.

One knee down. Hands working fast. Metal scraped. Sparks flared. And then—

One arm came free. The woman gasped. Gwen nodded, whispering something too soft to hear.

Miles stepped forward on the rooftop. Muscles tensed. Webs at the ready.

And then he heard it.

The beam groaned.

A low, sickening creak that started in the steel and ended in his spine.

Then—crack.

Like a gunshot.

The beam snapped in the middle. Not a clean break. A twisting, snarling spiral of agony as it gave way.

Gravity did the rest.

And Gwen—

Gwen vanished with it.

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t reach for the beam.
Didn’t scramble. Didn’t fight.

She let go like it was a decision she’d made hours ago.

Like she’d been falling this whole time—and the climb had just delayed the inevitable.

The wind tore at her as she dropped. Cold teeth in her skin. A rush in her ears louder than sirens.

Three seconds.

That’s how long the fall lasted.

Three seconds of nothing.

Her heart suspended in her throat, fluttering but never beating. The world narrowing to the blur of metal above, the blur of street below. No fear. No hope. Just...
Resignation.

And then—

Thwip.

A web cut across the air like lightning. Not hers.

Thwip.

Another. Tighter. Desperate.

And then—impact.

Not with the ground.

With him.

She slammed into something solid—muscle and warmth and breath—arms wrapping around her midair.

Miles.

The wind still roared, but his heartbeat was louder.

Louder than the sirens.

Louder than the fear.

Louder than anything.

They hit the side of the next building hard, rolled across the gravel rooftop, tangled in limbs and breath and panic—but he never let go.

He held her like gravity didn’t matter.

Like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her breath came in ragged pulls, but she didn’t move. Not right away.

And Miles—

He was shaking.

Fists clenched in her hoodie.

Eyes wide.

Voice cracked open like a wound.

“Not like this,” he whispered.

He didn’t say her name.

Didn’t ask if she was okay.

He just repeated it, like a prayer to no god.

“Not like this.”

And slowly—
finally—
her fingers curled into his shirt.

Alive.

Breathing.

Falling in a different way now.

They hit the fire escape with the kind of force that left bruises on metal. Miles’ shoulder slammed into the railing with a sickening crunch, steel rattling beneath their combined weight. Sparks flew where his boots scraped the grating, and for one brutal second he thought they wouldn’t stop falling. But they did—crashing hard onto the concrete platform below, his body instinctively twisting to take the worst of it.

Gwen rolled off him with a groan, her back hitting the ground. She coughed—wet, shaky—then pulled herself halfway up, her hands trembling from shock and cold.

“Miles—?”

But he was already there. Already kneeling. Already holding her shoulders in a white-knuckled grip, like the moment he let go, the world might swallow her again.

“I told you,” he said, breathless, voice raw from panic and venom-thin rage. “You fall again, and I will catch you. But if I have to do it one more time—” his voice cracked, something deep and human bleeding through, “—I won’t survive it.”

She stared at him. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just watching him fall apart in real time.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” she whispered, barely audible above the wind and the lingering echo of sirens.

He shook his head, jaw tight, tears barely held back. “Then what were you doing?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened. Closed again. And then, after a long beat:

“I wanted to feel brave again.”

The words hit harder than a punch.

Miles leaned back just slightly, as if trying to physically absorb the truth. His hands stayed on her. But his eyes? They broke.

“You weren’t brave,” he said. “You were broken. You’re still broken. And I saw it coming. I saw it in the way you walked, in the way you said my name. You’re trying so hard to be okay that you forgot how to be alive.”

Gwen’s lips trembled. Her eyes welled up. She didn’t argue.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

But he didn’t take it.

“I don’t want sorry,” he growled, his grip tightening just enough to make her flinch. “I want you back.”

And that—

That shattered her.

She collapsed into him like a wave breaking against a wall. No anger this time. No adrenaline. Just pure, breathless grief. Her arms wound around him and her shoulders shook with a kind of sob that made his chest hitch.

Miles wrapped himself around her like armor.

Held her like he used to.

Like she had once held him, back when the venom screamed through his blood and he couldn’t tell who he was anymore.

Now it was her turn.

Now she was the one unraveling.

He buried his face into her hair, breathing her in like it could ground him.

“I didn’t forgive you,” he murmured into her scalp. “Not yet.”

She nodded. Against his chest. Against the truth.

“I know.”

There was a silence.

Then:

“But I still love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

She let out a breath—a broken, fragile thing caught somewhere between disbelief and need.

“And I still choose you,” he finished, voice trembling. “Even if it kills me.”

She didn’t answer with words.

She didn’t have to.

Her arms just locked around him tighter, fiercer. Like if she let go now, they’d both disappear for good.

And so they stayed there. On the fire escape. Bruised. Bleeding. Tethered together by heartbreak and memory.

Above them, sirens wailed and thunder rumbled over the skyline.

Below, the twisted wreckage of the rescue still smoked and sparked.

But between them—between blood and scars and broken promises—there was still a heartbeat.

Faint. Fragile.

But still going.

Chapter Text

They hadn’t done this in weeks.

Just a quiet patrol.

No villain alerts. No explosions. No sirens screaming for their names. Just wind against fabric, the rise and fall of rooftops beneath their feet, and the fragile illusion that maybe—just maybe—they could go back to how things were.

Gwen moved differently now. Not slower, but... more carefully. Every swing had weight. Every landing, precision. She wasn’t leaping into the wind like she used to. Wasn’t laughing at gravity. That reckless edge—the one that used to make her feel invincible—was gone.

Miles noticed.

And he didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

“Race you to the tower,” she called mid-swing, voice light, almost playful.

Miles arched an eyebrow midair. “You’re gonna lose.”

“In your dreams.”

And for a heartbeat, it felt like old times. They soared across the skyline like the city belonged to them again—fluid and fearless. The skyline stretched open, neon and gold, the streets below just a blur of distant noise. Gwen’s laugh echoed between rooftops—soft, real, the kind that felt like healing.

Then her webline snapped.

Not fully. Just wrong.

The anchor frayed mid-swing. Too much force. Not enough tension.

Her body jerked, momentum dying.

She dropped.

Miles moved without thinking.

One web shot clean and anchored. His other arm wrapped around her waist mid-fall, pulling her to him as his own swing caught them both. His heart slammed against his ribs. Her breath rushed against his neck.

And then it happened.

His hand—gripping her side too tightly, too fast—sparked.

A burst of gold.

Venom.

It discharged before he could stop it. A pulse. Just one.

But it was enough.

Gwen’s entire body arched in his grip. Not from pain—something stranger. A jolt that cut through her like wildfire. Her eyes flew open. Her breath hitched. And for one frozen second, she clung to him too tightly, like her body didn’t know if it wanted to pull away or draw closer.

They landed hard on the next rooftop. Miles absorbed most of the impact—knee buckling, shoulder scraping—but he didn’t care.

Gwen stumbled backward, hands on her stomach like the spark still echoed through her ribs.

Her voice broke on the exhale. “Miles—what—was that—?”

He stared at her, eyes wide, horrified.

“I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, stepping forward. “I swear, Gwen. It was a reflex. You fell and I just—my powers—I didn’t think—”

She raised a trembling hand—not to stop him, just to steady herself.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

But she wasn’t.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her breathing shallow. Her pupils blown wide. She looked at him like he was something burning, and she was freezing—and didn’t know which instinct to obey.

“Gwen,” he said gently, “you need to sit.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

They sat at the ledge, close—but not touching. A careful distance. The space between them still humming with what had just happened.

She was shaking.

“I felt it,” she whispered, barely audible over the wind. “The high.”

Miles didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.

“Just for a second,” she continued. “It wasn’t adrenaline. It was... silence. Like every bad thing in me shut off.”

He nodded, slowly.

“I used to chase that quiet,” he said. “Every day. Every shot.”

She turned to him.

“And when it wore off?”

He exhaled through his nose. “It screamed. Inside. Everywhere. The silence turned into static. And I’d do it again. Just to make it stop.”

She looked down at her hands, still trembling. “I thought I was past it.”

“You are,” he said quietly. “But your body remembers. Your nerves don’t forget. It’ll find you in stupid moments. Weak ones.”

“I didn’t want it,” she said. “But part of me... liked it.”

He nodded again.

“That’s okay.”

She looked at him, startled. “How can that be okay?”

He met her eyes.

“Because I liked it too. A lot. And that part of me?” He tapped his chest. “He’s still in there. Still wants to feel godlike. Still wants to burn everything just to feel something.”

She swallowed hard. “So what do you do?”

“I remind him he’s not in charge,” he said. “That I’m not a god. I’m just a kid. With people. And scars.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I hate that I wanted it.”

“Wanting isn’t the same as taking,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “But it’s close.”

“Yeah,” Miles said. “And that’s why we talk about it. So it stays wanting.”

They sat in silence. The city buzzed beneath them. The wind played with the edges of their suits.

Gwen stared at the skyline. “If this had happened a week ago…”

Miles turned to her.

“I would’ve begged you to do it again,” she admitted. “To spark me. To make the noise stop.”

He didn’t flinch.

“And I would’ve said yes,” he said quietly.

She looked at him. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” he replied. “And neither did you.”

That was the win.

Not perfection. Not erasure. Not clean slates.

Just survival.

The stars peeked through the haze. The moon hung heavy above the skyline.

And on that rooftop—two broken kids sat together.

Close enough to feel human again.

Gwen rested her chin on her knees.

Her breathing had slowed. But her pulse still whispered against her skin like a ghost she couldn’t shake.

“Miles?” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

She didn’t look at him.

“If I’d asked you to shock me again… would you have done it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then:

“…I would’ve wanted to.”

That silence landed like a weight between them.

“But I wouldn’t have,” he added.

“Why?”

He let out a slow, bitter breath.

“Because I remember what it did to me. The guilt. The crash. The way you looked at me like I was someone you didn’t recognize.”
His voice cracked. “I won’t let you feel that about yourself.”

She finally looked over.

His hands were in his lap, fingers flexing like they were still trying to un-feel the moment. The jolt. The way her body had reacted.

“I scared you,” she said.

“Not because you wanted it,” he replied. “Because I know how easy it is to want it again.”

Her eyes filled. Not with tears. With shame.

“I thought I was getting stronger.”

“You are,” he said. “But strength isn’t never craving it again. It’s what you do after.”

She leaned against him.

Not all at once.

Just enough that her temple brushed his shoulder.

He didn’t move away.

She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to need danger to feel alive.”

“Then don’t.”

“It's not that easy.”

He gave a small nod. “I know.”

They sat there.

A minute.

Five.

Maybe more.

Her voice broke the quiet again. “Do you think we’re broken beyond fixing?”

“No,” he said.

But then—after a pause:

“I think we’re cracked. And maybe we always will be. But if I’m holding the pieces with you... then I can live with that.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t want to fall again.”

“Then don’t fall,” he said gently.
“Jump when you’re ready. And this time—do it with both eyes open.”

Down below, cars passed, horns honked, life buzzed.

But up here?

Gwen closed her eyes.

And for once—

There was no high.

No jolt.

No craving.

Just the steady warmth of someone who stayed.

And it was enough.