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Miles woke with a start. Tendrils of a forgotten dream faded around him: New York as a kid, street food, neighbors bumping fresh music, the security inherent in being near Uncle Aaron.
The security was gone. He was on the bed in the spare bedroom, his hands tied behind his back. He could hear Aaron puttering in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging, the repeated shw-klunk as Aaron chopped something on the cutting board.
Miles tested the strength of his bonds. It was tight but he closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and pulled—
The ropes ripped apart and fell on the blanket. Miles rubbed his wrists, one after the other. The only marks were slight burns from him freeing himself. Aaron had been careful not to hurt him when he tied him up.
Miles felt gross, sleep-sticky but worse. He was still in costume and it was stiff with dried sweat. He stood carefully and, when the room didn’t spin and his knees didn’t wobble, he peeled off the grungy suit and grabbed spare clothes from the dresser. Aaron kept his old clothes in the spare bedroom for Miles as long as he could remember, a leftover habit from when Miles was younger and would spend the night, before Miles’ dad decided Aaron was a bad influence and made a pointed effort to keep the two apart.
Aaron was frying something, back to the doorway, when Miles stepped into the kitchen doorway wearing a soft Tupan tee and sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Something in the skillet sizzled.
“Stir fry,” Aaron said without turning, “chicken and veggies. I’ve got rice in the cooker.”
“Uncle Aaron—” Miles started but Aaron cut him off.
“I’m not ready to talk about it.” Miles could hear the warning in Aaron’s tone.
“I can’t wait.” Miles wrung his hands. “My mom and dad—”
“They know you’re with me.” Miles’ eyebrows shot up as Aaron moved the skillet to a cold burner and twisted the knob to turn off the hot burner. Aaron turned, his expression neutral. “You’ve been out for a day and a half. Take a shower and come eat. We’ll talk after.”
Miles’ stomach growled.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
“Si, si,” Miles grumbled and turned away.
He used to like showers at Aaron’s. The towels were soft, counters clean, drawers full of carefully organized product. Miles’ dad maintained his hair but Aaron pampered his.
This time when he stared at the drawer full of expensive oils and creams, trailing his fingers over the containers, he wondered what Aaron had done to afford his luxuries.
It was difficult to assimilate the knowledge of Aaron’s boss and line of work with the uncle Miles had known his entire life. His dad had warned him about Aaron’s business but Miles never saw any evidence that working as a bouncer—apparently Aaron’s cover story—was anything but comfortable, occasional bruises and busted lips aside. Now he wondered how much more his dad knew, whether his dad thought it was bouncer-adjacent, like drugs.
Miles shoved the thoughts away long enough to clean up, feeling better after the shower. He ignored most of the products. He needed to wash his hair but that was a long process and he was hungry.
Aaron sat at the table and waited for Miles to eat. Miles felt the weight of the impending conversation and didn’t know what to expect. It was his uncle. Who worked for Kingpin, the crime boss that killed Peter Parker.
He didn’t think Aaron would call his dad about Miles’ alter ego considering that Aaron had his own, but he didn’t know where he stood with Aaron, either.
Dread rose in his chest. The next bite was harder to swallow. Miles took a drink of water and slowly pushed the plate away.
Aaron clasped his hands on the table. His eyes were dark, fathomless pits, but he appeared comfortable, as if awkward conversations with his nephew about secret identities were a common occurrence at his table.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Miles swallowed.
“My boss is smart. Any attention I draw to you will shine a light on your mom and dad.” Aaron paused. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Miles?”
“I understand.” Miles hoped his voice didn’t betray his terror. If Kingpin could kill Spider-man with his bare hands, his parents stood no chance.
“He’s got men on the force that would jump at the chance to take down a cop like your dad.” Miles heard what Aaron didn’t have to say: a cop with dark skin, a cop who held other cops accountable. “Your mom would be collateral damage and they'd probably use her to hurt you or your dad before they took care of her.”
Miles thought the food he’d scarfed down might come back up just as quickly.
“If I’m found to be compromised, I’ll be gone, too.” Miles’ eyes flew up to meet Aaron’s steady gaze. “The only choice we have if we don’t want to put innocent people in the crosshairs is to work together.”
Miles couldn’t hide his incredulity. “What? Spider-man doesn’t—”
Aaron held up a hand. “If Spider-man stays away from certain areas of town on certain nights, I don’t think anyone would notice. It’s not like he has a boss he checks in with, right?”
Miles sat back and swallowed hard.
“No regular teammates, either.” Clearly, Aaron knew why. Miles was a teenager. Most supers didn’t have high school classes and regular bedtimes. “So maybe Spider-man stays out of places he shouldn’t be anyway, and maybe if he ever gets into trouble, he’s got a number he can call.”
Miles took a shaky breath. “Why, Uncle Aaron?” He had to know. “You’re better than this—”
Aaron’s fist slammed on the table so hard that the plates and silverware clattered against the surface and the water in Miles’ glass sloshed against the sides. Aaron’s cool facade cracked and anger twisted his features. “You’re lucky, Miles. You’ve got parents trying to do it right, despite the system working against them. Some of us got tired of the system since it was determined to hold us down, and decided we’d work outside of it.” He sat back with a sigh, expression turning weary. “Your dad’s not wrong, but it’s not that easy in the real world. You’re on the streets now.” His lips twisted wryly. “You’ll see what I’m talking about soon enough.”
“I don’t have a choice.” It wasn’t a question.
“You love your parents.” Aaron’s response wasn’t a question, either.
A bitter taste flooded his mouth. Miles made it to the bathroom with enough time to make the split-second decision to puke in the tub instead of across the toilet and floor. His nose ran and silent tears ran down his cheeks as he heaved over and over. Aaron’s warm palm ended up on his shoulder, a steadying presence as Miles coughed and gagged, spitting when his stomach was finally empty and his throat stopped working.
“I’m here, Miles,” Aaron spoke quietly. “I know I let you down, man. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m glad I am who I am. This way… I can keep an eye on you when your dad can’t, no matter what that says about me.”
Miles thought the words were meant to be reassuring as Aaron passed him a washcloth to clean up but Miles felt more isolated than ever. He doubted other Spider-people worked with their enemies, no matter the relation, and it felt wrong to take comfort in Aaron’s touch as he wiped his face and blew his nose.
“Think I need to brush my teeth and lie down,” he said slowly. He didn’t look at Aaron.
Aaron’s touch withdrew. “Yeah. You do that. Just don’t try the window. I set the alarm.”
Miles would be gone before the alarm could affect him, but he imagined his dad waiting at home to yell at him for sneaking out of Aaron’s. Not worth it.
He freshened up, then retreated to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind him. Aaron was so close but so far away and Miles felt like he’d lost control over the one thing that was supposed to be his: being Spider-man.
He wanted to scream.
Instead, Miles shoved his face into the silky pillowcase that smelled like Aaron’s laundry detergent and slipped one hand below the waistband of his sweats.
***