Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Miles opens the front door, his uncle is on the other side, hand still raised mid-knock.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What took you so long?”

“Uncle Aaron!”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Uncle Aaron’s eyes always crinkle when he laughs. It makes him look like Miles’ dad. “People are gonna think I’m a deadbeat uncle.”

“Nobody says that,” Miles huffs. “What the heck’s a deadbeat uncle?”

“One who doesn’t stop by with gifts for his only nephew,” Uncle Aaron replies, and pulls out a new sketchbook from behind his back.

Miles’ mom’s always been supportive, and his dad’s slowly coming around to his interest in art, but Uncle Aaron’s the only one who really lights up when Miles has a new drawing to show off. The spray paint he uses to tag buildings, the expensive markers that come in packs, the stacks of sketchbooks straining at the seams and spilling color at the brims—more than half of those come straight from Uncle Aaron’s pockets. 

“You didn’t have to! I still have a few blank ones to get through,” Miles says, despite himself.

“Good artists always have a few extras lying around.” Uncle Aaron thrusts the book at him. “C’mon, man, I can see your hands twitching. Just take it.”

“Okay. Thank you! Well, I have this idea for a mural,” Miles says excitedly. He takes a moment to admire the sturdiness of the book, the creaminess of the paper, before tucking it under his arm. He turns into the apartment to retrieve his sketches, trusting his uncle to follow. “Come on, I need to show you.” 

“Yeah?” The sound of shuffling behind him—Uncle Aaron taking his shoes off at the door. Miles’ mom has yelled at him more than once for tracking dirt onto her rug. “Hey, where are your parents?”

“Mom’s at work, Dad’s gonna be home in a half hour to get his lunch—you can talk to him when he gets here,” Miles says impatiently. They talk all the time now, his dad and his uncle. Over the phone, over cold beers, over his mama’s special empanadillas at family dinners. Making up for lost time. 

“Mmhm. Right. Always forgetful, even as an old man.” 

Miles is only half-listening, already mentally sorting through the places he could have left those sketches lying around. On his desk, in his room? Crammed into his backpack? Scattered across the coffee table in the living room? 

“It’s—I’m really excited about this one, y’know?” He scans the living room, looking for loose papers. No dice. “I was thinking I could even fly it by Dad, try to get it up on one of the buildings near the station—“

“You know I’m proud of you, right, Miles?” 

“Sure,” Miles tosses over his shoulder, feeling a smile twitch at his lips. “I mean, it’s just a mural.”

“No, really. You’re doing big things, things you’re passionate about,” Uncle Aaron says softly. 

And then: “Always knew you would take after me,” and Miles turns around, cheeks burning in an embarrassed sort of pride, and Uncle Aaron’s fist comes alive with purple lightning and swings up to crush itself into the side of Miles’ skull. 

That’s always when he wakes up.

“What’s wrong?” Rio asks when Miles stumbles out to breakfast. “You look tired. Did you stay up playing games with Ganke again?”

With the window shades half-open, morning sun floods onto the kitchen tile. The piercing shine makes Miles feel sick, and he scrubs his hands down his face. “It’s a weekend! It’s not like I have school today.” 

“I’m not saying you can’t play your games. But sleep is very important at your age—”

“I get enough sleep!”

Rio taps a pointed finger on the skin under her own eyes. “You look like a vampire.”

The tightness that Miles has been nursing in his throat since he jerked awake grows into a lump. He busies himself with digging through the cabinets for a clean cup so he doesn’t have to look his mom in the eye. “We were trying to beat a record. I’ll call it in earlier next time, okay?”

“Okay.” Rio takes the orange juice out of the fridge before Miles can do it himself. “I just worry sometimes. It’s a stressful time for you. You need all the rest you can get.”

“I know, mami.” Face hidden behind the cabinet door, Miles closes his eyes. His head throbs.

“Can’t get into Princeton if you’re dead on your feet, right, mijo?”

“Right,” Miles gets out. He pulls out the closest cup, rubs a thumb over the glass rim. “Of course not.”

The next night, Miles doesn’t even try to sleep in his bed. He sneaks out his window, careful not to make a sound; climbs to the rooftop and stares at Uncle Aaron’s mural, haloed by city lights; nods off on accident and wakes in the mournful blue of early morning, aching and chilled to the bone. 

Pavitr brings him chai on Wednesdays. It’s a whole thing. So when the glowing orange portal spits out a spiky, leathery someone who stands a whole head taller, Miles notices—even if he is a bit preoccupied at the moment. 

“Oi!” Hobie’s holding the handle of the steaming cup in a precarious dangle off of three of his fingers. He neatly sidesteps the truck-sized chunk of concrete that careens through the air where his head was, and then again as Miles’ flailing body follows suit. “Busy?”

“Ouergh,” says Miles, digging himself out of the crater he’s made at the middle of the crosswalk. 

“What’s that?”

Miles shoots past again, web fluid straining under his grip. “Where’s Pav?” he hollers over his shoulder.

“Busy. Radioactive killer elephants in Mumbattan. Pushed this off on me at HQ. Figured I’d deliver it before it went cold, right?” 

“Gimme five!”

Hobie eyes the massive mecha-gorilla crouched in the intersection with a distrust that Miles would find hilarious in any other situation; the gorilla, for its part, glares back, bares its teeth, and roars. The ground shakes. “Are you sure about that, mate? Need a hand?”

“Nope! I got this!”

Hobie sucks his teeth. “Your choice. I’ll be over here.”

By the time Miles has the mecha-gorilla bound in steel cables, Hobie is slouched on the sidewalk in evident boredom, the cup of cooling chai abandoned at his knee. He makes a big show of stretching as Miles trudges over. ”Could’ve wrapped it up in a minute if you’d just let me hop in. You’re off your game today, man. Oh, oops.”

They both stare down at the lukewarm chai, now displaced from its cup-home into a puddle on the gum-dotted sidewalk. 

Miles sighs. His whole body aches. “You could’ve caught that.”

Hobie shrugs. “Just chai, innit. My foot’s gone numb.”

That’s true. It’s not like Miles can’t find chai in New York. But there’s something special about the chai from Mumbattan—a secret ingredient, maybe, or perhaps interdimensional portal dust just makes things extra tasty. It’s sad, but that cup of chai has been the only thing he had been looking forward to all day. 

A siren whoops from just around the corner: the police, coming on the tails of the commotion. Miles stares down at the mess and considers sitting down and putting his head in between his knees. 

“Alright there, mate?” 

Miles breathes in deeply through his nose, steeling himself. “The police are here. I gotta talk to them.”

“Bloody cops. Fuck ‘em! Leave this for them to deal with, yeah? Got the big monkey tied down already, what else do they want from you?”

“What, I’m supposed to dip just like that?” 

“Yup,” Hobie says, no nonsense. Then: “You know, Pav’s left some chai at HQ. Only thing worth going there for, if you ask me. You’d have seen it if you ever popped by.”

“Oh.” Miles frowns, thinks for a second. “Wait, why’d you say it like that?”

“I ain’t saying nothing like nothing, mate.”

“No, you definitely—if you ever popped by. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Hobie raises an eyebrow. “What do you think it meant?” 

That’s—completely ridiculous. Miles has an A minus in English.He understands tone and subtext. He isn’t avoiding going to HQ, or whatever Hobie thinks he’s doing. He’s not. He’s been busy! He’s his New York’s one and only Spiderman, and it’s not like he has all the time in the world to run off to another dimension to, what? Walk around a skyscraper full of spider-people who may or may not still think he’s just some anomaly? Some sort of—

Well, he doesn’t need to explain himself. He’s just busy. In fact, he’s busy right now. Hardly has time to go running off on a little beverage break.  

The spilled chai pools at his feet. He really had been looking forward to it.

“Well, mate?”

Miles sighs loudly. Hobie grins. 

And by the time the first cop car pulls up to the intersection, the only thing left on the sidewalk is a splash of brown, soaking slowly into the cracks that web out across the concrete. 

“Heya, Morales!”

“Hey, kid, how’s it going?”

“Nice to see ya, Miles.”

After the tenth spider-person smiles and waves at him, Miles leans over and nearly bounces off of Hobie’s shoulder. The crowd in the corridor parts around them for a brief second; someone walking past on the ceiling shouts, “Whoa there!”

“What’s going on?” Miles eyes the traffic surrounding them, twitching with suspicion. He has half a mind to start booking it, just in case. “Why are they all talking to me?”

Hobie snorts. “Obvious, innit?”

Miles squints. “Nah, not really. Care to enlighten me?”

Hobie crosses his arms, glaring judgmentally about them. “They’re trying to make it up to you. They feel bad about chasing you around last time like the authority-obeying sheep they are. Idiots.”

“Oh.” Miles stares as another spider-person walks past, the eye lenses of their mask squinting up in a friendly smile as they stroll by. The bottom half is tugged up to their nose, making room for the massive spider-burger being shoved into their mouth. “So everyone’s being nice? They don’t think that I’m, like—”

Hobie glances over his shoulder. “Like what?”

Miles’ stomach squeezes. He swallows hard. “No. Never mind.”

Hobie says nothing, but the expression on his face turns thoughtful.  

As they move deeper into the building, the crowd grows thicker. Maybe it’s the body heat, or the loud chatter around them, or just the usual frisson of energy that goes up Miles’ spine every time he’s around this many people like him, but his head is beginning to spin. 

Ahead, Hobie strides along like he owns the place, and Miles hastens to keep up. He’s resorted to just staring at Hobie’s combat boots as he follows along, too worn down to keep rubber-necking at all the others in the building. “Dude, are we there yet? Does Pav have some sort of super secret tea shop around here?”

“Relax. He keeps the chai in a break room off the way. Doesn’t want all the fuckers here to hog your stuff, you get me?”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. So swing by more so he isn’t doing it for nothing, yeah?” 

“I’m telling you, I have my own reasons for not coming by—”

Halfway through his sentence, Miles trips over his own feet. His fault, maybe, for dragging his feet, or just for being exhausted enough that he can’t even walk properly. But before he can even attempt to catch himself, someone steadies him by the shoulders.

“Hey, bud! You gotta watch where you’re going!”

Miles looks up from the fluffy pink bathrobe in front of his face and into a familiar pair of eyes. “Oh. Peter.” 

There’s movement over Peter’s shoulders—a head of blonde hair. Miles blinks. “And Gwen. Hey.”

Gwen gives him a tiny smile. “Hey, Miles.”

They haven’t really talked that much since the incident, the three of them. He’s seen them maybe once a week. Just short pop-ins when he’s in his room at home, or at his dorm at Visions—Ganke complains about the unexpected visits, but Miles knows he secretly thinks it’s super cool to meet interdimensional spider-people because he always asks about them in an extremely faux-casual way after they leave—and they always leave pretty quickly after a bit of conversation. 

Miles forgives them, he really does. They’d even hugged and made up and had a deep talk right after the whole mess in Earth-42. But there’s just this—this tension, now. 

It’ll go away eventually, he’s sure. They always bounce back.

Just maybe not immediately.

On Miles’ shoulder, Peter’s hand does this weird jerking thing, like he thought about taking it away and then changed his mind three times over. It’s not unnoticeable; Gwen’s face twists in a funny sort of way, and Hobie snorts a little to himself. Peter, for his part, settles on patting Miles over his suit, stiff and awkward, before stepping back.

“Finally showed up at ol’ HQ, huh? What brings you in today?”

Miles feels Hobie’s gaze prickle at the back of his neck. “Nothing. Uh, just trying to get some chai.”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, I think Pavitr’s keeping that in the break room. You know where it is? It’s actually right up ahead—”

“Yeah. Hobie’s taking me there.”

“Oh.” 

“You wanna get some, too—”

“Well, don’t let me hold you back then—”

Miles’ and Peter’s words tumble over each other as they were speak at the same time. They both freeze. “Hah,” Miles coughs out, scratching at the back of his head. A smile twitches at his lips, despite himself. “C’mon, guys. There’s probably enough for everyone, right? I don’t mind a little company.”

He revises that statement one minute later, when he steps into the break room and finds Miguel standing at the counter, nursing a cup of pitch-black coffee.

Of all the places—

“Is this another intervention?” Miles asks, kind of meaning it as a joke, but it doesn’t land the way he means it to—everyone in the room winces, save for Hobie, who’s sneaking some random part of the coffee machine (how did he even get that so quickly?) into his pockets, and Miguel, whose face doesn’t really deviate much from his resting angry expression. 

“Just kidding,” Miles says, several beats too late. “Um, wow. Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

 Miguel sips his coffee in a menacing sort of way. “Morales. Finally found your way back, I see.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Saying what?”

“Nothing. Uh, I’ve just been busy. Spidermanning. You know how it is.”

Miguel takes another sip of coffee, this time with a distinctive air of judgment. “I expect members of the Spider Society to check in regularly.”

Annoyance sparks in Miles’ gut. Just a month ago, Miguel didn’t even want him in the building. “What, you need a daily report or something?” 

At that, something in Miguel’s face changes. He lets out a huff and rolls his shoulders back. “That’s not what I said. But as a new member of this group, you can’t go radio silent for a month and then expect nothing to—”

Miles bristles. “I didn’t go radio silent! I’ve talked to Gwen and Peter and Peni and Hobie, and Pav comes by too, and—”

“I think what Miguel here means,” Peter interjects, “is that he’s glad to see you! He was worried when you didn’t show up for a while—”

“I wasn’t worried,” Miguel snaps. “I am trying to run an organization of hundreds—”

“He was totally worried,” Gwen says, finally looking a little more cheery. “He would be, like, ‘Morales hasn’t shown up in two weeks,’ and I’d be like, ‘yeah, he’s kinda busy,’ and—”

“Are you just here to interrupt my peace,” Miguel sighs, dragging a hand down his face, “or something more productive?” 

Hobie flips the refrigerator door open. “Relax, man,” he says, dragging out a pitcher from the first shelf. “Just here to snag some chai for Miles here.” He strolls over to the other side of the room and sticks it on some high-tech looking metal plate; the metal glows red, and a slow river of steam begins to seep out the top of the pitcher. 

Miles hustles over to Hobie as the other spiders strike up hasty conversations among themselves. “Dude,” he mutters, “Doesn’t Miguel have his own special break room or something? Did you know he’d be here?”

“Nah, trust,” Hobie whispers back. “I didn’t know. But look at ‘im. Real man of the people, don’t you think? Believes in drinking the same coffee as his underlings.”

Miles smiles at the joke, but it isn’t enough to distract him from the knowledge that the entire room is standing there, watching him watch Hobie heat chai out the corners of their eyes. It’s super weird. 

It isn’t until he’s seated himself at the table in the corner, hot mug cupped in between his palms, that Miles really relaxes. For whatever reason, everyone else has decided to hang around, but he ignores them all. The next ten minutes will only be about him and the fragrant tea he has in front of him. 

The chai is just as good as he expected. Miles takes small mouthfuls, savoring the flavor; the warmth of the liquid washes down his throat and settles the strange knot that had been tangling up his stomach.

The chair grows soft under him. Soft conversation buzzes in his ears. With every sip, he can feel himself sinking down a little bit more.

It’s been so long since Miles has felt relaxed like this. A year alone, and then after Earth-42, a month sinking into himself—he’s been lonely, maybe. 

It’s nice. It’s nice to be around so many spiders.

And he feels so warm.

Miles doesn’t realize he’s nodding off into his chai until, across the room, someone laughs—sharp and high—and his eyes snap open again. 

He jerks his head up, startled, and turns around. The whole room is staring, and Miguel is right in front of him. 

Miles’ ears burn.

“Such a kid,” Miguel says, blowing air out his nose in a way that sounds vaguely like a laugh—the rest of the spiders are amused, too, but Miles can tell they aren’t being mean about it, in the way their eyes crinkle warmly, in the way their smiles curve up and bunch their cheeks—and then Miguel reaches out to—

To pat Miles’ shoulder, smack the back of his head, something, anything. 

And Miles flinches. 

The background chatter dies like a fly under a swatter. 

Miles closes his eyes in sudden, utter humiliation. 

“Whoa,” Peter says. “Miles. Buddy. Feeling okay?”

Gwen steps forward. “Was that a glitch? You shouldn’t be doing that with a watch—”

“Um. That was—that was weird, dude,” Miles blurts out, jumping to his feet. Miguel’s expression—eyes blown wide in split-second shock—shutters closed. Shit. Miles backtracks. “I mean, you scared me, haha!” 

That’s worse, damn it. 

“Miles,” Gwen says, eyebrows scrunching in concern. 

“No—yeah! I’m fine!” He can’t tell them. They wouldn’t get it, they wouldn’t understand why the moment he saw that hand rising up in his peripherals, he thought of purple lightning—of a fist against his temples—“Totally fine! Feeling absolutely normal, yeah, no idea why that happened—”

“Probably ‘cause he traumatized you by sending hundreds of spider-people after you to stop you from saving your dad, bro,” Hobie offers. “And knocked you around. And called you a mistake. And ripped your suit with his bloody vampire claws.” 

Miles’ mouth snaps shut with a click of teeth.

“Fuck,” Gwen mutters under her breath. 

“Language,” Peter blurts out into the excruciating silence. He winces immediately. “Sorry. Dad thing.” Nobody points out that Mayday isn’t old enough to even talk, let alone swear.

Miguel says nothing. It’s a very cold and pointed silence.

“Hey, no,” Miles says weakly, when no one else pipes up. “That’s, uh, all in the past, right, guys? It’s been weeks. I’m just off today because I haven’t really slept in, like, two days—”

Peter: “You haven’t slept in two days?”

Gwen: “Miles!”

Hobie: “Damn.”

“Anyway,” Miles says loudly, “It’s really fine, we’re cool, right, Miguel—”

But Miguel’s already walking toward the door. “I have better things to do with my time. Morales, I expect you around HQ more often.” 

“Wait—”

Miguel pauses in the entrance. “Far room on the sixteenth floor has extra clothes.”

Something cold is soaking into the front of Miles’ suit. He looks down—he’d spilled the dregs of his drink over his front when he’d jumped. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“Miguel,” he says, looking back up, but Miguel is already gone. 

“Jeez.” Hobie whistles, long and low. 

Miles buries his face in his hands and groans. 

As soon as Miles slumps down, Gwen and Peter close in, their brows crinkling in alarm. “Miles—what was that about—”

“Are you alright—”

“Don’t worry about Miguel, he’ll come around—”

“Why are you having trouble sleeping—”

They mean well, Miles knows. Hell, if he’d been in their position, and it was one of them feeling off, he’d probably be acting the same way. 

But it’s too much, too soon. He’s exhausted, and they’re in his face, and he’s getting that tight knot in his stomach again, feeling stifled, feeling claustrophobic—

Hobie swoops in, slinging a heavy arm around Miles’ shoulders. “Tea stains easy, bro. How ‘bout we get you that change of clothes?”

Miles won’t lie—the wave of relief that rushes over him nearly bowls him over. “Yeah. I—Gwen, Peter, can I explain later? I just—”

He gestures down at himself. His costume is black—a tea stain wouldn’t show up much—but the other two must see something in his face, because they both step back.

“Yeah,” Gwen says carefully, Peter nodding alongside her. “Yeah, sorry, Miles. Go on. We’ll talk later.”

“Right,” Miles manages. He finds it hard to look them in the eyes, so he doesn’t even try. “See you later.”

And then Hobie is steering him away, out into the bright light of the HQ hallways.

There is, notably, a big, plush sofa pushed against the far wall of the room that Miguel directed them to. 

Before Miles grabs a change of clothes, he notes mentally that it looks just about the perfect size for a fifteen year old boy to lie down across it. 

“Man doubled back,” Hobie says, when Miles comes out from the bathroom where he’d been changing and casts an inquisitive look at the new addition of a soft blanket, folded over the arm of the sofa. “Dropped this off then left like he was lit on fire. I think ol’ Miguel would rather die than ever apologize.”

“Oh.”

Hobie shifts on his feet. “He also said that you might as well use the sofa if you were going to be falling asleep all over his building.”

“Oh,” Miles says again, this time feeling a bit of warmth bloom in his chest. “That’s nice of him.” He settles himself down on the side of the sofa, bouncing a little on the cushion. “That would be—yeah. I mean, I am a little tired.”

“More than a little tired, I think,” Hobie observes. 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

The room is dim, quiet. Excellent soundproofing, Miles thinks to himself. Impressive. 

He shifts his weight. Doesn’t lay down. “Hobie. Do you ever think about—uh.”

“Go on.”

Again, that horrible knot. “No, never mind.”

Hobie gives him a sharp look. “Just spit it out, mate. You been swallowing something down all day. Don’t think I’m stupid.”

“Do you ever wonder about it?” Miles says, after a long moment, hoarse. “About what you could’ve become? If you didn’t get bitten?”

When Hobie twists his face up in thought, his brows bunch up. Miles stares at them, waiting for a response. 

“I’d probably be doing the same things,” Hobie says, after Miles has counted ten breaths in and out. “Powers or no powers. Fighting the good fight. Would still be playing in my band, maybe. Or another stint in modeling.”

“Oh,” Miles says. It’s exactly what he expected Hobie to say, but somehow he still finds disappointment rising up in his throat. He’s just being stupid, he tells himself. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. I’d be—at school or something, too. Yeah. You know what, I should probably take a nap or something now—”

“That question ain’t coming out of the blue, I think,” Hobie interrupts. “Something happened, yeah?”

“Well—”

“I won’t make you tell me. But it ain’t gonna do you a lot of good, either, keeping it to yourself.”

Miles laces his fingers together in his lap. Looks down at them, at the soft cotton weave of his borrowed pants. 

Hobie waits patiently, leaning against the wall.

“I keep dreaming about the Prowler,” Miles admits, finally. His voice comes out smaller than he’d like. “That’s why I can’t sleep.”

Hobie crosses the room, drops himself down on the couch next to Miles, knocking his shoulder with his own. “Prowler’s not around anymore,” he says bluntly. “At least not in this universe. Sorry—I know the man was your uncle. But if that’s what’s bothering you, you got nothing to worry about. Speaking honestly, this is the safest place for you to be, right? Hundreds of spider-people crawling all over the place. No way any Prowler’s getting past all of us.”

Miles’ throat tightens. He closes his eyes.

Purple lightning splashes across the back of his eyelids. 

“Nah,” he whispers. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Miles lied, earlier. About that bad dream.

He didn’t wake up when Uncle Aaron cracked open the side of his head. He didn’t wake up when he fell to the ground, squeezed his eyes shut and curled up, like if he made himself small enough it would stop. He didn’t wake up when Uncle Aaron bent over him, blotted out the light with the fall of his thick cape, and told him that he could run as far as he wanted to but he would never be able to hide.

No. It was when he opened his eyes and realized that he was the one wearing the claws. The cape. The red spattered up his forearms, the face like pulp under his fists. 

That’s when he woke up. 

Hobie stays silent the whole time Miles is talking, radiating heat at Miles’ side. His presence is oddly soothing. 

He only pipes up once Miles stutters to a halt. “You ever talk about how you’re feeling with Gwendy? Or the old guy, or your little robo-driving friend?”

“I—” Miles’ voice cracks. He doesn’t know how to say it: that he knows that they love him—that he loves them, too—but even after forgiving them for their betrayal, he’s still finding it hard to tell them about these things. That the part of him that trusted them unconditionally needs healing. That it feels like poking an open wound, sometimes, raw and sore and horrible. 

“I dunno,” is what he settles for.  

It’s okay. Hobie seems to understand. “You’re not the Prowler,” he says simply. “Not here. In 42, yeah—but that’s another world. If I were a filthy bourgeois capitalist in some other life out there, would you call me a hypocrite?” 

“No! Of course not—”

“Exactly. Hundreds of universes out there, mate. Anything’s possible. But it doesn’t make the you sitting in front of me any less true, any less of a Spiderman. You’re a guy in a million, Miles. Got a good heart. You fought most everyone in this building to prove that, to go back and save your old man against fucking near-impossible odds.”

“But everyone else—”

“Everyone else knows you’re a fucking stand up fella. And as for Miguel? If he didn’t trust you at least a little,” Hobie says, tapping the watch strapped to Miles’ wrist, “you wouldn’t be wearing this. So don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Miles shuffles his feet on the carpet. “Thanks, Hobie,” he says softly. 

“‘Course.”

“Besides,” Hobie adds after a moment, ruffling a hand through Miles’ hair, “how would it make me look if you weren’t a great Spiderman when I’ve been on your side this whole time? Way to tarnish my reputation, bro.”

The laugh bubbles out of Miles’ mouth before he can stop it, and Hobie’s mouth quirks up at the corner. 

“That’s more like it,” he says, and then Miles’ laughter stops abruptly to make room for the universe’s largest yawn. “Christ, mate. Rest time for you, I think.”

“Yeah,” Miles says, the sleepiness hitting him all at once like a truck. “I can’t, like, pass out here, can I? What if someone needs the room and I’m just drooling on the couch—”

“I’ll be here,” Hobie says, patting his shoulder. “Don’t you worry. I’ll wake you up in—how long do you have before you need to get back?”

Miles sinks back into the couch. “Uh—it’s around five, right? Three hours, maybe.”

“I’ll wake you in three hours, then.” Hobie nods decisively and gets up to make room. “Go to sleep.”

Miles slumps over sideways into the cushions before another thought strikes him. He pops back up, looks Hobie square in the eyes. “I appreciate the hell out of you, man. You know that?”

Hobie grins. His piercings glint in the low light. “‘Course. Pass the hell out already, mate.”

“‘Kay,” Miles says, warmth blooming in his stomach. And then he puts his head down, pulls the blanket over his shoulders, and passes the hell out.

This time, when Miles sleeps, he dreams of flying.