The Eyes of New York

Identities

Drip, drip, drip.

Miles reluctantly began to wake up, his eyes crusted over and his whole body cold. He shivered and curled up tighter. He didn't want to move, but time trudged on despite his protests. So, he stayed awake, uncomfortable but reluctant to move. In stasis, unwilling and unable to process time moving forward.

The mural caught his eye when he finally sat up, his whole body protesting the movement. His wrists ached, protesting the hours upon hours of the webshooters constantly rubbing. With stiff fingers, he unclipped them, setting them aside close by. Close enough that even if he was snuck up on, he could swiftly protect himself.

All the spider-people looked down at him still, but with fresh eyes, he knew they weren't judging him. Not really. They weren't here to judge him. They never would be.

Swallowing, mouth dry, he forced himself to look away. He focused instead on assessing his body. It was almost second nature, at this point, to do a sweep of his body and evaluate his injuries.

There was crusted blood all down his left side from the bullet grazing him, but when he tentatively touched it there was no open wound. The scab was still raised and tender to the touch, but that would pass. His suit was damaged again, the frayed edges of the costume revealing the healed skin. Just another tear to repair. Physically, he was whole again.

Even knowing that he was fine, that he was okay, and that he could leave, he was rooted to the spot. The mural was the closest he would ever get to seeing his friends, the people who would truly understand him. The people who could help him piece together the shattered parts of himself. He didn't want to leave their presence yet.

How could he put together the pieces of himself alone? The part that so desperately wanted to kill Fisk in revenge, who willingly let someone die because they had hurt him, who watched his parents drown in sand while on his knees begging for their lives... with the softer parts of himself? The part that spray-painted murals of his friends and family, who inspired little girls like Katie, who left stickers where only he could find them... and who would be a big brother?

The pieces are scattered and jagged and try as he might, he didn't think they would ever fit together again. Instead, as he stared at the outline of a person in expectations, he tried to put together something resembling human - resembling okay. He couldn't face the world without the mask ready for his performance.

There was a sound from the entrance. Before he had even fully registered what it was, he shot a web in its direction.

"Everyone's looking for you."

It was Daredevil. He didn't even have the energy to be surprised. Daredevil's upper arm and shoulder were pinned to the wall by the web. Miles looked away, propping his knees up so he could hug them.

He heard Daredevil wrench himself out, debris scattering along the ground, and was at least mildly surprised by that. Miles had still yet to ask him about how he was Daredevil, nor did he know what powers he had. He might have super strength if he was able to get out of the webs.

"They're worried about you," Daredevil said, standing a few feet away. Hovering.

"I know," Miles whispered, voice choked and small. "I'm sorry."

"Are you hurt?"

Miles slumped into the wall, studying a rock on the floor instead of looking up at Daredevil. "No. It's healed. I'm fine."

"You're not."

Miles folded like a house of cards. "Yeah. I'm not."

Daredevil, seemingly satisfied by Miles's admission, walked over and sat to Miles's left. Without hesitation Daredevil took off the cowl, setting his helmet to the side, baring his face.