For Everything There Is A Season - ironduke10 (2024)

Chapter Text

December 24^th. 11:55 pm. A lifetime ago…

“It’s all squared away out there.”

George Stacy lifts the rosy-red comforter of his bed and slips in, aiming for the warmth that radiates from half of the bed. The better half.

“Are you sure you didn’t forget anything?” Even now, scratched and roughened by the beginnings of sleep, Helen Stacy’s voice lilts into the air and tells George that she is wearing a teasing smile.

She was already facing the wall, and he slides in to spoon behind her. She raises her arm in invitation and he shifts his own higher, draping it to circle her chest.

George nuzzles the nape of his wife’s neck, pausing only to breathe in the scent of her and home. “You want to go out and check?”

“Mmm. Comfy.” The hairs on his forearms tingle under her caressing fingers and he grows warm as she burrows backwards into him. “We can stay. But. Let’s go over the list.”

“You and your lists.”

“Someone has to be the adult of the house.”

“Fine, go ahead.” He tightens his grip on her. “But you got to stay just like this. Thems the rules.”

A yawn then a chuckle. “Couldn’t dream of leaving. Alright, first: You took a bite from a cookie off Gwen’s Santa plate?”

George feigns annoyance. “C’mon. What kind of rookie dad do you take me for? Of course. Even drank the milk. Made sure I put a big lip stain on the edge, too.”

“Just watch, the one year you forget to do this, Gwen’s going to come in screaming that Santa skipped our house.”

“And it’ll be my fault. Figures.” He laughs into the hollow of her jaw as he places a kiss there. “Keep going.”

“All the gifts are out?”

“Including the one from Nana.”

“Good. Stocking and stuffers?”

“With extra coal.”

“George! This is your little porcelain girl you’re talking about. Would you really give her…”

“I got her extra stuffers.”

“Good husband. Last but not least…my flower?”

“Got it from the florist yesterday.”

“Did you get the right one?” Helen presses, playful and questioning.

But George would never let his Helen down. “Course. The…what…whatchamacallit. The ‘Remember-You-Always’ flower. That, right?”

He gets a sharp elbow into the stomach for his troubles and a solid OOF fills the otherwise quiet and sleepy bedroom.

“Forget-Me-Nots.” Helen says.

“You knew I was kidding. Her flowers are in that little circular vase by the tree. My gut’s mad at you now, by the way. Also, isn’t Gwennie a little young to appreciate flowers and all that kind of stuff?”

“It’s like the books say. You start off and repeat a warm memory when they’re young…then they’ll anchor to it when they’re older. It’ll last. Plus…don’t you think it’s a good idea to get your young impressionable daughter in the habit of expecting flowers? So that one day when a nice young man comes by…”

“Aw crap, not that again. You’re going to give me nightmares. Let me enjoy my Gwennie for a few more years. I’m way too young to get my blood pressure up over Gwen’s future boy…boyfr…oh hell I can’t even say it.”

The rippling of Helen’s laughter vibrates against George’s chest. “Alright, I’ll give you a break. And that’s the list.”

“Mmm. We should probably go to sleep…or we could ring in Christmas morning the fun way…?” His hand curls…and squeezes.

“…Tempting. But in…less than five hours, we’re going to have a four-year-old breaking our door down and jumping on our bed…”

“…And demanding that you pick her up and spin her…”

“Exactly.”

Truth be told, George never minds when Gwen barges into their bedroom and jumps on their bed. To him, whenever Gwen runs in, the sunlight from her streaking hair and shrieking laughter fills every nook and cranny of their room, corner to corner. What man wouldn’t want to wake up this way, surrounded by both his lady loves?

Helen pulls him out of his own head. “And she’ll be asking for presents. So…we should probably go to sleep. Rain check? Passing out bright colored boxes takes a lot of energy.”

“Rain check.” George agrees.

Minutes slip by. George thinks that he can hear Helen’s breathing even out. He begins to follow her.

“Love?” Helen disrupts the room’s stillness.

“Hm?”

“Speaking of Gwen’s gifts…”

“Yeah, she’s got lots of them out there, whattaboutit? Don’t tell me you forgot to buy her that Tickle Me Bernie. She’ll be whining for months.”

“Not those kinds of gifts. Do you ever wonder…let yourself dream a little dream…about what…or who might be Gwen’s future gift? Her forever gift?”

“Wha-? You lost me.”

“Her future love. A sweet young man to sweep her off her feet and-“

“Oh, Mother of...you got to be kidding me, she’s four. You’re giving her dad a heart attack over here. Can’t I just enjoy my little girl the way she is right now? All I can think about when I imagine boys and Gwen is strangling every last one of them who looks at her funny.”

“George. It’s never too early to start wishing…for our girl’s future heart. Hoping for the best. Praying for it.”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow morning? After I’ve had coffee? Or maybe in thirty years?”

Helen snickers. “I suppose thinking about Mr. Gwendolyne Stacy can wait.” A beat. “We’ve got plenty of time.” She trails a caress down his arm. “Merry Christmas, love.” The velvet tone of Helen’s voice finally fades away in the dark of night, yielding to the sound of silence.

George begins to succumb as well, and the blackness grows heavy behind his eyelids as sleep calls to him. “Love you, too. Merry Christmas.”

-🕷-

The Present Day…

December 25^th. 7:55 am. Because on-time is-

(Gwen, I love you but you gotta get outta my head with Mom’s sayings. It’s…confusing.)

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

The forehead of one Miles Morales bangs against the exterior wall of his girlfriend’s apartment. He is only five feet away from the Stacy household’s front door, but has not yet raised his hand against the wood to announce his arrival. He’s needed…a moment. Or two. Or ten.

With his head resting upon coarse wallpaper, eyes closed, Miles opens his mouth wide to let loose an almighty yawn – one that could swallow a watermelon whole. His backpack – containing all of his Christmas gifts – feels as heavy as Kingpin.

The voice in Miles’ head chants the question. Why? Why? Why?

Why do Mami’s tradiciones always have to end so dang late?

To be clear, Miles is emphatically proud of both halves of his cultural makeup. And when it comes to his mom’s culture, there are many, many things he loves.

The emphasis on family, both blood-related and their amigos cercanos.

The importance of home, an anchor against life’s storms.

(Especially now that his parents know his secret.)

The joys to be found in art and music, shared together as a community in social gatherings.

The zeal for life, the desire to vivir la vida al máximo, as the saying goes.

But one thing that Miles wishes could be toned down a bit? Just a wee bit? That would be the tendency for parties to run late. Way late. Especially when his mom and his Tía Maria both appear on the guest list.

He yawns again. That energy drink he guzzled before leaving the house might as well have been grape soda for all the good it’s doing.

Miles is, of course, no stranger to late nights. Sleep deprivation has been all too common a theme after The Fateful Spider Bite. Lack of sleep had even been a contributing factor in a streak of panic attacks a couple years back. At the time, if he was to use the pie charts from his Stats class as an illustrative aid, his available hours would have rendered themselves as a pie of two slices: “Spider-Manning” and “School.” And the two slices sure as heck didn’t add up to 100%.

After the events of this past year? Now he must cram two more slices into his life called “Spider-Manning: Interdimensional Business Travel” and a heavenly cut of dessert simply called “Gwen.” A slice of pie consisting of delectable layers such as: a minimum of one call per night, joint patrols, family time, and dates – all topped with a dollop of cuddles when the stars align and they actually get alone alone time.

Miles’ pie overfloweth. He’s had to calibrate and re-calibrate his personal, barely-there method of time-management. Slices have had to get moved around and re-prioritized. (One guess as to which slice remained firmly as Priority #1). And in the end, there was only so much re-prioritizing he could do, which meant that the hidden fifth slice known as “Sleep” simply got smaller.

Which is why school breaks and holidays are crucial in catching up on rest.

Which is why he is right now very acutely feeling the effects of last night’s impromptu invasion of Tía Maria’s house and the late-night-into-the-morning celebration that followed. Thanks Mom. His lips twist.

But then he re-balances the large plastic container in his arms, filled to the brim with elegant cuts of fruit. And he thinks of the admittedly awesome mom who had woken up at the same time as him, with the same number of sleep-hours (or lack thereof) under her belt. Who had merely rubbed her eyes, then solemnly declared that no son of hers would show up at his girlfriend’s house con las manos vacías. His flash of cultural annoyance dies down. Thanks Mami. His lips curve in fondness.

He leans his head against the wall again. Uses the platter’s edge as a second point of support. Yawns. Closes his eyes. Just for a second…just a sec – honest…

Okay, maybe a minute…

And he falls, falls…

“Hey. Hey!”

Miles is definitely shaking.

He snorts awake and with unfocused eyes he looks down at a meaty hand shaking his shoulder. “Oh hey Mr. Sta-I mean Pops! Was just resting my eyes for a minute.”

Miles swipes his hand across his chin to make sure there’s no trace of dried drool. He shakes the cobwebs out of his head and watches as George pulls back and schools his face into an impassive expression. The teen looks into familiar flint-gray eyes and when he sees that ever-present Stacy Sparkle – a trait that has clearly been passed down from father to daughter – he mentally sighs and braces himself.

George says in a gruff tone, “I thought I heard knocking and I came out to find this.” He waves a hand at Miles. “Guess I should call the police for trespassing. Seems like some random bum’s loitering outside my house and sleeping in my outdoor hallway like it’s a park bench. And snoring pretty loud, might I add. I could hear it ripping through the front door.”

“Pops, it’s a little early in the morning for this, can we go inside so I can set this down?”

George’s voice shifts gears, sounding slightly hopeful to Miles. He taps the plastic tupperware. “I’m sorry but I don’t use DineToDoor. Ms. Newman down the hall does though, so you probably mixed me up with her. I get her stuff all the time.”

This time Miles can’t help but spare an eyeroll. “You tried this line on me last month.”

George visibly deflates. “You were more fun to be around when you were scared of me.” He stands aside to let Miles in and the two make their way to the kitchen.

“Scared of you? Nah. Never.”

“Nervous, then. I think I had you on your heels for maybe a month.”

“Maybe a little. And it was only a coupla weeks,” Miles admits with a grin as he places the serving container on the counter.

With Miles’ hands freed, George extends his own and smiles (a normal expression finally), “Merry Christmas son. Good to have you here.”

Miles replies, “Merry Christmas, been looking forward to this,” and clasps George’s hand in a firm return grip. Jefferson Morales has stressed to his son the importance of a manly hand grip on many an occasion. He hasn’t stressed what comes next.

Pops gives a little grin as he and Miles slide palms to fingertips then back to a handshake before pulling each other to meet in the middle with a shoulder bump. As far as handshake routines go, it’s certainly not Miles’ most elaborate – not by a long shot. That title belongs to Lenny. But one day, after twenty minutes of browsing MeVid with George and practicing shake rituals with him, Miles learned that this subdued routine was about as much as the older, less-coordinated man could handle. But that’s okay. It gives Miles another small thing that ties him closer to Gwen’s dad, and that’s the point.

“You know,” George warns, “you better not let Gwen catch us doing this. She’s been all up in my ass about why the two of you don’t have your own thing.”

“That right?” Miles pretends to be oblivious. He’s noted Gwen’s passive-aggressive hints about wanting her own signature shake. Miles…he just can’t and keeps making excuses as to why. He’s beginning to run out and it’s excruciatingly difficult to resist her half-pout – never mind her full-on pout.

George continues. “She’s been all,” he sucks in a deep breath. “SIGH. Dad, did you know that my boyfriend Miles has a secret handshake with everyone in his world except for me?? He’s got one with five different bodega store owners. One for every single kid playing pickup in his neighborhood’s park. And his mailman! A mailman, you gotta be kidding me right? But Dad, I’m supposed to be punk-rock and all brooding-like, so I’ll just go ahead and sit here in the corner and blow my hair out of my face and pretend this isn’t bothering me. NO, I’m not mad.”

George tucks a strand of non-existent flowing hair behind his ear. He takes another breath to recover (and to reset his voice which cracked three times during his falsetto monologue). He looks at Miles expectantly.

Miles bites his lip to hold back a sharp burst of laughter. To be sure ‘Playful Mr. Stacy’ is a good deal more fun to be around than the ‘I-Just-Met-You-So-I’m-Gonna-Bust-Your-Balls Mr. Stacy’ that he unfortunately had to deal with for a month or so after Gwen introduced them. But there’s no need to encourage ‘Playful Mr. Stacy’ any more than necessary. Gwen had made her stance quite clear to Miles on that front.

“Does Gwen know you make fun of her like this?”

Miles takes an involuntary step as George gives his back a hearty slap. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Pops leans in as a co-conspirator. “It is the greatest pleasure in any parent’s life to tease the hell outta their kid. Especially in front of or with their better half. I’ve been waiting years for this Miles. Don’t take this away from me. Someday,” George draws up and speaks gravely, “my hope for you is that you will know this joy.”

“Heh. I hear that. So, anyways…as much as I want to spend all day with ‘Pretend Gwen’,” Miles gently taps George with the back of his hand, “…you gotta admit that the real deal is so much better. Where’s she at?”

George leans back with a small grin and shakes his head. He says, “Passed the hell out the last I checked her bedroom. That was around six. Burrowed under her blanket like she’s a groundhog in February. I poked her on the cheek and everything. No dice. Never seen her that out of it.” He co*cks an eyebrow at Miles. “I know you guys got back pretty damn late last night. She wasn’t back by the time I went to bed. Must’ve been some party at your place, huh?”

“Oh, you know it. Mami throws a crazy fiesta.”

“Uh huh. And I suppose Gwen’s lateness has nothing to do with that?” George points at a very strategically placed bandage on the side of Miles’ neck.

Oh dang.

“So uh…Miles, what happened to your neck right there?”

“Uhh, no big deal. Y’know, shaving accident.”

“Mm hm.” George nods with exaggerated slowness. “Because you’ve grown so much facial hair since I’ve known you. On your neck.”

Miles opens his mouth but is saved from inventing a meandering tall-tale that ends with Gwen complaining about the stubble of ‘Scraggly-Miles’ when he hears a loud SLAM from the hallway. Both men startle and turn their faces to the sound. A disheveled, slumped figure begins to shuffle out of her bedroom. Blonde-pink hair droops forward and obscures her face.

The sounds of shuffle, shuffle, shuffle flutter through the air as Gwen drags her feet on the hardwood, wobbling her way to her Miles-shaped target with eyes screwed tight. George shifts to stand behind Miles, places two hands on his shoulders, and holds the boy at arm’s length in front of him.

“Oh look. There’s our zombie. Protect me Miles,” he says drily.

Miles admits that this ghostly quiet incarnation of Gwen does look a little zombie-ish right now. Or maybe like that girl from that scary movie that Gwen made him watch. Was it Ringu? Or Ring? But as semi-creepy as she looks, when her forehead bumps into his chest and she leans into him, arms limp at her sides, Miles can’t help but brighten at her presence. The clouds outside the kitchen window lighten and the room grows cheery in a warm glow. He instinctively circles an arm around her and begins to stroke her back. Zero response.

“Just look at my Gwennie. I lend your family my daughter last night and this is how you return her to me? See if I ever do that again,” George says in a deadpan voice.

“Mami was super grateful for that by the way.”

“Good, I’m glad.” George squeezes Miles’ shoulder. “Still though. I would have figured she would have gotten more sleep than this after she came back. I wonder what happened?”

Miles stares down at the mop of blonde that nestles against his chest. What happened?

What happened?

“Miles. MILES!”

Didn’t he just say he didn’t want anybody else using his name but…oh. He blinks to George’s hand waving in front of his face.

“Hey, you with me?”

“Yeah Pops, sorry about that. Must be more tired than I thought.”

“Uh huh. Not the first time I’ve seen you space out while looking at my little girl.”

“What can I say,” he grins to recover. “She’s got that effect on me.”

“You don’t say,” George says absentmindedly. He squints at a spot near Gwen’s stationary and slumbering head. “I wonder who’s got an effect on who.” He reaches out a fingertip and rubs at a very strategic spot on her neck. Miles recognizes the unfortunate location, and a bead of sweat begins to drag, drag, drag down the back of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly.

George rubs his fingertips underneath his nose, then scrutinizes them with a detective’s analytical gaze. “No smell. Hmm. Concealer, then. At eight in the morning.” He looks at Miles. “Interesting choice.”

“Musta forgotten to take her makeup off after she came home last night?” Miles offers, hoping that it sticks.

“I will choose to accept that. For now.” George says with a drawl. Miles isn’t sure if it fully worked and imagines a future in which he receives yet another joking/not-so-joking recitation of the Policies and Standards.

Like a butter knife cutting the tension, her head still buried in Miles’ chest, Gwen slowly raises an arm between the two men. She hits her trigger and thwips…the kitchen counter’s edge. She pulls and pulls to no effect. Thankfully, Gwen isn’t yanking at full strength or George would have an unexpected kitchen remodel on his hands. As she continues to pull pointlessly, the two men look at each other.

“Hey Pops…wha-what do you think she’s-?”

George holds up a hand to silence Miles and bends down behind her shoulder. Squinting an eye, he follows the web-shot’s line of sight to what’s on the kitchen counter and realizes, “Oh.”

He hits her web release to break the line and makes minor aiming adjustments to her arm – his tongue peeking out in concentration. After a few seconds of fiddling he says, “Okay do it again, hon.”

Gwen thwips again and hits her “Daddy’s Ballerina” coffee mug right smack on the picture of blue ballet pointe shoes. Now connected to the cup, her arm hangs in the air…then she jiggles the web-line and grunts. George sighs and moves to retrieve the mug, then places it into her waiting hand.

Miles and George glance at each other in an amused silence which the teen breaks. “I guess I’ll go make the coffee-OW!” He yelps as his shoulder blade is clenched by Gwen’s free hand, nails digging through fabric. Her other hand weakly jiggles her cup in the general direction of her father.

With a roll of the eyes, George turns to his pantry. “Guess that’s my job this morning.” Miles finds breathing difficult as his ribs constrict with Gwen’s other arm wrapping around him tightly.

George speaks with his back turned as he digs around for his coffee beans. “Want any, son? Oh wait, that’s right. You and your energy drinks. Asking for a seizure with that garbage if you want my two cents. Come over to my side Miles and join the world of coffee, straight-black. It’ll put some hair on your chest. Or maybe some on your face.” George glances over his shoulder with that Stacy Sparkle. “But if you’re growing more facial hair, that might mean more shaving accidents.”

Ten minutes later…

“Miles…you ever watch a documentary on military airplanes refueling in mid-air?”

“Can’t…say…that that’s the first thing that comes to mind when I have some spare time.”

“Well, it’s hard as hell…them pilots basically have to aim tubes at each other in mid-air to pass fuel off to each other in the sky. While flying. Crazy to think about if you ask me.”

“Yeah? So…your point is…?”

George squints as he tries to aim a pink twisty-straw from Gwen’s coffee mug into the corner of his daughter’s closed mouth, her head completely face down and unmoving on their breakfast table. Her limp arms hang to the floor and a light snore wheezes through her nostrils.

“This?” George says. “This crap is a million times harder.”

Miles watches as he nudges Gwen’s cheek with a finger. “Here fishy fishy fishy. Here fishy, open up. C’mon Gwennie, this worked when you were younger.”

George manages to wiggle the tip of the double-looped curly straw into Gwen’s lips. One tender caress to the cheek later and Miles sighs in relief as the dark hue of life-saving caffeine begins to flow. The pink straw turns to brown as coffee travels around and around the swirls and passes through a penguin figurine on its way into her mouth.

“Success! Look at that, I’m a fighter pilot. You can start calling me Maverick.” George fixes the young man with a serious look. “You can be my wingman anytime.”

Miles groans. “Pops. That movie is super old.”

A raised finger appears in front of Miles’ face. “Don’t you disrespect your elders. I won’t stand for slander to any movie that contains ‘Great Balls of Fire.’”

George straightens and his eyes widen. There’s that dang Sparkle again.

“Miles…”

“Naw, not interested.”

George rapidly taps Miles’ shoulder with the back of his hand. “Hear me out.”

“Oh God.”

“We get some matching Ray Ban aviators.”

“Those are so ancient…”

“Hang on. And I’ve got an old electric piano keyboard just sitting in my closet.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“And you and me learn the words to ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. And we serenade Gwen just like Mav and Goose did to Charlie. I’ll even let you take lead. She’ll never forget it.”

Miles rubs his very very tired eyes. “Because it’ll be in her nightmares maybe. Or mine.”

And for the first time all morning, a light feminine voice speaks with firm clarity and conviction. “Miles, if you sing a duet at me with my dad, I’m breaking up with you.”

George lights up at the sound – and at the challenging, live-wire tone – of his daughter’s voice. He waves a dismissive hand at her. “Empty threats. Pay no attention to her Miles, she’d never break up with you in a million years. Stay with me, Goose.” He bends over to place a kiss at the top of her head. “Glad to see you alive, Gwennie.”

For her part, Gwen stands and wraps her arms around her dad. “Thanks for the coffee save.”

“Well!” George places hands to hips and looks around his kitchen. Makes a dramatic sniff with his nose, as if to emphasize the delicious smells wafting from the oven and Gwen’s all-nighter cinnamon rolls on the counter. “Looks like we have all the ingredients to get things started here. Except for one thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Gwen asks.

“Stay here. Be right back.”

Several moments later, George sweeps back in from the direction of his office with one arm behind his back – and a look in his eye that is not the Stacy Sparkle. It’s an odd look, one that Miles hasn’t seen before – a mix that is mostly eagerness but contains traces of hope and hesitation. His curiosity is further piqued when Pops brings his fist around and opens his palm.

As George’s fingers curl open, a bright burst of blue emerges in the center of his hand, perched within a small bud vase, shaped like a bulb. Miles focuses to see a tiny delicate flower with five sky-blue petals surrounding a yellow center. A tiny flower that looks untamed, like it belongs to the far reaches of the wilds, surviving amongst green fields and rocky crags.

Miles turns to Gwen when he hears the hitch in her breath. And when he sees a parted mouth and glassy eyes, his first instinct is to step into her personal space and sweep her into his arms. But then he looks at George and finds an earnest expectation written on his face, and something tells him to hold back.

The silence stretches for a beat, then two, as father and daughter regard each other, George’s arm still extended. Miles can almost see a connection being built between them like two halves of a drawbridge lowering and clicking into place. He begins to wonder if he’s stumbled upon a sacred family tradition, and that perhaps he should step aside and give them a moment of privacy.

George speaks before Miles can say anything. “Gwen…I’ve thought all day yesterday about what to say for this-”

“Dad, don’t,” Gwen says low and heavy, with starlight in her eyes. “Just say it like you always say it.”

“Okay. Then in that case…let’s have ourselves a Stacy Christmas.”

Gwen nods twice, firm and encouraging.

“May I?” George asks, and Miles can’t remember when he’s ever heard his voice so gentle.

“…Please,” she whispers.

George removes the blue blossom from the vase and rolls forward like a wave to its intended shore. He weaves the stem through her hair and lays it gently behind her ear. Smiling, he takes a step back and brushes a petal with the feathery stroke of a finger.

In the shifting light from the kitchen window, Miles spots a glint in the corner of Gwen’s eye, a sparkle of crystal threatening to slip free. If it was truly there, it was short-lived, as she brushes her cheek with the base of her palm.

Gwen crashes into her dad in the blink of an eye, faster than Miles has ever seen her spring into any hug – and he’s had plenty of personal experience by now. Her arms wrap him tight, her knuckles radiating white as she bunches the back of his shirt in fistfuls. “Merry Christmas Dad,” she says into his chest. “I love you.”

“Love you too Gwennie. Merry Christmas.”

“Hey uh, do you guys need a sec by yourselves? It’s all good, if this is a fam-“

“No!” George and Gwen say near simultaneously. “No,” George repeats and he releases her, turning to him. Miles spots a grin on Pops’ face that could light up the whole apartment. “Uh sorry about that, it’s just a little tradition that we do. Daddy daughter, you know. But…” He places a firm hand on Miles’ shoulder. “…now we’re ready to really get started. You ready to see why a Stacy Christmas is a Stacy Christmas?”

-🕷-

December 24^th. Many Years Ago…

Silence is itself a sound, and it calls to George from Gwen’s bedroom. There’s been too much silence from that space in recent months…since…she…passed away. Gwen’s first grade teacher has called for more than one parent-teacher meeting to talk over the situation and see how she can help her best student deal with her grief. He shakes his head at the thought. What can anyone do to help at such a time as this?

He follows the trail of silent noise to her door and knocks twice, but when there’s no response, he opens it with a creak. There in the dim gray dark, Gwen sits at her desk, her lamp and the moonbeam of a clear winter’s night barely holding the shadows at bay.

When he flicks the switch on her wall, the darkness technically dissipates but it remains ever lurking at the edges of his vision, curling and flicking its tendrils around Gwen’s frame. A frame that is facing away from him, staring at the wall. A frame that remains still and unmoving even as George approaches, with one hand closed behind his back.

He pauses to look at his porcelain girl, her skin so fair and pale, yet radiating melancholy blue to intermingle with the backdrop of gray.

“Hon…Gwen?”

No response.

George touches her shoulder and she leans into his touch, seeking and craving it as he’s noticed her doing at an increasing rate over the last few months.

“Gwennie…for tomorrow’s big day, I thought we could-“

“Daddy…” Her voice is whisper quiet and ragged. “…are we even going to do Christmas tomorrow? Is it even…possible?”

“We absolutely are celebrating Christmas tomorrow, Gwen, there’s no two ways about it. Mommy would want us to keep on going…for her.”

“But…” Gwen’s resolve begins to break, her chest heaves, the porcelain begins to crack. “S-she won’t…be there.”

Her moment has arrived. George pulls his hand from behind his back and opens his palm to unveil a small crystal bud vase containing a single Forget-Me-Not blossom. At the sight of the flower, Gwen’s eyes widen – the combined sky-blue hues of the petals and her irises pierce the dark haze that pervades the room.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

George sets the vase down on her desk and lifts the velvety flower with delicate fingers. With a slow sweep of his thumb, he brushes Gwen’s blonde hair aside and settles the stem behind her ear.

He kisses her forehead and tries to put on his bravest smile. “Mommy will always be looking down at us.” He reaches out to stroke a blue petal with his fingertips. “She’ll be there with us tomorrow. It’s still going to be a Stacy Christmas.”

Gwen purses her lips and looks at him with watery eyes. As a single glint of crystal trails down her cheek, caught in a beam of moonlight, an ember sparks and begins to fan into flame in George’s chest. Within his breast there lies a hole where she used to beat. Now there is only a knot, an ever-growing knot of strands that keeps that hole – that devouring chasm – at bay. As the strands strain against his hands, he lets them slip – just a little. For the first time in months he hears a familiar lilt, warm and soft:

That’s enough. He pulls back hard and re-cinches the knot. Ties more strands to it.

How large the knot grows doesn’t matter to him, he needs to hold the chasm at bay. Needs to hold it together for Gwen. Always for her.

With a voice that sounds steadier and brighter than he actually feels, he suggests, “Gwen. We’re going to start something new. Just me and you. A daddy daughter thing.”

She tilts her head in question as he continues.

“Tonight, we need to get into the kitchen and practice. Because we’re going to make cinnamon rolls for Christmas Day breakfast tomorrow. You always liked eating them-”

“You? Mommy always did the cooking, though.“

“But now I do. And you and me? Later we’re going to go to the kitchen and figure out how to make them together.” He squeezes her shoulder. “It’s going to be our new thing. And there’s another reason we better figure out how to do them right.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to invite that new family down the hall for breakfast tomorrow. They moved in a couple weeks ago and they’re still getting sorted out. Probably don’t even have their kitchen set up all the way yet. It’ll be something nice we can do for somebody else. Which…when you do that, it can help keep your mind off things. Plus…” George tries to capture Gwen’s gaze with his. “They have a kid. A boy your age.”

“A boy? What makes you think I’d want to have a boy for a friend?”

“Give him a chance. You and him have…” George sighs. “You have something in common.” His voice stutters momentarily. “He…he lost his mom, too. Both his parents, actually. His aunt and uncle are raising him…”

Panic spreads across Gwen’s face like wildfire and George berates himself, wishing he could bite back his words. George is no fool and he knows his daughter, what’s on her mind. He’s noticed every extra touch she’s given him over the last few months, as if to make sure he’s still there. To make sure he hasn’t vanished away. She’s even taken to waking him up from naps or in the middle of the night only to offer a quiet apology and a whispered just checking. George knows damn well what she’s checking for. What she’s afraid of.

He shakes his head to clear it, wills her to listen to the reassurance in his voice.

“Gwennie. Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

She springs into his chest in the blink of an eye and he catches her, enfolds his arms around her as tightly as he dares.

“Daddy’s not leaving you. Not going to let that happen.”

“Promise?”

Gwen’s tiny voice is barely discernable, muffled as it is against the press of his shirt.

What is George to do? What is any parent to do in a moment like this? Should he make this promise? Can he? What if…he fails to keep it? He squashes that thought and leaps on instinct.

“I promise.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Come on. Let’s me and you go down the hall, knock on their door. You can help me make the invitation.”

“Alright.”

“Oh, by the way, I also picked up a gift for the boy a few days ago. We don’t know him, but I figure a coloring book is a good gift for any young kid, right? You and me’ll wrap it tonight and you can give it to him tomorrow morning. We’ll say it’s from you.”

“…but…but I don’t even know him, why would I give him a gift?”

“With the years she was with you, your Mommy gave you lots of love, right? Put lots of love into you?” George taps her heart twice.

“…yeah? But what does this have to do with…”

“She stored all of that in you…not for you to keep it all to yourself. She wanted you to share it. She always told me you were her ‘giving girl’, that you were the most generous little kiddo she’s ever seen.” He glances aside for a second, then returns to her. “Well…no better way to share what she gave you than in a gift. It’s like sending out a little bundle of love from Mommy, through you, to someone else. That’s exactly what she’d want to see you doing to others. And something tells me this kid might need it. You might say it’s the right thing to do.”

“If you say so…”

“I know so. C’mon, enough of this serious stuff for a while. Whaddya say we meet them?”

“Fine…but hold my hand, Daddy?”

“Always.” He squeezes it. “Let’s go.”

The next morning George knows for certain he’s done the right thing. He knows it when he sees Gwen sidling up to a painfully shy boy with small halting steps, holding a thin package behind her back.

He knows it when she unveils the gift and that quiet boy receives it with a grateful smile, a smile that does not look like it often graces his cheeks. His swift step and sudden hug send a ripple of shock streaking through Gwen’s face, and for several long seconds she stands stock-still, her arms limp by her sides.

But George begins to realize it might be something more when Gwen’s arms move upwards, slowly guided by an unknown force. When they come to rest at the top of a stranger’s back, a back that is not his own. When her face softens and opens to another for the first time in months. She closes her eyes and rests her head upon the boy’s shoulder, the flush of her cheeks matching the tint of his sweater – a radiance of pink that begins to tinge the very air around them.

An aura of pink, coming to rest on three adult faces who exchange surprised glances. Expressions of surprise melt into smiles. May’s grateful exhale and the crinkling of Ben’s eyes tug at his heart, a fine invisible thread beginning to weave its way through them all.

And by the time all that happens, by the time George joins them in looking upon Gwen and Peter clinging to each other?

The right thing to do…might have become George’s very own Christmas miracle.

-🕷-

The present day…

Step One in the making of a Stacy Christmas? Get properly attired. But it can’t just be any attire – there is only one proper outfit. And that proper outfit must come gifted from the hands of George Stacy and must take the form of a ‘comfy-as-hell’ set of pajamas. Every year before any festivities can begin, all Stacy Christmas participants are obligated to don their new George-gifted set, no exceptions. And just as Gwen hinted a month ago, Miles does indeed get his very own set. There’s only one problem…

Pink. As Miles holds his flannel shirt in one hand and his PJ bottoms in the other…there’s a helluva lot of it. So so much. There’s so much pink that it’s practically bleeding out of the fabric, slipping through his fingers, and spilling out to color the kitchen floor. To be fair, there’s white and black accents as well…but for the first time in his life, Miles is about to put on a predominantly pink outfit.

Perhaps his expression exudes an air of hesitation. Perhaps that’s why Gwen’s next words are soft and tentative. “When Dad asked me for my opinion for this year’s set…and I knew for sure you were coming over…I picked this color pattern just for you. Remind you of anything?” she smiles shyly.

Pink, white, black? In this Spider-House? Well duh, c’mon.

It doesn’t make it any easier to put it on though. But George and Gwen are looking at him right this second. And Gwen’s look, especially, carries a secret within its depths that he can’t decipher…so Miles bites back his grimace. Maybe on the nights when she portals by for secret-cuddles time, and he’s not wearing this pajama set, he can feign that he’s more of a ‘t-shirt and boxers’ kinda guy.

“Alright guys, let’s get ‘em on,” George says. “Miles, you can use our guest bathroom.”

As the two teens walk down the hall, Miles spies her furtive glances in his direction – specifically at the bundle in his arms. When they turn around the corner, she leans in and settles her chin right atop his shoulder.

“Just so you know…” she whispers, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “I picked the colors so that every night you would feel like you’re sleeping with me.”

Eep. Miles twists his face to look at her from point-blank range. Her eyes are so close, his vision turns hazy from their heat and the hallway might as well be painted in blazing red.

Well now, this new information certainly makes the pink motif a LOT more toler-

“And I might have worn your set for a week before I wrapped it.”

And with that she backs into her bedroom, her impish smirk the last thing that he sees before she shuts the door in his face.

The blood rushes out of Miles’ head so fast he nearly faints. Before he does, George calls out from the living room in a flat, deadpan tone: “MILES, THAT WAS YOU AND ONLY YOU GOING IN THE BATHROOM RIGHT? DON’T FORGET THAT ACCORDING TO THE POLICIES AND STANDARDS, ONLY ONE PERSON CAN-“

“DAD, STOP HASSLING MY BOYFRIEND PLEASE,” Gwen counters from behind her bedroom door.

Miles looks to the ceiling, blows out a deep shuddering breath, and steps into the bathroom to change. He leans his head against the door and stares at the calming aqua-blue of the cabinets to try to regain his cool. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might wear this pajama set again after all.

Step Two in the making of a Stacy Christmas is the breakfast. It’s not a diverse menu – it’s just ham and cinnamon rolls (and Mami’s fruit platter) – but there’s piles of it. They’ll be snacking on leftovers all day. Because the ham is George’s deal, he takes great pride in regaling Miles with details on the pig: The farm that the ham came from, what the pig ate, how it affects the fat content of the meat, and regrettably precise details on the butchering process. And all of this made all the worse when George casually mentions with a smirk that the pig's name had been ‘Matilda.’ Miles’ stomach rejoices in relief when Pops shifts to describing how his family’s secret glaze differentiates his ham from all the other hams out there to include – he bets – any on Earth 1610. Miles idly wonders what his buddy Spider-Ham would have thought of their menu.

As far as the cinnamon rolls? Because of the chaos surrounding the unfortunate dessert incident of last night, this is Miles’ first taste of Gwen’s signature treat. On the first bite, Miles rocks back in his chair at the killer combination of fluffy texture and creamy cinnamon-y sweetness that coats his tongue. With a flash of sympathy, he realizes why his dad might have said what he said to his mom – even if it was still pretty dumb, thinking back on it.

Still, as Miles continues to work his way through the massive confection, it turns out that he can’t enjoy his cinnamon roll to the absolute fullest. Not when this particular pastry took center stage in an epic standoff between his mother and his girlfriend. A contest of wills and desserts that resulted in Gwen standing tall and holding firm against a raven-haired, brown-eyed force of nature. Miles recalls how the conflict and challenge and heat of battle caused a rosy-red flush to bloom on Gwen’s cheeks…down the curve of her neck…past her collarbone…

Whoo boy. That confrontation made him…feel things that he’s still unpacking and trying to understand. To say nothing else of the noise Gwen made at the end of the challenge – a sound which he suspects might be living rent-free in his mind for a long, long time.

And while Miles struggles with the very act of eating Gwen’s cinnamon rolls, it certainly isn’t helping that the pajamas he’s wearing smell like her. Her scent is everywhere, surrounding him, enveloping him…reminding him of a tapestry of wildflowers draped across fields of green meadows.

As he lifts a morsel to his lips, his fork trembles, then hangs in the air as notes of spicy cinnamon and her flowers intermingle…the sultry invasion of taste and smell aided and abetted by their sibling senses:

Gwen peeling and picking apart her roll by hand…then licking her fingers clean. (“Gwennie, come on, use a napkin.”)

Her hum of delight at the taste, followed by his own choking cough.

And under the table, hidden from sight…the increasingly unsubtle prod of a plum-violet toenail dragging friction and fire along his calf.

Why is it suddenly blistering hot in this room? And why on earth are their pajamas long-sleeved? Lawd-Have-Mercy, Miles might not be able to continue, especially with Gwen’s dad sitting across from him. He silently begs every divinity in the multi-verse for the strength to hold it together at the Stacy breakfast table. He puts down his fork, the bite uneaten.

“You okay? You’re not going to finish?” Gwen asks. She leans forward and her foot falls away. He wants it back immediately. “You don’t like them.”

“No!” Miles blurts out, his leg hitting the table and rattling the dishes. Then more quietly, “Er…no. What I ate was great.” He grips the table’s edge for purchase, looking for any words at all that would come across as normal right now. “It’s just all…all a lot for me to take in…all at once, you know? Everything smelled great though. Everything.” He tugs at his pink shirt collar while giving her a look, hoping that their Top-Secret-Relationship-Code-With-The-Eyes isn’t on the fritz.

The corner of her lip quirks upward, a dollop of frosting hanging there like a little white snowflake…and boy oh boy, what Miles wouldn’t give for Mr. Stacy to not be in the room, so he could help Gwen tidy herself up. She leans back in her chair, apparently satisfied.

He stares at her.

She stares back.

Cough cough. “Yeah, I think my appetite’s gone now.” George pushes his plate aside. “Why don’t we do the next thing on the schedule.” He glances at either side of the table. “Something where I don’t feel like such a goddamn third wheel.” He ruffles Gwennie’s hair as he stands.

And finally, Step Three in what makes a Christmas a Stacy Christmas is the gift-exchange following the hearty breakfast. It starts with the presentation of the stockings, and as George hands him one, Miles’ heart warms at the sight of his own name already embroidered on the side in red cursive stitching. Such a small touch…but still.

Next comes the ‘family to family’ gifts. Miles had conferred with his dad and together the two of them had selected the shiny cylindrical object that George is turning over in his hands.

“Nice! A French Press?” George says.

“Dad says the coffee it makes comes out even smoother than the standard pot. This one here's extra fancy.”

“Well in that case, I’m excited. Make sure to thank your folks for me.” George shoots him a smile and looks at the lid. “It says ‘Foam Party.’ Heh. That’s a funny name. Sounds kind of fru-fru.”

“Yeah, it’s a café near my place. They sell branded merch.”

Gwen interjects. “I think you’ll like it, Dad.” She glances down at her folded hands with a faraway gaze and Miles can picture her as she drifts across dimensions. “I really like that place…it’s kinda special.”

“Well, Gwennie, if it’s special to you, then this press is special to me.”

In return, the Stacy family gift to the Morales familia is a dry-aged gourmet rib roast, packaged in dry ice. Since it’s from the same farm that furnished the ham for today, George once again begins to rattle off the virtues of this specific cut of meat: the grain to grass feed ratio, the marbling pattern it influences, the science behind dry-aging, and of course the butchering method. And the cow’s name was apparently Reggie.

Miles ignores how the walls have turned a sickly pale-green behind George’s head and fast-forwards his imagination to a future in which Mami and Dad are arguing over the best culinary technique to use on this specimen of beef. Maybe he can prevent that unpleasantness by asking Pops for his preferred recipe – that should be a safe topic that doesn’t result in a ten-minute butchering tangent…right?

There is an intermission during the gift-exchange when George calls for a pause and heads to his bathroom. Miles glances over at Gwen, calculating the timing, and decides yeah some payback would be sweet right about now. The second he hears the click of a far-off door, he leaves the living room sofa to make his way over to her spot on the loveseat. She watches him approach and there’s tease in her grin and yes please in the lift of her brow.

He places a hand on each armrest of her chair, effectively boxing her in. Trapping her. But as her eyes darken in shade and yes please turns to come closer and his heart burns like a furnace pumping liquid metal through his veins – is he the one being trapped? Gwen brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and looks up at him through a curtain of lashes, long and delicate. Miles taps into an inhuman reserve of manly resolve and calls upon the Patron Saint of Rizz himself for a blessing.

Wish me luck Uncle Aaron…

Miles bends down and Gwen rises, those oh so pink lips parting to meet him. Stay on mission Miles! He can only imagine her surprise when he dips low until the tip of his nose brushes the silken curve of her neck. He takes an extravagant inhale, breathing in wildflowers and meadow. He pulls back to give his own pink collar an embellished sniff and finds faint traces of the same.

He fixes her with a stare while fingering his shirt and remarks with all the cool he can possibly muster, “Second-best thing to wake up to in the morning, but the real deal’s even better.”

Miles gets his reward as two pale cheeks blush rose-red, a pleasing complement to the pink collar that lies beneath.

And somewhere out there, there’s cackling laughter, clapping hands, and a hearty ‘He finally got some game!”

When a distant toilet flushes, the two teens split apart so fast there might as well be Wile-E-Coyote dust clouds in their wake.

Once the intermission concludes, gift giving continues to the point where George is now lounging on his half of the sofa, a card in hand containing Jeff’s latest pen pal note. Miles watches as Pops grins, chuckles, and makes off-handed jokes at nearly every other line. Miles mentally records the highlights to go over with his own father when he returns. The mood is light and pleasant when a clap of hands interrupts the two men mid-banter.

“I have an announcement!” Gwen declares. “So…promise not to hate me, Miles?”

Hate? Gwen? In the same sentence?

“You? Never. What’s up?”

She reaches over to place a hand on Miles’ knee, tucks her chin, and her voice dips low and smooth. “I might have been a little naughty.”

The heat of her palm through the flannel fabric, the way she pronounced the -augh- in naughty, this version of the Stacy Sparkle gleaming at him, combined with the fact that her dad is sitting DUDE right there – all of it sends Miles’ mental alarms to DEFCON 5. His heart begins to race as he gapes at her, panicking:

Uh…Gwen…what are you about to say in front of your dad??

“I might have broken our Christmas agreement. I might have maybe, sort of…” She fidgets her index fingers and thumbs together. “…kind of got you a present.”

Miles sags back against his sofa cushions in relief, his cheek twitchy with the release of pent-up adrenaline. Gwen apparently mistakes his reaction for something else.

“Miles, I’m sorry. I know we agreed to not do gifts…but…please don’t be mad at me?”

Now that Miles’ heart isn’t trying to hammer its way out of his chest, his body relaxes and allows him to hear his dad’s low earthy chuckle in his mind. Told ya she'd do it, didn't I? Your old man knows what's up!

Yeah…but why do you always gotta be so dang right all the time? And annoying about it?

Miles shoves his dad to the back of his mind and says to Gwen with a smirk, “Wow. I’m soooo shocked. Shocked. But seriously? S’okay. I figured this might be coming.” Later with his dad, Miles will omit that he failed to mention to Gwen that fatherly mentorship was the real reason he knew this was coming.

“Well betcha can’t guess what I got you,” she says as she reaches to the coffee table to pull out a thin envelope that she had hidden under a stack of IndieBeat, Music Loop, and JamForum magazines.

Miles glances at the lettering of his name, written in Gwen’s swirling loopy scrawl. “Hey the color…is it...it kinda looks like…”

“Yeah, I wrote it with that plum violet nail polish you said you liked. Remember when you took me to homecoming a few months ago, and you kept…uh, looking at my hands?” Gwen’s face grows distant with her smile, a pleasing memory flitting across its curve.

Oh, Miles could remember that color, the color that had drawn his eye and caused him to wrap his hand around hers, warm…slender…so so soft to the touch. The violet-tipped hand he had brushed so lightly against his lips. The brush that in turn had caused her to instigate the long, languorous pre-dance kiss he would always remember in this very same living room.

“How could I forget…I do love that color on you.”

She stares at him.

He stares back.

At her hands, more accurately.

“Sweet merciful crap, come on you two.” George grouses before he takes a swig of coffee. “We’re going to be opening gifts into the afternoon at this rate. And there’s only three of us.”

“Uh…yeah. Sorry.” Miles slides his fingernail through the seal and pulls out two tickets. “Yoooo! You serious??” His face alights with the joy of one who is known by another. “You’re gonna take me to your Guggenheim??”

“Merry Christmas, my guy,” she smiles with the smugness of an archer hitting a bullseye. “They finally repaired the roof enough from…um, earlier in the year.” Her voice softens. “I mean the roof is still getting worked on, but at least the inside got patched up from the…uh, damage, and it’s mostly functional again. That date?” She points at the tickets. “It’s the grand re-opening.”

Miles picks out the tiny waver in Gwen’s voice, thinks about where they’re going, and his mind clicks. He darts a glance to two faces – outwardly happy after the act of gift-giving…but tinted by a film of shadow that hangs between them.

Miles knows this is dangerous territory to tread. He’s avoided this topic with Mr. Stacy at all costs. He’s of course heard Gwen’s side, has held her through it as she shuddered and clung to him like a lifeline. He’s even waded through the Earth 65 internet, sifting through negative editorials and outdated fugitive updates from the Spider-Woman Task Force, in order to unearth unbiased news accounts of the event. Gwen’s been sparse on the actual fight details themselves, but the articles weren’t.

A helicopter? Falling into a building? And she saved everyone?

Even for someone who’s seen and continues to see Gwen’s jaw-dropping feats of the spectacular from up close…those third-party accounts of her heroism had left him breathless, wishing that he could have been there to be an eyewitness to greatness. For Miles, Gwen’s example will always inspire him to dare to be great.

But now, Miles sees a flash of something in Mr. Stacy’s eyes – like a wisp of foamy white atop a rolling wave that is beginning to crest. He moves to keep this wave from breaking and overshadowing this special day of theirs.

“So…” The Morales Megawatt Grin emerges, multi-purposed and always useful. “…you’re telling me, I get to go to an art museum. With my girlfriend. And look around as much as I want?”

The grin never fails and the shadow flies away from its light. Gwen’s smile turns to gold in its purest form again. “Naturally.”

“And I get to tell you stuff about the art, and what’s good about it, or bad, or amazing?”

“This’ll only be fun if you explain it all to me. I’ll still think your art is better though.”

“Naturally. And you won’t complain about how long it’s taking?”

“When do I ever complain about spending time with you, Miles?”

“Truth. How long do I get with you?”

“As long as you want. Within…reason. I…you know how it gets. Probably will have a paper or two that I need to work on by then. Patrol time.” She nods at the tickets. “For that day, I had to beg Em Jay to move band practice a few hours later to accommodate…well…in case you wanna be a nerd and stay till closing.”

“And if I did wanna stay till closing, you’re still gonna be right by my side the entire time?”

“I’ll be your arm candy the entire time.”

"You mean, the prettiest work of art in the whole museum will be on my arm the entire time."

Gwen preens. George splutters coffee down his PJ shirt. “You could warn a guy before you spray some ridiculous shi-“ he acknowledges her warning glare, “…cheese into the air like that.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small notebook titled: ‘A Dossier on Miles Morales – His Long-Term Prospects.’

He holds the little booklet to his face and peers at Miles from over its top. “Son, that sounded corny as all get out. But you just made Gwennie happy over her big Christmas gift to you, so I’ll give you a ‘Plus’ in the ‘Atta-Boyfriend’ column.” He makes a dramatic pencil sweep on a page. “You’re racking them up in this column, I’ve got to admit.”

“DAD…can…can you not?? I thought I told you to get rid of that stupid thing. It’s embarrassing.”

“And I thought I told you I’d think about it. Your old man’s bad at math and I need help adding things up. How else am I supposed to track if Miles is an overall good guy and long-haul material?”

“Gimme that!” And a red-faced daughter jumps into the lap of her father, her arm reaching for the offending object, his longer arm holding it out of reach over her head. The pages ripple and Miles wonders if there’s anything actually written in this oft-flaunted book. Soon, tickles become weapons in this war, followed shortly by feminine giggles and deep belly-laughs. Miles looks on and chuckles at the sight of Mr. Stacy’s burly presence holding his daughter’s slim form at bay with a hand on her face…but also at the irony that she could easily bench press her old man with two pinky fingers.

Miles looks at the tickets in his hand, and a point of curiosity niggles in his mind like a musical earworm that will not stop playing the same set of chords over and over again. He asks, “Hey Pops, real talk for a sec?”

“Y..e…ah?” George stutters with laughter in between Gwen-tickles.

“Did you have any clue that Gwen would get me something?”

“Of…course.” George’s response is muffled behind the cushion that Gwen is whacking into his face. “Dads…URGH…know…everything.”

At the mention of ‘everything’ Miles’s dad shoves his way back to the forefront of his mind: He’s right about that, we sure as heck do. I knew there was a reason I liked Mr. Stacy. I called everything Gwen was gonna do, didn’t I?

“If dads know everything,” Gwen huffs as she switches to shoving the cushion directly over her father’s face so he can’t see her next move. “Then you would already know how dumb this stupid notebook is and how I’m gonna find it when you’re asleep and how I’m gonna rip it up in front of your eyes one of these days.”

“Well, this dad does know that Miles got you a gift. It’s probably in that big backpack he left by the front door.” From behind the press of the large cushion, George’s disembodied hand points in the general direction of the front hallway.

“No, he didn’t. I told Miles not to do it, so why wouldn’t he listen to me?”

“Yeah…about that? Pops is right.”

“Wait, what? You didn’t listen to me?”

Miles can practically see the specters of Peter B and his father waving their arms furiously, warning him that ‘you didn’t listen to me’ is a Code Red ‘Bros-Gotta-Be-Careful’ potential minefield. He’s not sure how she’ll react to his next words but hopes for the best as he lobs them tentatively into the air. Before he can say anything though, his father whispers his last words of advice into his ear: “…show her that she was at the top of your mind.”

“So…um yeah…surprise? I kinda noped your ‘don’t-get-me-nothin’ rule and got you a gift too…but I couldn’t help it…was just thinking ‘bout you, y’know?”

“Oh?” Gwen releases her dad and turns around with a serene smile. Miles loses his train of thought momentarily as the room brightens with the radiating joy of one who knows that she is thoroughly loved. “You couldn’t help but think about me?”

“Yeah. I’m always thinking ‘bout you. Why’d you get me something?”

“Well...” Gwen jumps off George’s stomach, causing him to OOF and she shifts to sit on the nearby armrest. She bats her eyes at Miles in an obviously exaggerated flutter, but it still makes his stomach swoop and flip all the same. “The story of ‘why’ is just another example of how much I think about you all the time,” she says in a voice coated with syrup.

“Je-SUS Christ.” George groans. “My blood can’t handle all the sugar you two been force-feeding me. All morning. Going to go into diabetic shock over here.”

“Shush Dad. So. I was planning on keeping our agreement. But then I was out and about downtown and…”

Record-scratch. Did…did she say downtown?

DOWNTOWN! Ha! Called that one too! Old Man 2, Son 0.

“Did you…you were…downtown?” Miles stutters. “Were you um…maybe walking…? Or were you swinging on patrol?”

“Huh?” Gwen asks and blinks twice. “I was walking…to the subway. Why?”

She was WALKING! That counts too! Old Man 3, Son 0.

“Oh, no reason.” Miles circles his hand to encourage her to keep going.

“…Right. So then I might have walked by a store and saw an ad for the mus-“

“Uh h-hold up. Was it a regular store or…was it your favorite store?”

Gwen shakes her head, confused. “Wha-why does that matter?”

“It…it just does.”

“Ooooookay. Weird. If you really wanna know it was Deception Black. I guess I get a decent chunk of my clothes from there…so yeah…? I guess you could call it my favorite?”

SWISH! Old Man 4, Son 0.

Gwen narrows her eyes. “Are you gonna keep interrupting me, doofus?”

“Uh sorry, sorry. K-keep going.”

“So annnnnnyways…” Gwen rolls her eyes and keeps talking even as an annoying voice grows ever louder in Miles’ imagination. Old Man scoops up the ball…

“...I saw the ad for the Gug’s reopening taped on the store window…and it’s like…at first, I couldn’t believe how perfect it was. I thought of you…”

Old Man’s driving the lane…

“…and even though I said all that stuff before about not getting you anything…I KNEW I just had to do it. For you. For us.”

EASY LAYUP! HE’S ON FIRE! Old Man’s got 5 in a row!

Miles holds up a hand as an irritating victory cheer roars in his ears. “W-wait. Gwen. When you saw the ad…did you maybe…I dunno. Hold your hands to your face…or maybe squeal a little bit?”

“What the…??” Gwen’s beam fades completely as her eyes slant into slits. “Wha…who acts like that? That sounds dumber than hell!”

HA! Take THAT Dad!

Miles opens his eyes to see two gawping faces staring at him. Wait. Did he think that or-

“What. The. Fuc-“

“Gwennie, language.”

“-heck does Jeff have to do with any of this??”

Whoops.

“I-I-I…” Miles stammers.

Gwen’s eyes are no longer human, they have morphed into death-dealing girlfriend daggers. “Wait a minute. Are…are you making fun of me?”

“What? No! I swear!”

“Squealing? Holding my hands to my face? Is...is this an airhead joke??”

“Mi Amor, I can-”

“Mi Amor’s not saving you here, buddy.” Gwen gasps and her eyes widen. “This better not be a frickin’ blonde joke, Morales!”

Later tonight, when Miles tells his tale of this Stacy Christmas, Morales the Elder will palm his face and groan at this specific juncture. But then he will raise his head at what follows next and remark: Son…someday, when you’re old enough…you owe Mr. Stacy a beer.

“Gwennie.”

“WHAT.”

With that biting syllable, Miles knows exactly how Dad felt last night when he foot-in-mouthed to Mom, and the latter’s deadly voice purred with the threat of potential violence – threatening to turn blood to ice. He hears that same lethal purr in Gwen’s tone now. And Miles is afraid. Oh, so very afraid.

George stands and places himself between the two, heroically shielding Miles from harm.

“He’s making fun of me Dad, I just know it.” Two sky-blue laser beams bore into hazel colored shooting targets. “Maybe I don’t want to go to the Gug with you anymore. Maybe you don’t deserve it.”

George raises his hands in a placating fashion. “Whoa, whoa. Gwen. Let’s not get hasty here.”

Gwen’s focus is locked in on Miles (and only Miles) like a homing missile. Her dad might as well not exist. Silent as death, a slender arm slowly raises towards the doomed boyfriend’s chest, her hand twitching and clenching, reaching for the front of his shirt. Just as slowly, Miles leans back with the rise of her hand. Before she can make contact, George gently guides her hand back down to her side.

He continues. “If you look at Miles, he’s had a really short night…he’s probably not thinking straight…and the poor guy looks bushed…”

Silently, that slender arm begins to rise again. George guides it back down.

“…and if we’re being honest, so do you, sweetie. You probably got even less sleep last night than he did and…”

The arm moves. George guides it back.

“…you got bags under your eyes big enough to win you the grand prize in Supermarket Sweep…”

A low growl vibrates in the back of Gwen’s throat. The arm twitches. George holds it in place.

“…so why don’t you lay down flat on the sofa? Let Miles and me make you comfy. And you watch your favorite pastime?”

Gwen blinks. Miles mentally groans. Oh, not the favorite pastime. Anything but that. Every time he sees it playing, a new wave of embarrassment comes crashing down on him. But if it’s a matter of death or embarrassment, Miles knows he’d choose embarrassment every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Gwen blinks more rapidly, her lashes fluttering. Miles watches the icy blue ire melting away from her whole body. “I guess that sounds good,” she says in a quiet voice, small and tired. “But you make me sound like a little kid when you call it that.”

“Gwennie,” George says with a smile. “You are my little kid. I like seeing you happy. So…no shame. No judgement. We’ll back out of the room when you pull out your phone to watch it. But first, let’s get you set up.”

“Okay,” she says, and lays down on the sofa with a yawn. She folds her hands upon her chest and looks up at her dad expectantly.

“Right,” George says. He turns to Miles and speaks with the same precision a surgeon would use to order the next instrument in an operation. “Pillow from her bedroom.”

“On it.” Miles runs off. As he comes back, Gwen lifts her head. He fluffs it and places it underneath her neck.

“Glass of water.”

“Got it.” Miles runs off. A glass of water appears on the coffee table by Gwen.

“Fuzzy slippers.”

“Fuzzy slippers?”

“You…didn’t get them from her bedroom while you were getting her pillow?”

“How…was I supposed to know I needed to do that?”

George quirks an eyebrow and stares. Miles sighs. “Moving.” He runs off.

Fuzzy slippers appear on Gwen’s feet in short order.

“Alright Gwennie. Looks like you’re good to rock. I’m taking Miles into the kitchen and he’s going to help me get a head start on dishes. Then…maybe after you’ve rested for a bit, we can come back and he can give you his big surprise gift…yeah?”

“…Yeah. Thanks Dad.” And for the first time in several terrifying minutes, Miles thinks he sees his Gwen again, returned to them and normal. And he’s grateful. So very grateful.

“Anytime sweetie. C’mon Miles.” And with that the two men back away from Gwen and don’t turn around until they’ve passed through the kitchen threshold. They walk to the sink together, each releasing a deep exhale.

“Pops…thanks for the save.”

“Son,” George says with a touch of sharpness. “…you might have gotten a big ol 'Plus' in the notebook a few minutes ago. But that weird-ass act of yours just now deserves no less than five X's in the ‘X’s-Are-For-Exes’ column. And maybe a spot in the Hall of Fame for Boyfriend Dumbassery."

They reach the sink and George begins to fill it with dish soap and water. Miles leans against the counter and turns to him.

"Hey f'real…I’ve always wondered…is there anything in that notebook?"

A Sparkle stares back, as unreadable as a sphinx.

"I'll never tell.” George nods his head to the breakfast table. “Why don’t you make yourself useful instead of getting yourself nearly killed. Grab the plates and start scraping crud off into the trash, why don’t you?”

“Right.”

Side by side the two men work together, soaping, rinsing, and drying. After a few minutes of silence, Miles ventures another request.

“Pops. Can I ask you another question? Real talk, I was wondering-”

“I think you’ve used up your ‘Real Talk Questions’ quota for today. The last time you asked me one of those, I almost had to plan for your funeral on this Earth. Wasn’t sure how I was going to break it to Jeff.”

“Aw c’mon. It's just you and me. And I’m really curious.”

A feigned sigh. “Okay, send it.”

“Did you know that Gwen was going to get me a Christmas gift all along?”

George doesn’t answer directly as he continues to scrub. “Gwen’s the most generous kid I’ve ever known. She’s a giver. So no, it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Oh. Was she always like that? I…I don’t know too much about her early years. She doesn’t say much about back then. And it doesn’t really come up. I’d like to know more though…”

At that, George’s hands still, their sudden halt causing sudsy water to ripple back and forth in the sink like foamy waves breaking against his forearms. As he considers his answer, Miles thinks he spots a similar wave skimming over the elder man’s face, hiding an unknown depth beneath its rolling surface.

A thin cloud passes by the sun outside, casting a shady tint through the kitchen window. George lifts his head to stare outside. “She’s always known how to pick out a helluva gift. It’s like she’s got a gift for gifts.” He continues staring, the silence stretching, and just as Miles thinks that this moment has passed away he says, “Gwen…she’s always chosen well.”

-🕷-

December 25^th. Some years ago…

“This is from Dad and me. I picked it out though.”

“That’s how I know I’m going to like it, then,” Peter replies to Gwen with a grin.

Across the Parkers' living room, seated on their sofa, George turns and lowers his voice to May, “That’s kinda true. Gwennie wouldn’t even let me come to the table with gift ideas for Peter. Said to me, ‘you don’t know him like I do.’”

May chuckles around a bite of a freshly Gwen-baked cinnamon roll and places it on her coffee table. She brushes an errant crumb off her flannel top. “And you’re saying she’s wrong? Do you go on all their play dates-“

“Whoa, May, careful or they’ll hear you. We’re supposed to call them hang outs now. Play dates are for ‘little kids.’ They’re going into Junior High next year. Don’t forget that practically makes them adults.”

May chuffs. “Oh right, right, my apologies to our little grown-ups. As I was saying…do you go on their ‘hang outs’? Their field trips? Are you banging on my door as soon as you get home from school, demanding for Peter right now?” She arches her eyebrow.

George shakes his head and returns her smile. “S’pose not.”

They both return their gaze to the far side of the room where Ben, Peter, and Gwen are sitting under a glittering tree, its light dancing across Gwen’s porcelain complexion. The pajama-clad three are knee deep in the Stacy-Parker annual gift-exchange – one of the many Christmas Day traditions that the two families have forged together over the last four years.

Every year they alternate hosting duties, although it simply means that one family walks down the apartment building’s hallway to the other’s home. No matter the year however, there are things that never change. The Stacy-Parker Christmas always includes Gwen’s cinnamon rolls, George’s ham, May’s quiche, Ben’s fancy espressos, and Peter’s piano caroling to set the proper mood.

And every year there’s the moment where Gwen and Peter insist on being the last to bestow their presents upon the other. An insistence on being the center stage.

May and George exchange a glance when Peter finishes ripping the wrapping paper off Gwen’s gift, and he crows in triumph. He holds his newly acquired chemistry set aloft like a trophy and Gwen scoots closer on the carpet to rest an arm around his shoulders – May’s Christmas lighting casting a halo of warm white around them both.

“Don’t forget to say thanks for the gift, Peter,” Ben prods with a kindly smile.

Peter looks to the sofa with a brilliant beam. “Thank you, George.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, buddy.”

Peter’s largest smile is of course reserved for Gwen. “Thanks.”

“Merry Christmas,” she says as she squeezes him closer and lays her head upon his shoulder.

“It’s my turn.” Peter’s grin fades away and his voice grows quiet as he holds out a thin, flat shape covered with layer upon layer of colored paper – the tell-tale sign of a boy who had insisted on wrapping his offering himself. “Now that I’ve seen what you got me, I dunno about mine now.”

“Don’t be silly! I know I’ll love it!” Gwen snatches the mini parcel out of Peter’s hands.

“Gwennie! Manners.”

“Yes Dad. Sorry, Peter,” she mumbles. For a few seconds, the air is full of the crinkle crinkle of eager fingers making rapid work of the packaging. When Gwen reaches the end, a small trinket falls into her waiting palm.

She holds it up against the backdrop of the tree, where a circle of alternating green and blue beads sparkle and shimmer in its soft cast glow. “A bracelet?”

Peter explains, “I…I made it myself. Green means hope. And I wanted you to have that. Because…” George spots Peter’s eye flitting briefly to Gwen’s Forget-Me-Not, tucked behind her ear. “And blue means loyalty…and that’s from me. It’s a friendship bracelet…because y-you…you’re my best-“

The young boy can’t even finish his declaration before he’s tackled by a blur of blonde. He flails a hand behind him to keep them both from collapsing to the ground under Gwen’s momentum.

“I do love it,” she says with a sigh against his shoulder, and George swears the blush spreading on Peter’s cheeks is making the whole damn room turn pink.

George turns to May who smiles at the scene from behind her cup of tea.

“May?”

“Hm?” She glances at him as she sips.

“This might sound stupid…maybe kinda nuts. But you ever look at Peter, and dream a little dream?”

She tilts her head. “Beg your pardon?”

“You know…dream about who he might end up with. Someday.” He looks in the direction of the two children before turning back to May. “Waaaay down the line, that is.”

She chuckles – a comforting blanket of melody that has never failed to warm his heart and set his mind at ease. Ben and May’s soothing and stabilizing presence has done wonders for him over the past several years. After…after her.

“George. You’re a parent.” She smiles brightly in his direction. “And so am I. So, no. It’s not stupid. It’s natural for us to wonder.”

She sends her gaze back to the trio on the floor. “Peter…is still young. And so is Gwen.”

May places a warm hand, weathered with age and wisdom, over his own. Gives it a pat. George follows her line of sight back to their two children, giggling on the floor. May hums with contentment before speaking again.

“Give them time. Dream your dream and hope. There’s no telling what they might become.”

The two of them sit back and listen, as life weaves an enchanting song in the space left by their stillness:

Innocent squeals of delight as Ben unboxes the chemistry set.

The chiming of May’s grandfather clock.

And wafting from the speakers of the Parkers’ sound system? The ending chords from Peter’s latest recital piece (I’ll Be Home For Christmas), the angelic notes of his coda overwhelmed by a roar of applause from an audience – one that contained beaming proud Parkers and Stacys, two apiece.

May and George lapse into a comfortable silence, which is itself a sound, and it weaves its way into the chorus with pitch-perfect harmony. And for the first time in a long, long time, George’s heart feels full again.

-🕷-

The Present Day…

A pleased face. A stern face. A happy face. A Hey-You-Guys-Are-Being-Awfully-Quiet-In-Her-Room Face.

By this point in his life, Miles has beheld a wide range of George Stacy expressions. This one? This is one of his favorites.

This face is full of mischief – and thank the multi-verse it’s not directed at him for once. This is the face of a master storyteller who knows he has a captive audience. A warm, happy kitchen plays host to an impromptu Stacy Story Time and Miles is being fed. He eagerly awaits as Pops takes a dramatic pause, quirks his lips, and:

“…so then little Gwennie bent her head down and started to drink it.”

George begins to snicker, while Miles sputters with pressed lips.

“AH HECK NAH! How many people put their fingers in that water?”

“Every single person that passes through the flippin’ doors at St. Anne’s. The holy water…spout? Fountain? I think it’s called a fountain. It’s right by the front door, you can’t miss it. And yeah…everybody puts their hand in the bowl or under the running water when they pass by.”

“She really thought it was just another water fountain? Man, I hope she didn’t get sick from it.”

“…actually, when I told her what it was for, she spit the water right back out into the bowl.” George’s hands curve in a circular shape. “Right in front of everyone. Father Jenkins saw it too. That was uh…a lot of faces looking at us. Thought we were going to get excommunicated right then and there.”

“You know, I need to figure out how to come over more without Gwen finding out.” Miles yawns in Pops’ direction and muffles his next words. “You’re giving me the gold here.”

“Seems like it wasn’t that golden of a story if I’m putting you to sleep.”

“Ah, sorry about that.” Miles runs a hand over his mouth and rubs his eyes. “Guess that late night is catching up to me.”

“Here.” George slides him a mug of coffee across the countertop like a bartender. “It’s not your usual Energy Poison, but it’ll do the trick. I put a crap-ton of cream and sugar in it. Because I figured you’d be that kinda kid.”

Pops’ grin takes the edge off of ‘kid,’ but it still niggles like a pebble in Miles’ shoe. Fleeting fragments of darkened memory flit by – a shadowy control room, dark as night; trusted face, speaking poison; eyes impossibly blue, brimming with unshed tears…

Miles squeezes his eyes to reset his mind and takes a sip to distract himself. He rolls the flavors around his tongue, weighing the mental calculus of whether it would be worth a quick mention that he’d rather be called anything other than that word.

In the end, he elects to defer to another day and begrudgingly admits that his Pops had indeed calculated the right amount of sweetness to make the drink tolerable. “Not bad. Guess this stuff doesn’t have to taste like ash.”

“Maybe you should listen to me more. I’m good for your health.”

The warmth settles its way down Miles’ chest, and he leans against the kitchen counter. Both men have taken a break from cleanup duty – sharing Gwen-stories requires the utmost attention, of course. And in the last few minutes, it was Miles who was unearthing gold as he received in quick succession:

That being said – Miles notices the pattern in the storytelling. They’re all wisps of wind passing by, bearing impressions from Gwen’s past that are safe. Happy and light – and all from a certain time frame. No mention of her mother, Helen. None of Peter.

The stories match the tone of the Stacys’ home – no picture containing an impression of the past hangs on any wall. Generic décor abounds. There are no deep waters here, either in this place or its words; its currents flow, shallow and opaque.

Yet Miles wishes to test their depths. He is Gwen’s boyfriend, now of many months and has loved her for more. How could he not want to know every possible detail, catch every fragment of the past that formed and molded his Gwen? Miles feels greedy, as he asks a father who is not his own for another turn of the page in his family’s private storybook.

“Run it back? Last one?”

“I think I’ve sold out Gwennie enough for one day. Don’t you think?” A twinkle shines in George’s eye.

“Well…you never know when some good blackmail material will come in handy.”

George leans in. “Blackmailing my daughter sounds like an activity that belongs in the ‘X’s-Are-For-Exes’ column.”

“Annnnnd never mind.” Miles takes another sip from his mug. “Actually, hold up, that’s not fair. I know Mami’s been talking her ear off. Gwen’s got a pile of ‘kid Miles’ dirt on me as high as the Chrysler Building.”

A bark of earthy laughter. “Oh, trust me I know.”

“Aw cmon! Now Gwen’s spillin’ to you. What’d she tell you?”

“A cop doesn’t betray his informants. Cop or ex-cop.”

“There’s a first time for everything, amirite?” Miles tries a slightly modified version of the face he once paired with that fateful line. It’s for a different audience, but it should be no less charismatic.

“Well…” George considers Miles for a long pause, then another. Then, the Stacy Sparkle. “One word. Diapers.”

“Oh. Oh, now you reallllly gotta gimme another story to even it up. That…that’s the worst. And I really need to tell Mom that she can’t be sellin’ me out like that.”

“Don’t get mad at Rio. Remember what I said about parents and teasing our kids. It’s in our blood. Can’t be helped. But…maybe I won’t get in trouble with Gwennie if I tell you a random story. A story that could be just about anybody. Get what I’m saying?”

“I-I gotchu. Go onnnn...” It’s fairly easy to charm a Stacy, Miles realizes – it just takes the right smile and the right amount of honeyed inflection in the voice. He can’t understand why no one else does it.

“Alright. So once upon a time,” George taps his foot on the floor for emphasis. Miles nods his understanding. “There was this sweet girl, about yay high…” George waves his hand right below his rib cage. “…and roundabout eleven-ish, following?”

“Keep it comin’.”

“And her dad – her amazing, kickass dad – might have taken her camping at Lake George. Nice cabin, the works. And maybe this girl – while hiking – went off the marked trail for a bit…and might have paid for it by running into a skunk.”

“Ohhhhh…no.”

“Ohhhhh yes. And this amazing, devoted dad…did I mention he’s a handsome guy? He might have had to drive twenty minutes away to buy an assload of tomato juice to get rid of the smell.”

“Y-you drove her?? You let Gwen drag that stank into your car?!”

“Ha. No, no. I didn’t drive her to the store. I left her with Ben and May. They were a godsend.”

Miles notes George’s dropping of the ruse and chances it.

“Ah, cool. Didn’t know you vacationed with them. So…Peter was there too?”

And once again Miles spots that wave rolling across Mr. Stacy’s face, a deepening of hue and texture, a shimmer floating on the surface of his eyes. “Yeah…Peter was there.”

“What…were they like together?”

“The Parker family, you mean?”

“No. Gwen and Peter.”

George’s gaze flicks to Miles and holds him captive, the younger man beholding colors like that of a shifting gray storm.

“Why…do you want to know?” This George Stacy voice is not like the others that he’s heard today. Its tones of happiness and lightness from before – they are now pulled back into refuge, retreated behind fences and gates. George takes a few paces to the kitchen table and sits down with a heavy creak from the wooden chair, gravity seemingly taking its toll on him.

“Well…it’s tough,” Miles answers. “I’m in a tough spot, y’know? I want to know everything about Gwen. Because…well…I...” Miles bites his tongue, keeps it from making an inadvertent slip. The timing is not yet right. “But…I know she’s had it rough.”

George’s mouth twists. Miles waits for him to speak, but when he doesn’t he continues. “And when she does start sharing something with me, I try my best to listen…but sometimes with her I don’t know when I should be just listening, or when it’s safe for me to keep it going. To ask some questions to find out more. But I don’t know where all the traps are…and I don’t wanna be the reason she falls into one.”

“So, what has she told you about Peter?”

“I definitely know about the dance. She told me everything. It…it was a rough talk.” And night, Miles’ mind adds. He still vividly remembers holding her shaking frame, gasping for breath at first. Then calming gradually with the steady tightening of his embrace. And when it was all over, she slept in his arms, the only real balm he could offer her. Miles had hated waking her early, so she could return home before either set of parents were the wiser. But Mr. Stacy doesn’t need to know everything about that stolen night.

“But…” Miles continues. “Even though I know it’s not tearin’ her up like it used to…I still don’t know if me asking about Peter is off limits. And Gwen is important to me. Really important.” George’s eyes flick up. “And what I do know is that Peter was really important to her. And if anything important to Gwen made her into who she is now?…Well, I can’t help but wanna learn about it. So…” Miles shrugs his shoulders helplessly.

The silence stretches as the men consider each other, George’s shifting gray clouds changing depth in front of Miles’ eyes. Then they part, revealing a sliver of clear light.

“Miles, when it comes to Gwen…I’m in a tough spot too. You understand…?” George’s voice trails off, nearly fading to silence at the last word.

“Yeah.” Miles understands all too well and keeps his answer clipped. One hard conversation at a time, and today is not the day.

“And if we do this. With where I’m at with Gwen…you understand that anything I give you here is just dad-observations right? Anything personal between her and Peter – that’s her story to tell.” Mr. Stacy fixes Miles with a solemn look that demands acknowledgement.

“I got you.”

He nods his head slowly. “Alright then. So…what were they like?”

George leans back in his chair and looks away from Miles to a neutral gray wall, the plainest in this room.

“How am I going to boil them down? Peter and Gwen…I’m going to start off with peas in a pod. Kind of hokey, I know, but that was them. After May and I introduced them as kids…pretty soon it just got rolling. It was parks at first. Used to call them play dates when they’re that young. May and I would do the organizing. But then living right next to the Parkers…well, pretty much he just started living over here. And same with Gwennie going down the hall. As they grew up, one never did anything without the other. Homework, school clubs, you name it. And by the way, a Stacy Christmas always used to be a Stacy-Parker Christmas and they were the two stars of the show.”

Miles smiles and is truly happy for Gwen, even as his heart jolts at the thought of her spending so much time with another. “You know when I first met Gwen, and she told me she didn’t ‘do friends.’ Man, the way she said it? I was hoping that wasn’t true. It’s why I couldn’t send her home through that portal without calling her a friend. I didn’t wanna imagine her living life like that. So…it makes me really glad to hear that she had all those happy times with Peter. Before…the dance.”

“Yeah, that night.” George looks off to the window, as if trying to pinpoint that ill-fated gymnasium far off in the distance. “That damn serum. Blew my mind when Gwen gave me her full side of the story. I…I just couldn’t believe that Peter…my Peter…could do that to himself. Or his reason why.”

A rap rap fills the air as George knocks on the wooden surface under his calloused hands. “This table? I used to sit right here. And Peter would sit there, and I’d help him build his model airplanes. The couch out there, where Gwennie’s lying down?” George nods behind him. “When they were little, sometimes I’d read bedtime stories out there. Peter on one side of me, her on the other. I practically raised him along with Ben and May. So…for him to choose to take that drink? Turn into ‘The Lizard?’ On purpose for Gwen?”

George stares into his mug like a crystal ball, as if the dark liquid within will clear and reveal a hidden message. “Even though I know it’s the truth, part of me still doesn’t want to believe it.” He pauses, then lifts his eyes back to Miles. “Back when Gwen was telling me-“

George cuts himself off and subtly shakes his head. It’s like Miles can see Mr. Stacy reminding himself to respect Gwen’s privacy. He tries again. “I thought I knew Peter. And I thought he knew what I would have wanted for him. For them. But I guess I really didn’t know him in the end. But the thing is…I should have done better.”

He grows quiet as the daylight outside shifts and shadows wind around the kitchen walls, their grays growing darker. “In my old line of work, I could read a man like a book. Give me five minutes with someone and I could tell you the story of his last thirty. But…I wish I’d read the warning signs on Peter. All those years with him, all I could read when I looked at Peter was that he idolized my little girl. I thought it was puppy love…or something like that. Never could have dreamed it was something darker. Something more.”

“Do you think…” Miles blows out a breath. “I’m trying not to sound like the jealous guy here. It’s not that, it’s just-”

“Were they together? By the end?”

“Yeah…that.”

“That…that’s a tough one. They started out young when they met. They were still pretty damn young when you think about it…when he left us.” George shakes his head with a grimace. “Peter definitely meant a lot to Gwen. And I…I think she loved him. In her own way. But like that? This is just my opinion here. Only Gwen really knows. But I don’t think they were all the way there. But…they could have made it there. If they hadn’t gotten interrupted.”

“Sometimes I wish they hadn’t gotten interrupted.”

“What?” George faces Miles.

“Don’t get me wrong. Of course, I’m really happy to be where I am right now. With Gwen. Crazy happy. But every once in a while, when a day gets really bad for her…and I can tell that she’s reliving something. Maybe during those moments, I wish that Peter never died and she didn’t have to live through that. She’d already lost enough...” Miles looks at George. “…even if that meant that she would have ended up with Peter instead of me.”

“Well now that would be going too far. You? I wouldn’t be changing you, Miles.” George lowers his voice to a burdened whisper. “But I get what you mean. All I can say is…welcome to the club. It’s an exclusive club of two. You’re not the only one who wishes he could change her past.”

From his seat, George twists to look over his shoulder. He peers past the kitchen threshold, and Miles follows suit. Together, the two stretch their vision to the living room sofa, where Miles can see a mop of blonde and pink, oblivious at being watched. Her outline vibrates in the distance as she chuckles to herself, the trembling music of her laughter warming his heart. As she looks to her phone, the crown of Gwen’s head peeks at them from just over the armrest like a golden sunrise over the horizon.

Miles asks a question while staring at the source of all the light in his life. “How bad did it get for her? After?”

-🕷-

December 24^th. Two Christmases ago…

Silence is itself a sound, and it shrieks and screams to George from Gwen’s bedroom. It’s been shrieking to George from that space for the last month…ever since his passing. His death. His…murder?

With a sense of déjà vu, George approaches her door. Knocks. Nothing but the deafening sound of silence answers him. He steels himself and says, “Gwen, I’m coming in.”

In the murky blackness, Gwen sits at her desk facing away from him, with no other source of light for companionship other than what falls through her window. Illuminated by the beam of a waning moon, she sits still and tense, staring at the wall. Looking like a bird ready to fly away. Or porcelain ready to shatter.

George’s eye darts to her hand, the only source of movement in an otherwise still room. Her fingers fidget something without ceasing. He squints in the dim light, tries to see what she’s holding.

A beam of pale light hits her hand in just the right way, and his breath hitches when he realizes that she’s holding Peter’s bracelet. His heart breaks as she rotates it over and over again in her fingers like a rosary.

She pauses on a bead of blue. His blue of ‘loyalty forever.’ Its deep hue fills and spreads across George’s vision, coloring and distorting everything he sees.

“Gwen?”

No answer.

With the lightest possible touch, a touch meant for a porcelain vase, George places his hand on her shoulder.

Gwen jerks her arm away, a blow more painful than any punch that George has ever taken. She stands and slowly turns to face him. Her eyes. Empty, lifeless, and hollow. There’s nothing in them that he can see.

George clears his throat. He tries, though he has no real hope of success. “For tomorrow, I was thinking-“

“Tomorrow? You…you can’t be serious.” Her voice splinters and cracks, like the grinding of broken shards. “What makes you think I’m going to want to do anything tomorrow?”

“Gwen…we…we gotta keep going. You and me. We…always had our things that we do tomorrow…”

“H-h…he’s gone.” Gwen almost never cries, but tonight the moonlight catches a glint of ice trailing down the curve of her cheek. “Ben and May? Gone. Th-they’re gone…they just…left us. What things do we still have? Ben and May took them all when they left.”

George lowers his head and grimaces. May and Ben moving away…was sudden. Their decision certainly caught him by surprise. He understood it then to an extent, sympathized with their pain, their need to get away from anything and everything that reminded them of Peter. But now left in the aftermath and smoking rubble, he can’t help but feel abandoned and dismayed.

“They…didn’t take everything. There’s the things that we brought to the table. You and me. Daddy daughter. Like your cinn-“

“You have to be f*cking kidding me right now. You…you really think I’d…I’d want to do that tonight? f*cking bake? Have a Stacy Christmas?”

He’s far too tired to call her out for crossing the F-line in his presence. Every word he says next feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

“No…I suppose not. But I’d hoped.”

George releases a shaky breath and holds out a closed fist, then turns it upside down. He opens his palm and unveils a tiny bulb of a bud vase, a sky-blue flower perched within. He holds it out like an olive branch, hoping for a truce, for peace.

When Gwen whips her hand and slaps it away, George’s cheek flinches to match the sting on his fingers. As the flower falls and flutters to the floor, petals scattering, his heart sinks with it.

“I said NO.” Like her tears, her voice is also ice as she speaks: Cold, brittle, sharp. It could break into a million pieces at any moment...or cut deep enough to bleed. “Not this year…maybe not ever.”

He bends over to scoop the flower’s remains and the vase. He looks at her and tries one final time, a forlorn hope. “I’ll…have the ham ready for tomorrow morning at least. Same time as usual. I’ll make it happen. If you want to join me…have that Stacy Christmas…that’s…that’s up to you.”

His eyes reach out to hers, looking in vain for a spark, a flash, anything. Nothing. Nothing but a terrifying hollowness as far as he can see. Without a word she turns away and sits down at her desk. When it’s clear that she means for the silence to remain, George walks out and gently closes the door behind him.

Standing in the living room, he opens his hand and stares at the scattered petals…the mangled stalk…the empty vase. He stares and stares and stares until his vision blurs. Against their sky-blue petals, he sees images from the past…

Gone. All gone. Scattered away like the petals he holds in his hand.

George turns to look out the living room window. The room darkens as the waning moon becomes overshadowed by a thicket of black storm clouds, threatening a night filled with snowfall.

He stares until the building tops in the distance distort in his mind’s eye. Against the blend of pale moonlight and the ink of night, he beholds another mix of white and black. A shape, a form clad in white-black that swings from building to building, bringing violence and pain from above. Death and desolation. Once upon a time, it was a form that Captain Stacy had only witnessed from afar but has now descended to harm his family and those he loves.

In the darkness, George vows a silent vow, closing his fist and crumpling the flower. He walks through his lifeless kitchen and flings the Forget-Me-Not’s remains into the trash.

-🕷-

The Present Day…

George doesn’t answer Miles right away. Quiet settles through the kitchen with its leaden weight. Just as he thinks that Pops has retreated into himself for good, he hears the faint gravelly voice aimed in Gwen’s direction.

“It’s good that you’re here now, Miles.”

Miles perceives the indirect answer and wonders if more words will follow. He gives the elder man his deliberate space, inviting Pops into further elaboration with his own silence. After a time, George turns back, his eyes unreadable with their shifting gray clouds hovering over deep and darkened waters. Then the barest shake of the head, nearly imperceptible.

This line of inquiry is closed – for now.

The quiet of the room remains, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Just as Miles opens his mouth to lighten the mood, a bark of laughter from the living room does it for him. Gwen’s sweet voice is the pebble tossed into a still pond, its ripples inducing further action as it spreads.

In this case, the ripple elicits a smile from George. He stands and nods in the direction of the living room. “You know what she’s laughing at right?”

Miles hangs his head. “Yeah. The favorite pastime.” He palms his face and rubs his eyes. Mostly because he’s sleep deprived and not because he’s embarrassed, he lamely insists.

Miles hones in on a tinny, distant voice running on playback from Gwen’s phone. At a pause in the dialogue, her voice floats in again from the living room, this time saying something that sounds like ‘witch.’

George juts his chin in her direction. “And that? Always at that exact line. Even when I tell her she’s got nothing to be worried about. It’s kind of cute.”

“It’s embarrassing, is what it is.”

He points at Miles and smirks. “Own this. You need to own this.”

“I own that I need to think harder before I make another one of those.”

“I meant own up to how happy you made Gwennie.”

Miles nods to concede just as she says with an affected tone: ‘And you’re mine.’

George tilts his head to the kitchen door. “Come on. Watching her being happy happens to be my favorite pastime. Want to join me?”

Miles heaves a dramatic sigh. “I guess.”

Together they creep to the edges of the doorframe, Gwen none the wiser as she reclines facing away from them. The back of her head protrudes from the sofa’s armrest, blocking their ability to see what she’s looking at. But there’s no need – Miles already knows what images will flash across her phone. And besides, he’d much rather let the soft golden blonde of Gwen’s hair fill his vision anyways. Her finger swipes across the screen to rewind the video she’s watching, and now that tinny voice from before becomes distinguishable as Miles’ own.

“But I get to see that face whenever I want, suckas!” Gwen taunts the hypothetical audience.

George chews his lip and visibly shakes in mirth. Miles waves his finger in a hush gesture. His monologue continues.

“Oh! And accepting a slot on that show would imply that I’m single and available. Which may or may not be the case.”

Gwen’s half-shouts at her phone. “You are NOT available, that’s for sure pal. Back off Brooklyn Middle Mindy.” A pause. “Bitch.”

George eyerolls to Miles and whispers. “Every. Damn. Time.”

The video rolls on.

“But um…just to make it clear, me declining The Bachelor spot is not necessarily related to me having a new partner in Spider-Woman. And for the record, I can neither confirm nor deny that she and I are in a relationship. All I’ll say is that she’s an amazing superhero in her own right and all of us should be glad to have her reppin’ the Nine-One-Seven.”

A long silence.

“She’s the best crime-fighting partner anybody could ever want…”

Several more seconds pass and Miles’ mind flashes back to the day of the recording. He remembers the sweat trickling down his neck and chewing his cheek after the innocuous words had slipped out of his mouth. He relives the moment of hesitation as he struggled with what to say next – his waiting phone staring back at him unflinchingly before he declared into its screen:

“…and she’s the best friend a guy could ever dream of having.”

Gwen whispers, “And you’re mine.”

George gives Miles a pointed look and murmurs, “Also, every damn time.” He jerks his head back towards the middle of the kitchen, “Come back this way so I can razz you in a normal volume.”

To which Miles huffs and walks with him, right as he hears Gwen starting another video that she had downloaded from Earth 1610’s internet. And now his cheeks truly flush warm. Truth be told, Miles hadn’t minded the direct replies nor the inevitable ratio-ing (the 13^th largest ratio in YouTube history with a minimum of ten million views) of his post. No, his collar grows hot at all of the subsequent videos that his own had spawned, prominently displayed for viewers to see as Recommended For You:

And those are just the ones that he knows about. Who knows how many others Gwen has stashed on her phone?

George says, “She watches it five times a day at least. And that’s when I’m catching her watching it.” He smiles. “It always puts her in a great mood afterwards, which I’m a big fan of.”

“I had to make her promise to cap it at watching it twice whenever we’re together.”

“Oh, and how’s that working out for you?”

“Your daughter’s stubborn. And sneaky. Don’t suppose you could help me with that?”

“Sorry, but uh…customer support is closed on all major holidays and weekends. Please leave a voice mail.”

They trade grins but George’s fades away first as he says, “Hey actually, there’s um…one thing I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Miles’ eyebrow quirks to match the shift in Mr. Stacy’s voice. “That group you use…for all your – what do you call them nowadays – takes? Your MeVid takes. How much do you know about those guys that ended up hosting your stuff?”

“We call it YouTube. And…The Mic Drop? Eh, they’re like a channel that’s mostly focused on celebrity news. And yeah, they do hot takes and what not. But recently they’ve managed to snag some B-listers and gave ‘em a platform to spout off about whatever. Like Kanye explaining why he’s a Buddhist now. Or Gwyneth defending why she made a candle that smells like her…you know what, forget about that one.”

George scrunches his face. “I…don’t…know who any of those people are, and it sounds like it'd be death listening to them talk. But that’s not what I mean. You’re telling me what the channel is. What do you know about the folks who run it?”

“What they’re like? I dunno, Mike’s always seemed pretty chill when we email back and forth-“

“Email?! You…you’re reaching out to them directly and-“

“Well…yeah? He’s super nice to his followers and really active as their engagement lead…so when it came time to send him my clips I emailed-“

“W-what?” George interrupts. “I thought you uploaded your videos to some anonymous fileshare service and this group just goes out and grabs them. You send this guy your clips…yourself??”

“Uh…yeah, who else would do it?”

“A go-between! Or two! A buffer between you and the contact. And non-family too, it’s got to be.”

“Uhhh…I might be more popular back home than Gwen is here, but I still don’t exactly have a whole lotta peeps I can trust with my business.” Miles folds his arms and mentally drops shade on his one useless excuse of a confidant – Mr. Ganke I’m-Not-Your-Guy-In-The-Chair Lee.

A hand to forehead, fingers rubbing a receding hairline. “Please tell me Jeff’s run a background on these guys for you.”

“Um…no.” Miles is beginning to feel like Captain Stacy is running this conversation now, not Pops.

“Please tell me you’re using a VPN.”

“So, I know what that is.”

“Oh good.” A relieved face.

“And I do use one.”

“There we go. Glad to hear that,” George says.

“…buuuut I had a laptop crash one day, and my VPN was accidentally turned off when I sent in my Bachelor clip.”

“Mother of…” A slowly released breath. “At least tell me this email of yours is a bunch of nonsense alphanumeric chara-“

“Oh, totally. [emailprotected].”

“S…M. Okay fair enough, at least you didn’t outright spell out Spider-Man. But wait a minute…” A blank stare. “You put…your world ID. In your email account.”

“Well, I wanted some random looking numbers…and what normal civilian would know that sequence besides you, Mom, and Dad anyways?”

“So you’re telling me, that if your email accidentally got leaked, and people knew that the actual, legit Spider-Man was using it…some Johnny Q. Wise-Ass at I-Mail headquarters-“

“Google.”

“-Google HQ can look up your account…and dig around in all the stuff you’ve got in it?”

“Pops, wouldn’t that be breaking like…a lot of laws if they did that? I mean, you should know this.”

“I know it’s against the law without a warrant,” Mr. Stacy says through briefly gritted teeth. “But that doesn’t mean Mr. Wise-Ass Google-Guy won’t do it if he ever finds out about an email account belonging to the actual Spider-Man.” He looks at the ceiling. “How is it you’re able to crank out a cutting edge physics paper that Gwen’s going on about, but on stuff like this-“ He squeezes his eyes, looking a shade more weary when he reopens them. “I bet you’re going to tell me that your password is ‘Password123.’”

Miles stares at Mr. Stacy, unblinking. He considers replying that as a matter of fact, he had just recently upgraded all his key account passwords into an impregnable cipher:

Gw3nd0lyn3M@xin3M0r@l3$-$t@cy<3<3!!!

Truly, a bastion of cyber security that not even Ganke could crack – that is, if he could be bothered to get his lazy ass off his gaming chair and start hacking again. But Miles feels no need to boast to the man standing in front of him with a propensity for teasing, and for sometimes overdoing it. A man who has now been grilling him for what seems like an eternity.

Fingers pinch the bridge of a nose. “Miles. I swear I’m not trying to play stump the chump with you.”

“Not gonna lie, kinda feels like it a bit.”

“Sorry. I’ll bring it all home now. Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s not such a good idea to be contacting people you really don’t know or…” George weakly waves in the direction of Gwen in the living room. “…to put your guys’ personal business out there for everybody to see?”

“What personal business?”

“Calling Gwen – Spider-Woman – your ‘best friend.’” George’s fingers apply the air-quotes. “Making your status public.”

“What status? It’s not like I confirmed we were dating or anything.”

There might as well be a neon-bright billboard hanging off George’s face flashing You Gotta Be Kidding Me, Guy.

“Miles, I don’t need to listen to ‘Five Seconds of Silence ANALYZED – Is Spider-Man In Love With Spider-Woman?’ in order to understand that in this clip of yours? You might not exactly have been playing your cards close to your vest. With how you feel about your crime-fighting partner.”

George places a firm hand on Miles’ shoulder and beckons him to look into his eyes with the other.

“Look. It’s just that…you’ve got to cover your tracks better. You’re a public figure now. And you being displayed out in the public eye – it’s going to happen. So…if you’re going to do it on purpose, you’ve got to pick and choose when and how to do it.” Miles nods along, seeing the point. George squeezes the hand that’s been resting on the teen’s shoulder. “So, obviously I was never as high profile as you or Gwen…but I was a little high profile. I had…I was stuck in the public spotlight for a while.”

George looks away. Miles knows exactly what Mr. Stacy did with his time in the public spotlight. He’s also aware that Mr. Stacy knows he knows. Neither man wants to touch that subject right now.

George continues, “You do enough of this good-guy stuff, you get enemies out there. I…I might have racked up a few in my day. People who are going to follow you and study you. You don’t want to give them any freebie clues to what makes you tick…to where your weaknesses are.”

“Can I ask something, Pops?”

“Sure.”

“You tellin’ me all this as Pops or Captain Stacy?”

“I…” George’s mouth opens and closes, then he runs a hand over the back of his head before he replies. “Definitely Pops. Sorry for running long on you. But son…I care. I don’t want to hear about anything happening to you in your world because of bad security…bad protocols. That’s all.”

George sends out a warm smile and after a beat, Miles returns one of his own. In the earnest light of his Pops, there is now a moment.

“Miles. Hey. The big takeaway here is that I’m really glad you’re here today. Especially this day. Means a lot to me.”

“Oh, well…thanks for including me on your big family day. Mami always said that there’s nothing more important than familia.”

“Family…is important,” George says with a touch of gravity in his voice. “And your mom’s a smart lady.”

“For sure. The smartest. But…yeah, when Gwen told me how much the holidays meant to both of you, no question I wanted to be with you guys. Especially after she told me about Peter and your Christmases.” Miles considers Gwen’s determined invitation a month ago and grows thoughtful. “Maybe…that’s why I was bringing him up earlier.”

George turns to Miles, flecks of gray shifting within curious eyes. “What did she tell you about Peter and today?”

“Not a lot. Just…that you and her never skipped a single Christmas together. Even after Peter…you know.” Miles hurriedly moves on. “Which I gotta say, is really cool that you did that for Gwen.”

“…Yeah. Thanks.” George nods slightly with pursed lips and side-glances at the ‘World’s Best Ballet Dad’ coffee mug sitting on the counter.

“And from what I’ve seen so far, this Christmas morning’s got a pretty chill vibe. But it’s also pretty sweet to see all the little traditions you two got goin’ on together. You know. Your Stacy Christmas stuff. I’m diggin' it.” Miles smiles warmly. “So…did all of your other Christmases kinda play out like this?”

A hard gust of wind rattles the kitchen window, the overhead lights briefly flickering over George. Light to dark, dark to light. In the light, lips press together in a small, tight smile. In the dark, eyes cloaked, appearing like a distant gaze. But that gaze never leaves the mug as he says in its direction:

“No. Not all of them. But we tried.”

-🕷-

December 24^th. One Christmas ago…

“What a f*cking mess.”

Captain Stacy flips his windshield wipers to the max setting but it’s pointless against the fat, heavy snowflakes that swirl down from the sky in a ceaseless pale torrent. As his patrol car trudges its way through the flurry, he’s having a regret or three about some choices he made tonight.

“Mistakes were made,” he sighs to himself.

Although he started the night firm in his resolve, maybe – just maybe – he’s willing to admit that he made a rather big one a few hours earlier. As the light at 9^th Avenue switches to red, he has plenty of time for his mind to rewind on the evening:

The way that conversation went down and the dead feeling it left in his chest matches the scenery that lies outside of his car’s windows. A blankness on the ground and a blanket of pale gray above, with a full moon’s light struggling to break through. He can barely see Chelsea Park to his left or the red brick spire of the Church of St. Anne’s to his right. This is the sort of white-out scenery that he used to enjoy from inside his home, preferably with his arm slung around Gwen’s shoulder and a mug of cocoa in their hands.

He hated leaving Gwen alone. But he had to leave the house. Had to stay on mission. And if that means he gets compared to a guy with a harpoon and a facial scar who chases down a mythical white whale? Well, so be it.

If he isn’t out here, isn’t trying, how will Gwen ever get the peace she deserves? That she needs? His heart still constricts when thinking about how broken she looked last Christmas.

But now? With visibility out of his windshield at a minimum and not a soul to be seen for the last hour, George has to acknowledge that he is a fool. It seems like everybody else in NYC had the sense to stay inside tonight but him.

Ahab much, Dad?

Maybe he should have stayed at home, talking to Gwen instead of running away. Maybe if they sat down and really talked, he’ll finally get to the bottom of where she disappeared for those two terrifying days and why she came home looking like she lost a fight with an army of hair clippers. That conversation when she finally did return should have turned into an all-day grill-a-thon, as her excuses were thinner than his leads in the Spider-Woman Task Force. But he had spared her because he was thrown off by how happy she looked – her eyes flickering with a light and a hope that he had yearned to see again ever since he saw the hollowness from last year.

Another dump of snow plasters itself to his windshield and now he can barely even see the traffic light turning green in front of him.

Maybe I can call off tonight, turn around, and get back home before-

His front bumper cracks the side of a black, non-descript SUV in the middle of the intersection.

What the hell? Didn’t even see how it got here…is it stuck?

George flashes his overhead lights and squawks his police horn once. He begins to reach for his door handle but holds when he sees two men exit from the opposite side of the impeding vehicle. His training kicks in and tells him to check hands.

He squints and peeking through the blanket of snowfall he sees a sawed-off shotgun in one set of black gloves and an AR rifle in another. His blood freezes to match the outside temperature.

George whips into reverse, a fan of white spray peeling out from under his front tires. But before he can even spin his head around, his body jerks forward against his seat belt. He turns to see a second SUV pinning him at his right-rear bumper and his heart plummets. A third swings in from the left and rear to complete the trap.

Four doors opening pierce the stillness with their staccato clicks. George peers, tries to make out shapes, and spots the long, thin dark outlines they all hold in their hands.

sh*t…

He scans in a circle, his mind working in overdrive to catalogue the threats. To his four o’clock – two with a rifle and a shotgun. To his seven o’clock, another pair, similarly armed. And to his twelve, the original duo. One of them steps forward, an AR clutched in his hands.

Thugs One through Six…sh*tty odds…

George reaches for his squad car’s radio but flinches back when two well-placed shots crash through his windshield, glass shards spraying onto his hand.

A gruff bark snaps out from the leader. “Nope – hands off the radio please.”

George holds his hand up, makes it visible. Stalls for time, to think.

The leader bellows, sharp as a clap of thunder. “Captain Stacy! You’re a hard one to track. You and your boys have done too good of a job putting ours away. Been eating into the bottom line. Boss sends his regards…and his regrets…but he says you gotta go now.”

The noose tightens around him, the approaching footsteps crunching through snow growing louder by his door. The end of a shotgun appears through the glass and looms large, yawns in his driver’s side window. Its mouth gaping wide and open, ready to devour.

Even now at the end, training and habit won’t permit him to look at his executioner’s eyes. Never look at the eyes. Only hands and postures.

George can only stare at the trigger finger, at its slow, steady depress. Whispers, “Dad’s promise…” He readies himself and at this instant all he can see are the sky-blue of Gwen’s eyes…

Squeeze.

The explosion. An angry cone of death.

But it’s in the wrong direction.

The shotgun barrel had jerked up and right, spraying into the sky, painting the clouds red-orange. The man’s hulking body disappears from view. Upwards.

What in the f*ck-

Was that George who thought that, or was their leader screaming it? Before George can get his bearings, his patrol car is ROCKED from the passenger side. Gravity slams the car back onto its wheels with a crunch. His head whips over to the right, but all he can see is the frame of a backside plastered onto the passenger side window. And a trail of what looks like…webbing spreading around him, nailing him to the car.

Oh, HER…

A shadow flits and flies across his field of vision, a burst of fluid flying out of one wrist, the other dragging a man by his leg. Explosions and bursts of orange follow in her wake.

At least she’s making herself useful…two down, four to go…

“GET HER YOU f*ckING MORONS-“

Guess this is one way to meet Moby Dick face to face…

George reaches for his radio a second time. A blast to his front. His windshield smashes and collapses inward, glass scattering everywhere. Two cracks zip near his ear. He drops the hand mic and ducks behind his steering wheel. Another round of crack crack whistles over his head. He looks at his personal radio strapped to his chest, now a smoking, sparking mess with a giant hole in the center – clearly caved in…by a chunk of glass? By a bullet?

f*ck don’t think don’t think

George snatches his own AR carbine out of his car’s central holster. Safety off. He aims in the direction where he last saw a weapon and movement.

He BLASTS a pair of rounds through his broken windshield, through holes with cracks spiraling outwards like spider webs.

Move move GET OUT

George kicks out of his door and rolls into a low crouch. He’s momentarily blinded by the glaring blanket of white before orange-red starbursts begin to light up in his periphery. He swipes at his eyes as snowflakes pelt his face. Melting on contact, they mix with the trickle of warmth trailing down his cheek, seeping into his mouth with the taste of iron.

Later check it later

Scans.

There right there

A movement by the front-side SUV. A head pops up followed by bursts of flame. George’s ear picks up the cracking sounds of snap-hisses flying by.

George swings his carbine to the ready, his eyes stinging with water and struggling to see the front sights of his own weapon. He rattles off another pair of rounds.

sh*t shoulda been counting

How many shots am I on

Another double squeeze of his trigger.

Call it ten

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

“I CAN’T SEE HER!”

The rapid pop-pop-pops of rifle fire intermingles with the slower boom-blast-clicks from shotguns.

From a different direction, a snap erupts like the cracking of bones, followed by a guttural, baritone scream. A sound like a strong gust of wind whistles over his head, a white arrow flying at the fringes of his vision.

Guess she just made it three to go

The man that George had been pinning down with his own fire dives behind his car. Success, as far as George is concerned. A blur with blue-tipped legs bombs in from the right, crashing into what must be his enemy’s body behind the car. The vehicle rocks violently then settles, a wheezing groan rising from behind it.

Make that two to go

George stares goggle-eyed as that same vehicle lifts and rises in front of him, levitating, then gets hurled in a looping arc over his head to smash, crash, and roll behind him. Spider-Woman’s white-black form and her outstretched arm appears where the SUV used to be. A web-wrapped man gasps for air at her feet. She thwips away, a streaking blur upwards to the clouds, back into the fight.

HOLY sh*t she chucked that like it was nothing

Two shotgun blasts pepper the side of his patrol car, like a handful of pebbles tossed at a metal shed. Shrapnel traces through the air near his hand, heat and pain lancing through his knuckles. He snaps back into reality and ducks for cover. Impacts zing and smack around him. His hand slips on his pistol grip, suddenly covered in a warm wetness.

Keep going keep going don’t look at it MOVE

George crawls to the front of his car, swings his barrel around in the direction of the latest threat, and lets loose with a cruel sweep of his own weapon.

Eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen

Maybe I can keep his head down, give her a chance to get in there

George’s bullets sing into steel, orange sparks pin-pricking the black exterior.

Sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty

CMON sonofabitch duck your head

George’s shoulder begins to sting under the continuous punch of his carbine’s recoil. Confronted by the angry heat of his suppressive fire, his adversary pauses to crouch behind an opened car door.

There we go cmon get his ass Spider-Woman

On cue, a streaking web-line thwips onto Thug Five's back from the sky. He’s hoisted into the air and he screams, his weapon dropped into the powdery snow in a puff.

Five down wheres the last asshole

Spider-Woman hauls her latest prey to the top of the streetlamp where she’s perched. George is temporarily distracted as her nimble hands apply layers of webbing to secure the perp to an upside-down cocoon.

Kinda does look like a spider webbing up a fly

George shakes his head as instinct screams at him…he continues to scour the scene…looks left…right…

There

He spots movement in the alleyway behind her. The last man pops up from the corner where he’d hidden, raises his rifle, aims it square into her back…

Then falls, red mist wafting into the air, his weapon dropping out of his hand to clutch his shoulder.

Twenty one

She loops by to web up the prone man from the air, pinning his arm in that position as well as the rest of his limbs. She touches down next to their injured foe and bends over him. Appears to be spraying webbing on top of his entry and exit wounds, a makeshift trauma dressing.

George lowers his smoking barrel, the acrid smell of gun propellant filling his nostrils, and a high-pitched buzzing his ears. He takes ragged gasps, trying desperately to calm himself as he continues to stare at her.

Close…I’ve never seen her this close before…

She turns to face him. The ringing in George’s ears begins to mellow and is interrupted by a sound that has no place in a scene like this.

Out flutters a youthful feminine chuckle, one that sounds far too young to have come from someone who’s done – George looks around him, disbelieving – done all this. And now she takes a couple of small, halting steps towards him, her hands folded in front of her and her fingers fidgeting her thumbs. Her eye lenses are blown wide open, their corners curved and slanted downward. Her entire posture, her body language…George finds it all so…childlike?

She might be even younger than I thought…

“Awwww Cap’n!” Spider-Woman says. He’s never heard her from this short of a distance. Even with her ridiculous attempt at a deep-tone accent, George can now confirm that she IS indeed young.

She continues. “I could sense that last creep and was about to get him myself, but…” With a mouthless mask it’s hard to tell, but George swears she might be smiling at him. “Cap, I guess you do care about me. We make a pretty good team, dontcha think?”

Close…so close…

George’s mouth opens and closes. For a moment nothing emerges, his breath growing spurs and lodging in his windpipe. When his throat clears, it sounds foreign and distant to his own ears.

“You…”

Her lenses curve even further, melting into a warm shape. She takes another hesitant step towards him.

“Yeah?”

“You’re under arrest…” He raises his barrel in her direction.

She halts in her tracks, shoulders slumping. She casts her gaze down to the ground and her eyes narrow.

“Never mind.” Spider-Woman drops the veil of disguise around her voice, but it still remains an enigma to George.

He presses on with a well-practiced speech that duty demands. “…as a suspect in the murder of Peter Parker. You have the right to-”

“Oh, for f*ck’s…you know what, I don’t need this right now.” She reaches an arm and flings a line to a distant rooftop. She pulls her hand to soar away and escape.

“HEY!” George’s body jolts on its own accord and he chases her for most of a block. “Get back here, I’m not done with-“ His words fail as he stumbles and loses his footing in a deep layer of snow.

Spider-Woman redirects her flight with all the grace of a hawk, twisting in mid-air to face him. With her body she carves a corridor through the curtain of descending snowflakes. Before George can even blink, she aims her wrist and all of his momentum stops on a dime as his hands are glued to a streetlamp by thin, white threads of incomprehensible strength. His weapon falls useless to the ground. He tugs his arms with all his might but it’s no use.

And like a bird, she noiselessly touches down atop the neighboring street post. George can feel her peering down, evaluating him, much like a bird of prey. He looks at her blank, pink-rimmed lenses and imagines the eyes of a predator lurking underneath.

They consider each other for a long pause, neither moving. Then Spider-Woman breaks the silence.

“Come on Captain. Give it a rest. Just for one day.” Her voice is laden with weariness, sounding more prey than hunter to George.

“Duty doesn’t rest. Not with someone like you at-large. You…you’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous??” She sputters. “Only to bad guys-”

“Tell that to Peter Parker. And now I’ve seen up close just how dangerous you are. My body cam has the proof. Now the whole world will see-“

“I’m not dangerous!”

“You threw a car over my head! Like it was a toy!”

“That was to save your life! You had a guy behind you and he was ready to…to…” She shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know what? Just…just go home. Why don’t you go home to your family?” She spits out the last word like an epithet, hurls it downward at him.

“My family??”

Now it’s George’s turn to sputter. And at this moment all he can see is spiraling red, with the cause of that red sitting squarely in the center of his focus. Every word he drags through gritted teeth elicits a flinch from her.

“You…you have no idea what you took from my family. Who you took from my daughter…what you took from me. You? You’re the reason my family is broken.”

They stare at each other for what seems to be an eternity. In the span of this unmeasured time, George’s own heavy breathing is all he can pick out. He shivers as the sweat of battle that clings to his undershirt begins to freeze in the wintry conditions. George decides to reveal a vow to her.

“I’m going to find you. I promise you that. I’m going to hunt you down by your web trails. Dig at the edges of your network. I’m going to track your accomplices, allies, any friends…I will find your support structure and trace it all the way back-"

George bites his tongue when Spider-Woman descends from her perch, her outline temporarily hidden by a cloud of powder that rises and curls around her from the force of her landing.

“I’m gonna stop you right there Captain.”

She walks towards him and George is suddenly very aware that he’s immobilized and defenseless. The heavens above rage, and the silent downpour of snow intensifies, its volume heavier than any rainstorm. Her voice is as bleak and desolate as the scenery that surrounds them.

“You…you’d be wasting your time. I…I’m all alone. You and your little press conferences? Y-your Spider-Woman Task Force? Thanks to you everybody out there hates me!” Her arm flails outward at the empty streets. “Nobody’s helping me. Nobody out there’s my friend. You? You’re the reason I’m alone.”

The young vigilante reaches him and pauses, standing a few scant paces away. She’s close enough that he can see the mist of her breath seeping through her mask to curl around her hood. They lock eyes and he recognizes his reflection, his own eyes staring back at himself in the mirrored sheen of her lenses. Snowflakes continue to fall in waves, pelting her mask and melting, falling off her cheeks like tears.

Far off in the distance, the slowly growing whine of police sirens pierces the ghostly silence. Spider-Woman co*cks her ear, looks around his shoulder, and raises her wrist to fire a web. George cringes as a rush of air whips by his ear and a black brick-like object slaps into her waiting palm. As she affixes it to his chest with another shot of web, he looks down and realizes that she’s snatched his backup radio from his patrol car. She fiddles with the knobs, stopping when she’s found the right frequency.

How the hell does she know what channels we use?

“Sounds like your friends are looking for you.”

She raises a hand to his cheek and brushes it with the back of her finger. George winces and hisses as he finally allows himself to acknowledge the pain from what might be more than just a scratch.

“Better call in your 20. And maybe a 47 for this.” She pulls her hand back and his own blood shines bright red against her pale white glove. “Your family might be broken, but I don’t think your daughter wants to see you like this.”

She depresses the push-to-talk button on his radio and fixes it in place.

“Merry Christmas, Captain,” she says in a haunted whisper, scratched and coarse like shards of porcelain scraping against each other.

Spider-Woman raises her arm and pulls herself upward, flinging herself into the pale tears of the sky, and disappears behind the church’s towering spire.

-🕷-

The Present Day…

Miles beholds a man who looks like he is adrift, lost at sea. He is tempted to grab Mr. Stacy’s shoulder and give him a gentle nudge to see if he can break the quiet of the last few seconds.

George continues to stare at his mug, repeatedly running his finger over the printed lettering of “...Dad.” The air of silence has persisted for so long that Miles jolts when he finally speaks.

“Miles...if she ever told you she needed you. You…would be there for her…right?”

George’s voice had slowly hobbled through that sentence, seeming to Miles as if he is held captive by his thoughts. And given the nature of their morning conversation, likely by thoughts of the past. But which past?

Is it the one they had openly discussed – the past where Peter had lived and then been lost, drastically altering the trajectories of George and Gwen’s lives?

Or is it the one they had danced around at points – the past where a father had pulled a gun on his own daughter, turning against her in her greatest moment of need?

Or is Mr. Stacy looking for reassurance for something else which haunts him?

Or all of it? Every last regret with his daughter’s name...

“I…I would be,” Miles begins then stops. “I’m not going anywhere…because…” he tries again.

He offers the only reassurance that his young heart can give:

“I love Gwen.”

Is there ever a right time to say the words? To say them to the father of the woman you love? Although Miles is still not sure if the timing is right, the words stand in the open now, and he awaits the ramifications of their exposure.

Questioning eyes turn to him, squinting traces of gray shifting again and again within their depths. “What did you say?”

Miles looks intently at Mr. Stacy. He takes a deep breath and speaks with a slower cadence, willing the other man to hear and be comforted.

“I love Gwen.”

George nods at Miles. Shakily at first, then a second one – firm and acknowledging. Mr. Stacy’s face lightens like the breaking of dawn, a line of light expanding across a darkened landscape to chase the shadows away. With a loosened voice, Pops says, “I could already tell, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I couldn’t read Peter. But I can read you. So yeah…I could tell for a while now that you love her. But.” Miles’ shoulder dips under the heavy touch from an affectionate palm, with a sincere expression to match. “I always wondered when I’d hear those three words about my own daughter. I’m glad it’s you.”

Miles’ heart warms – partially with relief, partially with gladness. He scans Mr. Stacy’s expression and finds that the rolling wave which had intermittently appeared throughout the morning is no more – now there are only placid waters, tranquil as glass. He returns the gesture and pats his Pops’ shoulder.

Gwen saunters into the kitchen, startling them both and causing them to separate. Her blonde hair shifts as she walks, and it trails golden sunshine into the kitchen’s space. Miles watches her and his smile grows, wide and happy.

Yep, I love this girl. And I think it might just be for a long, long time.

“Hey what are you guys doing? Cleanup’s been taking a while.” She yawns, then clasps her arms over her head in a lithe, elastic stretch. Miles’ eye flits downwards as the hem of her shirt rises to expose a sliver of pale, distracting midriff – bordered between two swaths of pink.

And yeah, these PJs might not be so bad after all.

She walks over to her father’s side and slides underneath his arm as she wraps him in a hug. “Whatcha talking about?”

The two men trade a glance.

“Well…” and “We were…” They say on top of the other.

Gwen spies the exchange with the grin of a fox, made all the more mischievous with the adorable gap in her teeth. “You two up to no good? Wouldn’t be the first time.” Still holding her dad, she taps his chest and directs her next question to Miles. “Was he behaving himself?”

“Yeah.” Miles nods and smiles. “He tries.”

“And this guy.” She points at Miles while looking up at her father, “Was he behaving himself?”

“Of course. Miles…he’s great.” Gray eyes pin him with their warmth, a man-hug rendered through a look. “He’s amazing.”

Gwen looks at her boyfriend with shining, heart-shaped eyes and that smile grows to illuminate the room. She kisses her dad’s cheek with tenderness and says, “That’s what I always think. Glad you agree.”

George’s cheeks spread wide with her touch, and he carries that smile along as he turns. “Alright Miles, time to close out the last act of the Stacy Christmas.” Pops nods. “You’re on deck. I think we all want to see what the amazing Spider-Man got for his best friend.”

Ten minutes later…

….the stage is finally set – Miles sits in the middle of the sofa, with Gwen on his left. His laptop is connected to the living room TV, its screen dark and waiting to unveil a video montage that Miles had crafted as Gwen’s present. Reflected against the TV's surface are two pink-clad figures bordered by a warm yellow halo cast by the Christmas tree. He stares at himself, then her reflection on the glassy display.

A month’s worth of work. Is this too much? It’s our first Christmas...am I crazy for doing this?

Miles is pulled away from his thoughts as George joins them, fluffing a sofa cushion and settling in on the right. He whips out the ‘Miles Dossier’ notebook with an elaborate flourish and flips the pages like a card dealer shuffling a deck. Par for the course from this man, to be sure. But then he reaches down and sets a bucket on his lap with a pat, causing Miles and Gwen to glance at each other with furrowed brows.

“…Dad? What’s that?”

“Oh. An in-case bucket.”

“In case of what?”

“In case any of what I’m about to see makes me lose my breakfast. You know, when you get old like me your digestive system isn’t-“

“You know, maybe one day I’ll know what it’s like to have a normal Dad.” Gwen makes a deliberate show of denying him eye contact, instead gifting it solely to her boyfriend. “You sure you’re ready, Miles?” She drops her voice into I-know-I’m-cute mode and bats her lashes to match. “Maybe you should test out your laptop connection on another video first? Liiiiiike, maaaaaybe: ‘Two Spiders Sitting In A Tree…AND SECRETLY MARRIED?!’”

George interjects, "Whooooa, that better not be the case. Anything I need to know about, guys?" He lowers his gaze and squints in the direction of Gwen's abdomen. Miles winces and closes his eyes, instinctively protecting himself from the train that’s about to wreck right in front of him as George takes a steadying breath that may or may not be feigned. "Gwennie...you're not...are you-"

"Stopstopstop. Staaaaahp.” Gwen demands as she pops the final ‘p’. “Don't say that next word. Pump those brakes."

George gives Gwen the side-eye. “You two better know how to pump those brakes, too."

“And I’m ignoring you now.” Gwen drops her glare as she returns to Miles. The genetically inherited Stacy Sparkle shines in the blues of her eyes. “Since some people in here apparently can’t handle a funny vid made by wackos…instead, you could play my personal favorite, ‘SPIDER-WOMAN ON THE BACHELOR: Could She Win Spider-Man’s Heart?’ Because I think we all know the answer. The answer is pretty obvious, by the way.”

“Super obvious,” Miles replies, reveling in being the focus of those ethereal sky-blues.

“You can still say it, you know.”

“Oh, if you were in? There wouldn’t even be a show…because I’d be handing you that rose from the jump. Each week, every week...no cap.”

A brilliant beam emerges. “Miles…I’ll never get tired of-“

Gwen is interrupted by the sound of someone pretending to hold back a retch. Both teens snap their heads to the right as George’s face is partially obscured within the bucket on his lap.

“Dad, you’re about to get banished from my gift opening. See if I ever swap presents with Miles in front of you again.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you two should hear yourselves talk,” the tub vibrates. The shoulders sticking out of said tub stiffen, and George mutters under his breath – but not quite quietly enough as the container reverberates with an echo. “Ugh…do I even want to know what you two would be swapping if I wasn’t here?"

Miles coughs out a “Say what?” from a strangled throat while Gwen grumbles, “You. Are. The worst.” Her neck and cheeks radiate a red-orange bloom that scorches Miles’ corneas. Even as his vision blurs from Gwen’s red fog of ire, he’s able to spot a glower spreading across her face and a slender arm snaking across the back of the couch, claws extended in the direction of Pops unaware.

Miles coolly redirects that arm to wrap around his shoulders and places Gwen’s hand over his heart. He gives her fingers a squeeze and shines his best disarming smile. Someday, Pops will owe Miles a beer instead.

“Sorry,” George’s head emerges from the tub, taking a deep breath. “Son, I’m feeling a little woozy right now and can’t hold a pencil.” He waves the notebook in the air. “I swear I’ll give you that ‘Plus’ you deserve later, even if you nearly killed me with the delivery. My I.O.U’s are good, just ask Gwennie.”

Said woman replies, “Gwennie is wondering if we’re done with all the kid distractions and if she can get her present now.”

“Well, I’m ready,” Miles says with a trace of trepidation. “But thinking about whatcha got me, not sure how something I made myself is gonna stack up.” His fingers tap and twitch on his laptop’s keyboard.

Gwen’s hand covers and stills them, the other squeezing his bicep. Her words sound so close and soft, they might as well be caressed into his ear. “You never have to worry about that. I’m sure I’ll love whatever you made for me.”

Miles leans back and remembers many things. The effort that he poured into this gift. The fish-out-of-water sensation when he opened the video editing software for the first time. The silent staring at all of its new functions and buttons, certain he was encountering a foreign language. But Miles Morales is a fast learner – and a determined one, especially where Gwen is concerned. He'll never forget the electric thrill that thrummed through his veins when this video finally played through an entire run and matched his artistic vision.

In response, Miles grips Gwen’s hand and nods. Emboldened, he clicks play.

A title page slowly emerges on the screen, its words drawn in Miles’ signature style:

Spider-Woman: Hero of Brooklyn 1610

Miles allows his chest to puff out at this variation on wildstyle graffiti lettering that he’d been developing just for Gwen’s gift. Its letters are drawn in alternating white and black, bordered with teal.

Underneath and flying in from screen-left is a hand-drawn illustration of Spider-Woman, fully suited and arms swept behind like the wings of a hawk. Web-shooters activated in multi-shot mode, her sketched form trails multiple webs in her wake, fanned and open and ready to save.

This was the closest Miles could come to approximating the blurry cellphone snaps of her from the famed Rescue at the Guggenheim. He can only hope that he did her justice.

And now, on a day when angelic hymns and carols – singing of goodwill and joy and peace – ring out throughout vast swaths of the world…out from the Stacy sound system comes forth…

…the swooping bombastic beat of M.O.P.’s ‘Ante Up.’

The blasting bass rocks George back in his seat, the whites of his eyes blown wide open like he’s bitten a ghost pepper, seeds and all. Footage of Spider-Woman begins to flash through the screen:

♬ Take minks off! (Uh!) Take things off! (Uh!)

A pink rimmed mask pulled over determined blue eyes.

Take chains off! (Uh!) Take rings off! (Uh!)

Web-shooters snapped around wrists.

Bracelets is yapped, Fame came off!

Pink gloves tugged onto hands.

(Ante up!) Everything off! ♬

A hood flipped over a head.

Gwen half-squeals, “So that’s why you were taking all those videos of me! I thought you were just being all mushy.”

“Does…he normally take videos of you getting dressed, Gwennie?” Miles flinches from the nudge of a somewhat unfriendly elbow to his right. “Because Miles, as you know, under the Policies and Standards this behavior would-“

“Dad…I swear.” Gwen tries to cut him off with a wave of her hands. “Can you not right now??”

♬ The rules, back 'em down, next thing, clap 'em down
Respect mine, we Brooklyn bound now ♬

A close-in shot follows Spider-Woman from a trailing perspective (obviously from Miles’ smartphone) as she plunges off a skyscraper to start a patrol, the camera’s angle capturing the plummeting sensation of a death-defying roller coaster drop.

“I have no idea how you guys find the stones to do that, day after day,” George says.

“Funner than you think, Dad. Especially with a friend.”

♬ Ante up, yap that fool
Ante up, kidnap that fool ♬

One after another, three quick clips flit by:

Spider-Woman stretching to the limit of endurance as she fights to keep a train from derailing.

Spider-Woman launching herself in front of a café as a thrown car hurtles in its direction, punching it away with an insouciant swing of her fist.

Spider-Woman with her heels digging into asphalt, straining as she restrains a car from flying off a blown-out bridge with nothing but webs and will.

“Miles, where’d you get these?” Gwen asks.

“Pulled ‘em offa YouTube. Lots of randoms out there admiring us in action, I guess.”

George sighs. “Told you two this would be happening more. Just…be careful with what you show out there.”

♬ The '87 stick up kids, what you <buzzzz> sayin'?
Get the <buzzzz> up, out that 740 shorty, I ain't playin' ♬

George visibly blanches and stammers. “I-I know the word is bleeped out but did…did that guy just say that word?”

“Yeah,” Miles rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know you don’t like that kinda talk. But this song was one of Uncle Aaron’s favorites and…”

♬ Ante up, <buzzzz>, it's game time ♬

Miles grimaces at the timing. “…I know the lyrics are going a certain way, but it’s not actually about stealing and breaking stuff like it sounds. The artists said it was more about wanting their respect from their industry and peers. Goin’ out and gettin’ it. So, when it came to match a soundtrack to Gwen’s vid…I thought maybe it fit.”

“Ah. Well. This song’s not bad, I guess.”

Miles looks at Gwen who lightly drums her fingers on her knee. “Don’t worry about it, Miles. This beat slaps.”

A few seconds later, he sneaks a peek and grins as he spies the slight bopping of Pops’ head, timed to the rhythm of this next section. Miles had gathered a collection of his favorite Spider-Woman ‘finishers,’ each delivered with balletic but maximum aggression.

♬ Ante up, oh, kidnap that fool
Get him, get him…

A web-assisted spinning hook-kick, cracking Mysterio’s dome.

…hit him…

A diving haymaker into Electro’s jaw, ducking underneath a lightning bolt.

…hit him ♬

A somersaulting heel drop onto Vulture’s wing, shearing it off at its mechanical root.

“Gwennie, we might need to work on your anger management.”

“Whaddya think The Mary Janes are for? And I got Miles now, so…”

“…hopefully it’s not to bang him like a drum,” George says.

A scowl ripples across Gwen’s face. In an instant, her web shooter aims at her dad’s mouth, but Miles blocks her trigger just in time.

George exclaims, “Stop doing that! I meant treating Miles like a stress ball! What did you think I meant?”

♬ Ante up, oh, yap that fool, oh
Ante up, oh, kidnap that fool ♬

Spider-Man backflips away from Hammerhead’s wild swing. His arm pulls back, tendrils of electricity beginning to pulse in his fist. He charges forward and…

…Spider-Woman soars into frame, bowling the villain over with a two footed lunge into his plexus. Hammerhead groans and struggles to lift his head off the ground. Shrugging, Spider-Man pokes Joseph Martello’s writhing form with his toe, releasing his pent-up Venom Blast. Mr. Martello spasms and flops back to the floor unconscious.

♬ Get him, get him, hit him, hit him
Yap him, zap him, yap him, zap him ♬

“Always gotta be cleaning up the guy I’m workin’ on,” Miles chastises Gwen. “Can’t even finish off one on my own nowadays without you getting the last word in. Imma get rusty at this rate.”

Gwen brushes his cheek with a soft sweep of her finger. “Just making sure the goods don’t get damaged.” She kisses that spot. “I’d be very upset.”

On screen, Spider-Woman and Spider-Man finish thwip-wrapping Hammerhead. The footage creeps forward as the camera holder inches closer from behind. A pink glove sneaks its way across broad shoulders while a white-black hip nudges another hip in affection. Spider-Woman leans up as if to whisper to him – her hood provides them partial privacy, but her head’s subtle side-to-side movement betrays that she is most definitely nuzzling his cheek.

George’s reaction is instantaneous. “Oh yeah. Sure. You two are doing sooooooo good at not putting your status out there.” He drops his head into his hands. “I thought watching out for cameras was one of the first things we talked about when the three of us sat down and-”

“Dad. Chill. Just congratulating my patrol-buddy after a successful run out. It doesn’t look that bad.”

“Twenty-plus years in the force, I never once sniffed my partner’s cheek or whatever the hell it is you’re doing right there.” George points as Spider-Woman appears to smush her nose into Spider-Man’s mask.

“If your partners’ cheeks were as baby soft as my partner’s, you might’ve. Anyways…” Gwen turns to Miles. “Mister Miles G. Morales. You charmer! You made me my own highlight reel! This is one of the best Christmas gifts I’ve-”

“We’re not done yet. Time for Act Two,” he says right as the next title card zooms into frame…

The OFFICIAL Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Woman

…complete with an illustration of Jeff standing next to Spider-Woman, both in full uniform: one representing the official law, the other an extension of it. When Miles insisted that he was going to draw him into the video as thanks for his help, Dad had requested:

“Make sure I’m smiling at her, son.”

And so Miles did, adding Jeff’s trademark teasing smirk aimed in the direction of Spider-Woman’s hooded mask, her eye lenses curved and affectionate. He even added a fist dap between the two of them as a bonus.

All background music fades to silence as Miles had intended for Gwen to hear the audio's dialogue as clearly as possible. The next clip of raw footage appears as it transitions into the picture.

Two arms clad in dark-blue extend from either side of the screen, suggesting that the camera is being fixed to a first-person point of view. Those hands hold a pistol, aimed in the direction of a bank from which armed assailants spill into the street, their weapons at the ready. Two loud BANGS burst through the living room speakers, and the camera violently ducks and pivots downward in the direction of the sidewalk. A radio mic appears on screen and a thumb depresses its button:

“Dispatch, this is 3-3-4 confirming 90 Alpha in progress, shots fired on scene. Need 78s ASAP. Suspects fleeing in…”

The camera perks up and over the patrol car and spots the perps piling into…

“…a gray Altima, aimed in the direction of westbound on Kings Highway.”

The hand releases the mic. Static behind the camera crackles, barely heard as the officer behind the lens returns fire at the would-be getaway vehicle.

“Dispatch to available 10-8 units, we are upgrading 90 to 80, need 78s. Suspects fleeing in a gray Altima westbound on Kings Highway, all units proceed with caution.” <Static>

The radio’s silence is overwhelmed by the peeling screech of tires as the gray car begins to burn rubber in escape, the camera’s focus following along with it.

Miles’ arm receives a nudge. “Is that a body cam?” George asks. Gwen stiffens next to Miles.

He slides a glance in her direction, but she remains transfixed by the action. Miles replies, “Yeah. Dad mighta helped a little with this project.” When she leans into him, his arm slides around her shoulders on Miles-ian autopilot.

Then a bolt of black and red streaks in from the top of the screen, guided by a strand of web. Another arm fires and pulls at a new web-line as Spider-Man pursues his quarry.

George whistles, “Hey I know him! Would you look at that guy. Looking pretty go-”

Spider-Woman dives into the picture, arms outstretched, legs pointed in clean lines like an arrow – all grace, all class, all beauty in the effort – but no less terrifying to the prey that she hunts.

Within three thwips, she overtakes him in mid-air and leads their pursuit. Spider-Man is fast, but Spider-Woman will always be faster.

“Damn,” George murmurs. “You look just as good, Gwennie.” He eggs Miles. “Maybe a little better.”

“Miles,” Gwen gasps. “This was a long time ago. Was this our-“

“Yep, keep watchin’.”

“Hey uh…Jonesie?”

The camera turns to the right and zeroes in on 3-3-4’s partner, a woman of mixed descent. Her pistol is also drawn but she begins to relax in posture as she watches the Spiders in action. 3-3-4 continues:

“…that white-black one…there? Isn’t she uh, one of the…Spider Peeps who helped our Spidey beat the really big Holes Guy?”

Jones scratches her head underneath her regulation hair-bun. Confusion reigns on her face.

“…Yeah? Yeah, she looks familiar. Wonder why she’s back though? Better let Cap know about her.”

The camera pivots back to the action, capturing Spider-Woman and Man in the act of setting up a slowdown net made of webbing. 3-3-4 pulls his hand mic over the top of the screen.

A few seconds elapse. While they wait, 3-3-4 and Jones continue to stare with the odd oohs, aahs, and one damn didja see that uttered between them as they witness the formation of a beautiful Spider web, its arms spiraling outward, ready to ensnare its fly meal of a car.

“Gutierrez, this is Cap. Send it.” <Static>

Though scratched and warbled from the radio’s static, there is no mistaking the distinctive bass timbre of Jefferson Morales.

A few seconds pass.

A few more pass.

“Then that’s a roger, Gutierrez, Spider Protocols are in effect for this one. She’s ours now, I think we can start expecting her to come over-I mean…” <Static> “…to be, uh around. A lot. Watch her back, keep civilians out of her way, give her anything she needs. Like our Spider-Man. But she probably doesn’t need it. Just keep her dance floor clear for her, mostly.” <Static>

On the sofa, Gwen’s hand snakes into Miles’.

The video vibrates with Gutierrez’s chuckle.

“Laying the wood never looked so good…”

…he says as Spider-Woman rips out a car door with a web and pulls the getaway driver into her waiting fist with another. She thwips his prone form onto the asphalt with all the casual nonchalance of a trip to the garbage can.

The screen begins to fade to black and Miles can’t help but notice that the in-case bucket has fallen off of Pops’ lap. He presses pause as Gwen slowly faces him.

“Miles. That…that was like, really soon after Spot. After we…” She looks down at their joined hands. “…started patrolling together. Maybe three weeks tops.”

“That was our first patrol actually. Dad had to go digging for the file. We’re pretty lucky he found it. Good memory for the yearbook, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She lets out a shaky exhale. “It was. I’ll…have to thank Jeff. I loved it. I mean…I had no idea his precinct felt that way about me.” She squeezes his hand. “Was that it? The video’s done?”

“Naw. Act Three’s always the best. I hope.”

She leans her head against the soft pink flannel of his shoulder. “There’s more to this? I’m a lucky girl.”

I’m the lucky one. We all are, Miles thinks. And I hope you see it that way after this.

His finger clicks to resume, and the last title card falls into place...

We Love Our Spider-Woman!

…and underneath the arched lettering swings an illustration of Spider-Woman, the perspective crafted so that she appears to be flying through the TV screen at the audience. One arm is raised, connected to the ‘Our’ by a web-line while the other is curled protectively around a small, young girl.

A girl clad in a white hooded sweatshirt, with hand-dyed pink sleeves. Wearing a homemade white-pink mask, pushed over her head like a cap. The original young girl from Miles’ apartment who had inspired this homage to Spider-Woman in the first place.

Ensconced in secure arms, she looks adoringly at her hero, Miles having paid special focus in detailing her caramel-brown eyes – an attempt to show Gwen the depths of devotion from an adoring fan that she’s never met.

A gentle instrumental soundtrack is all that plays. Miles had agonized over a song choice, but ultimately decided he didn’t want clashing lyrics overshadowing his third Act – just the setting of a mood.

The black background gives way to a man with a weathered and kind face, shuffling nervously, the backdrop of a shopping aisle and its wares staged behind him.

The elderly man sucks in a deep breath.

“Hey! I remember him!” exclaims Gwen. “It’s-”

Mr. Romero claps his hands.

“-nada. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, querida. You? You’re a protector – whether you’re here or not.”

His arms fold across his chest. A black-red glove extends in front of the camera, palm spread wide.

“Hey, gracias Señor Romero. I owe you, man.”

An elaborate slap-shake ritual ensues.

“Morales, you got two weeks! I better have my own secret shake by then, no excuses,” Gwen huffs.

“Told you,” George says.

The clip cuts abruptly.

“Now I know you’re going all out. You’re even playing the beat reporter in your own project,” George says approvingly.

“Yeah. Had to get these knocked out during patrols,” Miles replies.

“I thought it was weird when you kept disappearing,” Gwen says.

“My bad, sorry for ditching you a lil bit. Was just working against a tight deadline here,” he reassures with a pat on her thigh.

The next scene emerges to unveil four teenaged girls standing in a sunlit, grassy field – the stately Belvedere Castle of Central Park looming large in the background. Within the camera’s frame, Spider-Man’s hand waves in greeting.

They all look at each other and chant in unison:

“…BEST FRIEND.”

They snicker at each other and raise a synchronized round of fingered air-quotes. George raises his hand at Miles and times an air-quote along with them. On screen, Spider-Man sounds resigned.

“Oooookay. Alright, we all saw my Bachelor vid, I get it. Moving on. So, for the record, you guys are the ones who uploaded ‘Spider-Woman Bitch Slaps Scorpion in Central Park’ right? The one that trended pretty hard on socials a while back?

One of them steps forward, multiple piercings adorning an ear that peeks out from a curtain of violet hair.

A light blue nail draws a circle around her friends who nod in vigorous agreement. Spider-Man continues.

“Alright, that’s what I was looking for. Was wondering if you could maybe tell my friend…”

He emphasizes that word. The four roll their eyes at each other.

Another one chimes in.

“The way she just took down Scorpion…like a boss. Over there…”

She points to a spire on Belvedere Castle.

“…it was like I was watching a movie in real life. Spider-Woman and Scorpion. Tradin’ shots. Right in front of me. Though I did get worried when she took that hit to the face-“

Anh steps in.

“-but even the way she took that punch was ice cold. Like, she just shrugged it off and looked at him like it was nothing. THEN she caught his next punch and just stared Scorpion down! STARED! Like ‘Bitch Please’ vibes!”

They begin to talk to each other excitedly, Spider-Man temporarily forgotten.

Spider-Man tries to corral the group to bring the point home.

“Alright, so if you all were to give Spider-Woman the big takeaway about what she means to you, that would be…?”

They look at each other and Anh takes it upon herself to answer.

“Well…I think one way to put it. Obviously, we don’t know what she looks like. But just from the way she’s standing on business, it feels like she could be one of us.”

Another round of affirmational nodding. The girl next to Anh steps closer to frame.

“Things have gotten more even in the media and all. But I still feel like if you look at TV…or movies…or hell even comics, it’s still a lot of guy supers. For me? I wish there were more girl supers. But at least with Spider-Woman…she’s bad-ass, she’s a Queen, and she’s ours.”

She waves her hand at her friends. A ripple of agreement.

Gwen whispers, “I wish they could see how many of us there are.”

“Wellllll,” Miles says. “Maybe we could invite Margo and Peni over to 1610 for a girls’ patrol night out. A lil’ stompin’ around the Bed-Stuy? Or Central Park, like here?”

Spider-Man stammers.

“Um…I…I…decline to comment.”

On screen, Anh slides a surreptitious glance at one of her compatriots, then back at the camera.

The two girls laugh and reach across the top of the TV screen. Miles’ phone jolts back a couple of steps.

“Whoa ladies. Touching the mask is a definite no bueno.”

A chorus of giggles fills the audio – immediately replaced by the sound of rushing wind as the camera flies backwards at reverse warp-speed, the group of teenagers and their shocked faces receding to mere specks in the distance.

“What the hell happened there?” George asks.

“Oh um…I tried to keep most of these interviews on the DL from Gwen…but she kinda stumbled on this one, and maybe webbed me outta-“

<Riiiiiiip>

Miles looks down to find Gwen’s hands gripping her lap cushion with white knuckles, fingertips piercing fabric. He reaches over and bravely inserts his hand into the danger zone, linking his fingers through hers. Squeezes. She reaches for another cushion. He gently tugs it away.

“Those girls are lucky to be alive,” George remarks. “And thanks for saving that one. Replacing cushions is expensive.”

A parade of interviews continues to march onwards, every elapsed minute revealing a new wave of admirers and soundbites:

Gwen says, "I wish I could have stayed to talk to her longer...maybe told her about how I used to be afraid of..." She falters. Miles caresses her hand. "But then I heard the sirens coming in, and I left her with her family..."

“I shoulda been there to back you up,” he begins to say.

“But now I know I can stay longer when I’m running solo in your world. Thanks to you.”

For the last interview, a familiar water tower morphs into view, the camera sweeping around to reveal the sprawl of the Morales’ apartment rooftop. It lands upon a face that is all innocence and sunshine, sporting a proud smile that is missing a few baby teeth. The music dims to make way for a chirpy, childlike voice:

“Whoops.”

“She’s soooooo cuuuuuute!” Gwen coos.

“I’ll give you some credit for realizing she dropped P.I.I into your recording,” George says.

“A’ight then, Julia, so do you wanna tell me – but especially tell my friend…”

The screen shakes as Spider-Man taps his cell phone with a gloved finger.

She points to a smiling man who waves by the corner of the rooftop.

“That basically means: ‘Someday Julia, you’ll be able to help others just like her.’”

“Wow,” Gwen breathes. “Didn’t think I’d ever be a bedtime story for a little kid. At least not a good one.”

She holds up her white sleeves, hand-dyed with pink…

“…and that’s why I have this…”

She holds up her homemade mask.

“…but we had to use Mommy’s lipstick to make the rims on the eyes.”

Poor Julia looks scared.

The phone’s view inverts briefly as Miles uses it to point at the emblem on his chest. Back to Julia who says:

“PHEW. If Spider-Woman is listening to this, can I tell her…every time I go to school, I look up and hope I see you swinging over me. I haven’t seen you yet…but maybe one day? Oh! And at night when Daddy tucks me in, and he finishes my Spider-Woman story…we can turn out ALL the lights in my room now. Because I’m not scared of the dark anymore ‘cuz of you. Daddy tells me you’re out there somewhere looking out for me.”

“Miles, get me her school address.”

“I think I can make that happen.”

The underlying music reignites and swells into its finale, Miles having clipped and woven the interviews’ farewells to intertwine with the spacing between chords. One by one, faces, smiles, and waving hands speed through the screen:

And of course, Miles saved the youngest and sweetest face for last.

The whites of Julia’s pearly smile dissolve as Miles had cut in the last of his customized art – a sweeping panoramic landscape of New York City. Upon their Williamsburg ledge stands an unmasked Spider-Woman, Gwen overlooking not her New York but one that she has sworn to protect, as surely as Miles has sworn to protect hers. Her gaze surveys the heart of her adopted Brooklyn as she stands bathed in the rays of a setting sun, a warm tinted glow cascading across the city in its urban glory – a dreamscape of possibilities.

A ‘My Name Is’ sticker tag materializes on the bottom-left corner with the scrawl of ‘Made By Miles Morales’ slowly inscribing itself into its blank space. Miles ends the video and the weight of a month’s worth of anticipation frees itself from his body. He takes a glance in either direction, awaiting their verdict.

He didn’t expect to see two Stacys sitting still, one staring transfixed at an unmoving screen, the other examining the floor – each a study of contemplation.

Not exactly how I thought I was gonna get my flowers.

George speaks first, aimed in the direction of the folded hands on his lap. “Well, son…all that was certainly something.” His voice rasps with the grittiness of coarse sand. “It’s nice to know there’s some people out there somewhere who support Gwen.”

“And we’re gonna get it like that over here. One day,” Miles says, willing that his confidence should spill and wash over his Pops.

“The lack of support…might run too deep over here.” George lightly twists his bottom lip.

Miles glances at Gwen, but since she’s still deep in thought, he turns back to his right. “I’m not saying it won’t take time. And it’s not like we got a silver bullet but…I think if me and Gwen keep doin’ what we been doin’…do some of the classic Friendly Neighborhood stuff and make sure she’s front and center? Get some of her wins on tape, even? I think we’ll chip away at her rep over time. Hey, maybe we can launch Gwen her own MeVid channel-“

George lifts his eyes to Miles and gives him a sardonic stare.

“-I mean, maybe not. But if we can figure a way to leak her success stories…balance out some of that negative press…” Miles trails off.

“The JJJ network is way too loud. Among others,” George muses.

Miles presses on. “And plus…you still gotta have a friend or two in the force? Maybe they can start spreading some of Gwen’s PR around…from the inside. It’d be nice to have some friends in the blue when me and her are swinging around here.”

“Hmm. Watanabe was always sympathetic to Spider-Woman. Trying to get me to ease up. Maybe I’ll give her a call for old time’s sake. Catch up.”

“Don’t forget to put the charm on.” Miles turns on the Morales Megawatt Grin to full power as an illustrative aid.

“I’m always charming,” George glares.

“Uhhh right. But hey…no matter what? I’m not going anywhere.” He fixes Mr. Stacy with a look to make sure he heard.

Message received. “That’s a copy,” George says.

Miles bumps Pops’ shoulder with his own. “And I’ll be spreading around a lil bit of that Morales charm over here to help out. It’s irresistible dontcha know?”

George pats Miles’ knee. “Well, it did work on her so...”

“Eventually.” Miles turns to look at the one upon whom it worked. Whose post-gift validation matters most.

She’s awfully quiet right now. Gwen still hasn’t moved.

Miles broaches a tentative, “So…what do you think?”

A whisper in return. “Miles…that hero on the TV…in your video. Is she really how you see me?”

“Well yeah.” He pauses. “But it’s not just me. A lot of people see you like that. At least back home…and I wanted to show you. And some day, I promise…I’ll make you the same vid with people from this world.”

Gwen shifts to face Miles, tears welling and threatening to fall. Their heads begin to lean towards the other’s, mouths parting, a slow but unstoppable descent. A breaking of inertia, sparked by love and devotion, twin forces drawing them together with an irresistible gravitational pull. Miles looks deep into those shimmering eyes…

…which widen as she realizes who’s still seated behind Miles, while an uncomfortable “Ahem” coughs into the air.

Momentum has a residual property, and here it continues to drive the teenagers towards an ill-timed, parentally witnessed, and very open-mouthed kiss. Telepathically they share a mind-melded command: Abort, abort, abort!

Gwen redirects high.

Miles redirects low.

Miles ends up with his nose between Gwen’s lips.

Awkward silence.

Broken by a faltering breath which croaks from an unwilling observer, his voice eventually uttering, “That was just ass, you two. Just awful.”

Gwen releases Miles’ nose with a smack.

George winces and stands, taking a few steps backwards towards the kitchen. “Hey, look. It’s Christmas and we all just had a nice moment with Miles’ gift. I still got the big pots and baking pans to clean up. Why don’t I just back on out of here and give you lovebirds another shot at your little moment? Just…not too long of a shot, alright? Our mutually agreed upon Policies and Standards dictate that PDA be limited to-“

A thwip of web whizzes over the top of George’s head, splatting against the wall behind him.

“Whoops. Slipped.” Gwen says casually.

George looks over his shoulder. “That stuff better come off easy. Alright, I’ve said my piece. See you two kiddos in a bit.”

Once George is out of earshot, Miles plunks his forehead onto Gwen’s shoulder. If his neck is burning, there is consolation in the fact that Gwen is also radiating mortified waves of heat through layers of pink flannel.

She takes both his cheeks in her hands and lifts his face. “Miles…gotta admit, I’m not feeling a…what did Rio call it…a smoochas?...anymore. I’m gonna need a minute – after that disaster.”

“S’okay.” He shifts and satisfies himself with a quick peck to her palm.

She smiles, yawning into his face, a reminder of their long running night and morning. “Sorry.” She curls both hands around his neck and begins to pull him down, down, down along with her to recline on the couch. She settles Miles’ head flat against her chest, and the reassuring rhythm of her heart beats a soothing pattern in his ear.

“Maybe we can just relax like this for a bit,” she says. “Here’s one for Julia.” She slides her arms around his shoulders and pulls him in tight, as if they weren’t already pressed flush against the other.

Several seconds pass.

“Miles?”

“Hm?” His skin tingles as she begins to lightly massage the nape of his neck.

“The last two days have been some of the best forty-eight hours of my whole life.” She drops a kiss onto the top of his head. “Thank you.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome. What are best friends for?”

“How cheesy would it be if I said you were the best gift I got all year?”

“Dang. That’s a lotta cheese to be sprinklin' on this pizza slice. But I’ll allow it. You might not wanna say that in front of the Spider-Man With The Amazing Hair though. Cause you and me would never hear the end of it.”

“Pav can pound sand.” A few more seconds pass. “Miles…I’m tired. Stay here with me. Don’t go anywhere.” Her hand stills around the curve of his neck, fingers tightening with the faintest trace of pressure. Asking permission to claim – a frequent request.

Miles lets the fleeting echo of a conversation whisper through his mind. He allows himself to be claimed. “I’m staying. Not going anywhere.”

He shuffles his head, his cheek grazing across fuzzy flannel, warmed by Gwen’s body and infused with her scent. His eye wanders across the room, to the dormant TV screen which reflects two bodies of pink, surrounded by the soft yellow glow from the Christmas tree. Without looking, his hand wanders up, up, up to caress the silky-smooth plane of her cheek. He encounters a wayward strand of hair and tucks it behind her ear, his fingers brushing against a velvety softness perched atop.

Gwen takes his hand and weaves her fingers through his.

They begin to breathe deeply together, the press of their chests synchronizing in rise and fall. Fall and rise. In a rise, Gwen smiles the smile of the beloved. In the next fall, her lashes flutter shut.

Miles closes his eyes, following as ever and always, his guiding light. And then there is no longer a need for words.

-🕷-

Silence is itself a sound and it sings its siren call to George from the living room. The silent melody wraps itself around George and tickles his ears, entreating Father Stacy oh won’t you come and see what your family is up to?

He places the sudsy pot aside in the sink and dries his hands, then peeks his head out from the kitchen door. “Gwennie?” No answer. “Miles?”

The living room and its couch appears empty. Did they move over to her room? His mouth twists. They better not be there – her bedroom door’s closed and they know his Policies and Standards. There’s not even a sliver of doubt that they both know his parental preferences.

After all, he did jokingly (but not really) hand Miles a binder named Policies And Standards For Dating My One And Only Daughter two weeks (or was it three?) after he finally got to meet him. And in said binder, highlighted in yellow and underlined in black, is Rule Number 2, Article A: ‘Doors are to remain open at all times in the Stacy household.’ (Exception Clause 1A: ‘Except when you are in a bathroom, which has a max occupancy of one at any given time.’) Oh, the laughs he got out of that gag were totally worth the three hours it took to assemble the packet and the two days of silent treatment from a tomato-red Gwen.

Maybe they went outside to enjoy the fresh blanket of snow that fell last night? No, his heart answers. It pulls at him, tells him that his daughter is still in this house somewhere.

George follows the breadcrumb trail of silent noise to the couch and peers over its back. He looks down and a slight smile forms on his lips. No force on Earth could stop a father from smiling at this sight.

Lying beneath him, Miles and Gwen have succumbed to their exhaustion and are wrapped around each other in peaceful slumber. Miles’ back is turned and burrowed into Gwen, her arms coiled and clasped around him as if she never intends to let him go. His own hands curve and intertwine through her fingers, reassuring her even in repose I won’t let you go either.

George reaches out to caress his Gwennie’s cheek and brushes an errant tendril of blonde behind her ear, as she likes. He strokes the velvety blue petals that sit there, rising and falling with every whisper-quiet puff of heavy breath. It might be his imagination, but the corner of her lips seems to curl upwards in response to his touch.

Looking at them, George realizes that his little dream might have changed over the last few years, morphing into a simpler goal – that his daughter might finally know peace. And from what he can see, the realization of that dream is here, with his beloved porcelain girl repairing herself and being repaired, piece by piece – cracks and fault-lines all – in the arms of the boy that she loves.

He walks to a closet and grabs a quilt, turning back and draping its pink and yellow embroidery around them both. He tucks it underneath their chins, the blanket’s dual colors shimmering against the backdrop of their complexions, finding a home nestled amidst pale and dark. Though this blanket is Gwen’s lounging go-to, George has always thought that it was garish and was never a fan of its color motif. Now though? If luminous pink and yellow fill his vision, edge to edge, who is he to complain?

George steps back and chuckles. “Guess he’s the little spoon.” He nods to himself. “Cute.”

He resists the temptation to sneak a photo of them and heads to his office, where he can sit and write his pen pal response to Jeff. And send out the few calls that he does make on Christmas Day. Maybe this will be the year he finally reaches out to May and Ben, to check on things. Maybe he’ll repair a few of his own cracks and fault-lines.

As he walks, George runs his fingertips over the coarse texture of his hallway’s dark gray walls, barren and stripped of any photographic memento that would remind him of her. But within that fleeting touch he allows himself to dream a new little dream – that this wall might once again be adorned with memories, of moments frozen in time. New moments of lives moving forward and joining together. New life, even. Someday. Waaaaay the hell down the line.

George enters his tidy office and pauses by his window. He surveys the urban landscape beyond, freshly covered in a lush carpet of white softness – pristine and sparkling. It has been nice to have had a Christmas week of picturesque, falling snow. It has been nice to stand and look at the scenery for minutes at a time, with his arm slung around Gwen’s shoulders. But, George supposes as he looks at an overcast of low hanging clouds, it would also be nice to see the clear blue sky again – to see any hint that the sun and its warming light still exists.

His chair creaks as he settles in and swivels to his desk…and then he sees it. The room fades away as he zeroes in on an object that someone has left there.

A book. A plain, unassuming book, wide and flat.

If silence is a sound, right now it is all George can hear. There is nothing else but him and this moment, with silence’s presence hovering all around him, asking with a lilt, warm and soft:

Do you know what this is?

…Yes.

He trails a quivering finger across the glossy surface of its hardback cover. The image of two brown rabbits – one large, one small – stares back at him. That index finger traces its title:

Guess How Much I Love You

That knot in his chest twists hard and burns. George grabs at its fraying and loosening strands, straining to keep them contained and in place. What has always lain beneath those tightly bound cords threatens to slip free.

Whose is it?

…Hers.

Whose?

Hel…Helen’s. And Gwen's…Helen read it to her…practically every night for bedtime.

Do you know why this is here?

…No.

Turn the page and see.

George lifts the first page, uncertain of what he will find though he knows every word within by memory. His eavesdropping on Helen’s countless retellings had engraved the words upon his heart’s surface; her storybook voice, the hammer and chisel. Night after night she retold the tale to Gwen until she was no longer there. And when that time came, he could not continue in her place, unwilling to trespass on their sacred ground. A ground that would have been all too painful for him to trod alone.

His eyes flit over the familiar words…

‘Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed, held on very tight to Big Nutbrown Hare’s very long ears.’

…then widen as he sees what lies between the fold of the two pages.

George’s fingers curl around a Forget-Me-Not blossom, a wisp of sky-blue laid between illustrations of white, green, and brown. It’s been pressed flat and paper-thin – made light and airy as a feather thanks to the passing of the pages of time. He twists it in his tender grasp, holding it to the light, its thinness rendering it nearly translucent.

He turns the page.

‘She wanted to be sure that Big Nutbrown Hare was listening. “Guess how much I love you,” she said.’

Another bright pop of sky-blue flashes at George. A flip of the page.

‘”This much,” said Little Nutbrown Hare, stretching her arms as wide as they could go.”’

Another bright splash of blue. Flip.

‘Big Nutbrown Hare had even longer arms. “But I love you this much,” he said.’

Another bright splash.

‘”I love you as high as I can reach” said Little Nutbrown Hare.’

And another.

‘“I love YOU as high as I can reach.”’

Another.

Page after page. Blue after blue.

Warm memory after warm memory.

She…she kept them all. Helen must have showed her how to save them with the first couple…then…Gwen must have just kept going.

Why do you think she kept them?

…To remember Helen.

No. Not just her.

George keeps flipping, barely breathing, barely believing. Then on one turn, breathing ceases. Between a large rabbit on one page and a small hare on another, lies a flower that was broken. Five sky-blue petals once scattered and crumpled, now arranged in a circle to surround a single, wrinkled stem.

He touches a leaf-like petal and marvels that Gwen saved this one, saved it from being lost forever. He marvels at the flattened wispy shape beneath his fingertip – as delicate as the fluttering of a bird returning to its nest.

Who was her anchor when she needed it most?

The next page rips the held breath out of his lungs.

The space between those two pages is empty.

…Not me.

The ambient light in George’s office dims into gray shade, a dark cloud passing by his window.

The lack, the absence of anything there – it’s evidence that damns him. Guilt and shame carve their way into his core. Black whispers, born in shadow, begin to prowl at the edges of his mind, taunting him, reminding him of this Christmas of abandonment and failure. Reminding him of The Betrayal that followed months later, unfolding amidst smoke and rubble, with Gwen bent and broken, unmasked and pleading for her father.

‘Big Nutbrown Hare leaned over and kissed Little Nutbrown Hare goodnight.’

Those loving words on that empty pair of pages are a stabbing reminder of what a true father ought to do for his daughter.

That wasn’t me…I wasn’t her anchor. Not when she needed me the most.

George squeezes his eyes, pain wracking his face, and grips the smooth board-pages to ground himself. The overwhelming wave of guilt threatens to drown him.

Why did Gwen leave this here for him to find? Ever since she’s come back from that crazy-town of a Society, they’ve had their talks. Long ones, long into the night. Numerous father daughter dates to clear the air and rebuild. There’s still a lot to cover, still a lot left to heal, but he thought they were getting there…together. Gwen’s never been one for revenge, for spite.

Why this? Why now?

He’s about to slam the cover shut and storm out of the house for a head-clearing walk when his finger brushes a tuft of paper protruding from the next page.

Are you sure you weren’t her anchor?

He flips.

‘Little Nutbrown Hare said, “I love you all the way to the moon.”’

A post-it note is affixed right next to those words, Gwen’s swooping, loopy scrawl written upon it:

‘Saved you a spot.’

He bites his lip and bows his head. George Stacy has never been one for crying, but he might be touching the corner of an eye right now. His trembling hands close the book and press it against his chest.

Anchor…be her anchor…

He leans back in his chair and whispers, “Okay. I can do that.”

The silence fades away as soft as a caress and releases him, the gray walls of his office coming back into focus. He can hear his own breathing again, a steady metronome marking time in this small, spartan space. A warm yellow glow begins to surround George, the low hanging clouds outside having finally melted away, allowing the winter’s sun to shine forth and pour through the window.

Sunshine bathes the walls in its radiance, overtaking the gray, reaching the room’s doorway. George looks at the opening, then beyond it, and smiles the smile of the forgiven. He stands, walking into and past the light, guided by a beacon that calls to him in shades of blue, pink, and yellow.

When George reaches his destination, he bends over to gently retrieve a sky-blue ‘Forget-Me-Not’ flower from its garden bed of blonde.

He places it into the spot where it belongs:

‘Little Nutbrown Hare said, “I love you all the way to the moon.”’

He closes the book, plain and unassuming.

Squeezes it tight.

On Christmas Day, in the warm nest of the Stacy living room, Big Nutbrown Hare leans over, kisses Little Nutbrown Hare goodnight, and whispers in her ear:

“I love you all the way to the moon…and back.”

-🕷-