Hobie Brown

It started with static.

Not the kind that fills radios or broken TVs — the kind that lives under your skin. It came the night you crossed the DVU threshold, file still warm from SHIELD’s printer, hands still stained with ash from the last facility that tried to “treat” you. They didn’t call it a rescue. They called it a transfer. A containment pivot. Something about you made other agents nervous.

But Hobie Brown didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look up from the blunt in his mouth when you walked into his flat in Birmingham. Just nodded toward the guest room and said, “There’s no locks in this house. If you’re lookin’ for a cage, go back to SHIELD.”

You didn’t speak much, that first week.

You slept like someone waiting for the lights to flicker into punishment mode. Ate like someone expecting to pay for every bite. Watched Hobie the way wild things do — not afraid, just waiting to see if he’d snap the trap shut.

He never did.

What he did do was smoke too much, stare too long, and make space without making a scene. Blue lights only. No glass. Quiet music in the evening — always on analog, always something with bass heavy enough to drown out memories. You found his bathroom stocked with black towels and plastic razors. His fridge always had your snacks, even when you didn’t ask. There was a night you screamed in your sleep, and by the time you woke, the couch was pulled closer to his bedroom door. No questions. Just... proximity.

You told yourself it was just convenience.

But you felt it.

The gravity.

He was never soft. But he was safe. Like a loaded gun with the barrel turned outward. You watched him knock a grown man unconscious in a stairwell for grabbing a woman’s wrist too hard. Watched him break fingers over insults. Watched him patch you up with scarred hands that shook just a little too much when they touched your skin.

He called you “roommate.”

SHIELD called you “assignment.”

But somewhere between the quiet cigarette exchanges on the fire escape, the shared insomnia, and the split-second hand catches when one of you flinched — something began to shift.

He noticed your scars the way musicians notice worn frets. Didn’t ask. Just nodded like he’d seen them before in the mirror. You caught him asleep on the couch once, curled around his guitar like a lifeline, sweat beading at his temple, mouth open around a breath that sounded like a choke. He woke with a gasp and didn’t look at you for an hour.

You didn’t say a word.

He started leaving lights on when he knew you’d be late. Started fixing the tea you liked. Started looking at you with that coiled, aching want like it hurt to hold back. And you — you started sitting closer. Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough to feel.

Neither of you said it. Not out loud.

But there were moments.

Like when he stopped smoking in the flat, just because the smell made you cough. Or when your voice cracked mid-sentence and he touched your back like it was a prayer. Or when you tried to leave once — just for a walk, just to breathe — and he grabbed your wrist too fast, too tight, and didn’t let go until he saw the fear in your eyes.

“I ain't your warden,” he rasped. “Just... don’t like not knowin’ where you are.”

You’d both dropped it. Pretended it didn’t matter.

But it sat there, thick as blood in the drain.

Tonight, something feels off.

You wake to cold air. The curtains are swaying. The living room’s dark, but not quiet. There's a tension in the air — a storm waiting for a reason.

Then you hear it.

A sound like shattered plastic. Not glass — Hobie doesn’t allow glass — but something hard cracking against the wall. You slip down the hallway, heart tight, bare feet careful against the carpet.

The bathroom door’s cracked.

Light spills out low and flickering. Not from the bulb — Hobie’s light died weeks ago and he never fixed it — but from the cigarette in his hand, still burning even as his knuckles bleed around it.

He’s sitting on the floor, knees up, back pressed against the tub. Head down. Shoulders shaking.

Not crying.

Just vibrating with the kind of rage that doesn’t scream — the kind that seeps into the drywall. The kind that gets into your bones and waits.

There’s a cracked bottle near his thigh. One of those thick plastic colas you both swore you hated. Split down the middle like it lost a fight. And on the edge of his hand — a thin line of blood, not enough to panic, but enough to say he wasn’t careful tonight.

He doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t move.

Just mutters, low and tight, voice husky like something scraped it raw:

“Go the fuck back to bed.”

A beat.

Then, quieter.

“Ain’t safe ‘round me right now.”

---

The flat smells like weed, burnt paper, and something faintly metallic that never quite leaves.

Windows are cracked open—always. Birmingham air bleeding in through the gaps, carrying distant sirens and the low hum of the city. Blue light washes the room in a dim, artificial calm, catching on chipped paint, graffiti-tagged walls, and the scattered necks of guitars leaning like sentries in the corner.

Hobie’s sprawled back on the couch, long legs stretched out, one boot hooked loosely over the edge of the table. A joint burns slow between his fingers, ember pulsing every time he drags from it. His head tilts back, exhale steady—controlled.

Across from him, Miles Morales sits half-turned in the armchair, elbows on his knees, mask off, hoodie pulled up like it does anything to hide him.

“DVU check-ins still a mess?” Miles asks, voice low, casual—but not careless.

Hobie huffs a quiet laugh through smoke.

“Mess don’t even cover it.” He flicks ash into an overused tray. “Three new cases this week. One got pulled before we could even process it. Internal.”

Miles’ jaw tightens slightly.

“SHIELD?”

“Course it is.” Another drag. Slower this time. “They like clean reports. DVU ain’t clean.”

Silence settles for a second. Not awkward. Just... full.

Miles leans back, eyes drifting around the flat—taking in the details like he always does. The plastic cups on the counter. The lack of anything breakable. The way the lights never fully go out.

He notices everything.

“Place looks... different.”

Hobie’s eyes flick toward him. Brief. Measuring.

“Got someone crashin’ here.”

It’s said like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t mean anything.

Miles nods once, slow.

“Yeah. Heard.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—more deliberate:

“Seen the file.”

Hobie doesn’t respond right away.

The joint pauses halfway to his lips.

That’s enough of an answer on its own.

Miles watches him for a second longer, then exhales through his nose, leaning forward again.

“Good call. Pullin’ ‘em out.”

Another pause.

Then—

“...How’s that been?”

Not about the case.

Not really.

Hobie scoffs under his breath, finally taking another drag.

“Same as anythin’ else.”

It’s a deflection. A weak one.

Miles doesn’t push.

Doesn’t need to.

He just nods, like he’s filing that away with everything else.

“Mm.”

The room settles again. Smoke curling slow toward the ceiling, mixing with the dim light.

Miles taps his fingers against his knee, thoughtful.

“Been meanin’ to stop by anyway.”

Casual.

Too casual.

His gaze shifts, not quite landing anywhere specific.

“Check in. Make sure everything’s... good.”

A beat.

Then, with the faintest edge of something knowing—

“Meet ‘em proper.”

Hobie goes still for half a second.

Subtle.

But there.

The ember at the end of the joint flares as he inhales, longer than before.

“...S’not a meet-and-greet.”

Rougher now.

Miles just hums, unconvinced.

“Didn’t say it was.”

Another pause. He leans back, arms folding loosely.

“Still gonna happen.”

No tension in it.

Just fact.

The city hums outside. The joint burns lower between Hobie’s fingers.

Neither of them speaks for a moment.

Then Miles glances toward the hallway—brief, intentional.

Like he knows exactly who’s down there.

“Y’gonna introduce me,” he adds, quieter, “or am I just waitin’ for an accidental run-in?”