Chapter Text
Peter Parker never asked for much. Hell, he rarely asked for anything. He knew he wasn’t a saint, but sometimes he was convinced he was cursed. ‘Parker Luck’ is what Ned used to call it. Now, Peter just called it life.
And every day, his life was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.
Peter spent days wondering who he missed more; the people that were gone or the ones that had just forgotten him. Doctor Strange’s spell had done its job. Peter saved the multiverse from his own stupidity, at the expense of his own identity. He could save the multiverse, but he couldn’t save his aunt. He could save the multiverse, but he couldn’t save Tony. He could save the multiverse, but he couldn’t save his uncle. He could save the multiverse, but he couldn’t save his parents.
He could save the multiverse, but he couldn’t save himself.
Peter had promised MJ that once this was all over, he would find her. He would tell MJ and Ned everything until they remembered him again. Until they loved him again. They were the last people left who truly knew Peter Parker.
But as he stood in the cafe, gaze lingering on the bandaid above MJ’s temple, he knew. A truth he could never admit aloud. One that would save him and them a world of pain. They were better off without him. Whoever knows Peter Parker always ends up with a granite headstone.
Peter loved them enough to make sure they would never know him again. He’d have to lose them emotionally so he’d never experience losing them physically.
Just like that, Peter was getting his own apartment. May’s usual warmth had vanished from what the word ‘home’ meant to him. No more burnt pastries. No more scrapbooks littered on the kitchen table. No more leftover Thai food in the fridge. Just a run down studio loft in the middle of the city with a leaky faucet that gave off a mildew smell.
His friends didn’t need Peter Parker, but the world still needed Spider-Man. Maybe Peter needed Spider-Man as well, just to give him a purpose. Anything to distract him from the mess he was. No one cared about Peter Parker, but at least they still loved Spider-Man.
It was a late patrol on a bitter cold December night. Flurries of snow messed up his vision through his mask. He had to constantly wipe away his eyes just to see where he was swinging. Peter had stopped a bank robbery in Brooklyn, rescued a lady from an apartment fire in Manhattan, and rescued a cat out of a tree in Tribeca. He had run himself ragged all over New York City, and still doubted whether or not he would be able to sleep that night.
With a grunt, he opened his apartment window and crawled in. Peter took off the mask, teeth chattering as he rubbed his gloved hands together. All he wanted to do was make a cup of hot cocoa and curl up onto his stained mattress, but Peter didn’t have any hot cocoa. Hot water was scarce in his apartment complex anyways. So, he settled for the second part, peeling off his freezing suit and folding it underneath a loose floorboard.
He shrugged on a hoodie and some sweatpants. His hoodie still had the faint scent of May’s vanilla cinnamon perfume that Peter always complained smelled too sweet. Now, he was clinging to the smell. Peter ignored the throbbing on his abdomen from fresh bruises as he collapsed onto his bed. He pulled the blanket nearly over his head.
His hoodie still smelled a bit like his aunt. Like home. A place that felt so familiar but also painfully out of reach. Peter didn’t even know he was crying until he felt the cotton of his hoodie grow damp. He just pulled the blanket tighter around him.
It was these nights where he didn’t have to be strong. Didn’t want to bother keeping a poker face and calmly rebuild his identity, his life, as Peter Parker, from scratch. Nights where he’d stare at the door, longing for May to hear him crying and check on him. Nights where he’d stare at his phone, hoping for a call from MJ or a meme from Ned. Nights where he’d look at his suit, wishing that Tony would give him another list of possible upgrades for him to choose from.
Nights where the loneliest man on Earth didn’t want to be alone.
So Peter let himself cry, sob even. All of the loss and grief and anger came crashing down on him. His hands dug into his sheets as he squeezed his eyes shut so hard he saw stars. Peter could hardly recognize the sound of his sobbing, each one more raw and painful as they tore from his throat. Peter hadn’t cried like this since he was a boy. His voice felt too low now, heart too big.
Peter wasn’t sure how long he cried. It could have been minutes or hours. He slowly let the fuzziness in his head sink in. His body finally relaxed into the mattress. Peter was tired. Not physically or emotionally, but mentally. He closed his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. He let the warmth slowly calm and soothe him, dragging him into what was bound to be another nightmare filled sleep.
And in the darkness of his apartment, surrounded by ghosts he didn’t even know were watching him, and regrets that threatened to swallow him whole, Peter Parker made a wish.
“I want to go home.”
“Kid? Kid, hey!”
Peter’s eyes snapped open, and he was very quick to close them again. Either summer had visited New York City in the middle of December (likely, considering global warming), or Peter had slept until sunset. Either way, it was disorienting to blink away the bright orange sky above him.
Wait- orange sky?
He sat up so fast that Peter nearly slammed his head into Stephen’s, who had been kneeling over him. His heart was racing in his chest as he looked around. Titan. He was on Titan. And…no, this wasn’t possible. Peter looked down at his hands, the pristine red and blue metal of his Iron Spider suit on his body.
He looked back to Stephen, who didn’t seem the least bit fazed by Peter’s reaction.
“I know kid, it’s been five years and we all died,” the wizard grumbled, “But they need us, so get on your feet.”
“Stephen?” Peter asked, “Wait, you remember me?”
“First of all, since when did I agree to be on a first name basis?” Stephen frowned, turning away from Peter, “And yes, you’re the stowaway with Stark, how could I forget?”
That did little to ease Peter’s confusion. He looked around the barren landscape of the planet. Sure enough, the few members of the self proclaimed Guardians of the Galaxy were also climbing to their feet. He remembered this exact moment, because he had already lived it. Peter had run over to the other Peter, asking him if he had a better explanation.
This time, he decided to keep nagging Stephen. “Did you magic me back here?” Peter pressed, “Like, back to this time?”
“You’re still awfully chatty for someone who’s been dead for five years,” Stephen replied dryly. The wizard was focused in front of him. His hands raised as he began swinging it in circles like a maniac. Peter knew what followed afterwards as orange sparks started crackling in front of him.
“Stephen- listen to me,” Peter pleaded, “This is a dream or something, right? Time travel isn’t a thing, and…and it’s still 2026.”
“You were dead for five years, not eight,” Stephen responded, “Now are you trying to mess up my spell on purpose?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time!” Peter blurted out, exasperated. Stephen chose to ignore him as he focused on making the portal.
Peter resorted to pinching himself. He prayed the pain would jolt him awake, back to his shitty bed in his shitty apartment and his shitty life. That this was all just an extremely realistic dream, and that his stupid grief induced wish hadn’t actually sent him back-
The scent of smoke hit him and stung his nose. Stephen lowered himself in front of the open portal. He looked as calm as ever, stepping onto the battlefield. The Guardians did as well, lining up beside them as they readjusted their weapons. They were born to fight.
Peter was born to lose.
He grit his teeth as he swung a web, landing just across the threshold. Peter could faintly remember smiling as he looked out at the smoking battlefield. He had been excited to have been brought back from the dead.
This time, Peter had been brought back from the past. He didn’t smile. Didn’t bother looking out at the army he already knew was there. No, his eyes were scanning their own side. One person who always had answers, or at least acted like they did.
A flash of red and gold armor. Dream or not, Peter suddenly found himself burdened with a new objective.