Chapter Text
In order to explain how he had ended up with a human hand growing out of his back, Peter would first have to explain how he’d accidentally managed to create fifteen clones of Steve Rogers. And in order to explain that, he’d have to explain how he met Stephen Strange, who, as it turned out, completely lived up to his name. The man was as strange as they came. That only made things more difficult.
It began with a skirmish outside an antiques store.
Peter arrived in time to see two hooded figures belt down the street, broken glass trailing behind them, with litter bags slung over their backs. It didn’t seem like they were being chased, yet they barrelled through flocks of people like their lives depended on it. Peter, having the advantage of being on higher ground, swung down from a telephone pole and managed to kick one of the thieve’s legs from under them.
“Hey, buddy. I’m right to assume that’s stolen items you’ve got in there…right? People don’t usually run that fast just to take the trash out.”
The man, a grisly fellow with eyes that were vaguely goat-like, spat at Peter.
“Woah, okay.” Peter grimaced. He had ten minutes till he had to be in class. He’d dealt with these kind of crimes many times before, though—amateur robberies—they usually didn’t take too long to deal with. He plastered a few webs over the thief’s wrists and ankles. “Stay here,” he muttered, before sprinting after the other man.
With his abnormal agility and swinging skills, he should have caught up to the second thief in a matter of seconds. Instead, Peter’s day decided to take it’s first left turning onto Weird Street and surprise him. He rounded a corner barely in time to see was looked like the last few sparks of a firework suspended in midair and no thief to be found. Like magic.
Peter shook away the absurd thought. Where the man was standing—where he should have been standing, there was only a thin layer of unsettled dust and a blackened object face-down on the sidewalk. Peter crouched to pick it up, only to reel at the sight of it. The thing held a bare resemblance to ugly metal teapot. It was caked in hardened mud and some sort of orange treacle-like substance that glued itself to his fingers. Why anyone would go out of their way to steal something like this from an antiques store was beyond him, as was why any store would bother selling it in the first place.
“What is this…thing?” Peter’s face scrunched up as he reluctantly wiped off some of the gunk with the back of his hand. Despite the object’s questionable state, he was going to return it.
“Unknown,” Karen’s voice rang out through his suit. “Though, it carries a distinct energy signature.”
“Huh…” Peter’s brow furrowed, and he turned the object in his hands. He shook his head and took one last glance around for the missing thief. Then he turned on his heels and shot a thread from his wrist. When he got back to his starting point, Peter immediately noticed two things:
The first thief he’d pinned to the floor had vanished without a trace.
The antiques store had also vanished. Where it had once been sandwiched between two bookstores, there was now a large gap and an alleyway he didn't recognise.
“What the…”
Peter stood there, blinking, for at least five minutes before he realised he was going to be late. Had he imagined the shop? No, he definitely hadn’t. It was there, tangible, right in front of him. Had it always been there? The more Peter envisioned it, the further away it seemed, and the more his memories began to fuse.
Without thinking, he shoved the object into his rucksack and made his way to school.
And he completely forgot about it until he got home.
☆
Even then, the thing only briefly returned to his attention. Peter unzipped his bag and squinted at it for less than three seconds before carelessly throwing it in the dishwasher and hoping that Aunt May would find some use for it—maybe to pour gravy out of, or something.
Completely drained, Peter slumped over the kitchen table with his Physics homework spread out in front him. It had been a long, strange day. Ned had been absent, which automatically made things three times worse, and the weight of juggling school life and being Spiderman had really taken it’s toll. All Peter wanted to do was lie in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a bad action movie on in the background. He tried to focus on the equations, but his eyelids drooped and the numbers and symbols seemed to merge into gibberish. So, he reluctantly let them close.
He was aggressively awoken only a few minutes later, by a horrible groaning wheezing sound echoing around in the room. Peter jolted, stood and slowly made his way over to the sink, where it looked like something was about to combust.
Then the fireworks started.
Sparks flew, and a cloud of red smoke erupted from the drain. Peter yelped, jumped back, slipped on a puddle of soapy water and almost toppled over. Spluttering, he delved a hand into the smoke and batted it away, only to find that he wasn’t alone anymore.
“The print on the bottom clearly says, not machine washable. In capital letters.”
The voice came from a man—or at least half a man (only his torso upwards was present; the rest seemed to have dissolved into thin air)—floating about three feet above the sink. His clothes sagged around his shoulders, dripping wet, dark drenched hair cast an ominous shadow across his face and his whole body was slightly transparent. Peter screamed.
“Alright, let’s calm down—” the man said, eyes widening. Clearly, he hadn’t expected such an intense reaction. He extended his arms to gesture submissively. Except it wasn’t two arms, it was four, which only made things weirder and Peter scream louder.
A mixture of terror and impulse charged through his limbs and—not having time to dig out his web shooter from his bag—Peter threw the nearest thing at the man, which happened to be a fork. It phased right through the guy’s head and bounced off the wall behind him. Peter’s eyes bulged.
“If you could stop—”
Peter grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl and hurled it. He lobbed an apple. Then a lemon. They all soared straight through the man’s chest as if he weren’t there.
“If you could stop with the throwing things at me—” the ghost said, in a mildly irritated tone, as he dodged a pear, “—that would be great.”
Peter grasped at the bottom of the fruit bowl—it was empty. So instead, he took his well-practiced superhero stance, one foot firmly in front of the other, and glared at the man with all the animosity of a scared kitten. “Hey...Mr ghost? I’m not sure what you want from me or what you’re doing in my house, but I’ve got the Avengers on my side so you...you better not pull anything strange.”
The corners of the man’s mouth almost turned upwards into an amused grin before processing Peter’s information and dissolving into a frown. ‘The Avengers?” His forehead creased and he pinched below his eyes as if those two words were enough to bring on a headache. He sighed. “Do we have to bring them into everything? Let’s not escalate the situation...Look, I’m only here to ask if there’s anything you desire.”
“For you to leave my house?”
The ghost ignored him in favour of counting things off his fingers “You know, the usual spiel. Money? Fame? Enhanced strength? The ability to jump over skyscrapers?” He continued until he ran out of fingers to count on, then he grew five more—“Telekinesis? Inhuman charisma? One thousand dogs? I could do that.”
Peter’s gape only got wider as he stared, barely taking in anything being said, instead electing to focus on the steadily growing number of limbs appearing on the man’s body. With a shaky breath, Peter decided that he was completely and utterly overwhelmed. “Could you...excuse me for a minute?”
The ghost’s head snapped upwards and his brow furrowed; apparently only just noticing his extra fingers and the length of time he was talking for. “Uh, sure,” he deadpanned.
Peter scooped his bag from the floor and scuttled out of the kitchen without glancing back. He fumbled around for his phone, then took some time to stop his hands from shaking so he could dial the numbers in correctly.
“Hello?”
“Hey Peter, what’s going on? Make it quick, I’m on a schedule.”
“Uh, yeah, Mr Stark? There’s a ghost in my kitchen sink trying to sell me things.”
The faint sound of some sort of heavy machinery falling off a table echoed through the speaker.
“...Ghost? That’s nice Pete, listen, I’m a little busy right now—”
“He’s got retractable arms—”
“I’m sure you can deal with it. You’re a smart kid.”
“But—”
“Uhhh gotta go, Happy’s being...not happy. Have fun ghost-busting, kid, I’ll see you later.”
The phone line cut off.
Muttering angrily under his breath, Peter reluctantly slunk back into the kitchen.
“How did that go?” asked the ghost.
Peter hesitantly turned to face him. His extra limbs were gone and instead, he’d sprouted two legs and was perched casually, on top of the washing machine. He almost looked normal. Almost. Peter balked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “He doesn’t take me seriously sometimes,” he said quietly.
“Who?”
“Mr Stark. I know he’s trying protect me and everything and that’s fine, but sometimes it feels like I’m just...not taken seriously. Not as seriously as everyone else,” Peter said, pouting. He was well aware that he sounded like a whiny desperate teenager—he’d been called such many times—and only partly aware that he was pouring his heart out to a stranger that appeared in his sink. He had somehow managed to forget about that for now, though, because he could feel the ghost’s thoughtful gaze was grazing the back of head and strangely enough, it didn’t feel dangerous or judgemental. After a brief period of odd silence, Peter faltered.
“So, you’re not going to, like, eat me or something?”
The ghost cocked his head and wrinkled his nose in disgust, “Eat you? No! What do you take me for? Some sort of demon?” He kicked off the washing machine and moved to squint out the window, peering up at the sky and the surrounding trees with an unreadable expression. “Though I’d kill for a sandwich or something right now,” he said, wistfully. “I’m not sure how many years it’s been since I last ate something.”
You could almost see the gears click into place in Peter’s head as the realisation and regret dawned on him. He’d not even given the man a chance to explain himself before coming to the conclusion that he was trying to kill him. And throwing a fork at his head. “You’re...not evil?”
“No.”
“I thought you were a ghost...like...have you seen A Woman in Black?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Peter gingerly took a step forward. On closer inspection, the man looked friendlier than he had first thought. Sure, some of his features were vaguely cryptic, like the pale translucent skin and the incredibly black hair interrupted by a shock of grey at his temples. It reminded Peter of a badger. Or a skunk. There was also something peculiar about the greyish colour of his eyes that Peter couldn’t place. But despite all this, there was something warm about him, his aura, and the way he held himself was exhausted and defenceless. On his wrists, Peter noticed, were two brass cuffs that looked impossibly tight, surrounded by blotts of bruised skin. He winced.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said, looking utterly deflated. His eyes flit from the man to the floor. “For freaking out. I’ve just had a rough day y’know? I couldn’t catch these robber guys, there was this disappearing shop that gave me a headache, Flash Thompson made fun of me this morning, I missed the curly fries in the canteen at lunch, then this HUGE Eldritch-looking monster thing with tentacles almost trampled over me on the way here and then you came flying out the drain! You can’t blame me for getting a bit weirded out. I mean, you literally had four arms just a second ago. Is that normal?”
“The lamp,” said the man.
“What?”
“I came out of the lamp, not the drain.”
Peter froze, digesting the information. A look of enlightenment hit his face like a splash of cold water. “The la—” He whirled around and stumbled. “Oh my god you’re a—” He pointed at the man, then waved his hands around wildly. “You can—” He leant across and opened the dishwasher, pulling out what was once a mass of rugged dirt and dust, and held it up to the light. “Oh my god,” he whispered.
The man nodded slowly. “That’s a lamp.”
It was a lamp, albeit a very misshapen one. Although the surface glittered and it was no longer caked in grime, the handle had been snapped off and thin spidery cracks climbed down from the lid.
“And you are… you’re a genie?”
“Unfortunately, that seems to be the case, yes.”
“You can grant wishes?”
“Six.”
Peter didn’t stop the abnormally wide grin from breaking onto his face. “Holy crap, that’s insane!” The possibilities of what he could do with the lamp were already spinning in his mind. It was terrifying. It was far too much power for a 16 year old, and even more concerning was the fact that Peter was the 16 year old that had it. If Aunt May or Tony Stark found out about this, they would probably go into cardiac arrest. Peter had to pull up a chair and sit down for a moment to stop himself from swaying. “So I can wish for basically anything?”
“I wouldn’t say anything,” the genie muttered. He seemed to be sidetracked; his attention only half directed towards Peter and half directed towards a newspaper draped over one of the chairs. It began floating upwards, unrolled itself, and the genie stared at it, confirming something, before it dropped back in it’s place and he continued. “I’m not that powerful a genie,” he coughed out the words like they were difficult to say. “I’ll lay down some ground rules.”
Peter crossed his legs and leant forwards, completely engrossed.
“I can’t create life, destroy it or bring it back.”
“That’s fair,” said Peter. He dealt with life and death enough as it was, being Spiderman.The thought of reanimating people, killing enemies with a few words, playing god, shook him to the core.
“You can only wish for things directly tied to you,” said the genie, “So, nothing universal. No wishing for world peace, or anything like that.”
“Can I wish for more wishes?”
The genie gave him a tired eye roll, as if he’d expected the question.“That’s against the rules.”
“How about wishing for any restrictions over wishing for more wishes to be removed and then wishing for more wishes?”
“That’s also against the rules—“
“Wishing for the metaphysical concept of rules to be abolished?”
“No—“
“Alright, how ‘bout wishing for more genies?”
The genie shot him a glare that said ‘I don’t have a physical body but I am about to smash my head against a wall’, so Peter gave in. “Okay, no extra wishes, I get it,” he said, holding his hands up. “So, what’s your name? Do you have one? I can’t just call you Mr Genie all the time. Unless that’s what you wanna be called, I guess.”
This time, the question seemed to catch the genie off guard. “Doctor Stephen Strange,” he said, then paused and corrected himself. “Stephen Strange.”
“Doctor?”
Stephen shrugged. “Not anymore.”
“You were a Doctor? Are you human?”
“It’s complicated.”
Peter gave him a quizzical frown, then decided against pressing further, and smiled. “Nice to meet you Mr Strange! I’m Peter.” He stuck out his hand for Stephen to shake, who reached out hesitantly. It was like shaking air. "I really am sorry about, uh, throwing fruit at you earlier."
“That’s alright.”
“And the threatening to call the Avengers thing, I wasn’t actually gonna do that...”
“That’s alright.”
“They’re pretty cool guys though. You’d love to meet them…”
“No, that’s alright.”
“No, seriously, I’m sorry for—”
“That’s alright, Peter,” Strange said, looking increasingly impatient. “As a subservient cosmic entity, I have little need for apologies.”
“Oh…yeah…but still…” Peter trailed off. Stephen turned his gaze to the window again, with the peculiar concentration of someone studying a book. He tapped a rhythm out on the windowsill, and Peter watched in awe as swarms of blue butterflies swam between his fingers as he tapped. He wondered if that was intentional.
“Ned’s gonna love this,” Peter blurted excitedly. He was already plotting on how to break the news to him. They could take it in turn, wishing for things, each wish crazier than the last. It would be a blast. And once he shared this with Mr Stark, he was sure that together they could use this power to better the world in some way. No more civil wars. No more super powered criminals. No more—
“No. Sorry.”
Peter was dragged away from his thoughts to Stephen giving him the solemnest stare he had ever seen on a person. “H-huh?”
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he said dryly. “Granting wishes isn’t something that should be possible—and that’s coming from me. This kind of magic is unpredictable. I can’t risk this falling into the wrong hands.”
“But what if I told—”
“Peter,” Stephen practically begged. “It won’t end well. Keep this a secret.”
Peter pursed his lips. Great. He already had a super secret identity that he struggled to keep hold of and now he’d have a super secret genie living in his house. And Peter didn’t like secrets. They felt like weights strapped to his ankles, getting heavier with each web of lies he was forced to tell in order to keep up the ruse. Stephen was a genie; his only power was to give other people power. Peter could turn around and say ‘no’, then tell everyone he knew about the lamp, and there’d be nothing he could to stop it. But deep down in his heart, he knew Stephen was right.
“Okay Mr Strange. I won’t tell.”
“For the safety of the universe, you better not.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Peter. He drew his finger over his chest and stood taller. Stephen scanned him with calculating eyes, then gave a small satisfied nod.
"And you’re not planning on wishing for anything particularly diabolical are you?" Stephen said. "I can't stop you. But I've had a fair share of experiences with power-hungry world-dominating tyrants and honestly, I'd rather not be dragged into that again."
Peter looked offended. "What? Oh, no, Mr Strange! I'm Spiderman!"
"Who?"
"I scale buildings and fight bad guys."
“What?”
“This spider bit me, and now I can sense danger and stuff.”
“I…what? I’m even more confused…”
"Basically, I save people. I'm practically an Avenger! Except not officially. I guess it’s my mission now, to use this power responsibly," he said, turning to Stephen with a painfully determined grin. The worst thing was, it was an expression that Stephen recognised from own face, in his earlier days. "Now that I’ve got you, it only makes sense that I should try to save more people”
“Saving the world, huh?” Stephen sighed deeply. Part of him—the tired part—wished that he was stuck in the lamp again. Wedged underneath a pile of rubble. At least then he could indulge in a few more years of not doing anything. “I understand your good intentions kid, but can’t you just wish for something normal? Like an iPhone 7? Or whatever it is you teenagers use these days?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “C’mon Mr Strangeee,” he drawled, “Making the world a better place! It’ll be fun!” He slung an arm around Stephen’s shoulder only to fall straight through him. Stephen snorted.
“Define ‘fun’”
“Besides, how long have you been trapped in that lamp? I bet you haven’t experienced fun in centuries or something!” exclaimed Peter, getting back onto his feet. It was supposed to sound friendly and compelling, but judging by Stephen’s expression, had probably come out slightly more condescending than he had intended.
“I can’t exactly say no, can I?”
“Awesome!” Peter bounced up and down on his toes. He stopped to check his watch. “We’ve got ten minutes until my Aunt gets back,” he said. Stephen nodded absently.
“We have time. So, first wish. What’ll it be?”
Peter lay silent for a moment, then grinned.
“Do you know what would be really cool…”