Chapter Text
The ceiling was a plain white. The floor was a similar white, but laced with more scuffs. The lights were dimmed, as was procedure for after-hours. There were five locks on the door and there was four pounds of gauze constricting his torso. He was hooked to a heart rate monitor, and its fitful ‘beeps’ kept him from a decent sleep. Quentin Beck knew he ought to be feeling some measure of pain but every piece of him was surrounded by a static-like numbness. He tried flexing his fingers, and thought he felt them move.
He was tired…
Outside the room, someone typed in five codes into the panel on the door and slipped inside. He had removed his mask, but Beck’s vision was too blurred to to see his face. Moving tentatively over the floor, they approached Quentin’s bedside.
“Hey man,” Peter’s voice made an attempt to whisper, “How you feeling?”
“What-“ Beck’s tongue felt thick. He stared at the Peter-like blur through heavy lidded eyes.
“I’m not supposed to be in here.” Peter looked from Quentin to the door to Quentin and back to the door again. “I just wanted to check. See if you were-“ Peter looked to him again, expression tighter, “Really you.”
Hm. Peter still thought Beck was in any position of power. He made note of that but said nothing.
A face, pale, beaded with sweat and still smeared in blood pushed itself through the drug haze as Peter leaned in. He was just as Quentin last saw him.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re the real Beck.” Peter’s tone was rueful, “It’s probably hard to fake a life-threatening injury huh? Not that I’d know I mean-” He seemed geared up for a lot of talking, which Quentin ought to have expected at this point. He was half tempted to listen, he needed all the information he could get but…he…tired…
So god damn tired…
Against his will, Beck’s eyes slipped shut but he forced himself to stay conscious for a few more seconds. Above him, he knew Peter was speaking but none of the words were registering. A few scattered seconds passed and the room went quiet. Then a warm weight settled over Quentin’s left hand. It hovered, a featherlight touch, then squeezed gently and retreated.
Footsteps backed out of the room. Quentin felt himself being watched until all five locks on the door clicked shut.
Quentin toppled backwards into the abyss of sleep, already forgetting that anyone had come inside the room.
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Time passed. His wounds began to heal. They moved him out of the priority wing into a room identical if not for the lack of scary looking wires and tubes. Very few paid him any mind. That burned almost as much as the bullet in his chest. After all, he’d fooled every single one of them. That surely should have made him a person of interest in their eyes. Not so. A lone guard had been stationed at his door who never entered and only spoke curtly into the radio in his chest pocket.
Beck passed the time fuming. Though, he drew a line and pointedly refused to let himself seethe.
All of his work. His masterpieces of subterfuge, precise artistic hand and manipulation of senses all torn down and destroyed. By a child no less! Truly, there was no justice in the world- Beck snapped to attention as his guard suddenly keyed the door open.
“Director Fury would like a word.” The guard said and left before Quentin could answer.
Soon after, Nick Fury stood at the foot of his bed. His entire body was tightly wound metal. Quentin had seen that trench coat in eleven different action movies. It threw a long shadow over his form on the bed. Beck saw death in his eye. He smiled in its face.
“Mister Fury.” Quentin drawled, his voice rough from lack of use. “How may I help you?”
“You’re gonna want to talk as little as possible, Beck. You just got out of critical condition and I really don’t care to hear any more bullshit you plan on peddling. So, save your breath.”
Beck made a show of pressing his lips together. Fury continued.
“You lied to S.H.I.E.L.D. To me and your…’teammate’.” Right. Peter. The most regretful casualty in Beck’s entire operation. The wrench in the plan. The crack in the armour. The only person whose trust Beck had been keen on securing long term. And now-dammit.
“But a word about Parker: he’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
Quentin’s train of thought screeched to a halt.
“What.” He said.
“I don’t mind telling you that myself and my colleagues at S.H.I.E.L.D would have been quite comfortable leaving you to bleed out on that bridge.” Fury said, “But Parker managed to call us in, asked us to patch you up and not lock you in a cement room for the rest of your miserable days. And here you are.”
“And you listened to him?” Beck asked, bemused.
“Against my better judgement, yes. Considering the hand we had in ruining Parker’s vacation, I figured I could throw him a bone. Besides, now that we all know who you really are, it’s so much easier to keep an eye on you and anyone who worked for you. Make sure you don’t get up to any ‘Avenger’s Level’ trouble on the outside.” A flash of cold humour slipped into Fury expression for a moment.
They must have finally done a background check on him then. Quentin thought of Peter’s face behind the mask, his joy, his sorrow, his righteous anger and the anguish at Beck’s perceived betrayal. He thought of how valuable knowing Peter Parker was Spider-Man was and seeing as he was not in fact dead or going underground, he realized how much wiser keeping that information to himself would be.
For now at least.
Beck cleared his throat and adopted a sorrowfully humble tone.
“If you’ll allow me, Director, before I go, I need to make a phone call.”
After Fury departed, Beck was handed a plain black flip phone. He dialled the number and got an answer on the second ring. As expected, William wasn’t exactly pleased to hear that the kid who sunk the entire Mysterio Operation was getting off scot-free. Quentin listened to his arguments, pretended to consider them and said, “Send a copy to me but wipe anything you have. I mean it. Fury’s watching all of us.” He didn’t intend to use the footage any time soon but it got William to shut up.
“If that’s the case, we shouldn’t be in contact much.” William said, “We have enough cash to stay afloat if we have to hide. What are you gonna do, boss?”
“Don’t forget,” Quentin hardened his voice, “Suit or not, drones or no drones, I’m still Mysterio. I’ll find a way out of this.” He’d lost everything before and rebuilt into someone stronger, he could do it again.
Quentin hung up before William could answer.
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The hospital released him after another week with strict orders not to strain himself. He assured the doctor that the last thing he needed was more pain. Without further niceties Quentin had been escorted to a small jet primed to drop him at his new S.H.I.E.L.D regulated safe house. And, lucky him, it wasn’t too far from his old home. Quentin was air dropped into New York and led to an indistinct black vehicle where the very serious-looking driver was waiting to take him to Queens. Waiting for him in the back seat was a small duffle bag. With nothing better to do, Quentin unzipped it and peered inside. It contained one change of civilian clothes, the address to his appointed safe house, and Beck’s phone (no doubt bugged).
Beck didn’t want to think too hard on how S.H.I.E.L.D has gotten ahold of his personal phone and when it buzzed, he checked it. There was one message from an unknown number.
Sent to: Quentin Beck
Parker knows you’re moving in today. Do me a favour and act surprised when he welcomes you to the neighbourhood.
Oh, so the kid was willing to speak to him despite everything. No surprise there, Peter held grudges like oil held water. Beck frowned to himself, his body felt heavy and his mind was fuzzy, he’d decide how he felt about Peter later.
The black car took him to an urban neighbourhood filled with older apartments made of red brick, several of them threatening to be overgrown with ivy. Humble and about as unassuming as one could get in New York. The car pulled up to a curb, beside one of the taller structures. Turning to Quentin, the driver said, “Floor seven. Room thirty-six. You are registered.” He had a thick German accent.
Quentin nodded, “Alright.” The doors unlocked and Beck, duffle bag in hand, climbed out.
He confirmed at the front desk that he was in fact a registered tenant and swept into the elevator, eager to shut down for the next twenty years. He unlocked the door to apartment thirty-six and made a beeline for the bedroom. Beck’s shoes and socks were kicked to the side, and he curled up on top of the sheets still fully clothed.
He barely had time to appreciate the better-than-a-hospital-matress feeling before he fell asleep.
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As Quentin slept, his phone buzzed and the screen lit up.
Sent to: Quentin Beck
Swept your old apartment. Tomorrow afternoon, Parker will drop off any essential belongings cleared of risk.
Quentin mumbled in his sleep and rolled over.
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He awoke to the sound of a fist rapping a solid surface. Woefully sore from his…excursions Quentin made an effort to ignore it and hoped that whoever it was would go away. They didn’t, and the constant noise dragged Beck further and further from his beloved rest. Eventually he gave up, pulled his head up from where it was been smushed into the pillows and glared blearily towards the door.
He took a cursory moment to straighten himself out. If for no other reason than habit. He pushed his bedhead back into something resembling style and made a futile attempt to brush the wrinkles out of his shirt. The knocking had paused.
He made his way to the doorknob and wrenched the door open. A figure stood in the hallways, their arm raised to hit the door again. They were flanked by two suitcases. Quentin’s brain registered the person in pieces.
Shorter than him. Young. A teenager. Pale. Brown hair and eyes. Clean-shaven. Kind features. Peter.
Wait.
Peter.
Quentin snapped awake.
He moved on instinct. Sprang into motion and slammed the door shut. He hurried to press his weight against it, ignoring Peter’s indignant cry. The sudden electric shock of adrenaline did a miraculous job of fading out his pain so Quentin pushed harder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Beck leaned his back against the door. Breathless.
“Miss Hill asked me to bring some of your stuff over.” The door muffled Peter’s soft voice, “So I brought some of your stuff.”
Oh. That was…reasonable. That made sense and was a sound, logical reason for Peter to be at his door at, he glanced at the clock on the wall…2:45 in the afternoon.
Good thing the kid wasn’t here as Spider-Man too, because Quentin’s body was urgently reminding him that he was even less combat capable than usual. His adrenaline drained, making room for the white hot ache blooming in his chest. He clenched his teeth and a sharp breath hissed through them.
Well, he’d gone and strained himself.
And on his first day out too...
He lost his grip on the door handle and slid to the floor. For a few gut wrenching moments, the burning pain didn’t let anything else register. Which is why Beck was mildly surprised to find two arms wrapped around him, offering support.
“Woah woah, hang on just a sec.” A strong yet gentle hand gripped Quentin’s upper arm to steady him while the other slipped under his other arm. “Don’t worry, man. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Quentin raised his head almost knocking his nose against the kid’s. Oh, this was much closer than he realized. He swallowed against the discomfort.
“Peter?” Quentin said.
“Uh-hi Mister Beck…” Peter said.
Beck’s dignity demanded that he shove Peter away, gather up his pride and stand on his own. His body however, stated very firmly that now was not the time to worry about his self image and that it would be most appreciative if he would simply take Peter’s hand and slowly very slowly stand up. Nice and easy.
Through gritted teeth, he heeded the latter.
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He directed Peter to his living room sofa, the centre point of the apartment, and let himself be sat down. His wounds were still stinging though Peter had handled him like glass. Peter hurried back to the door to grab the cases he’d brought. He set them on the carpet in front of Beck. The cases were painted black and complemented with sleek silver accents. They looked very big and very heavy.
“So,” Peter said, rocking on his feet, “Where would you like everything to…um… go?”
Quentin took a moment to catch his breath, “Depends on what you brought.”
“Oh- oh! Right, hang on…” Flicking open three latches on the closest case, Peter pried it open to reveal most of Quentin’s wardrobe. Small piles of pants, shirts and sweaters all folded with varying degrees of care. Mixed in, Quentin could see flashes of white porcelain that he recognized as-
“You used my clothes to pack my dishes?”
The kid busied himself with sorting Beck’s silverware from his pants. “Hey, I’m just giving them to you! One of Mister Fury’s people packed it.”
“So you’re Fury’s delivery boy now?” The thought was amusing. Beck could barely tell if that would be a step up or down from a so-called ‘Stark Internship’.
“I’m just the only guy that’s Mysterio-proof, man.”
Much as he would have liked to, Quentin couldn’t argue with that.
He watched Peter move between the rooms, carrying armfuls of clothes and other sundry items. He’d even come with Quentin’s laptop (also probably bugged) which he did appreciate. Eventually, Peter ended up behind the kitchen island. He was sorting through the appliances he had brought and those that were original to the apartment. The boy’s eyes flitting around the room. Trying to take everything in but never leaving Beck for too long.
“Would you prefer your pans above the oven or beside?” Peter held up one of the pans in question. Quentin shook his head, dazed by the surreality of it all.
“Whichever is easiest.”
“Cool.” Peter slipped the pan, and two others like it, into a drawer under the oven.
A silence stretched between them.
Quentin looked at Peter.
Peter looked at Quentin.
Peter realized that Quentin was looking at him and tried to pretend to look somewhere else. Quentin laughed but disguised it as a scoff.
Now properly awake, Beck took the time to take in his new home. An almost antique look, or at least not as modern as he was used to, but respectable. Likely one of the older studios. A colour scheme of warm faded browns and light greys with white accents. One long sofa, which he currently sat on, overstuffed and soft with a matching recliner to the right. To the left was the small kitchen and Peter in the middle of it. The space was barely big enough for one person.
This was his life now. This suffocatingly tiny space. Beck wondered how long he would last. How much time could pass before it was wise to contact William? He shook his head, needing a distraction.
“You know you never answered my question.” Quentin spoke up. The kid stopped sorting through different sized plates and look up, his eyes wide.
“I didn’t?” He said.
“No. I asked you what you were doing here. And I never got a good answer.”
Peter frowned, confusion written in his face. “I’m here to give you your stuff. Miss Hill asked me to do it?”
“Not what I meant, Peter. What are you doing here? With me? You won. Even I can admit as much. What in God’s name can you get out of spending another second in my presence?” Beck could feel his voice raising as his talked. The volume demanded air, which demanded he strain his chest. His chest protested, so he paused to quiet himself.
Peter left the confines of the kitchen. “When I mess up, I’ve never gotten back up on my own. I have my ‘guy-in-the-chair’, my family and friends that kinda thing.”
Quentin tried not to roll his eyes. He also made a note to ask what the hell a ‘guy-in-the-chair’ was.
Peter continued, “And after the bridge I kept thinking about you and Mister Stark and I just thought that you and him both made...a ridiculous amount of mistakes.”
“Excuse me?!” To hell with it. This was a offence that demanded a raised voice.
“Wait wait wait-“ Peter held up two placating hands. “I’m getting somewhere, just give it a second.”
There wasn’t much of a choice. “...go on then.”
“And I think you just need someone to help you be you. Like my friends help me when I get stuck. And you’re like-“ Peter had been alternating between looking Quentin in the eye and looking anywhere else, but now he stepped closer, brown eyes wide and sincere. “You’re, like, a brilliant person, Mister Beck. But you were using everything you had in the all the worst ways.”
Beck, now less sure of his position, remained silent.
Peter sped up as he talked. “I don’t think you were just what I saw on the bridge. I think you’re able to be a lot more. Like, an infinite amount of things. Cause that’s what people are. And…before you tried to, y’know kill me, I really did like being friends with you.” Peter smiled at him then, shaky and wary but it was a smile. A more genuine smile than Quentin remembered giving or receiving during his time at Stark Industries. He couldn’t return it. He lowered his eyes. The air in the little apartment grew heavy. He felt Peter falter before his silence, then slink back into the kitchen, focusing determinedly on the cereal bowls.
I really did like being friends with you. Quentin was ashamed to say he agreed. Back in Europe, he’d caught himself before it became too much, and as fate would have it, Peter caught wind of his illusions immediately after. Quentin had needed to end what they had, or he’d lose everything else.
That had been his objective. Put a stop to it. Sever his ties to Peter so thoroughly it was as good as irreparable. To stomp on their bond with indiscriminate brutality and tear himself free from the possibility of caring too much. Sweep aside anything they had built together and continue with his plan unburdened. Then wrap up the performance as planned, take a bow, say ‘until next time’ to his adorably gullible audience and close the curtains.
That hadn’t worked out.
Not just because Peter had recovered but because Quentin still hadn’t. Worse still, he had no idea when he would. For reasons completely unrelated to the bullet, he could feel a constant hum of pain somewhere in his chest. His own emotions torn raw and bloody from being forced to cleave himself free.
It was maddening.
Beck was supposed to be better than that. Before he met Peter, he had been better than that. He’d needed to teach the world a lesson and attachment would have only held him back. Frustratingly, it seemed it still was.
“I said you were good. And you are.” Beck breathed deeply and slowly. “But I’m not. And I’m not you.”
“You don’t have to be me. I’d never ask you to be me. You can totally be you. Just, y’know…better.” Clinking silverware accentuated Peter’s words.
On the precipice of combustion but confined to the couch Quentin inhaled sharply, “You don’t know anything about me, kid.”
“Then tell me about you. Or show me.” Peter’s tone implied a little half shrug. “Getting to know you, when you’re not trying to kill me and my friends, wouldn’t be so bad for either of us.”
He couldn’t be serious. Quentin already hated this idea and everything it implied. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was too late to trick someone into putting another bullet in his gut. If he remembered correctly, it would be less agonizing than this conversation. He opened his mouth to say as such when Peter’s phone rang. Caught up in the conversation, they both flinched at the noise. Quentin jerked his head up in time to see the kid dismiss the call.
Their eyes met again. “When we first met, you knew what being good looked like. You could try shooting for something like that.” Peter said.
“All of that was a lie, Peter.” Well, a grand sweeping lie built on minutiae of truth but Beck hadn’t the energy to debate anything that Peter didn’t need to know.
“But you knew it would convince me you were good!” On the cusp of a frenzy, Peter’s eyes became wide as he gesticulated between Beck and himself. “So you know what a good person looks like, and I think you can be like that. Or something like it. You just gotta you know fake it till you make it.”
Beck felt his lips twitch. “That sounds like lying, Peter.”
Peter slumped back on the balls of his heels, groaning. “You literally faked the entire superhero thing and fooled me, Mister Fury, and almost the world! Why the hell can’t you at least try to not hurt people?”
Quentin wondered if Peter would ever believe Mysterio’s goal hadn’t been to hurt people. It had been a necessity, certainly but an unfortunate one. He doubted he could win that argument, so he said, “And what happens when I decide to stop? If I decide to stop lying about who I am for useless trust and pity points? You’ll just let that slide?”
“No, no you’re missing the whole point. I want you to not lie about who you are. For better or for worse. We both know you can’t trick me anymore.” Peter looked quite proud of himself for that. “And I think that’s what you need. Someone who you can’t lie to. You need to be you.”
Quentin’s mind prodded him relentlessly. You know what this kid is like. You know that if he sees anything like what he’s asking for, he’ll drop you like Stark dropped you and hand you over to S.H.I.E.L.D. And if that happened he’d fall even lower than this. Wouldn’t that be a magical feat.
“I need to be me.” Beck made his tone dryer than a desert because he didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes, exactly. You need to be you, so you can look at yourself for real and figure out why you did what you did.” Peter leaned on his palms over the counter, his excitement growing back. His eyes, though as kind as they ever were, were remarkably clear. Full of harnessed energy. “You can be better, Mister Beck. I believe in you.”
Quentin stilled. That was a lie if he ever heard one. No one normal said things like that - to anyone. Even on the chance they did, they certainly did not mean it. But Peter couldn’t lie, not even by omission. Quentin knew enough about the kid to say that confidently, he just wasn’t built for it.
Through a maelstrom of emotional turmoil and physical pain, Beck managed a small wry smirk. “That may prove to be a terrible idea, Peter.”
“Maybe. But nothing completely risk-free is going to change anything…and you know, it’s not like this is the hardest thing you could commit to. Unless, god forbid, you don’t think you can succeed at a task that isn’t lying to people.” A sly expression wormed its way onto Peter’s face, narrowing his eyes and showing off his teeth. Quentin didn’t think it fit him well, and met it head on with the flattest look he could muster.
“I just want you to know.” Beck ground out, “I know what you’re doing. I’m not an idiot and I’m not a child. I know what reverse psychology is.”
Peter considered this for a moment, “But you’re still going with it?”
“For now, yes.” He hadn’t survived everything just to throw in the towel now and let him and his work be buried by S.H.I.E.L.D coverups and mountains of more glorification heaped onto Stark and his ex-protege. If Peter really wanted to challenge him, he’d get what was coming.
“Awesome!” Peter beamed at him, “Then I’ll see you later.”
The cases shut with curt clicks and Peter carried both of them to the door. Quentin watched him from the sofa, unwilling to risk getting up before his body was ready. The kid stopped halfway out the door, turned to face Beck, managing to fidget with occupied hands. He looked like he wanted to say more but a stifling shyness held him back. All of that blinding, positive energy had dimmed and he looked…nervous. For the first time in quite a while, the reality of how young Peter was dawned on Quentin. Curiosity, and something more insistent made Beck open his expression, inviting him to speak.
“You’re probably not gonna believe this.” Peter’s smile was small but apparent and Quentin felt himself tighten. “But I’m glad you’re still alive.” Gripping the cases, he backed out of the doorway, “See you later, Mister Beck.”
The door clicked shut, and Quentin was alone.
Chest still aching, he let his weight sink into the couch. Though he could hardly move, Beck’s mind was racing. Just be him?! What could that even mean? There was no one he could truly be that would gain the approval of Peter or S.H.I.E.L.D. They were all wrapped up in the past, unable to accept the reality of the Blip and were left scrambling to reclaim what they had before. But it wasn’t there anymore, new people, new ideas had risen in their place, Quentin chief among them. Or he would be if Peter hadn’t stopped him.
He’d been stopped, his goal of super-hero worthy fame and recognition lost to the stars. But Quentin was still here. He had no team to back him up, and no illusion tech to fashion a whole new story for himself. There was only him.
Him and Peter.
It’d be a lie to say his curiosity wasn’t piqued. He had understood the kid inside out and backwards before everything had gone south but now… None of this made sense. Perhaps Peter wanted something from him. Access to his technology maybe? No. S.H.I.E.L.D had confiscated all of that when he was arrested. Something Peter was certainly aware of. That and anyone Stark would hand-deliver E.D.I.T.H to would most definitely have access to the rest of his technology. Including the bastardization of Quentin’s work known to the world as B.A.R.F. He wouldn’t need to go through Beck for anything like that. Perhaps S.H.I.E.L.D feared what would happen if Beck were left alone for too long and had enlisted the kid to spy for them. No, that was implausible at best. Though he would never put Fury above grooming child soldiers and spies, if S.H.I.E.L.D really wanted info on him, Quentin would never know they were there. That and Peter was hardly an espionage type, as hard as he would have tried.
A mild pang of uncertainty hit Beck when he realized he couldn’t piece together a motivation. Before, Peter’s goals had been excruciatingly simple. Boiling down to ‘protect innocent people’ and ‘do the right thing’. Naive as they were, they were understandable, easy to work with. Now though, when everything was out in the open, there’s was no more reason for Peter to do…this let alone even speak to him. Quentin was a failure, Mysterio had been put on…hiatus because of this defeat. You didn’t give this kind of help to failures.
His chest still burned, but he had a portion of his old belongings again. He could make sense of that at least. And he could figure this out, he just need time, and Peter had given him that if nothing else. A pained exhale escaped Quentin as he rested his cheek on his fist. This was where he was now…
Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about losing anything else.
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