Chapter Text
Peter throws a peace sign, and the world dissolves around him in glittering flashes of gold.
Truthfully speaking, he’s a teeny bit bummed out to be leaving so soon. It’s been nice hanging out in baby Pete’s universe. Good, even. Ignoring the death and destruction and wide-spread resurrection of old foes, that is. He’ll miss the other versions of himself. They’re basically brothers. Multiversal brothers. Heavy is the head that wears the Spider-Man mask but armed with the knowledge that he’s not alone on this path makes it just that little bit easier to bear.
Also, the multiverse? He totally called that years ago - respectfully tipping his hat to Hugh Everett, of course. Having his theories confirmed through another version of himself going through an identity crisis seems appropriate. Now he’ll just have to figure out whether it’s possible to prove the multiverse exists without the magical guidance of a wizard, which is partly on account of Peter not, in fact, knowing any wizards.
Thus, he’s already in the process of making a mental checklist of things to do once safely returned to his own universe (which is taking longer than expected, is everything supposed to be this dark?). Grab a bagel. Check on Dr Connors. Check on Max. Contemplate the boundaries between science and magic. Check for wizards. Check on the general stability of the universe. Not necessarily in that order –
Peter smacks into an invisible barrier.
It’s a cruel reminder of the time he accidentally swung face-first into the Empire State Building, except this time it doesn’t necessarily hurt. Instead, it sends a frisson of staticky pins and needles over his mind – which is a weird experience, to say the least. It kind of makes him want to sneeze. The resounding thunk of impact generates a rippling wave of kaleidoscopic beams that shimmer like northern lights before melting away into the surrounding velvety darkness.
Is…where is he, exactly?
This definitely doesn’t look like home. It doesn’t look like anything.
“Uh, hello?” He tries unsurely, summoning more of those strange dancing lights. His voice comes out mishappen and wrong, completely distorted as if the vibrations are getting warped.
Okay, so, overall stability of the universe? Not great. Could be better. Solid 1/10.
For a quiet beat of fretful panic, he mulls over the possibility that he’s stuck. What if the wizard messed up, and this is Peter’s life now? Sentenced to drown in an endless sea of nothing. He really should have questioned the methodology of traversing between universes before simply allowing it to happen without care for consequence. The novelty of it must have gotten to him. But he’s a scientist at heart, for crying out loud! He should know better. Granted, they were on the clock, and the wizard seemed rather stressed.
But still.
Alright, think logically, Parker. Last time he hopped universes – a sentence he never thought would apply to him – it involved a lot of standing stationary while everything else shifted around him, like apparitions of the two worlds phasing over one another, allowing them to get caught in the crossing like lice on a comb. Darkness is new. Peter's not sure what to make of it, but he does know with absolute certainty that he isn't supposed to be here.
He gets the impression that the oblivion currently holding him hostage is a little confounded by his existence too.
For lack of anything better to do, Peter raps his knuckles against the invisible barrier, half in an attempt to identify the only tangible thing near him and half requesting permission to pass.
There’s a rumble in the void that sounds faintly like laughter, which is exactly when whatever magic brought Peter here swiftly decides, nope, and without warning, Peter drops.
The acceleration makes his gut leap into his throat, choking back his startled yell, and the world swiftly repaints itself into a confusing maelstrom of red and blue. Intrusive echoes of his past flicker through his mind like an old picture show. Eidetic memories, moments of joy, moments of hate, of love, of fear, of sorrow, of –
A reflection of his present slams into place and cracks like a broken mirror, aligning space and time to the day he spent stolen in another universe. And just like that, something tethered to Peter’s very core, snaps.
Peter is helpless to stop the silent and wholly worthless scream that rushes up his throat. Dying. Dying. Dying. Blood boils through his veins, inducing a paroxysm of spasms while he spins in the tumble-dryer of reality. Dying. Dying. Dying –
The swelling, burning pain bursts in time with a shimmer of gold dust around him, and he’s spat free.
Peter crash lands, bones shifting directions they shouldn’t. Alarm rattles his brainbox back into action, dizzying and demanding, compelling him to haul in a desperately welcome breath, only to cough on the sour air that fills his lungs. Slowly, he blinks open both eyes, but the world can’t seem to decide what to do with itself, blurring in and out of focus, so he screws them firmly shut again.
A violent lurch in his stomach has him rolling sideways to curl in on himself, ignoring the faint sound of clinking bottles and crinkling bags that his movement prompts. Peter lets out a long, tortured groan.
Worst. Multiverse. Train. Ever.
“…Spider-Man?”
Peter flaps a displeased arm towards the noise, silently demanding it either get to the point or go away immediately because he’s in no mood to deal with actual people right now. When it does neither of those things, he begrudgingly follows the source of the voice through half-lidded lashes, vision gradually ironing out into something more manageable and honing around the silhouette of a horned figure looming over him.
Peter shrieks.
The figure suffers a blow to the jaw and stumbles backwards. Not Peter’s proudest moment, but with a head stuffed full of cotton wool competing against senses going haywire, he flings himself skyward out of what appears to be a large, metal container – coffin, definitely a coffin, his mind oh so helpfully supplies – and sticks to the nearest wall. Or at least, he tries to, but a drunk sort of haze has him woozily scrambling for purchase before unceremoniously toppling downwards. A heap of black bags cushions his fall. Peter glares at both hands, thoroughly betrayed.
“Easy – easy, it’s okay, you’re okay.” The horned figure tells him, holding out one arm like he’s dealing with a wild animal while rubbing his jaw with the other. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Peter’s mind is swimming. Darkness? Powers refusing to cooperate? Horned figure?
“I’m dead,” Peter concludes, deliriously certain. “Oh, God. I’m dead.”
The wizard killed him.
The horned figure that’s quite clearly the Devil himself shakes his head. “You fell out of the sky, but you’re not – “
Peter, panicking, takes a page out of MJ’s book and throws the first thing he can grab, which happens to be a rotting banana peel. It tragically misses its mark and splats on the wall behind the Devil. So much for super senses. There’s a short silence where the Devil just stares at the banana peel before swivelling back to Peter who’s rapidly switching tactics.
“Mr Supreme Devil Lord Sir, I-I’m not claiming to be an angel, I’ve had my fair share of scandals over the years. I mean, most of Jamison’s articles about me are false, and I really should sue him for libel, but there’s this one about Spider-Man stealing donuts and, oh God, I was stealing donuts – “
“Spider-Man.”
“ – so if that’s the reason I’m here, I feel like it bears mentioning that I had no idea they weren’t free. Who even displays donuts like that? They looked like tasters. Plus, college days were rough, which is why I dropped out so early and – and I paid the guy back – I’m paying the guy back. We have an agreement. And yes, I suppose you could argue I stopped pulling my punches these past few years, but with all due respect, what moral high ground do you have to stand on and judge me for that?” He babbles away borderline incoherently.
“Spider-Man.” The Devil snaps, and Peter clamps shut his mouth. “You’re not dead.”
Peter’s senses are vibrating like a tuning fork, unsettled and incomprehensible. However, as that sinks in, they cautiously begin to settle like dust on a surface, allowing his radar to stretch past his initial nerves. What he initially believed to be a coffin is in all actuality a dumpster - one that Peter is half-buried in, sprawled out over cold SpaghettiOs and shame. Hell looks far more like one of the many disgusting alleyways Peter frequently changes in – a bad habit he hasn’t shaken since high school. The combined stench of fusty garbage, old urine, and wet cardboard should have clued him in on his whereabouts first; it would certainly explain why his eyes are watering. A steady drone of nearby traffic has him glancing to the side, watching as lines of passing vehicles shoot by the mouth of the alley. Distantly, sirens are screaming. The twinkling night sky promises he’s still on earth, ostensibly shining brighter now that he’s noticed them, and moonlight pools in to highlight ivory skin peeking beneath the red, horned mask.
“Oh.”
That’s a person. Not the Devil. Probably. A person dressed up as the Devil. For…whatever reason. That doesn’t really compute any easier.
He pinches himself. Hard.
“You’re okay.” The devil…man gently reiterates, carefully approaching the dumpster, this time with arms pointedly raised. Peter cocks his head, strands of hair tickling his forehead. “From what I can tell, you’ve got a concussion. Considering how far you fell, you’re lucky that’s the extent of it.”
“You have horns.” Peter points out the obvious, because that’s equally weird, if not weirder than Peter supposedly falling out of the sky. He does that all the time. Comes with the whole web-slinger gig.
“Caught that, did you?” The devil man says with a slight upturn of his lips.
And heck, alright, who is Peter to judge? Stranger things have happened to him in the past twenty-four hours.
Shaking off his confusion, he swims through the garbage and swings a leg over the side of the dumpster in a poor attempt to clamber out. The devil man lurches closer to help when Peter rocks precariously, steadying himself at the last second.
“I got it, I got it.” He insists despite not, in fact, having it.
Peter ends up just sort of flopping ungracefully out of the dumpster. He seriously miscalculated the drop, but a pair of strong arms are there to catch him before he can crash down on the concrete.
“Whoa.” Peter instinctively clings to the other man, half afraid to look down just in case he discovers his legs have transformed into jelly, which would confirm his suspicions. Instead, with no care for personal boundaries whatsoever and the attention span of a fruit fly, he starts stroking his fingers along the man’s arm, inspecting the material over it. “Is this Kevlar? Dude.”
Who needs a bullet-resistant devil costume?
Peter wants a bullet-resistant spidey costume.
The devil man clears his throat awkwardly, standing incredibly rigid while holding up a practically boneless Peter. "Come on, you need to get out of here. You made quite the firework show just now. This place is going to be swarming with cops and journalists in about – “
“Five minutes.” Peter absently finishes for him, still busy petting his arm Kevlar.
Devil man tilts his head consideringly towards the end of the alley.
“Three minutes.” Devil man corrects and starts dragging a perfectly malleable Peter towards the other end. When Peter makes absolutely no effort to walk by himself, the devil man lets out a long-suffering sigh. “And I don’t suppose you want your face all over the news tomorrow.”
“My…?” Peter bats his face and realises with a plummeting stomach that he’s currently maskless, in front of this random stranger who dresses like the devil. The gravity of the situation all but slaps him in the face, and he pushes away with a sharp intake of breath. Sadly, his legs don’t quite get the memo and tangle awkwardly around one another, sending him staggering off balance with windmilling arms. Peter, eloquently, crumples to the ground. “Fucking. Fuckity. Fuck.”
Ten years.
He’s gone ten years without anybody seeing the face beneath the mask (in his universe, anyway). Nobody since –
He flounders uselessly on all fours, head throbbing a mile a minute from the jostle.
Why didn’t his senses warn him? Usually, he’s pretty on top of this sort of thing. Devil man did say he currently has a concussion. From…multiverse travelling? That didn’t happen last time. This didn’t happen. Why is he in a different place? Honestly, his body feels like it got put through a blender backwards, so he’s disinclined to agree that the only thing wrong with him is a meagre concussion.
He doesn’t even know this guy. And frankly, from prior experience, people who dress up in costumes that have evil connotations usually end up being evil themselves. But Peter can’t think. He can’t move. He can’t –
“Breathe.” A deep voice cuts through his budding panic, and Peter’s eyes latch onto sightless red ones, momentarily distracted by the way the mask covers the man’s eyes. Those must be some top-quality lenses. “I’m not going to tell anybody what you look like. If we stay here for much longer, though, somebody else will. You’re still in hot water after what transpired on your trip to London, which is none of my business, but I can assure you that an identity leak isn’t going to do you any favours right now.”
Peter’s brows bump together. “I’ve…I’ve never been to London.”
England as a whole is a no-go zone for him.
Unless, shit, has he? No. Surely not. He’d have noticed. Well, there was that one time – no, that wasn’t England, that was Ireland – and not of his own volition. Wait, was it Ireland? Peter isn’t a geographer. He’s pretty sure Ireland was part of the United Kingdom once upon a time a hundred years ago anyway. So, in conclusion, maybe?
Devil man frowns like he thinks that’s the concussion talking. “We need to move. Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Peter grumbles and attempts to stand again, using the wall for support. It doesn’t go well. Peter manages to successfully keep himself upright for three glorious seconds before his legs wobble and traitorously sink him back to the ground. Peter blinks a few times at them. “No.” He amends.
Devil man nods, annoyingly unsurprised, and itches closer. “Give me your arm.”
Peter does. The man hooks it over his shoulders and swiftly pulls them both up. Before Peter properly registers that they’re now standing, he’s getting steered out of the alley. A storm of red and blue flashing lights flushes out the gathered gloom as the cavalry arrives, scaring a rat into scurrying behind the dumpster, but the pair of them slip away unseen, heading around the back of a dingy restaurant. A window is left ajar, allowing wafts of food and grease to drift out of the kitchen.
Peter’s stomach clenches tightly.
“Where’we going?” Peter half slurs, head lolling hopelessly onto the man’s shoulder as they take a sharp right.
“I’m guessing a hospital is out of the question.” Devil man mutters grimly, shifting to better accommodate Peter. “I know a place.”
Vague. Foreboding. Nice.
“You’re not a bad guy, right?” Peter asks, because he feels like he should at least check.
He hears an amused exhale. “Depends on who you ask, but I like to tell myself I’m not.”
Peter’s nose scrunches. “You know, that wasn’t reassuring.”
“Well, would you consider yourself a ‘bad guy’?”
Peter’s way too out of it for this particular brand of conversation.
“What, me? Friendly neighbourhood me?” He huffs out a laugh that edges on mildly hysterical even to his ears. Upon remembering the Daily Bugle’s vendetta against him, he stops and clears his throat. “Yeah, depends who you ask.”
Devil man hums.
Peter struggles to keep up with the hurried pace set, discovering that putting one foot in front of the other is a lot harder than he ever recalls it being. To the man’s credit, though, he’s got oodles of patience and never once allows Peter to fall whenever he trips. They stick to the shadows, weaving between buildings and avoiding the spotlight of the moon. It reminds Peter of those old spy movies he'd watch with Uncle Ben.
In a moment of precious clarity, Peter briefly wonders how it’s already night-time when he’s pretty sure it was the crack of dawn in baby Pete’s universe. Shouldn’t it be the crack of dawn here too? That seems like a strange deviation. But who knows? Time. Space. Wibbly wobbly nonsense. Whatever.
“Uh…Mr. Devil, sir?”
“Daredevil.”
“Oh. Coolness. Me too. Same. But I –“ He swallows thickly, black dots smattering across his vision as the pressure in the base of his skull flares. “I think I’m gonna…”
Without warning, his legs get scooped out from under him, and he lets out an undignified squawk of protest, very convinced for all of two seconds that he’s spontaneously mastered the art of levitation. That, tragically, is not the case. Instead, his body is held securely against a broad chest.
Huh.
Amenable to this new arrangement, he instinctively melts against the man’s warmth, eyelids growing too heavy to keep open. He’d probably be embarrassed if he had the energy to care.
“Thank you.” He murmurs, almost inaudibly. “Please don’t be a bad guy.”
If the man responds, Peter doesn’t hear it.
After battling not one, not two, not three, but four supervillains in a single evening, he’s in desperate need of rest, a bubble bath, or a trip to the chiropractors. That combined with whatever happened during the multiverse jump – which somehow made parts of Peter he didn’t even realise he had ache – has taken a toll on him. Exhaustion finally comes for sweet, sweet vengeance, knocking him out cold.
Matt left the apartment for groceries.
It's easier to shop in the evening. Quieter.
Frankly, he didn’t expect to be returning with a bruised, unconscious Spider-Man.
Why Matt had the Daredevil suit with him to go to the supermarket is his business. So what if he’s started carrying it around in his leather briefcase whenever he leaves the house? It’s handy. Practical. Easy to reach. Definitely not Foggy approved. But it saves him racing back home or stealing a scarf at the first sign of trouble.
It certainly proved worthwhile today.
He can’t quite describe what happened if he’s being truthful. One moment, everything seemed perfectly normal, and the next, the sky was…well, it cracked. Matt, unsurprisingly, didn’t see this as much as he did sense it, but whatever happened triggered a surge of explosive, foreign energy that mushroomed over the atmosphere. Usually, this would act as a catalyst for yet another world-ending catastrophe originating in New York. Matt’s lived through plenty. He knows the drill at this point.
And then it vanished.
And then there was a person falling.
And then that person blipped in and out of existence all the way to ground level.
And then that person turned out to be Spider-Man.
So, Matt thinks it’s safe to assume that all world-ending catastrophes have either been averted or temporarily subdued if Spider-Man is around, alive, and not expressing any immediate Armageddon-Esque concerns. Statistically speaking, if an Avenger gets involved, the problem is usually resolved one way or another. Though honestly, Matt’s not completely sure where Spider-Man sits in regard to the whole Avenger engagement, there’s been a lot of iffy handwaving on the subject after Ironman’s death.
They’ve never crossed paths before either, which, come to think of it, is somewhat surprising given the proximity of their work. There’s a distinct coalescence of chemicals he’s grown to associate with the synthetic webs Spider-Man uses, occasionally catching a whiff of it whenever the webster swings through Hell’s Kitchen. The same scent permeates from this man’s wrists, but it’s ever so slightly different as though Spider-Man's recently adjusted the formula. He’d always assumed Spider-Man was younger than this – and shorter. At a guesstimate, he’d say this guy is around the same age and height as himself. Spider-Man doesn’t pass through often; there’s always been this unspoken understanding that the other will keep their section of New York safe. It makes him wonder what could have brought Spider-Man to Hell’s Kitchen today – or more accurately, above it.
Regardless, he wasn’t about to leave the other vigilante in a dumpster to the mercy of the cops. Not in this condition. Matt knows he’d certainly appreciate the favour if the tables were turned. Plus, he wants answers. The webster doesn’t exactly have a great reputation at the moment, and it’s not that Matt doubts Spider-Man – the number of lives he’s saved speaks for itself – but there isn’t anybody else around that might be able to explain the atmospheric abnormality.
Or at least Matt didn’t doubt Spider-Man until he's about a block away from his apartment.
By now, he knows several ways to reach the loft unseen. Typically, he favours roof access since it eliminates the risk of his neighbour Fran spotting anything vigilante related. She’s become shockingly nosey. He needs to go around the back, which means he needs to cross through a narrow passage behind the local corner shop. A TV is switched on inside, like there always is, and the owner has the news on, like they always do, and Matt's about to tune it out, like he always does, except...
“This just in live from Long Island City, a horrific fire is burning in a twelve-storey apartment building. Reports claim that many fear the tower could collapse while people are still trapped inside. Thankfully, Spider-Man is on the scene and working fast to clear the building –“
Matt stops dead in his tracks.
The reporter drones on, hounding an eyewitness, narrating the arrival of the fire brigade, praising the heroic efforts of the vigilante they were berating mere hours ago, but that quickly fizzles into background noise. Matt’s focus instead latches onto the steady heartbeat of the limp figure in his arms.
If Spider-Man is currently in Queens saving civilians from a burning building, then who the hell is this?