Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I loved them and they left,

The multiverse was mended, the day saved, and Johnny Storm’s entire world fell apart. 

Johnny couldn’t even say that he was surprised, because he wasn’t—not really. Despite that one brief snapshot of perfect happiness and domestic bliss that their misshapen, beloved ragtag of a family had been able to carve out between all the bruising, and breaking, and bleeding, Johnny has always known that just like their beginning, the ending of the Fantastic Four would be a tragic one. 

He had known it in the same way he knew the other three laws that had and would continue to define his life: unstable molecules were superior to spandex, the greatest heroes of all time died alone, and Johnny Storm would always, always be left behind. 

And so the story went. 

Johnny still wasn't used to the way he could now walk through the streets of New York without being swarmed by adoring fans or being followed by paparazzi. 

It's the hoodie, he decided as he jammed his hands in the pouch of his sweatshirt, the fabric soft and threadbare against his bandaged fingers and wrists, that has to be it. 

Back before Sue—Johnny gritted his teeth. The temperature around him rose by several degrees, before he violently reined back in his powers. The world did not deserve to be set on fire just because Johnny was a bit emotional.

He breathed in, and out, and let go. 

Back then, the Human Torch would have not been caught dead in jogger pants and old college sweatshirts. One way or another, he would've been front and center: he would have either caught the eye of onlookers with chic, expensive designer clothes or drawn enemies and villains to him with the vivid royal blue of his superhero suit. 

But that was then. 

These days, Johnny had neither the money nor the team to warrant either get-up. He had to sell his wardrobe to hold his head above water and he could not look at anything blue without wanting to set himself ablaze. These days, the suit and the blue and all those damn memories and regrets were locked and stuffed deeply into his closet, festering in the dark. Johnny didn't need any more reminders of all that he lost. He already had enough of those. 

And so, the Human Torch faded into obscurity and Johnny Storm into the anonymous masses of New York. Just another pretty, stupid face with a chip on his shoulder and loss written in the features that had once covered the front pages of newspapers and magazines. Just another dime-a-dozen solo hero, his brightness traded for bitterness. 

Nothing new, nothing special. 

“Excuse me, can I help you?” The receptionist at the front desk asked, dragging Johnny out of his self-pity session. He didn't flinch, but it was a near thing. His lips twisted as he took in the foyer of what used to be the Baxter Building and has now been turned into the lounge of Parker Industries Main Office.

God, Johnny hadn't even noticed that he had already arrived. He was so out of it that Mole Man alone could beat him at this moment. It was getting seriously pathetic. He was pathetic. 

But nobody had to know that. 

Johnny scrambled to find his usual confidence and affected a bright, easy smile for the receptionist. Showtime. 

Come on, Storm, fake it. You're used to that, aren't you? 

“I'm Johnny. Johnny Storm.” No sign of recognition. Just great. “I'm here to visit someone. You might know him. He's about 5'10, an insufferable jackass and has the sort of personality that makes you want to punch him in his nerd face—you know, your CEO?” 

She looked distinctly unimpressed but there was a slight twitch to her lips that revealed that she wasn't as unaffected to his charms as she pretended to be.

“Mr Parker,” she said with emphasis, stressing the prefix, “Usually requires an appointment. Have you made one?” 

“Well, no.” 

“Then it seems like I can not help you.” 

Johnny leaned forwards, putting his forearms on the desk and cranked up his charisma. He might not be the Fantastic Four's Human Torch anymore, but hey, he still had his flirting abilities, right? That had been his unique selling point even back in the golden days, and in contrast to so many other things, that was the only thing Johnny had not lost yet. At least he hoped he hadn't.

Because if he couldn't at least make a nice picture, then what the hell was he even good for? 

“C'mon, miss,” he purred, looking up to her from under his eyelashes. It was a move that Johnny had practiced from the tender age of fourteen in front of a mirror; trying to look older than he was so that he could stand proud and pretty next to his team members, trying to look seductive and desirable so that everyone wanted them enough to not lock the Fantastic Four up like the freak shows that they were; and he had sharpened it into a weapon.

“I just want to say hello to my best friend. Could you at least ring him up and tell him that the Torch needs to talk to him?” He tilted his head, exposing the pale line of his throat and saw how the receptionist's eyes darkened. Bingo. Johnny noted her name tag and went for the kill. “Please, Christie?” 

He could visibly see the moment that she relented. A 15-second call, a flirtatious wink and one hastily scribbled down phone number later, Johnny was allowed further in into the building that was once his home. What can he say? Johnny was a professional. 

He always got what we needed—even if it wasn't necessarily what he wanted.

And therein lied the problem.

It was strange. 

To be home, and yet, lost. Johnny tried to not think about the smell of Sue's favorite perfume as she drew him into a hug or of Reed tinkling away on some brand-new literally world-altering device as Ben did his best to control the damage, tried not to search for Val and Franklin's outlines in the shadows of the corridors, tried not to hear for the chaos and the joy and the hope that followed the Future Foundation kids wherever they went. He tried so hard not to miss them, to acknowledge that their absence felt like a burning ache even fiercer than his own flames; tried so hard to not let this place, that once was one of belonging, remind him of everything that he lost. 

Johnny tried, and tried, and tried. 

He didn't quite manage it. Obviously. Because what was Johnny if not the sum of his failures? 

Fuck, he needed to get away. From here, himself, his thoughts. He didn't run the last bit to Peter's office, but if the set of his shoulders was tense and his pace brisker than usual, then that was his own damn business. Fixing his expression into its usual cheer, Johnny swung open the door and stretched out his arms dramatically. 

“Honey, I'm home!” He hollered. 

Peter Parker looked up from what seemed to be a truly traumatizing amount of legal paperwork, eyes rolling as if he was already done with Johnny's bullshit. Which was fair. Most of the time, Johnny was also pretty tired of himself.  

“Hey Flamebrain,” Peter said, tone exasperated but fond. He looked good. He always did, of course. Even when he was covered with blood and bruises, that stupid smile and that forcefully good personality of his like bottled up attraction. There was no way Peter would have caught the attention of knock-outs like the Black Cat or MJ or even himself. There was just this certain light to Peter Parker that nobody could resist for long, even if he was all dusty and beaten up from his heroics. But although appearances were not all that mattered when it came to Peter, his newfound success seemed to fit him like a glove. 

Or in this case, a suit, Johnny thought as he eyed the strong, clean lines of Peter's broad frame. A several hundred-dollar suit, too, and not a certain blue and red get-up that was usually his trademark.

“So, what made you grace us with your coveted presence? From Miss Thorne's description it sounded like a matter of life and death.” Here, Peter's smile turned mischievous. “Where's the fire?”

Now it was Johnny's turn to roll his eyes. 

“Haha,” he deadpanned as Peter snickered, “Hilarious, Parker. I'm not here for your stupid puns.” He paused. “Okay, well, I sort of am. It's been ages since Spidey and the Human Torch last raced through the city, Pete! Your stupid job is holding back your bodyguard from entertaining me! Take responsibility!” 

Peter raised an eyebrow. 

“You stormed—heh, get it?—into my office, on a busy Thursday afternoon, just because you were bored? Are you serious?” Before Johnny could answer, Peter held up a hand and shook his head. “No, wait, why do I even bother asking, of course you are, you're Johnny."

Johnny sniffed, faking indignation. 

“That better be meant as a compliment,” he said and began to call forth his flames when Peter began to smirk. 

“Well…” Peter drawled and Johnny lit up a finger in warning. 

“Don't even start.”

After a few minutes more of chuckling at his best friends' expense—Johnny really knew how to pick 'em, didn't he—Peter finally calmed down. But before Johnny could celebrate this small respite, Peter's eyes narrowed. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Johnny realized that without all the banter and the teasing to distract him, Peter had evidently observed his own unusually battered appearance: the shadows beneath his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, the way the hoodie hung loose and way too baggy from his figure. Uncomfortable, Johnny let his sleeves fall over his hands to cover the faded off-white of his bandages but too late—Peter's dark gaze zeroed on his fingers and any amusement that might have been in there faded away like morning frost under the midday sun. Shit. 

“Johnny,” Peter started, his tone even, “is there a particular reason why you're here today?”

Ha, was there ever. 

I'm lonely. I'm scared. I'm angry. I'm losing my goddamn mind over how much I miss everyone; over how much I hate them at the same time too, for leaving me behind to rot, for leaving me so easily, like it doesn't hurt them at all; over how much I love them, you, still, even though on some days, it seems like none of you return the favor; I'm losing it. I'm losing. I'm lost. 

Take your pick, Parker. Eat your heart out. Or mine. It's yours, anyways. 

Even if you do not need it.

He didn't say any of those things, of course. Johnny was many things—and many not—but nobody could ever accuse him of having no self-preservation. That's Peter's gig. Johnny valued his life. He swore he did. 

He determinedly didn't think of the Negative Zone. 

He cleared his throat and bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. 

“Yeah, sure,” he started, warm and unbothered, pretending and pretending and pretending, “My best friend became all famous and rich and decided he was too good for movie nights, so I figured it was time to bust into his office and kick his ass around for being one. Humble him a bit, pull him down, remind him that being friends means actually spending time with said friends, y'know?” Johnny said, willing his facade to hold up just a little bit longer, just a second more. 

There was no way he would let Peter see the very bad and very ugly beneath the cracks of his mask. There was no way he'd let another person run at the very sight of him, the vicious truth that curled beneath his skin and made him scream into his pillow at night—no way he could bear another person leaving Johnny because he wasn't as easy to care for as they had signed up for. No fucking way. 

“Johnny…” Peter began, clearly unconvinced, so Johnny gave up the least compromising slice of the truth, the one that might have the potential to cut the deepest but one that Johnny had become so accustomed to, that the ache had become an old friend by now. 

“And I missed you, I guess,” he admitted, “it's been a while.” 

Too long. 

Peter had the grace to look guilty. 

“Sorry Firefly,” he apologized, “it's been a lot. It still is. Running a company is far more complicated than I thought it would be, especially with my other activities, my, ehhh, side gigs. You know how it is. I will never be able to give Stark shit about this anymore.”

“Aw, you poor billionaire,” Johnny cooed and Peter threw a pencil at him. 

“Asshole,” he snorted, hiding a grin under his hand. 

Johnny fluttered his eyes, the gesture equally more mocking and more earnest than the one he pulled downstairs in the lobby with the receptionist. 

“You kiss poor Mary Jane with that mouth, Parker?” He teased. 

Peter gave him a wry half-smirk. 

“Not anymore.”

Oh. Oh no. 

“I thought you two wanted to try,” Johnny said, carefully. He was tactful enough to leave the again unspoken, even though he'd seen this dance so often that he knew the words that would leave Peter's mouth before they ever did. 

“We did,” Peter replied, just as carefully, “but we just…We are different people now. We have chosen different paths, and goals, and peo—we want different things, is what I meant to say.” Strangely enough, Peter did not look too devastated. A little sad, a little weary, but also accepting. Fond. Johnny did not know what to make of it. 

“I love her, of course, I always will, but I think…I really think it's over now. For good.” 

Johnny kept his expression neutral. 

“I didn't know.”

“How could you?” Peter asked, rhetorically, and drove absentmindedly a hand through his hair. “Like you said—it's been a good while.”

“Now whose fault is that, huh?” Johnny ribbed but he knew his eyes were soft. He has always been—and he supposes he always will be—way too soft for Peter. He was such a sucker. “And don't worry, Pete. You and MJ are soulmates. The real kind, and not that clusterfuck of a cheap imitation I subjected myself to. Meant to be. Endgame. You'll find your way to her again, don't worry. You two have never been able to leave each other for long.” 

Never let it be said that Johnny was not a good friend. He'd always been stupidly loyal, had always been so goddamn stupid for the people he loved. The knife twisting in his gut was one he stabbed in on his own. Johnny had always been just a bit too good at burning himself. 

Peter shrugged.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But enough about me. What's been going on with you, hot stuff?” 

Hahaha, no. Not touching that one with a ten-feet pole. Johnny had come here to distract himself from his problems, not spill them all over Peter's seemingly brandnew mahogany desk. 

“Hot stuff? Seems like that title's yours more than it was ever mine, Mr. Forbes 30 under 30.” 

There's a slight flush on Peter's cheeks and nose and Johnny was fiercely intent on not finding it absolutely and utterly adorable. He bopped Peter's nose and grinned when his best friend reddened even more. Obviously, he was succeeding on that front.

“Shut up, will you,” Peter groaned and pushed him away. Johnny cackled. “And don't think I didn't notice you avoiding my question, Torch. Come on, spill. What's the golden boy of the superhero scene been up to, huh? Any daring rescues, mysterious portals or freaky parallel universes?” 

Peter's eyes twinkled.

“Any new flames?” 

“If your investors knew how terminally unfunny you are, Parker Industries' stocks would crash overnight,'' Johnny muttered mutinously, sort of annoyed by how his friend just couldn't let things be, but he also knew that it was pretty useless to be angry at Peter for being an inquisitive little shit. That was for being angry at Peter for being Peter. Aggressively nosing around in other people's business was how Peter showed he cared. 

And if Johnny was being honest, that was why he showed up here in the first place anyways. He had missed Peter—both in his capacity as Johnny's best friend and hopeless crush, as well as the only person he had left—but Johnny had also needed…well, he had also needed to feel like somebody cared. Anybody. Needed to know that there was one person left that cared whether Johnny breathed or burned, that there was someone who would care if Johnny left. Maybe not like the brutal, blazing bonfire of sheer longing that the absence of Sue, Reed, Ben and kids had etched into his very existence, but still something. Not enough, maybe, not for long, but for the time being, it was enough. It had to be. 

“Come on, Torch, stop deflecting,” Peter chided but there was real worry etched into the lines on his handsome face and something inside Johnny gave away; gave in. 

Johnny sighed. 

“I get by,” he began quietly, still a bit uneasy but determined to push through—for Peter, maybe even for himself, just a little—but the world, despite how it might have looked from the outside, had never been one that aligned itself in his favor. So just when Johnny prepared himself to talk, to come clean, a hyper-competent looking woman with smart eyes stalked into the office, the clipboard under her arm and the harried expression on her face indicating that she was here on business. 

“Peter, you and Harry need to resolve the issue with Sanderson immediately, otherwise the legal implications will be—Oh.” She broke off, obviously only just having noticed that the CEO had company. “I didn't know that you had an appointment today.” 

“Anna Maria, this is Johnny Storm, the Human Torch and one of my best friends.” Peter introduced them. “Johnny, this is Anna Maria Marconi, the only reason why this whole company has not gone to the dogs.”

“Yet.” Anna Maria said, dryly. “But that is going to change real soon, Peter. And by soon I mean we will make headlines tomorrow morning if the situation isn't resolved by this evening.”

“Yeah yeah, I can take a hint,” Peter sighed and stood up. “Johnny, I'm really sorry but—”

“But you have more important things to do than to listen to an old friend whine,” Johnny cut him off knowingly, “Don't worry Pete, there really wasn't a lot to say on my side anyways. It's all the same old, same old on my front. Now go, time is money and all that jazz. I can see myself out just fine.”

“I'm sorry.” Peter repeated earnestly. 

And to his credit, he really did look apologetic, the faint lines on his forehead belying his worry. Johnny melted away like butter in the sun. He waved it off.

“Seriously, Peter, it's no big deal. We can talk another time.”

“Deal. This time, you will not have to ambush me in my office just to hang out. I'll come and annoy you in your apartment.” Peter said with a light smile, but there was a fierce undertone to his voice that made it clear that he meant it. Or that he at least thought he did. “I promise.”

Johnny just laughed, nodded and then walked out. 

He knew better than to hope that Peter would keep his word. Not that he wasn't good for it—Peter always tried his best to follow his words up with actions, he sincerely did. But that was the key word: he tried. And Johnny of all people knew that just because you tried, that just because you wanted something, that did not always mean that you would get to keep it. Words, secrets, people—in the end, everything was unpredictable and fleeting. Nothing was guaranteed. Nothing was forever. 

He left the building and didn't look back. 

Johnny still wasn't used to the way that he could sit in the subway without being noticed by a single person—or, to be real, that he even had to use the public transport system, when for most of his life he had loved and lived for fast cars and cool motorcycles. But the surrealism of the situation went far deeper than the surface difference between private luxuries and general public vehicles. It was simply the strangest thing, sitting in a train and blending in with the people around him, becoming just another body, another ticket number, another annoying passenger that stole away seat space. 

He had stood out, once. 

Together with the rest of the Fantastic Four, Johnny had burned and blazed on the now detested brilliant blue of New York's skyline, a beloved part of a beloved unit; a beloved family. There would have been no chance for him to bleed into the background. Eyes had followed his—their—light wherever they went. 

He had been noted, known, wanted. 

Oh, how things had changed. 

Johnny looked out of the window, watching as streets and shops and people blurred into one, as it all became indistinguishable; indistinct. That must be how he came across now, these days. That was probably what he had always been, even from the very start. 

Truth to be told, Johnny wasn't even all that angry or sad that things had changed. Change was inevitable, was life, and the only thing that did not change was that things did. Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. Peter, for example, had grown up great. From college kid to company founder, from undermined to respected, from man to hero: Peter wore change so very beautifully. Johnny was happy for him. 

So no, he wasn't sick of change as a concept. 

He was sick of not being able to accept it—of not being able to change himself. 

Because here was the thing: although he had moaned and complained and wept over the past few months, it had only been the circumstances that changed, not Johnny himself. Yes, his family had left him and his life had turned into a riches-to-rags reverse cautionary tale, but that was not the real issue at hand, now was it?

Everything changed. Everything except Johnny. 

Johnny was lonely; alone? He had always been, always will be. 

Johnny was left behind, and yet, could never leave himself? Tale as old as time. 

Johnny was unremarkable, forgettable, cast aside? Like that was something new. 

Even when the Fantastic Four had been, well, four, only a third had been really special, really worth something. Johnny had only ever leeched off their light; had benefited from their brilliancy and brightness. It was only now, that the shine of those other three did not reflect on him anymore, that the public had seen that he wasn't worth seeing. Only now, with them gone, that Johnny could fully sink and submerge into their shadows where he had always lived in. 

The song had always remained the same, even if the verses changed. One would think that Johnny should have gotten used to it by now. But he hadn't, even though he tried. He tried, and he failed. Again and again and again. That's all Johnny ever did. 

It was getting very old, very fast. 

He was sick of it. 

And tired. So, so tired. 

Johnny pulled his hoodie over his head, leaned back against the window and closed his eyes.