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Ponytail Strange was an enigma, to say the least. There was the ponytail to start with. It was what Peter would generously describe as unusually strange, and he half wondered whether he should comment on the man's hairstyle. Then there was the garb to contend with: fiercely red and black, regal and intimidating. It was an outfit for a warrior, not one with a cloak.
“I'm a Defender,” was the only explanation Peter received.
“Cool,” he said nervously in response. “I'm an Avenger. Or, uh, I was an Avenger. Honestly, I'm still trying to work all that stuff out. I'm just winging it at the moment.”
So. Apparently, the Stephen Strange look of utter disdain was a multiversal constant. Go figure.
“I really should get going,” Strange said curtly, pushing himself up from Peter's mattress with what little strength he could muster.
It wasn't much.
Peter caught him before he could hit the floor.
“I'm sorry,” he apologised. He knew more than most what it felt like to have to stay behind while others fight a battle you long to join. “You're still healing.”
Strange made a noise with his throat: an ugly, frustrated thing that dared Peter to challenge him.
Well, Peter was never one to back down from a challenge.
“Besides,” he continued, making himself as annoying as possible – hey, it was always easier to deal with people when they were annoyed with him; that's just part and parcel of being an arachnid-themed superhero. “You're from a different universe. Now, I have experience in the multiverse. Plenty of it.” Lies. “And what my experience tells me is that I have no idea what kind of threat you are. I mean, your very existence could wreck untold havoc on my reality. Just not safe to go wandering around.”
If looks could kill, Peter would be hamburger meat right about now.
Chirping up, he lounged on the one chair he had in his shoebox apartment. “Don't worry, though. I've been told I am excellent company.”
Everything Spider-Man touches comes to ruin.
No. Not now, J. Jonah Jameson.
Strange snorted.
Ouch. That hurt.
“What do you say to playing a game of Cluedo?” Peter asked hurriedly, determined to erase the sour taste Jameson left in his mouth. “I have to warn you: I am a legitimate demon on this game.”
Strange simply raised his left eyebrow.
Challenge accepted.
Cut to: Strange won.
Because of-fucking-course he did.
With that all said and down, Peter began searching for alternate time-wasters to pass the many, many, hours until his dagger-ish wounds healed.
Sadly, alternate Strange was on to him.
“You can't keep me here forever,” he warned.
“We'll see about that!”
Peter only hoped he could always be that falsely confident. Perhaps that way the Daily Bugle might finally take pity on him.
Peter eyed his GED Test Manual book.
“If you wouldn't mind,” he started, holding up the offending book he bought at the thrift shop. “I could use some help?”
Strange didn't dignify him with so much as a look.
“Okay, then,” Peter said, setting the book down in the dark recesses of his tiny apartment where no one would ever find it. “Never mind. We can just, uh, talk instead.”
Judging by the non-existent complaints, multiversal Strange was on board with this plan.
Peter bit his lip. He didn't even think to ask. “You have anyone waiting for you back home?”
A sad, wistful little thing toyed with Strange's expression. “Once.”
“Me, too,” Peter added. “Once.” The reality tasted hollow and bitter on his tongue.
“I've seen you before,” Strange murmured, out of the blue.
Peter frowned. “Have you?”
Strange seemed to be making a conscious effort to remain awake. “Yes. In my dreams.”
“In your... dreams?”
“Dreams are the key to the multiverse,” Strange explained, slightly sleep-slurred. “When you dream, somewhere in another universe that exact scenario is playing out.”
Peter thought of that reoccurring dream he'd had since he was five – the one where he was a mere splatter of red-and-blue in a canvas of multi-coloured paints. He suppressed a shiver. He'd rather stay in this universe, thanks. Here, they had hot dogs.
Speaking of – it took him a second to reacquaint himself with this universe. Strange's question sealed the deal.
“You're...” Strange was making a gigantic effort to stay awake, “Spider-Man?”
Peter's blood turned to ice.
“How do you know that?” he asked shakily, taking a step back.
“I said: Nice knowing you, Spider-Man. And then you...” he yawned. “You botched the spell six times.”
“Five times.”
“Same difference.”
“What, uh, what else do you remember?” Peter asked, tentatively broaching the subject.
“That's about it,” Strange replied, waving a nondescript hand. “Why, did anything happen after that?”
Uh–
“What if we could change their fate?”
Lead to:
“No good dead goes unpunished.”
Followed by:
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
Culminating in:
“What if everyone forgot who I was?”
“Nope,” Peter said brightly. “Nothing.”
Speaking of, though. He still had some questions from what Ponytail Strange had unconsciously allowed to let slip about his multiversal voyage.
Specifically: what he tried to do to one Ms. America Chavez.
He dared ask the question that weighed heavy on his mind. “Why did you– why did you try and take her power?”
Strange paused, gathering his thoughts. He didn't sound surprised to hear him ask this of him; if anything, it seemed as though he expected it.
Then, in a voice as old as time and just as tired said, “In the grand calculus of the multiverse, her sacrifice would mean infinitely more than her life.”
Yep. Peter had a funny feeling he was about to parrot those words straight back at 'em. Had to be said, they didn't sound any better hearing them for a second time.
“Funny.” Peter crossed his arms. “You said that to me once. We had some multiversal trespassers. I wanted to help them, you wanted to send them back to die.”
“Yeah?” Strange settled back down on his makeshift bed. “What happened?”
Peter made sure he had the man's eyes on him when he confidently and declaratively asserted, “I webbed you up in the mirror dimension.”
Strange blinked.
One, two, three, four...
“Yeah,” Strange said, chuckling darkly. Peter was still trying to catch up. “Sounds about right.”
Peter was still trying to process when–
Something happened to Ponytail Strange.
Something rather...
Strange.
And, uh, yeah – that happened. Ponytail Strange was possessed by Peter's Strange, and helped defeat Wanda Maximoff, who apparently was the Scarlet Witch?
Peter seriously needed some kind of heads-up next time.
At the very least, Ponytail Strange had recovered nicely enough in his tiny apartment. Enough to face a gigantic multiversal threat, at any rate.
At least they won.
After his unwitting body-swap, Strange deemed himself able to travel the multiverse without Peter's say-so. Apparently the girl he tried to kill agreed to send him back to his time.
O-kay, then.
Because – some people are a lot better at forgiving than others.
And some people (read: Peter fucking Parker) had a tendency to get attached to everyone and everything that spared him a missing thought.
“It's time I get going,” Strange announced, decidedly unapologetic. Not that Peter cared. He was used to people coming and going. (Mostly going, but we don't talk about that.)
“Cool,” Peter responded lamely. “You got everything?”
Strange quirked up his left eyebrow, unamused.
Right. Of course he did.
“And you're okay, yeah?”
The last thing Peter wanted was for this variant to collapse mid-way through his return home.
“Yes.”
Good.
“I wanted to–” Strange coughed. “Thank you. For looking after me.”
“Oh. No problem. It was my pleasure.”
Then, something unexpected happened. Something even his goddamn Peter Tingle could not foresee.
Strange tipped his head back, cupped Peter's cheeks in those large palms of his and pressed their mouths together.
The scratch of Strange's goatee was an unfamiliar sensation, but it set every one of his spidey senses off oh so deliciously. His tongue touched Peter's, and every sense was wrecked; dialled to eleven, unable to bring back down to earth.
It was unlike any other kiss Peter experienced. It was intoxicating, heady, addictive. He never wanted it to end.
As the kiss drew to an end, Peter was on fire, panting heavily all the way.
Strange smirked, stepped away and said, “Nice knowing you, Spider-Man.”
And, just like that, he was gone.