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The multiverse is wild and vast.
That’s what Peter knows, or, in some context, used to know. Sometimes, after late night shifts and swinging rounds, he glances into the mirror to instead see another version of him, eyes blue, face slightly more wrinkled, a different type of smile; but then he blinks, and he’s back to staring at himself.
(Or, in some way, was it him all along?)
But Peter wakes up at five, today, and he gets ready for work as if nothing had ever changed. Mr Jameson always wants him at the office right before six, but he always manages to be late, every single time.
Mr Stark had been the same, in that way, always asking Peter to come to meetings early and yet he would always find himself thirty minutes late. That’s where the similarities end, because Mr Stark didn’t really care about that type of stuff, and yet Mr Jameson threatens to fire Peter every day he clocks in.
(It hurts that he thinks of Mr Stark in the past tense, even though he knows, deep down, he can’t come back. This isn’t a Vampire Diaries storyline.)
So, Peter wakes up at five after staying up till three with Spider-Man, and he gets ready in his small, dingy closet with a toothbrush stuck between his teeth. He wears the same jacket for the third week in a row and pulls on two mismatching moth-bitten socks before tying on his shoes that had been a gift from May two Christmases ago. He slips on his coffee-stained backpack before running out the door.
He almost forgets to lock it, but rushes back before his stuff is stolen.
Peter jumps from roof to roof, occasionally swinging in between buildings. He makes sure to go fast enough so no one can catch a glimpse of his face, though he still ends up pulling his mask to his face, just to make sure.
The Daily Bugle building stands wedged in Times Square, surrounded by light up LED billboards and rushing taxies. Peter ends up shooting himself toward the top of a building and taking off his mask to rush downstairs. He feels better when he walks to work rather than swinging.
He passes by a few of his colleagues when inside, most of them congratulating him for actually being less than thirty minutes late, or others whistling at him for coming in late again.
Peter isn’t always late. Probably.
He almost trips a few times when rushing up the stairs, but he doesn’t, because, you know, he’s awesome. Peter knocks on Mr Jameson’s door with three papers stuck to his face and jacket, twenty minutes after six.
Peter opens the door without any greeting, knowing that his boss would have yelled at him to come in anyway. Mr Jameson sits at his desk, eyes already hard and glaring at Peter before they had even locked glances.
“Parker!” he barks, and Peter gives him his best ‘totally sorry!’ smile. “Do you have those photos?”
He speedwalks to the desk, plucking off the file from the inside of his jacket. Peter hands it to Mr Jameson, who snatches it from his grasp, fingers wrinkling the already-crumpled edges of the photo folder.
“If you do this again…” Mr Jameson mutters, already having said it far too many times for Peter to not remember.
Peter nods quickly. “You’ll fire me, I know, Mr Jameson, sir,” he says before pointing at the now opened folder. “Those are from last night, though, so…”
“All right, all right.” Mr Jameson rolls his eyes, sniffing hard as he shuts the folder. He folds his fingers right above it, looking Peter straight in the eye. His Spider-sense peaks just for a moment, not because he’s in any danger, but because he knows what that look means.
Peter swallows. “You have a new job for me?”
“Yup,” Mr Jameson says, popping the ‘P’. He rolls his tongue around his teeth. “We’ve got a story with Pepper Potts at the old Stark building. I need you to get there at seven. Sharp.”
Peter can’t think straight, the words, Pepper Potts, vibrating inside his head. He tries to ignore the implications of that, tries to put it past himself so Mr Jameson doesn’t think somethings up. “Seven? But that’s in forty minutes, it takes an hour to get to the Tower—”
“Well, make it work. I’m not paying you to stand here, Parker. Go.” Mr Jameson leans back in his chair, eyebrows furrowing as he mutters, “Don’t even know why I hired you.”
(“So, there’s no record of you online, you have no previous experience, and you don’t have any form of identification on you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you can take actually all right photos of Spider-Man.”
“…Yes, sir.”
“Great. You’re hired.”)
Peter rushes out of the office and toward the roof with a certain vigor that he can’t understand yet. A meeting with Mrs Potts of all people. The one person that understood Mr Stark more than he did.
Oh, hell. He’s going to meet with Pepper Potts. The Pepper Potts.
Mr Stark is probably laughing at him right now.
He’s late.
Peter doesn’t know if he’s cursed or what, because he keeps ending up being late to things when he should have gotten there early, or at least on time. Why does this keep happening to him?
He ends up almost flying into the swivel entrance doors ten after seven but ends up just falling onto the concrete in front of it. Peter quickly smooths down his hair and jacket before walking inside, a blast of cold air assaulting him right away. His sneakers are scuffed and slightly muddy from running on roofs and sides of buildings, and he finds himself discreetly wiping them off on the hotel-like carpet.
When Peter glances up does he realize that there isn’t anyone actually in the lobby. He knows Mr Stark had sold the building when they had moved everything, and then Mrs Potts had bought it after…
But he didn’t realize how empty it was. Is the building even online? He wonders, since the lights aren’t on, the only ones being small LED ones that flicker every few seconds. Has Mrs Potts been using the Tower at all?
“Ah— sorry but we’re not open,” says a voice from next to Peter, and when he turns, his breath leaves him for a split second, because—
It’s her. Her hair is slightly shorter, and she looks thinner, and her face carries these dark, purple eyebags; but it’s her. It’s the same person from the years before.
Peter finds himself rubbing at his eyes, quickly, as they burn. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her, how much he wanted to see her again in person and not on an ad or a billboard.
She looks really bad. In the Pepper Potts way.
Peter clears his throat, hands already grasping at the work ID he has to carry around. He flips it over, showing it carefully to Mrs Potts as she nears. “I’m with the Daily Bugle, sorry,” he says, giving his best smile that he feels looks awkward, “I know I’m late, but the traffic—”
Mrs Potts glances at him and then at the ID, and her face brightens (not a lot, actually, but she smiles, and Peter thinks that’s enough). She inhales steadily. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” She smiles again, bringing up her nail-bitten hand to beckon Peter somewhere. “Let’s sit down somewhere that isn’t filled with cobwebs.”
Peter nods quickly as she starts walking, following her swiftly. He ignores the urge to look around, knowing that he already remembers where they’re going and which hallway they’re in.
She brings him to the elevator, which, surprisingly, works. Once Mrs Potts presses the button and the elevator starts moving does she start talking.
Mrs Potts turns to him, and Peter wants to cover his face. “Have we met before? You seem oddly familiar.”
Peter blinks. “I’m Peter Parker,” he says, and regrets it immediately, “I mean— I used to intern. Here. At Stark Industries.”
Mrs Potts’ eyes widen, though she seems to realize and quickly schools her face. She purses her lips, looking back at the elevating floor number on the screen. She seems at a loss for words for a second, before she looks as though she remembers something (and Peter’s heart skyrockets, just for a moment). She turns back to him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Were you with East Side a few years ago? I know they had interned for a few days at the public lab here.”
Peter nods very quickly. “Yep. That was me. I was way shorter back then, but…”
“I see.” Mrs Potts nods, closing her eyes calmly. “That’s why you seem familiar.” She opens her eyes, a smile still on her lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Parker. I assume you know who I am, since you’re coming from the Bugle.” At the mention of the newspaper does she finally still, her smile dropping.
Something is wrong.
Peter furrows his eyebrows. “Can I ask why—”
The elevator dings, and the metal doors slide open to reveal the top floor. Mr Stark’s lab.
Peter stills, words failing him as his eyes glance at each and every tarp covered item. His throat feels dry, and his eyes are stuck, he can’t—
“Apologies for the dust,” Mrs Potts mumbles, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “I haven’t cleaned this place since…since Tony died.”
Peter is pulled back into reality, back to where he is, right now. He glances, slowly, at Mrs Potts. “It’s…fine. Don’t worry about it.” He looks back to the lab, only then realizing that it looks nothing as it had been before. He feels his muscles relax and his heart starts to calm. The dust is just dust bunnies, the tarped equipment is just tables and counters.
He’s nineteen, not sixteen.
Right.
Mrs Potts walks out into the room, Peter slowly following after her. The room is oddly cold, not completely freezing, but it feels weird since the other rooms had been fine. He notices that the lights are flickering, every so slightly, and while the rest of the building’s lights had been, these seem in rhythm with something.
Like a heartbeat.
Peter turns to Mrs Potts, who had ended up bringing two slightly dusty chairs together. She sits across from where he goes to, and he tries to ignore the rising memories of late morning breakfasts where she and Mr Stark would mock each other while Peter would try and devour everything in sight.
(Mrs Potts would always ask Peter to stay a little longer, just so they could tend to the garden outside, or so he could help her make more coffee for Happy, or something to keep him there. May would always have to show up, Happy right next to her, to grab him before dinner.
He had always thought they disliked each other, then, but now he realizes they had been best friends.)
Mrs Potts smiles sadly, folding her legs neatly next to each other. “I know you’re wondering why I booked a meeting with the Bugle when I’ve always been against publications.”
“I mean…yeah,” Peter mumbles, he sits up straighter. “Not that it’s anything against you, but—”
“No, I understand. I asked for a photographer because I’ve never been good at it myself, and recently something has come up.” She looks to the side, eyes seeming faraway as she gazes out the large windows. It reminds Peter of MJ, of dark starry nights and grimy roofs, with her forlorn stare, like she knew something he didn’t.
Peter swallows, nodding slowly. “Is something wrong?”
Mrs Potts looks back to him, the shine in her eyes gone. A strand of auburn falls onto her face. “The Stark Tower is haunted,” she says, and that’s it.
What. “What?” Peter chokes, trying to keep his tone professional. He’s not one to completely believe in ghosts or the supernatural, even though he knows (used to know) a wizard, and he met alternate versions of himself. But those (excluding Mr Strange, he supposes) were science cases. Ghosts aren’t scientific.
(Are they? No, wait, they totally are. If energy can’t collapse nor create, which is true, then, the question of the universe, where does it go? He remembers talking to Mr Stark about this years ago. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, and neither does Peter, but the implications of energy manifesting as a spiritual being in some sense is understandable.)
“I know I sound crazy, but it’s this room. It’s cold all the time, even when the heater is on full blast. The lights flicker, and I swear I can hear whispers at nighttime when up here.” Mrs Potts exhales hard, lowering her head so she’s not looking at Peter. “I just need someone to try and take of a photo of h—it. I just need to know it’s there. That I’m not—”
“You’re not going crazy,” Peter says quietly. Even though he’s not sure about the ghost thing, he knows what grief looks like. He knows it all too well. “I’ve done some experimenting in parapsychology. I’ll look around.” That’s a lie, but it’s he doesn’t want her to start crying.
Mrs Potts hasn’t looked so happy in the fifteen minutes they’ve been together. She swallows, trying to discreetly wipe away at unshed tears. “Thank you,” she almost whispers. She stands, a small smile pulling her lips. “I’ll get out of your hair for a little while. Press the call button if you need anything.” She turns and starts walking toward the elevator, but before she steps inside, she looks back to him, a wisp of a memory playing in his head. “Thank you, really, Mr Parker.”
She disappears.
Peter turns back to gaze out the window, still and unmoving. He notices the splat fingerprints that litter the glass, but past that, is a wonderful skyline view of morning New York. This would be about the time that Mr Jameson would start his Just the Facts podcast, and while Peter loves to listen to it while working, he can’t. Not right now.
He wonders if the ghost likes Mr Jameson. He also wonders if the ghost knows who he is. Who he actually is.
(He wonders who the ghost is. Peter tries not to think about specifics, of who it’s most likely to be.)
Peter stands from his chair, placing his backpack where he had been sitting, grasping his camera from the lanyard. He’s not completely sure on what to do, but he definitely knows how to use a camera.
Peter feels like he’s in Ghostbusters right now.
He flicks off the lens protector before bringing the screen to his eye, finger pushing down on the ON/OFF button. It flashes with a few companies beforehand, and then Peter is stuck inside the Stark Tower with a camera to his eye.
The screen flickers, for some reason, glitching out for a split second. Peter pulls away from it, wondering, sort of, if there is a ghost in here.
Cold temperatures: check. Flickering lights: also check. Malfunctioning technology: also, also check.
Okay, totally not weird at all. Sure, maybe Mrs Potts was right, and there actually is a ghost here.
How could he make sure— “Hey, ghost?” Peter asks, pulling the camera lanyard onto his neck. He glances around, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “My name is Peter Parker and I work at the Daily Bugle. Have you heard of it?” he feels a chill run up his spine, and when he looks down, he notices that goosebumps are crawling on his arms. Cool.
Peter decides to walk around the lab and talk to the ghost rather than standing in one spot. He doesn’t want to seem aggressive.
“Do you have a favorite color? Mine is red, I think it shines really well in the sun. Goes well with gold,” he says, stumbling slightly though the lab. It’s larger than just one room, spanning over several, even one with a built-in kitchen, since Mr Stark always wanted to force food down Peter’s throat when he stayed over. He squints, looking into the lens of his camera. “I mean, of course you have a favorite color, you’re not a zombie.” He blinks, looking up slowly. “Are you?”
No answer.
Okay. Rude. Or maybe they’re nonverbal? He totally understands that. Peter—
A wrench flies, hitting the marbled floor with a hard ‘THUD’. Peter blinks, staring at the tool that now sits and glares at him from the ground.
“Okay…” Peter mumbles. He purses his lips, looking around as if to catch a glimpse of whoever. “Are you mad at me or what?”
A cup is next, and this time Peter can see it straight, as it’s still for a moment before it pulls back, as if someone were aiming, and flings itself to the window. It was plastic, thank God, and all it does is bounce off the glass.
Peter raises his eyebrows, turning toward where the cup had been before as if he were talking to a person right there. “Throw another object if you hate me, or don’t throw anything if you don’t,” he says, nodding to himself. Yep, totally Ghostbusters.
He waits for about a minute, and yet nothing happens. Peter starts to grin when another plastic cup hits him in the face. He almost falls back, holding onto his nose. “Ow, okay. I’m guessing that still means you like me.” he plops onto the tarp-covered couch, a giggle burrowing in his chest.
“Spider-Man Vs. Ghost-Man,” Peter mutters, before he realizes— “Oh, shoot, I shouldn’t have said that. Now you know my secret identity.” He furrows his eyebrows, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “Mr Strange is totally gonna hate me.”
Peter feels something next to his neck, like a cold wisp of a breath. He turns to the side, blinking. “This couch is kind of uncomfortable like this, right?” He turns away. He feels a little bit dumb talking to someone who isn’t there. “My, sort of, boss used to work here all the time. I think he would’ve hated how all his stuff his covered.”
Peter stares at the ceiling again. He frowns. “I miss him.”
He tries to blink away the tears from his eyes, scrubbing at his eyelids. He laughs wetly. “This is really stupid. I’m talking to a ghost about my problems. Nice going, Peter.”
Peter goes to sit up, maybe to just take a walk around the room again, or leave, because this doesn’t look like it’s working out. He starts to stand when a chill surrounds his hand, as if dumped in freezing cold water.
He turns back to the couch, furrowing his eyebrows. Peter opens his mouth, to say something, anything—
“I miss you too.”
Peter gets whiplash from how fast he turns around again, eyes widening as he plays the frizzled words over and over. It sounded underwater, garbled, like behind glass or underneath styrofoam. He doesn’t care.
“Mr Stark?” he quietly asks, voice cracking. “Is that you?”
No answer.
Peter covers his cold hand tightly, fingers turning white at the tips. He frantically glances around. “Please, say something if it’s you,” he pleads. Nothing happens. “Mr Stark—”
The familiar ‘click’ from his camera sounds, a flash emitting around his chest. Peter shuts his eyes automatically before quickly reopening them, trying to find a glimpse of something, anything.
A polaroid falls out from the printer, fluttering down to the dusty floor. Peter is stone. He can’t move. He can’t stop looking at it.
As the film develops, the image reveals itself.
At first, just a shadowed figure, but as Peter bends down to pick it up, does he realize, slowly, very slowly, that it’s not just any shadowed figure. It has the same suit, the same face shape and jaw and cheekbones, the same hands, the same smile.
Peter tries to stop himself from crying, really, he does, except water still plops down onto the polaroid, splattering on Mr Stark and his smiling face. He inhales, chokes, and sobs on the ground of Tony Stark’s old lab.
He meets with Mrs Potts ten minutes later with red, puffy eyes and fingers gripping a slightly stained polaroid. When Peter hands her the film with no other words, and when she sees the image and falls to her knees crying, does he finally pull in and hugs her tightly, as he had wanted to do this entire time.
Peter quietly mentions his closeness to Mr Stark, and his being at his funeral. She mentions how much she misses him, and how hard it is to raise someone without him there. They hug closely and whisper things at each other, and only then does Pepper ask him to come to the lake house to have tea another day, only then does Peter go to Mr Jameson without a photo in his hand.
Only then, does Peter decide, he can be selfish.