Chapter Text
***PETER***
It probably shouldn't surprise me when, first chance he gets, Ricky takes us three Spideys from the epilepsy-inducing video room to a much more well-lit coffee shop. All around us, normal people gather around, doing normal coffee shop things. Typing away at Macbooks. Hanging out with girlfriends. That sort of thing.
"I don't like this," Tobey says, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight. "Haven't you seenInception? Subconscious projections are nothing to sneeze at."
"My subconscious isn't gonna attack any of you," Ricky says. "Well, maybe you, Maguire, 'cause...well, sometimes, I see you and mentally project the emo-hair from the third movie over your face." He brushes his own hair so it stands up in a messy, spiky pile, thus enhancing the uncanny resemblance between him and me. "Not that I'm the sort of guy who actively wants to punch someone for wearing a bad hairstyle - hell, if that were the case, I'd punch myself every goddamn day."
"No wonder he named this bloody story after Deadpool," Tom remarks, his eyes glittering as he tries not to laugh. "He's got his language down, that's for sure."
Ricky nods. "You're not wrong there."
I do a double take as Ricky's earlier words finally sink in - they're taking a while because I'm still reeling from my very recent death. "Did you just insult my hairstyle?"
"What? No!"
"Well, you're trying to copy my hair, and you just said you have a bad hair day every day-"
Ricky laughs and shakes his head, the motion making his hair flatten. I didn't even know that was possible, but if his hair is really as style-unfriendly as he thinks it is... "Nothing against you, Peter," he says. "I only wish I had your hair. It'd make my no-budget cosplay a hell of a lot more convincing." He steps up and orders a mocha, then stands aside and lets us place our orders. "I could probably read your minds and make your orders for you," he jokes, "but that would be a frivolous waste of my mutant powers."
Tobey snorts. "Yeah. Sure. Scarlet Witch you're not." He gets a latte, Tom orders a double espresso (to which he says he'll add powdered chocolate from the little island where the sugars and stuff are kept), and I...to my horror, I actually forget my usual coffee order for a second. But then it comes back to me, as things usually do, and I get a peppermint mocha. And it's not even the right time of year for one, but that doesn't matter.
"In my head," Ricky says when Tobey and Tom look on in surprise after the barista approves my order, "peppermint mochas aren't strictly seasonal. Pumpkin spice lattes, on the other hand..." He shudders.
"Hey, don't hate," Tobey chuckles.
"Can I help it if I had a pumpkin spice latte air freshener in my room long enough to make me never want another one?"
At least I'm not too dead to laugh, so laugh I do.
"All right," Ricky says when we're all coffeed up (is that a word? If not, I'm still adding it to my vocabulary banks) and sitting in a group of armchairs surrounding a small table. "I can't tell you everything, but I can answer a lot of your questions." He alters his voice to something that sounds suspiciously like Loki. "Where do we start?"
"I'd like to start with this," Tobey asks. "Why does Tom not have an American accent? Unless the New Avenger Spidey's from London or something?"
"Oh, I can do a pretty good American," Tom says in a crackly Dr. House accent, "but for now, my actor's native English is my default voice. Probably because they haven't released Civil War yet, so nobody's seen me actually performing as Peter Parker."
Ricky nods. "You're putting me out of a job, dude." He focuses on me. "I'm sure you have the most questions out of all of you, 'cause you've spent the most time in-story, and not in other parts of my brain, as it were." He takes a sip of coffee, adjusts his glasses, then adds, "If you're still tongue-tied and shell-shocked, I understand. Take all the time you need."
I could take all the time in the multiverse at this point, but that's really not an option. Not if I'm ever going to get out of this place. Finally, I know what I'm going to say. "Why did I die?"
"You mean, 'why did you die,' or 'why didn't I stop you from dying?'" Ricky asks. "'Cause I tried. That move where you blew up Harry's Goblin glider? I knew that was a seriously bad idea." He tilts his head, looking at a TV screen in the upper corner of the room. "I ran through every possible scenario of you successfully pulling off that explosion," he says. "They all ended with you either paralyzed or dead, neither of which I wanted to see. So I tried to get you to back off. I told you to stop, remember?"
Now I do remember - because I look at that same screen, and it's got footage of my final move playing in exactly the style of a Marvel movie. I watch as it plays my fall from the glider, seconds before it explodes - and then, in slow-mo, the debris raining on me, tearing through the back of my hoodie. I hadn't even been wearing my Spidey-suit - not that that would've been any more shrapnel-resistant. That suit, strong though it is, has always been vulnerable to sharp objects. Like the Lizard's claws.
"But you're the one who said you couldn't change things," I remind him.
"Hasn't stopped me from trying," Ricky says with a shrug. "Because the last thing I want is to kill my inspiration. The fact that you're here and not in some kind of Asgardian Hel or Valhalla or whatever - that's all me. You may have died, but your story's not over."
"Yeah, not if you have anything to say about it," Tom chuckles.
For the first time since I've been in this creepy mental world, I crack a smile. Then it vanishes as a chilling, but strangely coherent, thought forms in my brain. "You had me die to stop Marvel from killing me themselves. Didn't you?"
Tobey scratches his head. "Yeah, no beating around the bush. I'm dead too. 'Wiped from existence?' Worst euphemism ever."
"Marvel's cool," Ricky says. "They make great movies. But everyone's just biding their time, waiting for them to slip up. There are people out there poking fun at them and saying they can't fail - probably trying to jinx it into happening." He pulls out his phone and plays a video from Saturday Night Liveabout how, because Guardians of the Galaxy was such a big hit, that Marvel can literally slap their name on anything and "boom, take my money, now! Yeah," Ricky laughs, "they can make anything...except a Black Widow movie, which irks a fair few of us fans. But what irks me personally is the one thing I think they've done seriously, seriously wrong so far."
"He means bringing me in as your replacement," Tom says baldly.
"Dude, did the MCU writers give you telepathy or something?" Ricky asks.
"You gave Spider-Gwen night vision," Tom points out.
"Touché. Okay, so...yeah, he's right. As much as I have faith in him" - Ricky nods to Tom - "he's just...not you, Peter."
"Why do you only call me 'Peter?'" I ask. "These two are Peters too."
"I believe Andrew Garfield is Peter Parker, and Spider-Man by extension," Ricky answers. "Besides, it'll be confusing if I called you all 'Peter.' Since Holland hasn't started the job yet - officially, at least - I can't say he's the 'current' Peter" - insert air quotes - "so that still leaves you with that name. Unless you'd rather I called you 'Andrew?' Or 'Garfield?' I usually use his last name if it's just the one I need. It's not like I'm on a first-name basis with the guy or anything."
Jesus, this guy can talk a mile a minute. I really hope his mocha is decaf, but since that box isn't checked on the side of his coffee cup... "No, no, that's okay," I say. "'Peter' is fine. Or 'Parker.'"
"'Cause you're used to guys calling you by your last name," Ricky says knowingly. "I'm not entirely sure why I threw that into the story - I just thought of it as a 'cool-guy' thing. Then again, what do I know from cool, huh?"
Maguire smiles. "Exactly. He wasn't in Spider-Fandom when it was cool. When I was around."
"In those days, Harry Potter was my thing," Ricky says. "I only really got into Spider-Man when theAmazing movies came along. I had a much better time relating to you, Peter. I have a lot more in common with you."
"Why, just 'cause you two are identical strangers?" Holland chuckles. Wait, when did I start referring to my counterparts by last name? And why haven't I started doing the same for Ricky? I try thinking of him as "Pine" instead, but for some reason, I can't.
Ricky guffaws loudly, making me feel a little more depressed because I can't bring myself to join in. "Finally, someone who understands! But seriously..." He folds his hands together. "Peter, you're everything I'd want to be in life. You started out as a quirky outcast dude with unusual pop-culture tastes - what other teenager would have a Rear Window poster on their wall? And how many teenage viewers would recognize it when they saw it in the movie? 'Course, I was nineteen when the firstAmazing Spider-Man came out, so I was barely a teenager..."
"You thought I was quirky?" I ask.
"Most people do. Some would say 'hipster,' but I wouldn't 'cause I consider that an insult." Ricky rolls his eyes. "And 'cause I'd like to think there are some people who listen to KFOG or whatever the New York equivalent of that is because they like world-class rock without irony."
The letters roll off my tongue before I can stop them. "WXPK."
"The Peak?" Maguire asks. "I thought that was a Westchester County station."
"The point is," Ricky says, "I can connect with Peter on matters of pop culture. Not only that, but our personalities align in a few key ways. Like...well, you should see me trying to talk to other people in real life." He stands up, then approaches the counter when there's a lull in the customer line, and finds the barista who served us earlier. "Uh...hey there, uh, Daisy. I almost forgot to make another order with you. Don't worry, I'm good for it." He hastily scribbles what has to be his phone number on a piece of paper he's got in his pocket, then slides it across the counter to her.
"Mmm..." Daisy (who, now I think about it, bears more than a passing resemblance to Skye, albeit with shorter hair) scratches the end of her nose with her thumb before picking up Ricky's number. "Come back to me in ten minutes," she says. "I'll be off by then, and I'll leave you mine."
"Sweet! Thanks!" Ricky flashes Daisy a thumbs-up, then turns around and returns to us. "She threw it away, didn't she?"
Maguire and I both look up to see Daisy toss the paper into the trash without a second glance before calling forward a new customer. We both nod silently.
"Shit," Ricky groans. "Every time. Even in my head, I can't get a girlfriend. I'm twenty-two years single. That's no fun, guys. Be glad you've all had girlfriends."
"They haven't even cast mine," Holland points out. "I don't even know if I'm gonna get an MJ or a Gwen. I know which one I'd rather have myself, though."
"Which one?" Maguire asks.
"Yeah, sorry to include you in there, Holland," Ricky says. "My bad." He blinks a couple of times, then sneaks a glance at Daisy before continuing. "Thing is, Peter, I spent the longest time thinking I'd never be able to find love. But then I saw your movies, saw how well you connected with Gwen...and that's when I knew what I needed in my life. I'll eventually find my Gwen. I just need your confidence and your good looks, and I'll be good to go."
"The confidence, I could probably help you with sometime," I say. "As for the good looks, you're not gonna do some kind of Face/Off surgery on me, are you?"
"No, no, nothing that drastic," Ricky laughs. "And hey, you're finally getting back into your usual sense of humor. Maybe this job'll be a little easier than I thought."
I frown at the floor. "Now you've ruined the moment."
"Aww, really?"
"Really." I stare hard at a white speck embedded in the brown tile under my feet. But it doesn't stop me from thinking about all those I left behind. Gwen, Barton, Miles, the Hamadas, Baymax, Deadpool.
Aunt May.
Uncle Ben.
Oh God...I literally just missed them in San Cas, and less than twenty-four hours later, I died. How cruel is that?
"Where are you going?" Ricky asks as I get up.
"Just...back off, all right?" The words come out so loudly that everyone in the coffee shop must be staring at me, but I don't care. I need to get out of here, because this place has suddenly become overwhelmingly claustrophobic. And I don't even have claustrophobia. Well, maybe just a little, but nowhere near as crippling as it is right now.
I run out the door and onto the street, where I look around and spot a nearby alley. It's not as dark and dingy as your usual New York back alley, so I have no reservations about sitting against the brick wall in a sort of fetal position, crying because of how alone and lost I feel. It's like I'm five years old all over again. When my parents left me with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, I'd somehow known, somewhere deep inside, that I would never see them again. The feeling welling up inside me now is almost as bad as that dark, toxic tidal wave of despair that had just been waiting to drown me.
"Peter? Where are you?" I look up just as Ricky rounds the corner and spots me. He approaches me, with Maguire and Holland in tow, and kneels in front of me. "Peter...it's all right. I'd have been hella shocked if you didn't have a breakdown in the first ten minutes." He offers me a hand. "You can't go home again...or can you? Like Cap says, 'you get killed, walk it off.'"
I take his hand, and he helps me to my feet. "Are you trying to say you can bring me back?"
"To life?" Ricky asks as I dust myself off and wipe my eyes. "That would be changing the story, and we both know I can't do that. But what else do we know? We know a guy."
"The same guy who got rid of me?" Maguire asks. "I don't think-"
"Not just Strange," Ricky says. "Ultron and Loki and Deadpool are helping him out now. And besides...the rest of the Avenger are on that same side. If they stood half a chance of bringing you back, they'll jump on it." He casts his eyes around, finally landing his gaze on a nearby piece of graffiti - the spiky red Spider-Man logo, plus the lettering that usually accompanies it in New York: "COME BACK SPIDEY WE NEED YOU." "The only thing we need to do," Ricky says, "is make sure they get the idea in their heads."
"You mean they're not thinking about resuscitating me every single second?" I scoff. "Some friends they are."
"They are," Ricky says, "but they don't have much confidence in the idea. That's the missing secret ingredient." He sets off down the alley, then does a sort of eenie-meenie-miney-mo routine as he looks for the doorway he wants. "One question - do any of you guys know Morse code?"
"I think I committed it to memory once," Holland says, "but I'd need a good dose of N-Zed-T to recollect it, probably."
"Wait, you're not telling me Limitless exists in this 'verse too, are you?" asks Maguire.
"It's not out of the realm of possibility," Ricky says, opening the door. "After all, they have the director of Amazing Spider-Man and writers from Elementary and Sleepy Hollow, so they're automatically awesome." He stands back as we three Petes walk through the door, finding ourselves in a room with a dentist-style chair sitting under a single bright light.
"What is this?" I ask, my suspicions rising.
"Once we get these attached to your head" - Ricky holds up a tangled bunch of wires leading to the sort of sticky pads usually used in EKGs - or, in this case, EEGs, because the pads look much smaller - "we can beam your brain into your corpse, provided it hasn't been cremated yet. From there, you can-"
"What?" I interrupt him, unable to believe what I'm hearing.
"Trust me, it's perfectly safe," Ricky says. "You won't be able to talk - or move all that much. But you can blink. So blink in Morse code, send a message that way."
I gape at Ricky as he runs around the room, typing away at a just-fired-up laptop and disentangling the EEG wires - it's worse than any time I've had to pick apart my earbuds just to be able to listen to music. "Please tell me you know what you're doing."
"Of course."
"Have you done this before?"
"No." Ricky laughs nervously. "But...but there's a first time for everything. Aaaand...print." He turns to the printer as it slowly spits out a piece of paper, carrying a complete table of Morse code.
"How am I supposed to memorize that in the next few seconds?" I ask incredulously. I mean, I was hoping for something to do to distract me from the pain of death, but this is far from what I had in mind.
"You're not," Ricky says. "Every time you blink and your eyes open, you'll get to see us again. I'll hold this in front of you so you can see it and know what you're gonna say." He gestures to the chair, and I very reluctantly take my seat. Two seconds later, he begins sticking the EEG pads to my temples.
"Where do these wires go again?" I ask, trying to follow them with my eyes, but they disappear into the darkness.
"That's a story for another time," Ricky says, turning my head so I'm looking up at the light. He lays his hand on my shoulder and quotes Avatar to me. "'Just relax and let your mind go blank. Shouldn't be that hard for you.'"
I do more than just smile - he's finally gotten me to laugh. "'Kiss the darkest part of my lily-white-'"
Ricky's interruption of Jake's line is perfectly timed with a decidedly un-Grace-ful "Banzai!" He points his finger directly down at his laptop's keyboard, then hits a button.
Two seconds of howling light and wind later, I'm staring up at a different bright light, which looks like it belongs in some kind of medical examiner's lab, like Ducky's on NCIS. It's not Ducky's, though. I can't really get a good look around, but I do see a white-coated technician about to lower a scalpel to my bare chest. Or my corpse's bare chest.
"NO!" I scream - but only in my head. It echoes in my skull, but doesn't get spoken out loud. Not in this lab.
"What is it?" Ricky asks. "Peter, what's happening?"
"They're gonna cut me!"
"Blink!" Ricky orders me. "Blink, now!"
I blink. The lady with the scalpel cuts me near my left collarbone, and holy shit, that hurts, and...and then she sees me blinking rapidly, the world flickering between this lab and Ricky's head space. "Oh my God!" she cries, dropping the scalpel and running.
In the split second before the scalpel falls from my body, trailing blood into my armpit, I catch a familiar symbol on its handle - an "X" in a circle. I'm in Xavier's lab, clearly. How did I get here? Does this mean the Avengers base was destroyed or something in the last battle?
Two female voices argue somewhere behind me, then I hear the door open and someone comes in. It's not the technician, though. It's Wanda. "Peter?" she asks, laying one hand on my cheek and the other on my chest, right over my heart. "Peter? Are you there?"
"You can talk to me?" I ask.
"Just because you're dead, that never stopped me," Wanda laughs. Then she does a double take and gasps loudly. "Oh my God! Peter...but how? No, no, never mind...Gwen! Where's Gwen? She needs to see this!" She lets go of me and runs off.
I blink again and get back to my chair. "Ricky, we might not need the Morse code after all," I say. "Did you know this could happen?"
Ricky lowers the Morse code chart and lays it on a table. "I sure as hell do now."