Work Text:
Peter’s heart thundered in his chest, so hard that he could feel it in his throat. His limbs were shaking so badly, it was a wonder he managed to keep walking without collapsing. He felt both too hot and too cold in uneven flashes all over his body. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was sweating, already feeling pin pricks all over his skin that he willed himself not to shiver at.
“Excuse me!” he called, rushing towards the subject of his interest, desperately trying not to lose sight of him. Several heads turned, but none were the one he wanted. Too focused on his goal to be bashful under their eyes, he pushed past waves of people with small utterances of “excuse me” and “pardon me.”
In his haste, he earned and subsequently failed to care about several nasty looks from the poor folks he shoved out of his way. He really did feel terrible, but he didn’t have time to apologize. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost this chance.
His throat felt dry when the crooked back of the man he’d been searching for was finally just inches away. He swallowed, and reached a trembling hand out to tap him on the shoulder. He seemed to move all too slowly, yet he felt woefully unprepared to speak when the man stiffened under his touch.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, breathing deeply and willing his voice not to shake so badly, willing his breath to come evenly. The man before him was carefully still; he felt awful for frightening him, but he had to know, he had to see…
“Are you Robbie Robertson?”
The man turned to face him and - oh, yes, it was him, he’d know those eyes anywhere - his face instantly filled with shock, flushing out the prior unease and suspicion. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed in a purely awed expression Peter’d not seen from him before, it could have been no other. Peter could have danced with glee.
Instead, he held his breath as the man stood motionless, too stunned to even twitch. Robbie slowly moved his eyes across his features, drinking in every detail but too dumbfounded to truly absorb any single one.
“Peter…?” he whispered, sounding almost reverent. He brought a wrinkled (wrinkles! His heart sang; he almost felt like weeping with joy) hand up to gently cup his face, flinching back just so before settling, as though afraid he’d vanish at the smallest touch.
Peter knew the feeling. His own hands felt weak, like he could barely control them, trembling as he raised one to hold Robbie’s. He hoped he didn’t mind his sweating palms. His heart felt lighter than it had in years, and so, so heavy at the same time. His head spun in a bittersweetly familiar way.
Suddenly, the sound of the strange, futuristic cars around them honking and whizzing by startled Peter back to reality. He became aware of the sounds of the city around them again, as well as the stares they were getting from passersby who had to walk around them.
“Ah…” he tried to say, but he didn’t quite know what he was thinking. Robbie always had that effect on him, no matter what shape he took - he never knew just what to say, the right way to go. It was one feeling he didn’t miss as much as others, but just the same, he welcomed its return like an old friend.
As much as it frustrated him to trip over his own tongue in such a way, there was a certain glee in the way he made him feel utterly stupid.
Robbie glanced about, then, as if pulled from a trance. He drew his hand back, and Peter could have cried as he felt those warm, calloused fingers slip from his own. But instead of walking away, coming to his senses and leaving him behind, Robbie beckoned Peter towards himself with a gentle smile.
“How about we get out of all these folks’ way, huh?” he suggested.
Peter quickly nodded (maybe too enthusiastically, but Robbie only smiled wider), and followed as he continued on his route from before. He didn’t care where they were going - he just wanted to be near him. He wanted to talk to him for hours and hours, learn everything he had done in all the wonderful years he’d had.
As always, he trusted Robbie to guide him when the way grew hazy in the euphoria of his presence.
As they walked together, he looked at the world that surrounded them, so much like his own, and yet so different. The leaves of the greyscale trees - much greater in number than he remembered there ever being in his own city - rustled gently in the breeze. He followed the soft sway of the branches with his eyes, almost hypnotized by the gentle rhythm.
The cool breeze combed through his hair in much the same way as it did the foliage around him. It seemed almost playful, like fingers softly stroking through it. The wind in his own world was never so friendly, so warm despite the chill.
This world was closer to Miles’ future than it was to his past, but somehow, it almost felt like home. The vibrant tones he’d unconsciously associated with the future were absent, which was about as much of a comfort as it was a disappointment in its familiarity. A part of him had been hoping that his own dimension would develop true color of its own, someday.
Did the grey of the sky look softer here, or was it the man beside him altering his perception?
At the idea, his eyes wandered back to Robbie. He absently hoped he’d forgive his staring as he studied every little part of his face. He found himself enchanted by every feature, signs of age and echoes of his own Robbie present in equal measure, and all equally beautiful.
The whiskers lining his face, the crinkles around his eyes; that familiar smile, gentle and almost fragile in a way he didn’t often see it, and the way his eyes tipped up and shone with it. Each little detail came together to sing a sweet symphony, echoing Robbie and joy.
He was so entranced, he hadn’t noticed they’d reached their destination until he almost bumped right into the age-bent back of his friend (was he his friend? In all technicality, he didn’t really know him), who was twisting a key into the lock of a small, but comfortable-looking home’s front entrance.
His chest tightened with something like pride. This Robbie grew up to own a house of his own. Imagine that! And, looking closer, were those rings he spied on his finger?
(The plain, thin band closer to the base of his finger looked strange next to the more intricate-looking one. Perhaps his wife had been the one to propose? So much seemed to have changed with each and every year that separated Peter from his cross-dimension friends. He resolved not to ask; he’d rather not make any more of a fool out of himself than he needed to.)
Robbie made a pleased little sound when the door finally opened. Peter recalled how his own used to do the same thing, the smallest little ‘whoop!’ when he managed to finally unlock his parents’ door after several tries, or, on one memorable occasion, had restarted a stranded taxicab.
(He still wondered how he’d managed that, having never been behind the wheel of one at that point - perhaps Robbie had had some powers of his own. Or maybe kicking it as hard as you can until its engine starts to rumble doesn’t require that much prior knowledge. Either way, the look on the cabbie’s face had been priceless.)
The older Robbie in front of him gestured him inside, and Peter felt almost dizzy just entering. It was all just so wonderful. The drapes were edged with lace, likely a touch from his wife. The mid-light shade perfectly matched that of the sofa, although it was leather and not cloth.
The hardwood floors, he guessed, were all Robbie. His own had once told him, in extensive detail, what his future home would look like. One thing he’d been insistent on was the wood paneling, dedicatedly cleaned and polished, and in all sorts of shades in as many rooms as his future wife would be able to stomach. The linoleum in the kitchen was likely another compromise - Robbie’d always hated the stuff.
The walls all seemed so clean, Peter almost thought they were freshly painted. The whole house was kept neat and orderly, but it was warm and clearly well lived-in. It reminded him of Robbie’s parents’ home, come to think of it.
He wandered into the living area, running gentle fingers just barely along the length of the dark wooden shelves. No dust coated their tips when he pulled them back. He stared, captivated by each one of the pictures adorning them, in simple frames but well preserved and cared for.
There was one of Robbie’s parents, with a much, much younger version of him held between them, faces much more serious than they’d tended to be in reality. A similar photo of a young girl with an older, unfamiliar couple was kept a little ways away from it. The girl looked distinctly unhappy in the nice but stiff looking dress she had clearly been wrestled into. He wondered if she was more the sporty type.
There were some faces he recognized - Robtertson family members he’d only met a few times, some old friends - and many that he didn’t. Some were obviously from the half of the family he hadn’t met, while others were faces newer to the world at large. Likely nieces and nephews - no portraits were present of the husband and wife with any little ones in the same frame, so they most likely had no children of their own.
That was just as well. He remembered fondly how much of a disaster it had been when the two of them had been left to babysit Robbie’s little cousin, Irene, in their 11th year. It had only been for a little under an hour, but the pair had solidly agreed they could never care for children full time.
He smiled softly at a photo that seemed to be from their wedding day, the Robbie pictured in it being a ways older than his own had been, but decades younger than the one he was with. He thought he spied a head of familiar curly hair among the bridesmaids, and wondered how the Mary Jane of this world had fared. With a pang of guilt, he wondered the same of his own.
Finally, his eyes wandered to one photo, one of the older ones but not the oldest, and his breath caught in his throat. It was one he knew well, as the very same one had an honorary place upon his own bedside table.
Almost tucked away among elderly faces of long-gone parents and grandparents (and even one of his own aunt and uncle), there stood the portrait Robbie’s father had taken of the two of them one hot summer, now so many years ago.
In it, the pair were barely in their teen years, and struggling to keep still as the moment was captured. The memory felt almost dreamlike now, but he remembered it as clearly as though it had been just yesterday. The both of them had apologized profusely as they fought to keep straight faces. In the end, it came out with the both of them grinning ear-to-ear.
Mr. Robertson had simply sighed, handing the photograph off to Robbie to keep once it was developed.
Peter would never forget the solemn look on his face when, just about four years later, he would hand that same photograph off to himself.
“He would want you to keep it, and I figure you could use something to remember him by.”
Mr. Robertson had never been one for large displays of sincerity, preferring to show affection through subtle gestures and light teasing. To some, he seemed dismissive or gruff. Peter himself had been unsure what to make of him at first.
Anyone who bothered to look for much longer than that first glance could see how plain his love for and dedication to his family was in everything he did. Peter didn’t think he’d really understood how thoroughly intertwined his and Robbie’s lives had been until that moment.
He still kept finding large and small pieces left behind - a forgotten shirt here, an old note once passed to him under the dinner table there. It was tearing him up bit by bit, the shoddily bandaged wound of Robbie’s absence being torn right back open each time.
He thought it funny how, despite all of the other differences between their worlds, that same photo had still been taken. Although, looking more closely, there were subtle differences - slightly different outfits, little variations in their expressions. He’d longingly studied the photo often enough that he was able to recognize a good number of him without his own there to directly compare.
As a side effect, sometimes the Robbie in his dreams was a thirteen year old spitfire, and the two of them spent the day laughing and strolling about carelessly like they’d done the same thing just the day before. Those dreams were always worse to wake from than any nightmare.
He wondered if he’d start dreaming of an older Robbie, now. Doing errands with him, choosing flooring and shades of paint, helping him keep it all clean, getting lost in that too…
He startled as Robbie placed a hand on his shoulder, making the old man chuckle, guiding him to the sofa and pressing a warm cup into his hands. He hadn’t even noticed him leave to start up the kettle.
“Tea,” he explained at his questioning look, settling down next to him with his own steaming mug. “I hope I haven’t forgotten how you like it.”
Peter took a tentative sip, cautious of the heat. He was curious how different this Robbie’s Peter was to himself. He hadn’t had tea in a long time; it seemed he could never make it like Robbie or Aunt May could. It always just tasted like hot water to him.
His eyes widened as it hit his tongue. He’d always been embarrassingly particular with it, yet somehow…
“How’d you remember?” he awed aloud, staring down at the cup in his hands.
Robbie tittered again at the wondering look on his face.
“How could I forget?” he replied cheekily.
His expression sobered slightly, and he gently brushed a strand of hair behind Peter’s ear, smiling at him.
“I’m more amazed that after all these years, you’re still the same,” he said.
Peter laughed breathily, but couldn’t help feeling sad at the comment. It felt like just another reminder. His Robbie was only a year gone. This one had lived most of his life without his Peter. He didn’t know if he could manage the same.
Before his change of mood could be noticed, Peter gestured to Robbie’s left hand and shifted the subject.
“So, who’s the lucky lady? Things work out with Glory?” he asked, almost teasingly.
Robbie laughed surprisedly. “Glory Grant, huh? God, I haven’t seen her in years. She was a good one; stuck by me through…” he trailed off, glancing at Peter, who felt his shoulders slump slightly, seeing the deep sadness on display in his eyes. Nice going, jackass.
“...A lot,” he said with forced airiness. “But there were some things I just couldn’t give her. She married some sailor, if I remember right. No, you wouldn’t know the gal I’m with now, but she’s the finest I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah?” Peter prompted, smiling at the smitten look on Robbie’s face. He resolutely ignored the sick-sad feeling that churned in his gut if he thought too hard about the whole thing.
“Mhm. Strong-willed and principled, good head on her shoulders. She doesn’t suffer fools,” he said, then leaned a bit closer to Peter, playing at conspiretal as he loudly whispered, “Even if that means me.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Peter laughed. He’d have liked to meet her. He doubted he had that kind of time, though. A thought came to mind, an awful one, really, and he couldn’t help but giggle aloud.
“You know,” he grinned. “She sounds a lot like Aunt May.”
Robbie grimaced.
“Lord, don’t put that image in my head,” he groaned.
Peter cackled for a moment, before sobering. This world’s Peter had died young, and must have left his own Aunt May all alone. He felt his frown stretch heavily downward before he could think to conceal it. It reminded him of the other May he’d met so long (but really not so long) ago now. She’d always seemed so sad, but in such a way that he knew she’d be alright in the end. Even so, he’d found it hard to face her.
(In a way, he never really had.)
He shifted in place before asking, “How’d she…? I mean, was she alright after…?” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say it. Even just referring to his Aunt in the past tense put a bitter taste in his mouth, even if the one he spoke of wasn’t really his.
Robbie looked saddened, and Peter had half a mind to take it back. Before he could, though, he answered, “It was hard on her, losing you so soon after Ben. Mary Jane and my family all did our best to be there for her, but you know how stubborn she could be. She was never really the same.”
He sighed, and Peter could see the way the years weighed on him like never before.
“She was real angry with you, at first. But really, I think she was just angry you were taken from her,” he said. “I don’t think she really knew how to regret anything, so she acted like she had nothing to regret in the first place.”
Peter leaned back a little. He believed it. It sounded almost hauntingly familiar, in more ways than one. As he studied the ceiling (impeccable yet homely as anything in the room), he wondered if his own Aunt had regretted raising him when she’d called him a monster.
“Peter,” Robbie said, and he lifted his head. His voice was carefully light. “Just where’d you come from? How are you here?”
Peter stared down at his hands as he fidgeted with them. It hadn’t occurred to him until then, but this Robbie likely thought he was his own Peter come back from the dead. Oh, He’d be so upset once he learned the truth - wouldn’t it be like losing him a second time? He was cruel to ever approach him, selfish to interrupt his life just to maybe satiate his own need for closure.
“Peter, are you alright?” Robbie asked worriedly, placing a strong, warm hand on his back. He didn’t deserve that comfort, but he wasn’t strong enough to try and shrug it off. What a dreadful piece of work he was. He had half a mind to leave now and tell Robbie to forget he ever barged into his world.
But he owed him some sort of explanation. He owed him the truth.
“Yeah, I’m jake. ‘Msorry, it’s only…” he exhaled. “If I explain it, I don’t know that you’ll understand.”
“Maybe not. Try it anyway,” Robbie said, so kind and patient, in a way he shouldn’t be - not towards someone like him.
“Just don’t laugh, it’s going to sound ridiculous,” he said, wishing the air hadn’t suddenly felt so heavy around him.
“Swear,” Robbie promised, a smile in his voice.
Rushed and nervous, just wanting it done and over with, he said, “I’m not from here, I came from a different world.” He took a breath. “Where I’m from, it’s still only 1934, and… and Robbie Robertson died last year.”
He risked a glance to his right to see Robbie with his head tilted back, eyes closed, thinking hard. It was so familiar, and he ached with it. He breathed and nodded slowly, brows creased, but not furrowed all too tightly. He looked so… calm, all things considered.
“So, a parallel universe, huh?” he simply said.
Peter sat up quickly, bewildered.
“How do you…?” he stumbled out, completely baffled. How would he know about anything like that?
Robbie laughed, “Science fiction has come a long way in half a century. Don’t be so surprised.” He ran a hand through his hair, face pensive but still oddly accepting. “It’s ridiculous, absolutely, and I really shouldn’t believe you. But just you being here is ridiculous. If I had good sense, I’d have checked myself into the nuthouse the moment I saw you. And, well, Lord knows stranger things have happened to the both of us.”
Peter relaxed, but only just. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was he really just… not angry? Why hadn’t he thrown him out, yelled at him, socked him in the kisser the moment he’d stopped yapping? It didn’t make sense.
“You know, you keep spacing out on me. Are you sure you’re alright?” Robbie asked again.
“I thought you’d be upset,” was all he could bring himself to say.
“Oh, kid…” he sighed. He seemed to think for a moment, before getting his attention again. “I won’t lie to you. It’s… strange to think you’re not really the Peter I knew, and yeah, it hurts a little. But that’s not on you. And you know what? I’ll let you in on something.”
He gestured Peter closer, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“I realized a little while ago that something wasn’t quite right with you,” he confessed, sounding almost sheepish. Peter balked at him, to his apparent amusement.
“Yep. Though, looking at you now, maybe I should’ve known from the get go. Mine had long ditched the cheaters, and he didn’t have all those scars. A few are the same, but not all,” he said, briefly touching one of the ones next to his eye with a slight frown, then letting his hand fall back down.
He took a moment, then continued, “I’m actually pretty glad. At first I’d feared you were… I don’t know, some kind of shapeshifting alien that preyed on the memories of deceased loved ones. Things seem to just get stranger around here with each year…”
Peter barked an incredulous laugh at the statement. Robbie’s satisfied smirk tipped him off to having fallen into some sort of trap, but his head was buzzing too hard from leftover stress and guilt for him to really understand it.
“But really… silly as it is, at first I’d thought I must’ve died myself, seeing you again. Don’t think I’m ready to leave my Elle all alone just yet.” He wiggled his ring finger to accentuate the statement.
“And,” he finished, “If I were to see my own Peter again… I don’t know that I’m ready for that just yet either. If I was, well, you’d probably be sick from me talking your ear off by now.”
Peter couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward. He understood; even with the idea that he’d see him in his head since arriving in this dimension, he never could have really prepared himself to say all that he wanted to.
Robbie cleared his throat. “So, you said it was about a year since… Well. About how old are you now, Peter?” he asked.
Peter sobered somewhat at the question. He didn’t much like thinking about it.
“Eighteen since six- five? Since some months ago,” he replied. Since then, time had seemed to blend together, but he remembered his birthday passing sometime within the haze.
When it had come, he’d tried his best to just ignore it. It hadn’t mattered. None of it mattered, not without him.
“Eighteen… You really made it, huh?” Robbie said, wistful, leaning back a bit in awe. Peter wondered if the version of himself from this earth had the same birthday as him. His Robbie had only been a couple months short of his own. He knew how hard it was to reach that milestone knowing his favorite person couldn’t anymore.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Robbie gently stroked a thumb over the bags under his right eye.
“You look too old for eighteen. I hope I haven’t been tormenting you too much,” he murmured sadly. Something about it made Peter want to fall into his arms and sleep for a hundred years. Somehow, it reminded him more of his Uncle than of his best friend.
“How old have you gotten to, Robbie?” he whispered in lieu of a true reply. They both knew the answer anyway. The old man must have noticed the evasion, but he let it slide.
“Just about seventy-three, now,” he answered with a degree of pride.
“Seventy-three!” Peter laughed. “Oh, Robbie, that’s wonderful,” he said, earnestly.
There was so much more he wanted to tell him. The words caught in his throat and wouldn’t come. He got the sense that he heard them anyway, from the soft look in his eyes.
“Peter, I want you to listen to me, even if you won’t believe me, alright?” he asked after a lapse of silence.
Peter nodded. “Of course, Robbie,” he said.
“Good,” he sighed, and paused, as though practicing a speech in his head. It was a look Peter knew well. Robbie had had it before admitting his trepidations about Octavius, and it had been branded on his mind ever since then. He sat up just a bit straighter, worried.
“Peter, I need you to know that, whatever happened to your Robbie, it wasn’t your fault,” he said, and held up a finger as Peter shifted. “Don’t interrupt me. If it’s the same situation I lost my Peter to, then he knew that what he was getting into was dangerous. You did your best for him. If that didn’t save him, it wasn’t through any fault of your own.”
Peter started shaking his head before he was even finished talking.
“I should have listened to him. I could’ve stopped it, if I had. It’s different,” he insisted.
Robbie looked so very sad, and very, very tired. It made Peter’s stomach turn. It seemed like all he could ever do was let him down, in every iteration.
“Peter…” he sighed, about to continue, then pausing, rethinking. “You’re right, in a way; it was different, there’s no denying that. But I’ll ask you something. Once you knew he was in danger, did you do everything you thought you could for your Robbie?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately.
“Well there you have it,” Robbie stated.
“What?” Peter asked, startled. “No, no, it’s not that-”
“It’s exactly that simple, Peter,” Robbie interrupted calmly. “Believe me, I understand. I’ve carried the grief and the guilt of losing you for all of these years, even though I know, logically, I couldn’t have done much of anything. I know that just knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less like it’s your fault. I can’t imagine how much harder it is to believe when you’ve made a career out of saving people. But that doesn’t make it any less true.
“You’re still just human, Peter. There’s only so much you can ask of yourself.”
“Barely,” he said without thinking, staring down at his wrists, the spinnerets hidden underneath the long sleeves of his sweater.
“Peter,” Robbie said, and it sounded almost like a plea.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, unable to look him in the eye.
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” he said, the hand still on his shoulder squeezing gently.
Peter didn’t know what to say.
After a moment, Robbie sighed, the hand going from squeezing to rubbing softly.
“You know, there was a point I wanted to make. You almost made me forget it,” he joked.
Peter glanced at him, but looked back away at the look on his face. It was too tender; reverent, like he was something precious. He felt rotten for tricking him in such a way.
Robbie always looked at him like that. He never knew how to handle it, even before he had… changed. He tugged on the edges of his sleeves, shame tickling in his chest.
“Like I said, that guilt stayed with me no matter what I did, even through all these years. But I knew I couldn’t just let it drown me. You know what I did with it all instead?” Robbie asked, looking Peter directly in the eyes. He shook his head.
“I lived,” he said pointedly. “I did my best to live a good life, even though it hurt to do it all without him. I knew he wouldn’t have wanted me to just wallow. I’m asking you right now to do the same thing.”
Peter’s breath caught in his throat.
“I don’t know how,” he said, weakly. “I don’t know how to live without him.”
Robbie sadly sighed, “Trust me kid, I know the feeling. But I also know that it doesn’t have to stop you from moving forward.”
“Sometimes it feels like every breath I’ve taken since then was stolen from his lungs,” Peter admitted softly.
Robbie looked heartbroken. Peter had to look away again. The arm around him tightened, then relaxed as the old man took a deep breath.
“Peter, do you blame me for living the life I have?” he asked seriously.
Startled, Peter instantly shook his head. “No!” he swore. “Of course not, what-”
“Then,” Robbie interrupted. “How do you feel about it?”
“Uh,” Peter stuttered, feeling almost bashful. “I suppose it makes me happy, knowing you lived so long. I don’t know, it’s as though… maybe, my Robbie lived on in a way, even though you’re not exactly the same as him.”
“And I’m sure my Peter would have felt much the same,” he said. “And that’s how I feel seeing you, too. I know it’s hard, believe me. But he would’ve wanted the best for you - for you to live your life and be happy, even if he couldn’t be there for it.”
Peter’s breaths wouldn’t stop stuttering, and his eyes burned. He reveled in it a little. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like, to want to cry. He hadn’t done so since his uncle’s funeral.
(There’d been a close call after he and his aunt had fought that final time, but he’d been too busy, telling himself he could break after his work was done. He’d regretted it later, when the tears wouldn’t come back.)
Through his tightened throat, he rasped, “I loved him.”
It was all he could say without breaking down.
“Oh, Peter,” Robbie murmured sadly. He pulled him in, wrapping his other arm around him. It felt the same as when his Robbie used to hold him, what felt like so long ago now. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this - the last time he was held at all. He pressed his forehead into Robbie’s collar and tried to will the tears back.
Robbie whispered, “He knew.”
His shoddily built dam burst in an instant.
He had tried to close his eyes tight, hoping it’d keep them from falling, or at least stop it from being noticeable. His breath had hitched and refused to resume a normal rhythm, and then that first quiet whimper had come.
Before he knew it, he was wailing like a child, and Robbie had tightened his arms around him, pressing his face into his hair. He murmured quiet words of comfort and encouragement.
He didn’t think he’d cried so hard in his life, not even when his Uncle Benjamin died. His entire body shook with the sobs that tore through this throat, landing against Robbie’s chest. He was dimly aware of how pained his cries sounded, like a wounded animal.
He cried for Robbie, for Felicia, Urich, his uncle; he cried for every life he’d taken, and every one he couldn’t save. He cried for the aching loneliness that had lived in his skin for years. He cried for all the times he should have before.
He couldn’t be quite sure, but he thought he’d felt something wet fall onto his hair during that time, felt the chest he rested on stutter in its up-and-down rhythm.
Eventually, he had nothing left in him. Robbie still held him close. Peter wondered if he was as afraid to let go as he was, even decades later.
His head felt light - strange, like he was floating somewhere far away from his body. Absently, he noticed how this Robbie smelled like tobacco and the kind of flowery cologne his uncle used to wear, but had stopped bothering with some years before he’d died. It lulled him, and he closed his eyes and leaned into it.
He hadn’t even realized that he’d almost fallen asleep when a sharp beeping sound from his wrist startled the both of them. He pulled away slowly, more hesitantly than he’d done anything since grade school. He wiped at his now itching eyes and glanced down at the watch adorning his wrist. His stomach flipped.
The moment he had seen Robbie, he’d completely forgotten about the others; hadn’t even given it a second thought before wandering off. He couldn’t say he regretted it, but he still felt guilty. They were probably angry with him.
His eyes were cleared enough to see the message - they had finished their job, and were ready to go. It quelled the swiftly building panic he’d felt, belatedly worrying it had been a distress signal. That was soon replaced by crushing guilt, though, as he realized he’d made them do it all without his help.
What if something had gone wrong? What if they’d needed him?
He supposed there was no real use dwelling on it - he needed to get back to them (not to mention he’d probably get an earful or two on the very same subject the moment he did).
Still sniffling, he tried to find the words to tell Robbie that he had to go. They wouldn’t come.
Robbie took his hand and smiled at him.
“I know. You got all sorts of important things to do. I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough,” he said.
Peter still couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He brought their clasped hands up to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He was far too drained to speak just yet, but he knew his meaning would get across anyway.
“I don’t want you to go either. But as much as I’d not mind it, you can’t stay here forever. Hey,” he said, using his other hand to tilt Peter’s face upwards. He opened his sticky eyes to see the shining liquid lining Robbie’s. He tried to brush the tears from his friend’s aged face, and felt the way his cheeks stretched around his small smile.
“You’ll be alright, Peter,” he said.
He knew. He wasn’t sure if he could be brave enough to let himself be, though.
Robbie must have seen it on his face, squeezing his hand more insistently. “Remember what I told you. Knowing there’s a version of Peter Parker out there who lived a good life…” he trailed off, voice overcome with emotion.
“Okay, Robbie,” Peter croaked. “I’ll try. I’ll try, I promise.”
Robbie sighed contentedly, as though a weight was lifted. “That’s all I can ask for,” he said.
Peter stood up on shaking legs and had to catch himself on the back of the sofa. Robbie walked him to the door, and Peter stopped for a beat, turning to face him again.
“I love you,” he said.
Robbie ruffled his hair, the gesture almost paternal, so different from when his Robbie would sit and run his fingers through it. He found himself leaning into it just the same.
“I love you too,” he replied, barely above a whisper. “And so did he.”
It was almost too much to take.
“Gee, Robbie, you’ll make me start up all over again…” he tried to joke, thumbing his eyes. It was far too sincere to really land. Still, Robbie smiled, half apologetic and half amused.
And oh, did he just adore that smile. It pulled at the wrinkles in his face so delightfully, highlighting the softness in his eyes.
In just the same way, he mourned it.
He pulled the mask and goggles he’d discarded what felt like hours ago now from his coat pocket, not missing the crushed look that came over Robbie’s face at the sight of them. He almost regretted it, but he’d already known it couldn’t last.
“Be careful, please,” he simply requested, something bitter and almost resigned in his voice.
Peter silently nodded, folding up his glasses and pulling the mask and goggles on as he stuffed them back into his pocket. With a final tip of his hat, he swung away before he could think to doubt himself.
He didn’t look back, and desperately hoped it wouldn’t haunt him.
Robbie couldn’t help but feel like he had failed, somehow. Helpless all over again, watching his best friend (more grown up than he’d ever seen him, but still just a child - God, was he always that small?) leave to go play hero (to get himself killed).
He’d seen that awful look in his eyes, one he was all too familiar with. He remembered it well; the sleepless nights, the lost appetite he really couldn’t afford, the guilt - Lord, the guilt. He didn’t wish it on anyone, especially a boy he knew was already so worn down by life; especially the boy he’d once loved so dearly.
Although he generally thought about him much less than he had 20, 30, 50 years ago, every now and then, his own still came to him - a whisper on the wind, a pleasant dream well faded by midday. Peter was a wound that never quite healed, but Robbie had learned to appreciate the ache, in its own way. He’d always prefer it to feeling that he’d forgotten about him.
Leaning against the doorway, still staring at the air where the boy had been moments before, he spoke to the air, “Even beyond the grave, you still find ways to make my hair even greyer, huh?”
He received no answer, but chuckled as though he had - even now, he could imagine it clearly enough, and he trusted that somewhere, he was proving him right.
He habitually twisted the plain, narrow band on his ring finger, grateful the boy hadn’t thought to bring it up while asking about his wife (and what a story he’d have to tell her, later). He wasn’t ready to let him in on that little tidbit, Elle being the only one in the know.
He’d have told Mary Jane, but even after all these years, he could scarcely look her in the eye when the subject of their old friend came up. He hadn't lied to the boy - the guilt did fade, but that didn’t stop him from somehow feeling that he’d stolen him from her with his inaction, even with so many more years of retrospect and practical knowledge under his belt.
He prayed that the young Peter’s world would afford him more kindness than his own had. He prayed that he’d have it easier than he had.
Mostly, he just prayed that he’d survive.
Fleetingly, he wondered if there was a world out there where the both of them had a happy ending. If the theories really were right, if he wasn’t going senile and there really were infinite worlds with infinite possibilities… Surely at least one would let them stay together?
He brought his ring finger up to his mouth, closing his eyes and hoping that any Robbie who got to keep him knew just how good he had it.