Work Text:
Peter Parker had always felt like his life didn’t quite fit together the way it should, like a puzzle with missing pieces. He lived in Queens with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, just a regular kid with regular problems.
But then there was Violet. His twin sister was the only other person who should have shared every experience with him, but instead, he felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face. She was sharper, quicker, and carried herself with a quiet intensity that set her apart from the world around them. Sometimes, Peter would catch her staring at him with an expression he couldn’t place, relief? Sadness? Regret? He’d ask about it, and she would just laugh and call him an overthinker. But it wasn’t just that.
He had dreams, flashes of things that didn’t belong to him, gunfire, the scent of metal and sweat, voices barking orders in languages he didn’t know but somehow understood. The worst part was that, when he woke up, the memories slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving only the nagging certainty that something about his life had been erased.
------
The night Uncle Ben died, something inside Peter broke, but it wasn’t just grief. It was the overwhelming feeling that this wasn’t the first time he had lost someone, even though he couldn’t remember who. He sat frozen in the street, staring at Ben’s lifeless body, his hands shaking with rage and guilt covered with blood. Violet arrived moments later, breathless, her eyes scanning the scene with a cold, trained efficiency that made Peter’s stomach turn. She dropped to her knees beside him, whispering words of comfort, but there was something else in her expression, something deeper than sadness.
At the funeral, Peter barely spoke. His mind replayed the moment over and over, but the strangest part was how familiar it all felt. He was devastated, but beneath the pain, there was a nagging voice in the back of his head whispering.
You should have known how to stop this. You should have been prepared.
He didn’t understand why, and when he told Violet, she just squeezed his hand too tightly and said, “You couldn’t have changed it.”
The way she said it, like she knew, like she’d lived through loss too many times before, sent a shiver down his spine. But when he pressed her for answers, she only shook her head and walked away.
Violet was different after that. She held him when he cried, but she never cried herself. Her grief was silent, buried under a mask of quiet determination as if she’d already known how this story would play out.
“It’s not your fault, Pete,” she told him, but there was something in her voice like she wanted to believe it just as much as he did.
Then came the powers. The walls he used to struggle to climb, the reflexes that felt too fast, too sharp, almost familiar, like they had been buried inside him all along. He thought they were new. Violet didn’t look surprised. When he showed her, expecting excitement, she just nodded and said, “Be careful.” Not shocked. Not confused. Just… wary.
At first, it was just a way to cope. Something to make Uncle Ben’s death mean something. But as he crafted the suit, swinging between buildings, stopping crimes, something about it felt instinctive, natural. He told himself it was just the spider bite, just his own determination pushing him forward. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between fights, when adrenaline faded and he was left with nothing but his thoughts, he wondered.
Why did it feel like he already knew how to fight?
------
Peter had always felt that his life didn’t quite make sense, like how he knew how to fight before becoming Spider-Man, even though he never remembers learning how. He had wondered how Violet had magic, and he didn’t, even though they were twins. And Violet would sometimes mention people expecting him to know them and then immediately backtrack and make excuses.
Peter never did anything about it though; he would wake up (Violet was already up and ready in a somewhat militaristic way), get ready and then leave with Violet and walk to school. After school, he would go with Ned and walk home, and Violet would come home a few hours later. He could never figure out why; he had tried following her before, but it never worked; she somehow always knew. Violet had always wondered how she made it look so easy, and it made him feel like she was always one step ahead of him.
Peter and Ned were walking home when Peter brought up the Academic decathlon Competition that was happening in a few weeks.
“I was thinking of asking Violet to come as Aunt May is working that day.” Peter told Ned.
Ned replied, “Good luck with that! She seems so busy all the time.”
------
Peter didn’t understand why Violet was so angry. Being recruited by Tony Stark was huge, it was the chance of a lifetime, the kind of thing he had dreamed about since realising what his powers could do. But when he told Violet, instead of being excited for him, her face darkened in a way that made his stomach twist.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” she snapped, pacing their small bedroom in Queens like a caged animal.
Peter crossed his arms, defensive. “What’s your problem? You’ve never cared about what I do before.”
That was a lie. Violet always cared, too much, actually. He had seen the way she watched him out of the corner of her eye like she was waiting for something bad to happen. She trained harder than any normal person should, and sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t looking, he caught her rubbing at the inside of her wrist like an old wound ached beneath the skin. He had always assumed it was just her being overprotective, but this was different.
“It’s Tony Stark, Violet,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “This isn’t some random guy. This is the Avengers.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “I know who he is, Peter. I just don’t think you understand what this world is actually like.”
The argument went nowhere. She refused to explain, and Peter was too caught up in the excitement to listen. So he went to Berlin, fought Captain America, and had the best moment of his life.
Coming back from Germany, Peter thought the hardest part would be impressing Tony Stark. Instead, it was facing Violet. She didn’t say, I told you so, but the look she gave him when she saw the bruises, the limp in his step. It said everything.
After that, things between them shifted. She became more distant, her own secrets pulling her further away. She started disappearing at night, coming back with cuts and bruises that looked too much like his own. He didn’t ask questions because she wouldn’t answer them. Instead, they just existed, orbiting around each other, connected by something Peter couldn’t quite define.
But even with the distance, Violet watched him. She noticed things no one else did. Like how Peter was learning to fight too fast, his reflexes sharper than they should have been for a fifteen-year-old with no combat training. How when the Vulture nearly killed him, Peter barely hesitated before pushing through the pain like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“Do you ever wonder why this feels so natural to you?” she asked one night after patching up his latest wound.
Peter frowned. “What do you mean?”
Violet hesitated. For the briefest moment, he thought she might actually tell him whatever it was she had been hiding for years. But then she just shook her head, forcing a smile.
“Nothing,” she said, voice light and casual. “Maybe you’re just special.”
Peter didn’t believe her. But for now, he let it go.
------
The dreams were getting worse.
Peter would wake up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs as echoes of voices, sharp commands in Russian, and the dull thud of fists hitting flesh faded into nothing. The more he tried to hold onto them, the quicker they slipped away, leaving only a cold sense of familiarity that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just nightmares, though. Lately, he had started moving before thinking, reacting to threats in ways he shouldn’t know how. In the middle of a fight, his body worked on instinct, blocking, countering, striking, like muscle memory, he wasn’t supposed to have.
But the worst part? Every time it happened, Violet was there, watching.
One night, after another dream that left him shaken, Peter found her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee she wasn’t drinking. She was always awake when he was like she knew when the nightmares hit.
“Violet,” he said quietly, his voice still rough from sleep.
She tensed slightly but didn’t look at him. “You should go back to bed.”
Peter ignored that. “Something’s wrong with me,” he admitted, gripping the edge of the counter. “I know it is. I get these flashes, memories that don’t feel like mine. And it’s not just the dreams, it’s the way I fight, the way I react—like I’ve done it before.” He swallowed hard. “Like I was trained.”
Violet finally turned to face him, and for the first time in his life, she looked afraid.
His stomach twisted. “You know what’s wrong with me, don’t you?”
For a second, Peter thought she might finally tell him. But then she shook her head, forcing a tight smile. “You’re just growing into your powers, Pete. That’s all.”
It was a lie. He could feel it.
But he also knew she wouldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet.
------
The next time Peter felt that same unnatural sense of déjà vu, he was on a school trip to MOMA when the aliens invaded.
One second, he was joking with Ned, and the next, his Spider-Sense hit him like a truck. The hairs on his arms stood on end, a cold rush of adrenaline hitting his bloodstream. His vision blurred for half a second, and suddenly, he was somewhere else, flashes of battle, fire, and destruction. It felt too real, too familiar.
And then he heard her voice in the back of his mind, distant but urgent.
Peter, run.
He didn’t have time to question it.
As he rushed towards the chaos, slipping out of the school bus and pulling on his mask, he had the overwhelming sensation that he had done this before, racing toward an enemy he wasn’t ready to face, the weight of something bigger than himself pressing down on his shoulders.
He just didn’t remember when.
Peter had never been in a battle like this before. Sure, he had fought bad guys, bank robbers, supervillains, even a giant-sized Ant-Man once, but nothing like this. This was war. Titan was a graveyard; now it was a battlefield, the air thick with the sound of explosions, gritted teeth, and desperate last-ditch efforts. And yet, as terrifying as it was, a part of him knew what to do.
His body reacted before his mind could think, twisting, dodging, striking, his movements seamless, instinctual. It wasn’t just the Spider-Sense guiding him; it was something else, something deeper. He moved in sync with the others, anticipating attacks before they came, switching tactics mid-fight as if he had trained for this scenario a hundred times over. But that didn’t make sense. This was his first real battle, wasn’t it?
Then why did it feel like he had done this before?
There was no time to think about it. Thanos was relentless, his blows shaking the very ground beneath them. Even with everything Peter had, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Then the worst happened.
Thanos got the time stone from Dr Strange. It had just been handed over.
Silence settled over Titan in the worst way possible. Not the victorious kind, not even the heavy kind after a hard-fought battle, this was the kind that came with failure. With defeat.
Thanos was gone.
Peter stood there, chest heaving, dust and debris clinging to his suit, watching as the Mad Titan vanished into the void with the Time Stone. He barely heard the others talking, barely registered the frustration in Quill’s voice, the way Strange and Stark locked eyes in something that felt an awful lot like resignation.
Because all he could feel was the pit in his stomach telling him that it wasn’t over.
He didn’t know how he knew. But he knew.
They had failed.
He swallowed hard, glancing down at his trembling hands. His whole body was on edge, the aftershocks of battle rattling through his bones, but there was something else too. A pressure in his chest, in his head, in the back of his mind.
He had felt it before.
Every time something bad was about to happen.
And right now, it was screaming at him.
They spent what felt like hours stranded on Titan. It could have been less, it could have been more. Time stretched out, warped by exhaustion and adrenaline.
Peter sat on a broken piece of rubble, staring down at his shaking hands, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His body ached, but it wasn’t the pain of being punched through a planet or thrown into a collapsing building. It was deeper than that.
Something was wrong.
Every second that passed, the feeling in his chest got worse. It wasn’t just the fear of losing. It wasn’t even about Earth. It was about, something else.
Something missing.
Peter barely noticed when Tony sat down next to him, staring at the same wreckage. There were no words left to say, no solutions, no backup plans. Tony was quiet, and that scared Peter more than anything.
He tried to focus, to pull himself out of whatever spiral he was slipping into, but all he could think about was home.
May.
Ned.
Violet.
His sister had been on Earth the whole time.
He had barely thought about it during the fight, too caught up in the insanity of facing a Titan, but now? Now that everything had slowed down, his mind latched onto it like a lifeline.
Was she safe?
Had she fought too?
Had she survived?
He pulled out his phone for the hundredth time, only to see the same thing he had seen every time before. No service.
Peter exhaled sharply, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
She was fine. She had to be fine. Violet was tough. Way tougher than him, even though she never said it out loud. She always knew things before they happened, always had this quiet, deadly awareness that made Peter feel like he was constantly missing a piece of the puzzle.
She’d be okay.
But that feeling in his chest—the one that had been there ever since Thanos left—only grew heavier.
Peter knew the second it happened.
There was no warning, no sound, no sudden blast of energy, just an absence.
The world shifted.
His stomach dropped.
His Spider-Sense screamed, sending a violent shiver down his spine, but it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t danger in the way he had always known it.
It was something deeper. Something final.
Something wrong.
He barely had time to process the way his vision blurred, the way his fingers tingled with a sensation he didn’t have words for.
Then his legs gave out.
His heart pounded wildly as he stumbled, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His body knew before his mind did. It was shutting down, slipping away, but Peter wasn’t ready.
He didn’t want to go.
Tony turned toward him just as the fear took over. “Mr. Stark—”
He reached out, fingers grasping at Tony’s arm, desperate for something to hold onto, but his grip was weak. His hands were already turning to dust.
He felt it happening. Felt himself breaking apart, dissolving, disappearing.
“I don’t feel so good,” he choked out.
And he didn’t.
He felt empty.
Like something had been ripped from him, something he had spent his whole life not knowing was gone.
His knees hit the ground, but he barely felt the impact. His mind was slipping, his thoughts unravelling, but in his last moments, one thing burned through the fear, through the confusion, through the pain.
Violet..
Not as she was now, but younger, with fear in her eyes, blood on her hands, whispering something to him in a language he didn’t know but somehow understood. I’m sorry. I had to protect you.
The words made no sense, but the emotion behind them did.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, though he didn’t know why.
Maybe he was saying it to Tony.
Maybe he was saying it to Violet.
Maybe he was saying it to the part of himself that had always known something wasn’t right, the part that was slipping through his fingers like the dust he was becoming.
And then, in an instant, Peter Parker was gone.