Work Text:
Peter Parker knew this was a terrible idea.
Standing in the lab at Avengers Tower, there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a reminder that what he’s doing is wrong.
There’s better ways to go about this, he knows. He’s been told a million times that messing with the timeline could cause a reaction that no one is prepared for.
But he was 17 when he made an impulse decision, and in the grand scheme of things, no one knows who he is, anyway. By the time they find out he’ll have thought of a way for them to forgive him, and really, isn’t that enough?
(He knows it’s not. He’s not prepared to deal with that yet).
His plan is simple, really. He’s going to go back to just before Christmas, standing outside Peter Pan’s while MJ is on shift, the letter he wrote to her tucked neatly in his back pocket. This time he plans on walking in and giving it to her, standing there awkwardly while she reads it.
He’s going to watch her realize that she does know him, that thinking he was a familiar face is because she used to be in love with him. He’s going to give her time to process what she’s reading, sparking the memories Strange had taken from her when he cast the spell.
He hasn't thought about negative repercussions. About her not wanting to forgive him or talk to him. He doesn’t want to think about a scenario where she rejects his attempts to get her back, too upset to hear him out or listen to his rationale about why it took so long to find her again.
Stepping toward the machine, Peter takes a breath. He spots a notebook to the side, scribbles out an apology note for whatever Avenger stumbles on it to find later, and leaves it on the table.
Giving himself a minute to sort himself out, Peter’s fingers move with ease as he sets up the machine, transporting back to eight months ago, determined to make things right.
–
The thing is, Peter was 17 when he told Strange to cast the spell.
Logically, he knew the consequences. Strange had drilled it into his mind a thousand times over.
Everyone who knows and loves you will forget who you are.
But things were ruined. His friends were pulled into a multiverse and a battle they had no business being in. Strange was in over his head, and it was all Peter’s fault.
He did this to them.
He made things more complicated.
It was up to him to fix it.
He remembers standing on the Statue of Liberty, the world crumbling around them, and having to be the one to tell them that they were going to forget who he was. He remembers their faces, the betrayal, the denial. The way they pleaded with him to find another way, that this couldn’t be how this day ended.
The worst part was, Peter agreed.
It wasn’t how the day deserved to end. His friends put their lives on the line. They went in blindly to a battle they shouldn’t have been anywhere near. They transcended multiverses, helped him with serums and Strange and things they knew nothing about, but needed to know that Peter was okay.
How could it be that they weren’t going to end the day at Delmar’s picking up subs? They weren’t going to go back to one of their apartments, traumatized as profuse apologies spilled from Peter’s lips, promising that he would never let something like this happen again.
Instead, he was going to watch them fade back, their memories wiped because it was what was right for the world, not what was right for Peter.
And, really, he should’ve known that Peter Parker does not get his way.
He does not get good things happening to him. He doesn’t get the happy ending. The two best friends, the Avengers, the support and love and care that a 17 year old needs. It’s not meant for people like Peter, who can’t seem to keep things straight enough even for a fraction of a moment to have something good happen to him.
Instead, he ended the day in an abandoned warehouse, where no one knew who he was or what he did, with nothing around him.
That, he realized, is what Peter Parker always ended up with in the end.
–
It feels as if both a lifetime and mere seconds pass before Peter realizes he’s snapped back to a few years before, disoriented and struggling to get his bearings in a city he’s known like the back of his hand since before he could comprehend it.
This time, he doesn’t snap back to a weird place with Doctor Strange and a battle with Thanos. He snaps back to a street corner in New York City, dodging locals who tell him to get out of the way, brushing against his shoulder and knocking him off balance.
After catching his breath, he decides it felt a lot like it did when he returned from the snap the first time, unsettling and heart pounding, a desire to figure out what was going on as quickly as possible coursing through his veins, his spidey sense always on alert for something more serious.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s in Queens, far enough away from the tourist areas to really be in the way, but just a few blocks from Peter Pan’s, leaving him just a short distance from being able to fix a decision he made when he was 17, one that he regretted from the day he made it.
There’s a nip in the air, tinging his cheeks red and turning the tips of his ears frigid cold. Flurries dust through the breeze, not enough to stick, but enough to make their presence known. There’s Christmas fundraisers on the street corner, a Salvation Army bell ringing somewhere in the distance, and each door that opens from the store on the corner offers a faint sound of Christmas music playing over the speakers.
It’s flooding back to him in phases, he realizes. The holiday season, the first true snowfall soon to come for the year. Sighing, he adjusts his beanie he knows he’s going to end up pulling off anyway when the warmth of Peter Pan’s envelops him, and decides he needs to focus on the task he snapped back to do.
He’s had nearly three years to think about how he should’ve handled it the first time. Three years to read his letter over and over, crumpled at the edges and smudged ink in the margins a reminder of what he hadn’t shared with her.
Three years of finding any way to do it over again, aware that each day he let things pass, the less likely it would be that she’d remember him at all.
In the end, going back in time was the only thing that made sense. He’d thought about it, promised himself that going back meant getting MJ and Ned back and figuring out how to piece his life back together.
He knew she’d be angry. Knew she’d freak out, probably have a million questions, and he’d gone through the answers in his head when he was at his apartment or in the shower.
There’s a chance she ignores him altogether, sharing that too much time had passed, that what he did was unforgivable and she didn’t want to even try to fix the relationship. He’d prepared for the worst, tucked neatly in the back of his mind as an in case of emergency scenario, hoping that if she doesn’t want to see him, maybe Ned will.
Blending into the bustling New York City streets, Peter weaves in with the locals and tourists, the pace feeling relentless as the snow begins to fall, steady and thick as the sidewalks become slick, the slush seeming to form almost instantly.
Smoothing his hands over his jeans, Peter pauses outside the bakery, just close enough to the windows to be able to see MJ appear from the back room, grabbing an apron from the wall and tying it on with ease.
It’s the first time he remembers really being nervous, the wind nipping at his cheeks, rendering him breathless.
As if he’s digging himself out of quicksand, Peter wills himself forward, opening the door to the bakery, the warmth of the heat greeting him.
The bell above the door chimes, alerting everyone of a new customer. MJ, who’d been rearranging the baked goods in the display case, looks up. Tossing the protective gloves in the trash she flattens out her apron, reaching to grab a new pair.
“What can I get you today?”
Peter knows he has two choices.
He can let things happen again the way they were always meant to - MJ figures it out on her own, with time, and he waits.
Or he can tell her this time. Open and honest, just as he promised in his amended letter when he traveled back to fix things.
He pulls the new letter from his back, noticing her eyebrows knit together as she watches him.
“You got a letter from me a little while back,” he begins, his voice shaking as he reads his scratchy handwriting, smudged pen marks lining the margins. “I’m sorry it took so long to come find you, but you have to know that I’ve thought of you every day since.”
Handing her the letter, Peter takes a step back, looking anywhere but at MJ. He notices her reading it from the corner of his eye, his heart in his throat as he looks around the diner that’s mostly deserted and the pastries in the display case that have probably been out for hours, thoughts running through his mind as if they’re in a catalog someone is desperately searching through.
“Peter,” she breathes, interrupting his train of thought.
He looks up, catching her eyes - wide, full of surprise and wonder and a hit of anger.
His MJ.
Peter nods, watching her pull the paper down to look back at him.
“Hi, Em.”
He barely has time to catch his breath before she’s barreling into his arms, her pear shampoo engulfing his senses as he holds her tightly.
He’s back.