Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Johnny Storm has always wanted to go out with a bang.

He can count on a single hand the amount of times his wish was almost granted. Once — that fated once, the once that changed his life forever and propelled him into the spotlight — is when he was caught in a cosmic storm with his sister, his brother-in-law, and his brother-in-law's best friend. Turns out his DNA was just altered fundamentally, and then he had these crazy powers, and you know what? Most of the time, he doesn't even mind that he had to nearly die to get them.

Twice is... well, twice is now.

He soars through the air, feeling flames engulf his limbs like embers rekindled from his core. His heart pounds in his ears as he stops, a suitable distance away from the giant metal prongs in the middle of Times Square, the only ones left on Earth despite their best efforts.

He glances at his watch, sees the timer steadily counting down. Sue has collapsed somewhere on the ground (bad), Franklin is safely clutched in Reed's arms (better), and Ben turns towards them with a thumbs-up.

But then Galactus' fat head peeks back through the portal when there is only eleven seconds left, and Johnny makes what must be the easiest decision in his life.

"Tell Franklin Uncle Johnny loves him," he mutters into the watch's mic, swooping suddenly. He weaves in between the broken skyscrapers, hugging their walls so that his family can't glean the frown on his face, far down below as they are. They know him too well, and he had hoped to save a world with all four — no, five — of them in it.

You win some, you lose some.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of silver. He figures it is the sun, reflecting its last rays he will ever see off the glass of a building.

He realizes his error staring Shalla-Bal in the eyes as they both come hurtling forward, too late for either of them to change route. He registers the shock and fear in her gaze, mirrored in his own. They collide with Galactus' chest at the same time.

And then darkness.

Johnny is dreaming.

That is the only possible explanation as to why he isn't a floating corpse in space right now, or at the very least, being pummeled to death by Galactus. Why he has bandages on his face and is surrounded by soft sheets, like they were just freshly washed, plus the noisy rattle of a heater old enough to be Reed's age in the corner of the room. In fact, the temperature is making him rather uncomfortable — he naturally runs warm — which. Well, it can't be right.

He should be dead.

"Don't say that," orders an exasperated, yet not unkind, voice from somewhere above him. "You're lucky I found you when I did. You were burning up."

And Johnny huffs out a laugh, despite himself, despite the circumstances and the rising panic in his throat. Oh, this stranger has no idea.

"Sorry about the heater," they continue. "But it feels like my toes are about to freeze off."

Then they place a wet towel on his forehead, dripping with cold water, and he sighs with relief. He opens his eyes fully now to get a good look at them. The water trickles into his lashes and blurs his vision slightly, but he doesn't care, drinking in the sight of the unfamiliar man.

Tired brown eyes blink down at him, framed by dark curls. His pale skin almost glows in the yellow lamp light, mouth set in a firm line, and Johnny finds himself wondering what it would look like curved into a smile. He seems about the same age as Johnny.

He takes in the remainder of his surroundings with a hunger he has only felt in space before. It is like he was transported across time instead of the universe: all straight lines, sharp edges, and muted colors. Even with how sparsely furnished the bedroom is, he can tell something is off.

"Where am I?" He tries, but it comes out of his dry throat as a whisper and sends him into a coughing fit moments later. The stranger simply nudges a glass of water towards him on the nightstand.

"Queens. My apartment, to be specific," he answers, a look of concern growing on his features.

"Okay." Johnny gulps down the glass of water, then more emphatically asks, "When?"

The stranger stares at him like he is crazy. "2027."

Decades. In the future.

"Right." He can't quite keep the distress from his voice. "And the Fantastic Four? What happened to them?"

"Who?"

"The Fantastic Four. Or— Five, I guess, if Franklin does turn out to be a superbaby. They saved the world?" He is really grasping at straws. But their hare-brained plan must have worked for Johnny to even be here.

"Never heard of them."

Suddenly, the panic that was steadily climbing reaches its threshold, and Johnny lets it consume him, not unlike when he was still getting his flames under control. Nothing made sense then — the difference now is that he doesn't have any of his family to help him figure it out.

"That explains the costume." The stranger doesn't seem to notice his impending meltdown, perching on the bed beside him. "Alright, I'm pretty sure I know what's going on."

Johnny prepares himself for another bombshell, somehow crazier than this. He holds his breath, waiting, only to hear:

"You're in an alternate universe."

Huh.

By no means do all the pieces click into place, but Johnny feels like he has part of the bigger picture with those five simple words. They have always known it was a possibility, but it was something that took the backburner after they got their powers, and especially after a beautiful woman made of silver came to their planet and told them it would soon be devoured by a ginormous space god-alien-thing.

It feels good to be right. It also feels kind of insane.

Still, having calmed him down a bit and completely unaware of the fact, the stranger says, "You're taking this better than I thought you would. I expected more screaming."

"I'm screaming internally, I'll have you know. To be honest, multiverse theory is more of Reed's thing — Reed Richards. No? My brother-in-law, likes to call himself the leader of the Fantastic Four? It's really weird you don't know who that is."

"I don't even know who you are."

"Fair enough." He holds out a trembling hand, and after a moment, the stranger shakes it. "I'm Johnny Storm."

"Peter Parker."

He pulls away, stealing a warmth with him that Johnny admittedly didn't mind. Then he yawns. "Listen, I'd love to talk more, but it's two in the morning and I have a lecture later, so... I'll be on the couch if you need anything. Make yourself at home."

Before it can register that he just gave Johnny his bed for the night, Peter is gone. He leaves through a door that must lead to the rest of the apartment.

Exhaustion finally hits him like a wrecking ball, softening the edges of his consciousness. He lies back, still in his dusty suit, and shuts his eyes. The thought of his family lingers in his mind: is Sue okay? What about Franklin and Ben? Was Reed able to get them all to safety in time?

Did Johnny's stupid idea to sacrifice himself work?

He digs his palms into his eyes and wills the unreal images of disaster away. Tries to, anyway. He forces his body to relax on the sheets.

He is asleep in minutes, but his dreams are full of screams and the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

Johnny wakes up before Peter.

He allows himself approximately five minutes to stew on his dreams. Then he bounces out of bed and does exactly what Peter told him to — make himself at home.

He takes a shower in the cramped bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the grime and filth of yesterday's battle. He finds some clothes that fit him fine, if a bit tightly, in the dresser before venturing into the apartment.

The kitchen is connected to the living room, both of which contain what could be described as the bare essentials: a stove, a sink, an old-fashioned radio, a few picture frames, and a ratty couch that can't be comfortable to sleep on. Still, Peter slumbers on, the bags under his eyes dark. Johnny leaves him be.

His stomach growls just as dawn breaks, so he begins to rifle through the cabinets. He eats straight from a box of stale cereal and watches the sun rise from a small window in the kitchen. The city outside seems similar enough to his own, only less vibrant. Which doesn't surprise him.

Sue, Reed, Ben, and Franklin aren't in it.

Trying to ignore the sharp sting of homesickness in his chest, he idly strolls the perimeter of the apartment. Hung on the walls are photos of Peter with the people he must care about. A man in fancy glasses and a suit, an attractive woman with the same wide gaze as him, and some friends.

One of them has curly brown hair and another photo all to herself, he notes. This one is more candid, like Peter took it himself. Her smile as she looks at the camera (or rather, the person behind it) is the brightest thing he has seen yet.

It feels private.

He looks away. At that moment, a car horn goes off beyond the window, and Peter stirs with a groan. His hair is ruffled, falling into his eyes as he squeezes the pillow around his ears. Johnny silently thanks the universe for the distraction — but for nothing else, because it has been a bastard to him otherwise.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he calls over the chorus of angry shouts from the street, and Peter visibly resigns himself to being awake. Johnny trails after him when he stands and slowly moves into the kitchen. He fills a pot with water, but before he can set it on the stove, Johnny takes it. "Lemme do that for you."

He boils the water with a flourish of his hand. Peter blinks at the flames skillfully isolated to his wrist, then stares. And stares. "Uh... your hand's on fire."

"It is," Johnny supplies cheerfully. "That's my entire schtick, actually. I can set any part of myself on fire. It comes in handy — no pun intended. But, hey!" He sets the steaming pot down. "I bet you've seen all kinds of freaky powers. Sounded like you knew what you were talking about with the whole alternate universe stuff, too. This has happened to you before, huh?"

Johnny is embellishing, he knows. Putting on a show, acting nonchalant when in reality, he is desperate. But Peter's gaze is strangely disarming. It probably isn't intentional, and that makes him want to hide behind the bravado even more.

"Yeah." Peter's voice drops to a mumble for some reason, as he pours a generous amount of coffee grounds into the water. "It was— a while ago. But we got everyone home in the end. Things turned out fine."

"Great. Who's we?"

"Me and Doctor Strange." The smell of coffee drifts through the air, making Johnny ache with the thought of Ben and his mug in the mornings. Of home. "He's... well, he's a wizard. Specializes in this kind of stuff."

"Where can I find him?"

Finally, Peter stops and looks at him. The desperation must be plain on his face, because despite his best attempt to hide it, Peter says, "We can visit him after my lecture."

Johnny could kiss him. Which he doesn't say out loud, that would be weird — they met yesterday — and actually doing it would be even weirder. So he settles for clapping him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."

Peter just smiles, small but radiant as the sun.

"Dude. What are you wearing?"

Peter pulls a mask over his head, completing the red and blue ensemble Johnny is currently staring incredulously at. He tilts his head, staring at him with large, stark lenses instead of the doe eyes Johnny knows are hidden behind them. He seems to debate something in his mind before letting out a muffled sigh. "Doctor Strange doesn't know Peter Parker. Who he does know is Spider-Man."

"Okay, I have like, twenty questions, but first: really? Spider-Man?" Johnny sputters, grinning. "I'm sorry, but that name is kinda ridiculous."

"Sure it is, Human Torch."

"Wha— I told you, you can just call me Torch!"

"Like that's any better." He clamps two metal cuffs around his wrists, the movement smooth and practiced. "Ready?"

"Of course." Johnny slings his body over the open window sill, landing on the fire escape. He is back in his dusty suit, anticipation flowing through his veins. "Think you'll be able to keep up?"

"You're funny." He can practically hear the smirk in Peter's voice as he emerges from his apartment, and suddenly wishes the mask didn't cover it. "Just follow me."

Then Peter lets go of the railing, and Johnny wonders if he just watched a man plummet to his death.

But his body comes careening up from below, carried by nothing but a rope of gossamer white, all lithe limbs and sharp angles, not unlike this city of his.

For the first time, Johnny finds it beautiful.

He hears himself laugh, astonished. Lets the heat in his chest unfurl and launch him into the air. Peter looks back at him, the light reflecting off his homemade suit, and Johnny hopes that under the mask he is just as mesmerized.

As promised, Peter has no trouble keeping up: each time he swings, it seems he need only turn his wrist a certain way and twist his body to meet the momentum, and the stars illuminate his graceful silhouette against the night sky. Johnny almost flies straight through a few buildings, he is so busy staring.

"That was only two questions back there, Torch. You have eighteen left." He almost thinks he heard Peter wrong, until he remembers and laughs.

"Well, that's plenty to get to know you before I have to go in..." Johnny glances down at his watch for effect. When he first woke up, it had already stopped working. "What, an hour or so? Depends on where you're taking me."

"The Village. Ask away."

Johnny huffs, noting how his breath comes out in a white cloud, then immediately vanishes from the warmth of his flames. "Alright. Who else have you met from an alternate universe?"

"Alternate Spider-Men. Their villains."

"I don't know whether to be amazed or creeped out. Were all of them also named Peter Parker?"

"Yep. It got confusing. Sixteen."

"That counted? Wait, don't answer that!"

By the time they arrive, Johnny has learned that Peter is a biophysics major, loves wheatcakes, got his powers from a radioactive spider (which just sounds like a bad idea), and has six years of experience under his belt as Spider-Man — longer than Johnny, and once that sunk in, it actually made a lot of sense. The sure set of his shoulders, how he gained an almost otherworldly confidence once he donned the suit.

Johnny doesn't think he would be able to tolerate it, being a lone vigilante. But Peter takes on the role comfortably, as if he has never known anything else, and that simply makes Johnny admire him more.

"Here we are," Peter says, landing before their destination. The building is multiple stories tall, surrounded by pillars of carved stone and overgrown foliage. A spherical window emerges from the roof, inlaid with gold that could use a polish. "Though it looks a little more run-down than the last time I saw it."

"I guess wizards aren't big on lawn maintenance." Johnny tries the door, gesturing to Peter when it doesn't budge. Together, they manage to crack it open enough for them to slip through.

Moonlight strikes them, shining through the window at the top of an empty flight of stairs. It is deathly quiet.

"Something's wrong." Peter's voice breaks the silence. "It's never this... unoccupied."

"Maybe he's on vacation?" The words sound pathetic even to Johnny's ears. His breath comes faster. "What now?"

What now, indeed.

He trails behind Peter as he begins to check the rooms, searching for any sign of life. Johnny tries not to panic, providing a source of light with his body when prompted — really, he tries. But then this room turns out to be empty, and so does that one, and slowly, his composure shatters.

Peter slams another door shut. Johnny doesn't hear it. No, all he can hear is his heart, pounding against his skull, and how he can't seem to get enough air whenever he inhales, and his own rapid thoughts, spiraling further out of control with each passing moment.

I'm never gonna get home, am I? I'll be stuck here forever, or at most when I return, everyone will have moved on without me. Franklin won't even remember me, he'll be all grown up. Sue and Ben and Reed, they'll have forgotten I existed. I'm never gonna get home. I'm never gonna get home. Never—

"Johnny. I need you to listen to me. Look at me, please."

He doesn't know when they made it to the floor, but he feels the cold stone biting into his back, and sees Peter kneeling in front of him, mask off. Johnny looks into those eyes, and keeps on staring, for dear life. It is easier than he thought it would be.

"Okay. Okay, good. Now can you copy me?" Peter sucks in a breath, unhurried, chest visibly rising. Then he exhales, and his chest falls.

It takes him a few tries, but Johnny's first inhale is choked. Peter just nods at him and murmurs: "That's it. You're doing good. Keep going. I'm here."

I'm here.

Those words reverberate in his mind the whole time, but they aren't overwhelming like before. At some point, Peter asks if he can touch him, and then he is gripping Johnny's shoulders, grounding him as he goes through the motions. After what must be an eternity, it stops feeling so horribly mechanical.

He only realizes he was crying when the tears stop.

The quiet descends again, ten times worse. Johnny stews in his shame. And again, Peter is the one to break it.

"Are you... okay?" He immediately shakes his head. "Fuck, that was a stupid question. I'm sorry."

Johnny remains silent. Peter is still touching him, having gotten comfortable on the floor a while ago, but his hands drift down to hold Johnny's. Their eyes meet, and Peter's gaze is tender and knowing at the same time.

"I'm sorry this didn't work out," he continues, squeezing his hands tightly. "I— I'm sorry I was so sure it would. But look, Johnny. I'm gonna do everything I can to get you home. I promise that we'll figure this out. Together. I'm gonna get you home."

His face, open and honest, makes it so easy to believe. As if through sheer force of will he can keep such an impossible promise.

So Johnny does.

He breathes out shakily and nods and collapses into Peter's welcoming arms.

And he believes.

Chapter Text

Later, Johnny hesitates in the doorway of Peter's bedroom.

As soon as they got back to the apartment, Peter threw him an oversized sweatshirt (with 'MIT' printed across it, which he recognized as a school Reed graduated from, but didn't trust himself to voice aloud, dry as his throat was from his little breakdown) and said, "Get some rest, okay?"

Only Johnny couldn't take that, and evidently neither could his heart, because it began to beat too fast all over again. After he changed and left his suit folded atop the dresser, he found himself staring at the door, acutely aware of the sounds of Peter moving just beyond it, preparing to sleep.

On the couch. For the second night in a row.

God. First he dumps his emotional baggage on Peter, then he forces him to give up his own comfort for Johnny's sake. He could really be an asshole sometimes.

His hand involuntarily drifted towards the knob, turning it with a confidence he didn't possess. Now, Peter looks back at him, expression curious. It makes him feel vaguely like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Did you need something?"

"Yes," Johnny ventures. His voice is wobbly, so he clears his throat and tries once more. "No. Well, I— I just don't think you should have to sleep on the couch. It can't be good on your back. You... um. You could come sleep in bed, if you want. With me."

Peter's lips part in surprise, and Johnny absolutely does not stare. He doesn't.

"It's your bed, after all," he barrels on, awkward.

And I don't wanna be alone, some part of him murmurs, but he resolutely ignores it.

Peter's response is barely more than a whisper, yet it sends shivers down Johnny's spine: "Yes. I want to. I mean, I don't think I could've taken this that much longer." Then he grins, and the sight is so intoxicating Johnny has no choice but to drink his fill.

Peter retrieves his pillow and steps into the room, heading for the far side of the bed. The low light and his disheveled curls make him seem... softer, if such a thing is possible, after he comforted Johnny with soft words and even softer hands. He settles on the sheets with a yawn, apparently too tired to have any qualms about sharing, like Johnny would have expected.

As for himself, what does it really matter at this point?

He has nothing left to lose.

Still, Johnny climbs in after him and his heart slows at the weight Peter adds to the bed, relief hitting him hard and fast. Even though they face opposite directions, curled up beneath seperate blankets, Johnny can feel the warmth radiating off him, inches away. It is dizzying. He hears his breath, the same steady rhythm that calmed him down just hours ago.

Don't do anything reckless, a voice in his head implores, one that sounds suspiciously like Sue.

His tongue lies heavy in his mouth. Abruptly, he wonders if his powers were a mistake, because he knows they can't thaw the cold that seizes him now, that has always frozen his body from seeking out the real heat it so desperately needs. Something other than sex — that has always left a hole in his chest, full of fleeting warmth. Something more tender.

Something like love.

"Thank you," is all he musters, in the end. "For everything."

After a beat of silence, he figures Peter must have already fallen asleep. Then he hears him say, "Of course. You have people waiting for you, right? A family?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Must be nice." Peter's voice is wistful, and he imagines his smile turning sad. "Goodnight, Johnny."

"...Night, Pete."

Johnny's dreams are blank that night. He isn't sure whether to be disturbed or relieved.

"Please tell me you guys have laundromats," Peter says the next morning, setting his full basket on a free bench.

Most are occupied, yet the room is hushed from the early hour. Johnny pushes himself up onto a washer, watching as the other man opens its door and piles in laundry, including both of their suits.

"We do, they're just... different." He is starting to feel like a broken record, but it is true. In this laundromat, the washers and dryers are separate machines, and their much smaller screens have less options. Peter stretches an arm past him to select the right ones, and Johnny sees his raised brows as a sign to continue. "But our trains also fly through the air, and whenever you need to make a call, you have to walk to the nearest pay phone bank, so..." He trails off. "Honestly, this isn't too crazy."

Peter tilts his head, leaning back against another machine and crossing his arms. He huffs, mouth curving. "It's weird. Like your universe's technology staggers in some places, and exceeds ours in others."

"Jealous, Pete? I didn't take you as the type."

Johnny relishes in the faint redness that brings to Peter's cheeks, the easy air between them. "Shut up," he shoots.

The door opens with a jingle, and the rest of the morning crowd shuffles in. He spares them only a glance, but Peter suddenly stands up straight, eyes locked on the sight. They grow rueful, and the private smile that was tugging on his lips disappears.

"You good?" Johnny searches his expression, and when he finds nothing familiar there, he looks at the crowd again.

Then he notices her.

The woman who has a picture frame all to herself at Peter's apartment. Her hair is longer, but her slim jaw and defined cheekbones are the same. Just as beautiful in person as he rendered her in that photo. He realizes now it was only a capture of time, and the memory doesn't do her justice.

Maybe that is why she stops at a washer across the room, oblivious, while Peter stares at her back, still rooted to the spot, like he doesn't even know her anymore.

Johnny can't keep his stupid mouth shut.

"You should talk to her," he urges, despite the sinking in his own stomach. She must be an old flame, and hey, Johnny is planning on being here for a while, right?

Might as well make something good out of it — even if, for whatever nonsensical reason, he feels the protest down to his very bones.

Peter shakes his head and finally tears his gaze away from her. "No. Now's not the time."

"When will be the time?"

"Never." He shifts his body towards Johnny, as if removing himself from a trance. "Your watch. Could I take a look at it? Maybe it's part of the key to getting you home."

Johnny doubts it. The simple design hasn't changed much since they built the watches, back when the four of them were just starting out as heroes. But Peter clearly wants to switch the subject, and he is willing to try almost anything if it might mean seeing his family again.

"Knock yourself out." 

Apparently, "taking a look" includes dismantling it.

"This whole set-up worries me. You're worrying me," Johnny groans. He sounds too much like Reed in his head, who has a mini heart attack whenever someone so much as sneezes near an experiment or work in progress, but he thinks he understands him a bit better now. Peter isn't even wearing goggles. "How have you not died yet?"

"I ask myself the same question everyday." His hair hangs in his eyes, and Johnny resists the impulse to run his fingers through it. Just to get it out of the way, of course.

He continues to prod at the opposite side of the watch face with a pair of tweezers. His touch seems delicate, though it is betrayed by the shower of sparks that flies when he must find the—

"Kinetic capacitor," Peter murmurs. "It still has some juice. Yet the watch itself won't turn on."

"Our portal probably fried the power." Johnny sighs, peering down. "We'll need a replacement. Does it look any different than the ones you have here?"

Peter straightens and shakes his head. "I've never seen one of this size, but I could always just solder multiple together. There are a few more things that need work, but maybe then we can get it running again."

"Maybe." The thought of speaking into the mic and hearing a familiar voice on the other end... Hope swells in his chest, equally exhilarating as it is dangerous.

But Peter chats on excitedly, and Johnny can't bring himself to care.

They settle into a sort of routine, after that.

Between Peter's lectures and their slow but steady progress repairing the watch, they begin to patrol together. Before they leave the apartment, Peter tunes the old radio Johnny noticed in to the NYPD's citywide frequency and listens for active crimes, from petty ones like purse thieves to larger ones like arms deals, just as a starting point.

There is usually no shortage of activity, even late into the night, and so most of the time, they also grab dinner. Since Peter knows this iteration of the city so well, he picks the spots they eat from. He has yet to take Johnny somewhere that isn't absolutely delicious.

"My aunt and I used to love this place. We went whenever one of us screwed up dinner," Peter explains, at a hole in the wall Thai restaurant. "Which was... often. But I haven't been here in forever."

Johnny files that detail away in his head, beside the other strange bits and pieces he has gathered about Peter's past. His aunt is the only family member he really mentions, and even then it is rare. Nothing about his parents — either he wasn't raised by them or they didn't keep in touch.

Johnny has experience with both, and he doesn't exactly go around advertising the information. So he understands.

He lets Peter order for them, and watches as he pushes his mask up to his nose when the food arrives. It smells great. They dig in immediately.

"Holy shit," Johnny groans around a spoonful of green curry, citrusy and sweet and full of spice. "I love you," he declares to Peter, whose laughter chases away the shadows in the corners of the room.

Johnny swears he considers it a joke, too.

Another night, he takes a punch to the face a little too hard on. His nose starts to bleed, hot and gushing. His flames extinguish as the pain sears through his face. It is almost enough to distract him from how Peter stiffens, directing his attention to the group of thugs they caught hijacking a truck.

Almost.

Johnny stares at the scene unfolding before him: Peter's lean muscles straining against the tight fabric of his suit, his hands that make quick work of the men, and yet have been nothing but kind to Johnny. Blood trickles down his lips, and he is suddenly parched.

Once the last guy has dropped, Peter tears off his mask and rushes over. His hair is sweaty and stuck to his forehead. He blinks at Johnny through the damp curtain, expression worried.

Instead of asking if he is okay, Peter pants: "Careful. I like your face the way it is."

And all at once Johnny wants to smash their lips together, teeth clashing so it hurts, more than this ache in his chest.

I'm screwed, he thinks.

About a week later, Johnny wakes to screaming.

He shoots up, blanket falling from his shoulders as his eyes scan the room. The past four years have drilled into him the importance of not hesitating, of not waiting for the sound to repeat before he takes action. Bad things could happen as a result. Preventable things.

But all he finds is darkness and silence.

Peter's back faces him on the bed. His legs are still tangled in the sheets, shifting slightly. It reminds Johnny of fitful nights with Franklin's cries echoing off the walls two rooms over, how he eventually gave up on falling back to sleep, pulled out his headphones and the record player, and sat listening to the recordings that promised his world certain doom.

Now, Peter is the one who can't sleep soundly. And Johnny is awake, clueless as to what visions are tormenting him, whether they are similar to his own or not.

Yet that breath he relied on is no longer steady. Instead, it comes in irregular huffs, and though barely audible, makes his heart clench.

"Peter?" He murmurs, reaching out to touch his arm. It is another one of those easy decisions — of course he would rather die than let Galactus hurt his family. Of course he would try to save Peter from himself. "Wake up."

When that doesn't succeed, he turns on the lamp and gently maneuvers Peter onto his back. He shakes his shoulders. "Please wake up, Pete."

Then, feeling silly, he says: "I'm here."

He convinces himself that won't be what does the trick — and fails in quick succession as Peter's eyes flash open. He lies there and takes surreptitious glances around the room, as if reminding himself where he is.

"Johnny? I woke you, didn't I." His voice is low, resigned. He buries his face in his hands, looking utterly miserable. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Johnny assures. "I wouldn't have wanted you to stay in that nightmare."

Peter blinks at him. "That obvious, huh?"

Maybe it is the darkness, unable to breach their small circle of light, that pushes Johnny to be brave. Or maybe it is the helplessness he felt those nights, reflected on Peter's face. "Yeah. Do you wanna... talk about it?"

The helplessness morphs into shock. Like it has been an eternity since anyone asked him that.

His head jerks down to stare at his lap. "I should. I should've told you from the beginning. Fuck. I'm such an idiot."

"You're worrying me again, Pete," Johnny admits, unable to resist leaning closer. "Just tell me now. I'm sure it's fine."

Peter's gaze flickers up to him. "Promise you won't be mad."

"What—"

"Promise me."

Johnny registers the gravity of his voice. And despite that, or perhaps because of it, he says: "I promise."

Something about this man makes him want to promise. To gather him against his chest and murmur sweet nothings, press soft kisses into his hair—

Peter takes a shaky breath. Then he spills.

"Things didn't turn out fine, last time this happened. I made a stupid mistake. It brought everyone who knew my identity under the mask to this universe, and— the only way to stop the world and millions of others from going to utter shit was to make everyone forget I existed. Not Spider-Man. Me. But before that, I ruined my best friends' lives, and got my aunt killed—"

He cuts off, choking on a sob. Johnny's heart breaks.

"So I deserve it. The nightmares, the consequences, being alone. It was my fault, all of it. I deserve this."

Johnny is speechless for a moment. Suddenly, what Peter said about Doctor Strange not knowing him makes terrible sense. So does his reluctance at the laundromat, and the way he speaks about his aunt in the past tense.

The thought that he deserves anything less than happiness doesn't.

He seems to take Johnny's silence as a bad sign, curling up into a ball with his knees against his chin, and it snaps the other man out of his stupor. "Hold on. I don't believe for a second it was all your fault. I've seen you. You're not that kind of person."

Those words manage to lift Peter's head a bit. His dark eyes stare shining up at Johnny, and he scrambles to continue.

"You took me in when I was a complete stranger. You've been letting me borrow your clothes, eat your food... sleep in your bed." Johnny doesn't think he imagines the flush that spreads across his cheeks. "You're helping me get home, and you barely even know me. I think that speaks for itself, don't you?"

Peter squints. "Well, I couldn't let you wear that suit all the time, now could I?"

"C'mon. Not fair," Johnny huffs, surprising them both with a laugh. He ignores the slight ache in his chest. "I'm being serious. You're deflecting."

"Fine. I'm sorry," Peter says, returning his smile, shaky but present. "Go on."

"My point is... you're amazing. And I know for a fact that you don't deserve it." Feeling bold, he squeezes Peter's forearm, the bare skin hot against his palm. "You don't need to tell me everything, but you shouldn't have to deal with it alone. Wake me if you get another one?"

Peter wipes the tear tracks away from his face. Inhales. He nods once, twice. "Okay."

He grabs Johnny's hand and squeezes back.

"I will."

That is enough.