Chapter Text
It’s funny, Peter thinks.
Funny how one minute, he’s in the Bronx, fighting head-to-slimey head, against what could only be described as a ginormous warping space blob.
Funny how, the next minute, he finds himself thrown full force into a colorful wormhole of spiraling blues and purples. Engulfed by the swirls, he vaguely recalls hurling, only for the substance to subsequently fly behind him, brushing against his spidey mask in the process.
That’s going to stink to wash later, Peter thinks to himself, briefly ignoring the absurdity of the situation.
Finally, the galaxy-toned spirals send him flying on the pavement, scraping his knees through the hearty fabric of his suit.
At last, he’s back in the Bronx. Peter entertains himself, quickly examining his gloved palms before raising his head, ready to finish the job for good.
Well, that is, until his gaze falls on a man.
A man who is, objectively, not a ginourmous warping space blob.
A man who was certainly not there before. Because Peter would have most definitely, and he means definitely, noticed him before- it isn’t every day you see a man on fire, Peter frets to himself, and one with a perfectly calm demeanor at that.
“That’s a funny-looking costume.” The man snorts, staring through the flames and down at the pavement where Peter is sprawled upon. Peter dully notes that the man appears to not only be in flames, but also levitating several feet off the ground.
“What the fuck?” He exclaims, jumping off the ground, only to immediately fall backward, cringing as his tailbone slams against the road.
“You might want to get out of the road, before you, y’know, get run over and, well, die.” The man snorts, offering Peter a hand. A gesture that Peter would have thought to be polite, if the hand wasn’t engulfed in flames, that is. Rather, Peter darts his eyes from the man's flamed, though oddly handsome-looking face towards the fiery palm, then back up again.
“The fire won’t hurt you.” The man frowns, “I thought everyone knew that.”
Everyone? Peter contemplates, Who does this guy think he is?
“Listen, dude, are you getting out of the road or not? It’s Halloween, I got shit to do, bad guys to fight, and whatnot.”
“It’s not Halloween.” Peter blurts, “And you don’t protect this city, I do.” He frowns.
The man snorts, “You really need to lay off the drinks, big guy.” His head nodded towards the pavement surrounding Peter. Following his gaze, Peter finds a series of empty glass bottles. Budweiser’s, and rather outdated ones, Peter would assume based on the vintage appearance of the labels.
“What? No way, dude. These aren’t mine!” He exclaims, “I-I just got here! I mean- well- I was here before, then I wasn’t, but now I am again!” Peter rambles, noticing the adjacent man’s eyebrows furrowing deeper with each word. “Listen, dude, I just need to get back to where I was so I can finish off the blob-looking guy.”
The fiery blonde gapes at him for a silent moment before bursting out laughing, flames inching higher with each chuckle, “Jesus Christ, man, you’re hammered!” He cackles.
“I am not-” Peter starts, frustration getting the best of him. It’s only then that he takes in his surroundings.
What the fuck?
It’s New York City, Peter notes, but not his New York. Instead, the buildings are a strange mix of futuristic and vintage. It’s strange, he thinks, seeing the sixties style fonts and advertisements, simultaneous to the floating buildings of shining whites and blues. It’s like a living comic book.
A large billboard glares brightly from behind the flames, the edges glowing a bright neon blue. Depicting a strange figure that looks to be a strange crossover between a desert rock and a large man. The billboard in question reads, It’s Clobberin’ Time, in an enthusiastic white font, and the statue-esque man sports a light blue outfit, identical in every way to the one in which the flame-ridden man in front of him wears, from the shade of blue to the large white four on the suit’s chest. The billboard has a small logo in the bottom left corner, which Peter can barely make out to read, The Fantastic Four.
“Is that you?” He interrupts himself, pointing to the vague direction of the advertisement.
“What?” The man swirls around, causing the flames surrounding him to create a tunneling effect. “You mean Ben?”
Peter huffs, annoyance twinging as he finds his footing and stands on his feet so he can further assess the situation he’s found himself in. “Well, he’s wearing your clothes, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but the dude’s made of rock, he looks nothing like me!” The man swivels around, looking somewhat patronized.
“You’re already on fire, how am I meant to know that you can’t also turn to stone? You’re clearly some sort of- some sort of… supernatural being!”
The man wrinkles his nose, peering down at Peter from where he floats several inches above him, “You really don’t know who we are?”
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Hm..” The flamed man rubs the back of his neck, his hand situated perfectly beneath his shirt, a tuft of bleach blonde hair. He’s clearly deep in thought, “I’ll tell you what, let me take you back to Baxter, and I’ll have good ol’ Mr. Fantastic take a look at you.”
Peter weighs his options. On one hand, he could take the strange fire-man’s offer, and possibly get some answers from whoever “good ol’ Mr. Fantastic” may be all while risking the fact that this man very well could be working with villains. Or, He could assess the situation in safety on his own.”
Then again, Peter always was an impulsive guy.
He stiffly nods, brushing his webbed hands against his pants in an attempt to calm down the beading sweat.
“Great,” He grins brightly, “I’m Johnny, by the way.” The man- no, Johnny, reaches a hand towards Peter.
Peter opts not to shake the fiery palm, still hesitant about the flames.
“Spiderman.” He returns, opting to nod stiffly.
“Spide-” Johnny starts, before cutting himself off with a brisk shake of his head. “Nice to meet you,” He grins instead, still holding out his hand.
There's an awkward pause, Peter still eyeing the flames through his mask.
“You know, you’ll have to grab my hand at some point. The subway will take forever, and I doubt you want to walk all the way there.” He frowns.
“I can-uh,” Peter stutters, racking his brain for the best way to explain that he can shoot webs from his fingers, “I- I web.” He settles on, nodding his head as though what he said had made any sense at all.
“You what?” Johnny snorts.
“I got it.” He quickly corrects, feeling blood rise to his cheeks.
“Soooo, we’re catching the subway or..?”
Peter throws a string of web at a nearby building, retracting himself towards it with an unsettling, but somehow familiar force.
“I got it,” Peter repeats himself loudly, from his new spot, now ten or fifteen feet above where Johnny floats. Hands and feet stuck firmly on cold brick.
Johnny gapes, hesitating momentarily before accelerating to Peter’s eye level. “Well then,” He grins wolfishly, “Right this way Spidey boy.”