Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Peter heard the loading of the gun, he’d already made up his mind. 

It happened in less than a second, but it felt like a lifetime to him, forcing every fiber of his being to move, move, move, as the back of his neck screamed at him of the nearby danger.

In the blink of an eye, the scene that had once surrounded him dissipated, leaving him reeling as he tumbled forward. He didn’t register the pain at first, too occupied with the chill that seemed to wash over him after forcing himself back to the present. All he could think about was the bullet, Jean—

The presumed target of the shot was in front of him now. His hands quickly braced themselves on her forearms as he stood them both up, grabbing her to make sure she was tangible.

“Are you hurt?” He asked instinctively, eyes scanning over her face and chest to make sure there was no sight of the bullet.

“No, I’m fine,” she responded breathlessly. Her voice hitched slightly as she looked down, eyes catching on her hand. Staring back at her was the red shimmer of blood that was not her own. Immediately, her eyes tracked back up to him as the realization seemed to dawn on her, breaths quickening with a sudden panic.

Peter saw the moment it clicked in her eyes, but by then, he’d long accepted it. 

“I’m okay,” he breathed out, trying in vain to put as much comfort behind the words as he could possibly muster. He already felt his limbs growing numb and cold with the telltales of shock. It was already too late.

“Peter.” Jean’s voice shook as she stared wide-eyed at him, her hands suddenly clutching onto the fabric of his suit fervently.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he tried to tell her dizzyingly, but he found his own mind escaping him. His knees buckled under his weight, sending him careening to the ground. Jean wasn’t strong enough to ease his fall, leading to his back thudding against the cold floor as pain rose to meet him.

“Peter,” Jean called out, as if she could change the situation, her voice teetering over into a sudden fear he had felt so many times before. “Peter, no, no.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled to press them against his chest in a weak attempt to stop the bleeding. All it did was cause Peter to let out a harsh groan of agony, squeezing his eyes shut as the true pain finally hit him. His whole body felt like it was on fire. 

“Peter, Peter, please,” Jean cried out from above him, her voice sounding like that of a lost child. It sent a flash of déjà vu through him. “Peter, no, nonono—”

“May? May?”

This was the cycle meeting its end, he knew that now. Suddenly, he understood what that of his mentor and aunt must’ve felt in their final moments. He only hoped theirs weren’t nearly as painful as this, that maybe they were waiting for him and willing to forgive him.

“Jean,” he forced himself to say, spurred on only by adrenaline. Words were already becoming a lost cause to him, hard to force out around the blood clogging his throat. The action sent another flare of searing, hot agony to pass through him. “Jean, you g-gotta get outta here. They’ll be looking for you.”

Instinctively, he tried to take a breath, but found his lungs uncooperative, leaving him to cough and choke on his own blood. He could practically hear the shallow rattle of his chest, struggling to do something as simple as rising and falling. A sudden panic flooded through him at the inaction, dulled only by the knowledge that there was no coming back from this. This would be better.

“No, no, no, please just stay with me,” Jean pleaded from above him, tears cascading down her cheeks. Her hands were coated in his blood, trembling as they continued to fruitlessly press against his chest.

“Jean, you’re—” Peter tried to wheeze out, but the words were lodged in his throat, coming out more like a gurgle. “You’re gonna be… okay.”

All he could taste was the copper tang of blood in his mouth. His chest was seizing in pain, no longer able to take in a breath. The next time he tried, he came up short.

“Look at me,” Jean tried again, voice wobbling.

“May? Would you look at me? Please?”

For a moment, he stilled, and flashes of the cold eyes of May returned to him, unable to fulfill his own command. He thought of Tony, the far-off look in his eyes that saw permanently off into the distance where Peter couldn’t reach him. If he could do anything, he’d make sure Jean didn’t have to be met with that haunting image at least. 

Peter grunted with as much strength as he could muster, forcing his head to tilt to the side and stare at her. He could feel the warmth of the blood pooled beneath his head sticking to his matted curls. It was everywhere now, pointlessly being regenerated by his healing ability with nowhere else to go but out. His body was locking up, going cold against his will despite its attempts to stitch his skin back together at the wound. It was pointless, he knew that. Not to mention, incredibly painful. It sent a shudder through him, too much of a reminder of a past version of himself, one that begged more than anything to live. 

“Look at me,” Jean repeated again, her tone a shaky attempt at being strong. Peter didn’t break his gaze, even as he heard dull footsteps echoing from behind her. He tried one last time to get the words out, to warn her that someone was coming, she needed to run, but there was nothing he could do now. He’d run out of time.

In Peter’s line of work, despite his constant attempts at trying to stop it, death was unbearably common. He had always been told that the loved ones who slipped from his fingers left with seven minutes of happy memories. 

As Jean’s face became blurry in front of him, he hoped that his were good.

He wasn’t sure if he had that many.

.

.

.

Finally, Peter let go.

The last thing Peter expected was a faint light blooming beyond his eyelids, enough to make him scrunch up his face with a feeling of discomfort. 

Huh. That’s weird. He shouldn’t be able to feel anything. Anything besides the numbness encompassing his entire body.

With what little strength he could muster, he forced himself to blink his eyes open, wincing at the sudden change in brightness. 

The first thing he realized after regaining his composure was: Holy shit, I’m supposed to be dead.

The second thing he realized was, as he blinked past the blurring dizziness in his vision, he was somewhere familiar. Peter was sitting on a twin-sized bed in a small room. The walls were bare, save for a Mets pennant in the corner and a few shelves lined with miscellaneous objects. It looked just like his old bedroom in May’s apartment, except for the small, minor detail of the fourth wall in front of him being completely absent, leaving an endless black hallway in its place. 

The third thing he realized was: Holy shit. I’m like really dead.

He’d been looking into that void mere moments ago, but something seemed much more off about it this time. Peter felt like he was staring his own death in the face now, and the longer he stared, the more his head ached. 

And yet, Peter contemplated standing up, moving toward it, compelled by some buzz beneath his skin that promised comfort, but a persistent tug in his chest kept him rooted to his spot on the bed. He felt himself inhale and exhale once. Twice. Again. 

That shouldn’t be possible, he thought. Peter had made sure of it. Right?

His head felt fuzzy, like there were wisps of memories right out of his reach—the sound of a gun loading, a shot, and then there was pain, and–

Knocking. Three knocks at the door. Three familiar knocks.

“Hey,” a voice called out to him gently. Peter didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to. He’d been here before, but he looked up anyway, keeping his jaw clenched.

“You think you don’t have to listen to me now that you’ve got powers?” May said softly, a smile forming on her face as she chuckled. Peter huffed out a laugh despite himself, keeping his eyes downcast. He’d missed the sound of her voice. He’d missed her.

Peter took in another breath through his nose, pushing down the horrible feelings of guilt and depression that tried to climb their way up his throat. He could play along, just for this one moment. He could pretend that it was fine, that he wasn’t jealous of a version of himself he’d buried long ago that still had all of this.

“You know,” May started slowly, “this whole thing can get pretty scary. You know that?”

“I know,” Peter answered, his own voice sounding younger, distant, not truly his own as May’s eyes searched his face for something he wasn’t sure of.

“And things can change, like, very quickly,” she added with a snap of her fingers, “in ways that we can’t even imagine right now.” 

“Believe me, I know,” Peter echoed back, smiling sadly as he hung his head. Wasn’t that the truth?

“No,” May dismissed. “I don’t think you do know.”

In the silence, Peter felt his bottom lip wobble, the tears he’d been trying to push back making themselves known by glossing over his eyes as he looked back up at her. She returned his gaze with a serious one, and Peter could pretend for just another moment that she was really here, looking at him, and it wasn’t a cruel trick of his subconscious to keep him in whatever purgatory this was.

More than anything, he wanted to move, to hug her again, but he felt frozen in his own distant memory, cursed to stay on script. 

“What do you mean?” His younger self responded tearfully through him.

May finally grasped his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You’re a really special person. And I would hope that that will always make you feel really great about yourself… but I know sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you’ll feel really lonely.”

Peter felt the beginnings of tears falling down his face, landing on the mesh fingertips of the old Spider-Man suit he was still wearing, though he knew deep down it wasn’t truly his. It belonged to a version of himself from a lifetime ago. If only he’d known what it meant back then, how true his aunt’s words were. If only he hadn’t taken his whole life for granted. 

“And sometimes, because you’re special… people can do dark, monstrous things to you. But… this is what I want you to know,” May continued softly. “You’re beautiful. And the people who love you, we love you not because you’re special, we love you because you’re you. I want you to remember that, even when it feels like you’re totally alone. That’s your deepest responsibility.”

Peter felt himself finally hiccup out a sob as May’s arms came around to embrace him, pulling him in tight. He burrowed his head into the crook of her neck and let himself cry as she shushed him with all the care in the world. 

“Never forget that,” she whispered, “no matter how powerful you become.”

“Okay,” he heard himself croak out. I’m sorry, is what he really wanted to say. I’m so sorry.

He let himself be held, rocked back and forth by strong, warm arms that he’d been longing to feel again for the last four years of his life. Peter tried to capture every single detail of this moment in his mind. All the little things he’d forgotten that he refused to do so again, like the hints of frizz sticking out from her hair as a telltale sign that she’d been trying something new in the kitchen again, or the smell of the citrusy lemon tang from her perfume that she’d stopped wearing years ago in fear it would overwhelm Peter’s senses. He couldn’t believe he’d let those bits and pieces escape him for all this time. It was almost ironic.

After a few moments, Aunt May slowly released her hold on him, pulling back to look him in the eyes. 

No, Peter wanted to scream. This wasn’t fair. He deserved more time, he wanted—

Peter felt a sudden, sharp pang in his head, causing him to cry out and recoil back. His hands immediately clasped over his ears, expecting the onslaught of overload on his senses. Instead, he was met with a humming he could only describe as gentle, coming from in front of him. As he looked up, he noticed that the presence of the darkness that loomed beyond had seemed to grow larger, its wispy shadows slowly consuming the walls like licks of flame. It was almost like it was trying to beckon him in. 

Just looking at it had another round of vertigo passing through him, and he instinctively brought a hand up to rub at his temple. It didn’t help to stop the sudden searing pain that flashed through his abdomen, causing him to keel forward in on himself. The pain was only subsided by the tug in his chest from before, intensifying with a burning fervor. 

Breathe, it seemed to be telling him. Don’t stop.

So he did it without question, inhaling and exhaling shakily as the void seemed to withdraw back into the depths of the room. Slowly, the tugging in his chest seemed to lessen as well, leaving an aching sensation in his stomach at its absence. At some point, Peter forced himself to sit up a bit straighter, noticing that Aunt May’s presence had disappeared beside him, leaving him alone in his old bedroom once again with nothing but a distant pain blooming in his back.

God, he was so tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this tired, not even when he’d died the first time. 

The first time?

That wasn’t right. 

Peter sucked in a breath as the ache in his back retreated little by little. It felt like there was a fog shrouding his mind, like a web or curtain he couldn’t quite see through. All he could recall was something warm beneath him, someone crying in the distance. He remembered hot, searing pain blossoming all over his chest as he took in shallow breaths. His last breaths. He’d felt peace at knowing that was it, closing his eyes, and then—

The memory shifted.

This time, when Peter went to blink open his eyes, he was met with much more backlash. The light seeping in through his shut eyelids felt much more intrusive, like an inch underneath his skin. Opening his eyes, he was hit with an immediate dizziness that sent him careening into the nearest wall, his shoulder unfortunately meeting the structure first. To his surprise, he didn’t feel any pain, just the same numb, floaty feeling as before. It didn’t stop him from swallowing a wince out of habit as he forced himself upright.

Once he was back to standing on his own two legs comfortably again, Peter quickly swiveled his head around, inspecting the new environment. His spidey sense didn’t seem to pick up on any threats, nothing new outside of the soft hum it’d been making since—

Holy shit, Peter thought for what must’ve been the tenth time. This was another place he recognized. Much less familiar than the last, but somewhere he knew regardless. Somewhere he hadn’t been in almost ten years. 

The knot in Peter’s chest tightened as his limbs moved on autopilot, carrying him through hallways as fast as he could past the large A logo branded onto the wall. He almost lost his footing as he slid to a stop outside the room he knew better than the others—because there was just no way. This wasn’t happening. This had never happened before.

He let out too-fast breaths that were more akin to pants as he waited for the doors to slide open. It was only a mere moment after they did that he barged into the compound’s lab uninvited.

That’s when it hit him again, that same sort of fuzzy feeling as before that muffled the forefront of his thoughts. He kept running through it, ignoring the way the world warped around his blurry sight until it seemed like everything had become just slightly more at eye level.

“Mr. Stark!” A much younger version of himself called out through him.

Sure enough, entering the lab a little further, Peter could make out the silhouette of Tony Stark standing at one of his workbenches, pausing in place to look up at him.

Peter’s younger self didn’t waste a second before running up to his mentor, practically vibrating with energy. He let himself be guided by the memory of his past, relishing the happy spark he felt in his gut that he hadn’t experienced in years. Through its eyes, he got to see Tony again, and for a moment, he let himself float in the feeling. 

“Holy shit, Mr. Stark! You aren’t gonna believe this, oh my god. Get this, right? I was just on patrol, being super careful like you always tell me to, y’know? And then—”

“Pete—”

“—I overheard this super loud noise from one of the alleys, and I kinda thought to myself, like, oh! It’s probably the usual mugger or something, right?”

“Kid—”

“But then, when I got to the alley, there were, like, 20 cats all there trying to snatch this one guy’s food! It was so crazy that at first, I thought: ‘Okay. Maybe I should’ve let Karen check me for a concussion earlier,’ but—”

“You’re concussed?”

“—it was so cool, Mr. Stark! It was like that one scene from that really old Disney movie, The Aristocats! You know that scene? At the end? When all the cats team up to fight the one guy? It was just like that! I had kinda thought maybe the man was the bad guy in this situation, because usually cats have an incredible sense of judgement, so I webbed him up and checked him through Karen, and I was totally right! Turns out that the bag the cats were after had a bunch of stolen goods inside, and they must’ve smelt it when he passed by. Can you imagine how cool that’d be if I could do that? My life would be ten times easier! Maybe I could have a sidekick!”

There was a beat of silence after Peter finished his rambling, smiling brightly with an almost giddy expression. The only sound was of the kid’s heavy pants as he tried to catch his breath. Then—

“You done?” Tony deadpanned after a moment, raising an eyebrow unamused.

“Huh? Wh- oh- yeah. Yeah, I’m done. I’m done,” Peter huffed out, still trying to breathe regularly again.

“You sure? It’s all out of your system?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter affirmed breathlessly, nodding.

“Y’know, that was not the greeting I was expecting,” Tony mused. “Is that how you kids greet people nowadays? No ‘Hi, hello, how are you?’ anymore?”

“Hi, hello, how are you?” Peter quipped back just as quickly, causing Tony to give him another incredulous look.

Tony sighed in response, a smile dancing on his lips. “I’m finally rubbing off on you, kid,” he admitted with an air of pride, finally placing his tool down on the workbench he had yet to move from. 

Peter blinked up at him a few times, grinning sheepishly. “Is that a good thing?”

“Depends,” his mentor continued, motioning with his hands. “If it’s the genius, charisma side, all good, no questions asked, you got that handled.”

Tony paused for a moment, as if assessing the alternative, before deciding otherwise and clapping his hands together. “In fact, let’s call it there. That’s all I'm allowing.”

Despite trying his best, Peter couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh; one that, to his surprise, had Tony smiling in kind.

“I think this is the longest you’ve gone without actually asking me why I called you in today,” the older man finally stated, turning around.

“Oh! Yeah!” Peter quickly shot up with newfound energy. “Yeah, right, duh. What’s up today, Mr. Stark?”

Just as Tony opened his mouth to answer, another sudden pain flared behind Peter’s eyelids. He almost lost his balance from the sudden onslaught on his senses, stumbling and squeezing his eyes shut as a high-pitched, keening sound escaped him. The world seemed to shrink in on him yet again, that familiar darkness that had been hiding beyond the horizon in the windows showing itself again. He clamped his hands over his ears, shoulders tucked all the way up to the sides of his face. Another ragged sound, a mix between a panicked cry and a groan, escaped him as the throbbing sensation in his chest took over his entire being. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, make it stop. Please.

The tug in his chest returned tenfold, as if tethering him to this moment, this memory.

You’re okay, it seemed to tell him. Breathe.

He couldn’t, Peter realized. He couldn’t. Every attempt at an intake of breath just ended in a loud, rattling sensation sounding from his chest, one that he knew wasn’t normal. His lungs weren’t cooperating, they were failing him—

Breathe, it said again, more persistently. This time, when Peter tried to gulp down air, it seemed to obey, filling up his lungs each greedy breath after the other.

Don’t stop, the voice said again. He wasn’t sure if it was the same one as before or his own subconscious. Maybe at some point, they’d merged into one. 

Don’t stop.

The same exhaustion from before seemed to hit him like a truck yet again. Surrounding him now was an empty Avengers compound, a lack of Tony, and the same darkness in the corner of his vision that was just waiting to get the jump on him.

Don’t look. Stop looking at it.

Turning his head to the ground, Peter let himself look back down at his hands. They had changed again, or, more specifically, returned to normal. No longer did he see his own 15-year-old self’s smooth skin, but the calloused hands of the present-day, still littered with scabs and blood.

It seemed to hit him then that he still had never found out where exactly he was, or, more specifically, what the hell was happening to him.

Was he dead? Last time he checked, dead people couldn’t feel things. Or, y’know, have the ability to breathe. Then again, if he was alive, he probably shouldn’t be seeing the ghosts of his dead family like he was in A Christmas Carol, or something. 

Maybe he was in some sort of personal hell. Oh god, he hoped not. A part of him wondered if maybe he deserved it after he killed May, but he thought that the years' worth of crime-fighting after the fact would’ve at least scrubbed some of that off him. It hadn’t made him feel any better, though, so he supposed not.

He wasn’t granted another moment to think about it as the tug returned once more, this time with the intent of dragging him down even further. Without much else to guide him, he let himself fall, allowing the pain in his back to dissipate as he closed his eyes for the last time, and—

Blinking back the dark spots in his vision, he was met with an empty room for the third time. 

The scene had shifted almost imperceptibly, leaving him sitting on a fluffy rug in a bedroom that wasn’t his. Peter’s back was now resting up against the side of a wooden bed frame in place of the ache that was present there before. All things considered, he felt oddly… content. Not that he hadn’t before, but there was an air of calm in this place specifically, enough to almost let his eyes slip closed—

“Alright, I’m back, loser. Sorry that took so long. You know how they can get.”

Peter felt himself freeze in place, instinctively turning his head toward the noise without a second thought. There, in the door frame, stood MJ, her curls dancing across her shoulders. As she entered the room, he could make out that she was wearing something close enough to pajamas, a bowl of popcorn in her hands.

For a selfish moment, Peter wished more than anything that he could live this moment for himself instead of passively watching it through his 16-year-old eyes. He wanted it to be him here, readying up for a movie night with his girlfriend and not a worry in the world. If he couldn’t have that now, he should get to have this. Please just let him have this.

The thoughts were but a fleeting attempt, fruitless against whatever higher powers held him here. Soon enough, he felt the veil drape back over his eyes as MJ plopped down beside him.

“Yeah, I get it,” he heard himself say, giving her a cheeky smile as he turned his head to glance at her. 

She shifted a few times until her back was comfortably resting against the side of the bed. “So… what’s so special about the floor today?”

“Oh, y’know. Maybe I just wanted to mix it up a bit,” he responded lamely, causing MJ to lift a brow in amusement. “…or maybe you just have a really comfy rug?”

“Good answer,” MJ said with a smile, placing the bowl out in front of them. In return, Peter grabbed the remote and handed it to her.

She grinned at the act, tilting her head as she looked at him. “What, not going to try to force me into watching your nerdy movies, Parker?” 

“Only unless you want to hear me talk the entire time,” he replied sheepishly. “I mean- not that you’d need me to explain them. I’m just—”

“A dork,” MJ finished for him. “Don’t worry, you’ve made that very clear.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile, feeling his face flush a bit under her gaze. “Okay, well, yeah.” He shifted slightly in his spot. “But you like it.”

There was a beat of awkward silence, then:

“Wow,” MJ said, shaking her head unimpressed. “I can’t believe that’s your attempt at flirting with me.”

At Peter’s stunned lack of comeback, MJ burst out into soft laughs, shoulders curling forward ever so slightly. Once they subsided, she shook her head almost fondly. 

“We’ll work on it.”

It was then that Peter realized they still hadn’t chosen a movie. At some point, they’d both turned inwards, almost fully facing each other now. MJ was still smiling at him silently, and Peter felt himself lean towards her presence like a moth to a flame. 

For one second, they were just both existing in the moment, wrapped in each other’s presence without noticing the distance (or lack thereof) between them. The next, her hand came up to caress his cheek and pull him in gently towards her, pressing their lips together.

Peter felt his mind quiet completely, blocking out everything around him. Just for this one moment, he let himself be held in her embrace, kissing back in hopes he’d get the message across. I love you, I love you, I love you.

At some point, they broke for air, small pants escaping each of them in tandem. 

Peter swallowed, taking in a few soft breaths to calm his racing heart. “You think we need to… work on this part at all?” He asked with as much mustered-up suave as he could manage. If anything, it just made him sound even nerdier than before.

MJ laughed in response, crashing their lips together again with renewed fervor. She smiled against him as their noses brushed, one hand pressed against the back of his neck. Peter felt himself fall slowly to the rug underneath him, though it was no longer his primary concern. MJ had her hands braced against the floor on either side of him, each one on either side of his head. Peter found that his arm was slung across the side of her waist, bracing her to keep her upright as they both breathed in sync.

A shy smile broke out on his face as he stared dizzyingly into her eyes, chest still rising and falling heavily. “Hi.”

“Hi,” MJ echoed back breathlessly, gaze unmoving from his face.

Peter let out a soft laugh of glee, taking the time to memorize every aspect of the moment in his mind, down to the exact feel of the rug underneath him.

Slowly, MJ’s hands retreated from where they were supporting herself, sitting back up with an unabashed smile on her face.

“Alright, nerd, I’ll give you that one,” she huffed out, eyes never leaving him.

Peter couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he straightened himself out, his heart still swooping in his chest. He felt almost magnetized to her, wanting more than anything to let himself fall into her again, but he held back, letting the moment unfold on its own.

Instead, he rested his head against her shoulder, relishing in how quick she was to let her own fall into place. They almost fit together like two perfect puzzle pieces.

“Your dad is gonna kill me,” Peter mumbled out lightly, face slack with contentment as his eyelids drooped.

“I already told you, my dad really likes you.”

“Not if he heard any of that.”

That got a genuine laugh out of her, squeezing Peter’s hands where they’d inevitably gotten tangled together between them. “Through the rug you love so much? I’m sure.”

Peter hummed in lieu of response, craning his neck to somehow bring him even impossibly closer to her with a content sigh.

“Well now you really don’t get to pick the movie.”

“I’m literally still awake,” Peter protested, peeking his eyes open to look back at her.

“You say that now,” MJ scoffed. “Different story when you’re asleep ten minutes into the movie that you chose to watch.”

“I thought that’s why we agreed you were choosing,” he mumbled.

“Touché”

Now, as the droning background noise echoed through his ears from the TV, he felt that familiar air of calm surrounding him yet again. If he dialed in, he could almost feel her presence hesitating right by the edge of the room, which was weird because she was already right next to him, so—

Oh.

The ache in his chest took him by surprise this time, causing him to lurch forward. 

“No,” he wheezed out. “Stop, please.”

The darkness through the TV screen didn’t respond.

“Shit,” Peter choked out, turning back to find MJ gone. Again.

He let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to his feet. It felt like the pain was weighing him down, making every trudge towards the opposite wall a colossal effort.

“Please, please,” he pleaded to nobody in particular, voice fragile and broken. His cries were met on deaf ears yet again.

MJ, he thought fleetingly. It was an empty train of thought, coming to a grinding halt as another wave of pain rocked through his back.

A choked cry escaped him as he crashed into the wall. Stop, please, he tried to beg again, but the words weren’t escaping his mouth.

When the familiar tug on his chest returned, he almost started crying all over again. He didn’t know what it meant, or what it wanted, but he knew it was tethering him to whatever cruel cycle he was being subjected to. A small, hopeful part of himself knew it was what tethered him to life. 

Just let me die, please, he begged the voice instead. Please, I can’t do this anymore.

His head remained empty with no response from the presence, just the familiar fuzz that took over his mind yet again. He knew it wouldn’t be long now.

Breathe, it repeated again.

Do you say anything else? Peter wanted to scream back at it—wanted to cry and pull at his hair. He was going insane.

He was so tired.

And yet, he still breathed. It almost felt against his will, the way his lungs expanded with a foreign air he shouldn’t even have access to. If anything, the voice keeping him alive should be a comfort, but a dark part of his subconscious wouldn’t let it.

When Peter stared into the flickering darkness of the TV, he saw his own reflection looking back at him through the static. 

Black spots danced across his vision, ones that he tried so hard to fight this time. The remaining fleeting thoughts of MJ, warmth, safety, evaded him as his eyes closed again and—

Whatever memory Peter ended up in next, he met much more resistance in waking up.

As hard as he tried to keep his eyes closed, not wanting to experience any more of these unrelenting memories (and maybe somewhat out of spite), they got wrenched open against his will anyway. It left him gasping for air, his head pounding at the sudden warm light encapsulating his senses.

Peter squeezed his eyes closed again, biting down on his fist and letting out a strangled sound of frustration, halfway between a cry and a groan. He cut off into a sob as his head fell backwards defeatedly and he stared up at the ceiling of the room. Unsurprisingly, he was in another familiar memory, with this one ending up back in his old bedroom again. The only difference was that he was now sitting cross-legged on the floor. It didn’t stop his incessant urge to bang his head against the wall.

He didn’t get a long time to get used to his new (old?) surroundings before the scene shifted, his head going fuzzy as a figure appeared before him, as if it had always been there.

“Okay, these 3,803 pieces aren’t ready for us!”

In the blink of an eye, Ned was sitting down on the floor across from him, a wide smile on his face. Peter, now seeing through the eyes of himself at 15, nodded vigorously in response. Sure enough, a scattered mess of Legos were sorted out on the floor by color in front of them, the same ones that had been broken only a few weeks before. With everything that had happened during the Vulture incident, Peter had promised to make it up to Ned by finding all the small bits and pieces from the Death Star and rebuilding it together. Ned was, of course, over the moon. No shock there.

So here they were, gathered on the floor with Empire Strikes Back playing in the background on Peter’s laptop and an unshakeable energy. Ned had taken very extensive measures to make sure this moment was, in his words, “The Greatest Lego Building Set Up of All Time.” This included the very specific categorizing, the movie and snacks, and the large instruction booklet placed in the middle of it all. According to Ned, this would maximize the amount of work they got done and minimize the time all at once.

Yeah, it was looking to be a good night. 

Peter had really been needing this since the Vulture incident and May discovering his secret identity not too long ago, which was its own whole fiasco. She and Tony had agreed to a compromise that resulted in a curfew that, in Peter’s mind, was entirely unreasonable and way too early.

But, on the other hand, if it meant building Legos and a sleepover with Ned instead, maybe it wasn’t all bad. He could take a break here and there. Hopefully. Spider-Man probably needed a bit of a break after, y’know, crashing a plane and himself into a beach in the closest brush with death Peter had had so far. Minor details.

As they began rebuilding the Death Star bit by bit, he wasn’t surprised by the onslaught of questions Ned took the chance to ask him about said incident.

“So, how exactly were you able to steer the plane into the beach? Did you hotwire the controls?” Ned asked excitedly.

Peter shook his head with a soft smile. “No, Ned. I made a web parachute for it,” he joked sarcastically.

Ned, of course, didn’t seem to read that. “Holy shit! Are you serious? That’s insane!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Peter quickly corrected, giggling. “Though… that’d be something cool to try and figure out…”

“Right?” Ned echoed back. “Then you wouldn’t almost drown in the lake again.”

Peter elbowed him lightly in the shoulder at that, shaking his head fondly. 

“Okay, then how’d you steer the plane?” He repeated, putting the conversation back on track.

“Uh, well, I kinda just grabbed one of the wings and started pulling on it?” Peter tried to explain. “It was more just… me aiming it away from the city and everything.”

“Dude, you might be one of the strongest Avengers,” Ned breathed out in awe. “Badass.”

Letting out a huff of embarrassment, Peter hung his head and looked back down to assembling the Legos in front of him. He didn’t get far before—

“Do spiders have mind control?”

“What?”

Ned blinked up at him, fully serious in his asking. “Is that a no?”

“Yeah, Ned, it’s a no,” Peter responded amusedly. 

“What if you’re just mind controlling me to think that—”  

“Dude. Spiders can’t mind control things,” the brunette deadpanned. “I don’t think any animals have mind control.”

“Damn it,” Ned cursed under his breath. “Y’think whatever place made that spider will make, like, a mind-controlling powered animal next?”

Peter resisted the urge to facepalm. “I really, really hope not.”

Ned shrugged. “Could be cool.”

“Not for me!” 

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, continuing to make good progress into the booklet as Ned rambled away with questions about Spider-Man and hypotheticals about the magic of mind control.

(“I mean, really! There’s gotta be some way you could make a device for that. Like some huge antennae thing. Or maybe a chip to put in your brain! And then you control them with some remote or something!”

“Like from SpongeBob?”

“Yes! Exactly!”)

The cracks of reality started shining through when Peter next went to flip a page of the instructions, just to turn it and find out it was completely blank.

Peter blinked at it a few times. Flipped the page back and forth once. Twice. Each time he looked back at it, nothing changed. There was a lapse in his memory on what the next step was, leading the page to just remain a shadow of its former self.

As expected, when he looked back up, he was alone again. Peter was really starting to get sick of this bullshit. 

“What the hell do you want?” He finally snapped, yelling out to nobody in particular, his voice sounding more like his present-day self again. 

There was no response.

“Of course,” Peter laughed bitterly to himself. 

More silence.

He swallowed, looking down at his clenched hands in his lap. All this torture seemed to do for him was make him miss his friends more and more. It was like they were just barely out of reach, wisps of dreams he’d forget when he woke up. Peter knew it was stupid—they were still alive. Just… not to him.

That could change, a part of himself whispered. Right before he’d wound up here, Peter had maybe thought that something could start up again. It’d never be the same, but being Ned’s friend again was never something he’d protest, and MJ…

Peter wanted to go home, he realized with a dull ache in his chest.

He wanted to escape this purgatory and see his friends again, even if from afar. They had just barely granted him a second chance—an olive branch so welcome for him to take. It almost felt too easy when MJ invited him up to their shared apartment, especially after all he’d done to her.

And, for another moment, Peter took a second to think about Spider-Man. New York needed their friendly neighborhood hero, didn’t they? That’d been the motto he’d lived by for the last four years after all. In his own fine print, it more clearly read: “New York needed Spider-Man, but nobody needed Peter Parker.” Not much had changed about that. Right?

He could be both. He was both. 

This time, the tug in his stomach was much less commanding, more of a static presence than anything. He didn’t have to hear its voice to know what it wanted.

Breathe.

“Yeah, okay.” Peter rolled his eyes, letting his chest rise and fall with steadier breaths than the previous.

A subconscious part of himself told him that it couldn’t be much longer now, right? He’d wake up from these dreams and go home and resume Spider-Man like nothing had ever happened. 

If Spider-Man was his only tether to life, then Peter would let it be so. That’s why he had done all this in the first place. 

When the darkness shrouded his vision this time, he didn’t fight it.

Opening his eyes was much easier the fourth—no, fifth, he corrected himself—time around.

Peter’s surroundings came to him more quickly, revealing that he was in the backseat of a black car. He barely got a second to process whatever time period this memory was before the front door opened and someone else sat down in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, Happy,” Peter’s younger self greeted immediately, shifting in his seat.

“Hey, kid,” Happy parroted back, buckling up his seatbelt. “Ready?”

Peter nodded as the older man started the car and began to drive down the road. They sat in silence for a bit, the brunette content to spend the trip staring out the window. It wasn’t until Happy cleared his throat awkwardly that the moment seemed to come to a halt.

“Peter?” He called out, eyes not leaving the road in front of him.

“Huh? Yeah?” Peter took out his cheap headphones, letting them dangle against his chest.

“I never really got to… apologize… for the whole plane fiasco,” Happy said, sounding like he was forcing the words out—something he’d been rehearsing, maybe.

“What? No, it’s fine! It wasn’t that big of a deal—”

“Kid, would you just—” Happy cut off in a grumble. “Just let me apologize to you, please. Tony’ll kill me if I put it off any longer.”

Peter blinked a few times. “I don’t understand,” he responded confusedly after a beat. “You don’t have anything to apologize for?”

“I do, kid,” Happy mumbled. “You were my responsibility, remember? And I still brushed you off all those times. If I had answered that call that Ted had sent, then—”

“Ned?”

“—maybe we would’ve fixed this whole issue without the whole ‘crashing the plane into the beach with everything on it’ thing.”

Peter winced, looking back out the window. “Sorry, I was really hoping not to crash it, but the big guy just wouldn’t stop, and—”

“That’s not the point I’m tryna make, Pete,” Happy sighed. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“I heal fast,” Peter returned instinctively, like it solved all of his problems.

“I’ve been in the superhero business long enough to know it’s not just about physical wounds,” Happy shot back.

There was an awkward pause as Peter shifted in his seat uncomfortably. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that, it was just… those things didn’t affect Spider-Man. Those were Peter Parker issues. 

“I’ll be fine,” Peter said instead. “May’s already given me the whole speech.”

Happy sighed, shaking his head almost fondly. “Look, just… don’t be scared to take a break. Tony might bench you himself if you’re up and about more than his liking.”

Peter’s shoulders sank, leaning his head back against the leather cushions of the seats defeatedly. “That’s not fair,” he grumbled childishly. 

“Just take some time for Peter Parker stuff,” Happy continued on. “Whatever it is you kids do these days. Do that. And don’t drop out of high school.”

The small laugh that escaped Peter was involuntary at that. “I’ll try my best,” he promised. “The first attempt didn’t end very well.”

“The first— you know what? I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Happy brushed off, to which Peter laughed again. “Point is: I’m sorry, kid. It won’t happen again.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile, sobering up just a tad. “I know,” he admitted. “Mr. Stark’ll fire you if it does.”

Happy huffed out a small laugh in response that Peter would gratefully take as a win.

The rest of the drive was in a much more comfortable silence afterwards, with Peter taking the opportunity to watch the more rural side of Upstate New York pass him by on the way to the compound. Eventually, the car slowed to a stop outside.

As Peter opened the side door and stepped out, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His vision fuzzed over yet again as he leaned up against the car, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose. The air tasted fresh, crisp, like recently cut grass. Weird.

I’m breathing, he tried to tell the ominous presence he was certain would be appearing again soon. The tug in his chest seemed to answer by making him take in another large gulp of air.

“I know, I know,” he gasped out around breaths, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the car roof. “I’m doin’ it.”

Peter stood like that for a while, relishing in the fresh air that filled his lungs. He was okay, he’d be okay.

That’s what he kept telling himself as his eyes slipped shut for the fifth time.

Sixth time’s the charm, Peter thought to himself unceremoniously as he opened his eyes again. He was starting to get the hang of this whole thing. This time, looking around, he was met with a distant pang of recognition.

Surrounding him was the science classroom of Midtown High, a place he hadn’t set foot in for the last four years. He was sitting on a lone stool in the corner, dully aware of something pressed up against his shoulder.

Oh. Peter remembered this. It was the aftermath of one of the other many run-ins he’d had with a bullet in the last few years. This one had been a lot less of a hassle to deal with, mostly thanks to his other dimensional counterparts and their scarily expansive knowledge on medical practice. Especially for this.

At that age, Peter had never had to deal with wounds himself. He used to have access to Mr. Stark’s medbay, and even then, he could always call Happy if he really needed it. Not to mention, May was a constant he could go to for injuries given her nursing experience. That didn’t mean Peter always did that, of course, but having the option was nice.

Now, he wished he hadn't taken those things for granted as much.

“Hey, bud, how’s it coming?” A voice called out from beside him.

Peter blinked out of his trance, looking over as the scene assembled itself. “Healing. ‘S not bad,” he heard himself say.

The Tall Peter—or Peter 3, as he’d later been dubbed—took a seat on a nearby stool and rolled over to him.

“Oh, good, good,” he hummed. “Nice to know all Spider-Men seem to have excellent healing powers, or whatever.”

Peter snorted, shaking his head. “Someone I used to know would tell me it just meant I had an excuse to get shot even more,” he mumbled through a smile, the distant memory of his mentor’s words almost a comfort to him.

“Yup, that too,” Peter 3 agreed, spinning around his chair once. “Though I will say, yours is exceptionally fast. Definitely faster than mine.”

“Really?” The brunette asked, tilting his head.

“For sure,” another different voice said, appearing from his right. Peter 2, still in his youth pastor outfit, walked over to his side. He gingerly pressed against the bandages, looking at Peter’s face to gauge his response. When only a small wince escaped him, Peter 2 removed the bandages to look underneath.

“Look at that,” he said, Peter 3 whistling beside him, “it’s practically already healed.”

“That’s because you stitched it up so well,” the youngest said with a strained smile. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Uh huh,” Peter 3 responded, not fully believing him. 

“…It’s not like there's anything else we can do,” he tried after a moment with a sudden panic, feeling the start of a lecture about resting around the corner. “Those guys are still out there, we can’t just—”

“We weren’t gonna say otherwise,” Peter 2 placated. “I think we’d both be hypocrites if we did.”

“Touché, touché,” Peter 3 mumbled under his breath.

“We’ll just be careful with it until we can’t,” the oldest one said, removing the rest of the bandages and patting Peter on the back.

“I can do that,” the brunette agreed with a nod. “I’ve handled a lot worse.”

“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.” Peter 3 cracked a lopsided smile in response.

It was still weird, Peter thought, to be seeing two different counter versions of himself that were still so much the same. It made him wonder if there were other hims in the multiverse out there somewhere. Maybe there were ones that didn’t lose their Aunt May, or their Tony Stark. Maybe there was even one where Peter Parker wasn’t Spider-Man. Now that’d be weird.

Yet, staring into the faces of his counterparts, he was filled with an unusual sense of comfort. It was like his spidey sense recognized himself—or maybe itself—in them. For once, it felt quiet, humming at ease. These people understood him on what Peter could maybe assume was a biological, molecular level. He didn’t have to ever explain himself, they just… knew. How strange was that? To finally have someone understand not just Peter Parker, but Spider-Man. 

“How about we save story time for after we figure out how we’re gonna cure all these guys,” Peter 2 supplied with a soft grin, breaking him out of his trance.

“Uh- right.” Peter hobbled to his feet, stumbling over to grab the bag of mostly broken glass and machinery before hauling it over to the desk to dump it all out.

He opened his mouth to continue with the script when the rug seemed to be pulled out from under him, sending him collapsing to the floor. Peter grunted at the sudden contact, his stomach flaring up in pain as he inhaled a shaky breath. He was fairly certain that didn’t happen in the memory. 

With a groan, Peter pushed himself up from the ground into a sitting position, shaking his head in an attempt to push the familiar fuzzy feeling out of his brain. 

“Can we please just get this over with?” He grumbled, letting his head limply fall back to rest against the wooden desk. As he felt his chest involuntarily inhale and exhale, his eyes slipped shut with exhaustion. 

God, he was so tired. It felt like every one of his limbs was an anchor, trying to sink him down to the bottomless ocean he was trying so hard to stay afloat in. If he didn’t get enough air in his lungs, he’d drown.

Breathe in, breathe out.

What was it going to take for him to stay afloat?

Spider-Man could probably do it. He’d find some sort of way. Peter Parker, on the other hand, never was a big fan of water. He supposed nearly drowning would do that to you.

Breathe.

Maybe he should invest in a pair of floaties or something. Could add them over his suit even, like his winter gear. That’d be fun. If he stayed here any longer, maybe he could even draft up the whole plan in his mind.

Oh my god, I’m going insane, Peter thought to himself, opening his eyes to look up at the ceiling. How long had he been here in this weird mindscape now? 

Was this what Severance was about? He’d never gotten the chance to watch it. Maybe he’d do that if—when he got out. 

Peter let out a half-whine, half-groan-like noise as he banged the back of his head once against the desk. This was starting to get extremely boring. He had never even stopped to wonder if this was the work of some other dastardly criminal or something. Maybe he’d been poisoned. Or maybe they were more illusions portraying his fucked up consciousness. 

Only, that didn’t make sense, because the last thing he remembered was being in the Damage Control building with Jean, shielding her just as the bullet cracked out of its chamber—

Ohhhh, Peter remembered slowly. He really was dying. How’d he forget that?

Forcing himself to his feet, Peter took another look around the place. It still looked like the same Midtown as before, nothing out of place from the last time he examined it.

“There has to be a way out of here,” Peter reasoned to himself under his breath. “C’mon, Peter, think.”

The dark void from before caught the corner of his eye, but he ignored its calls, tapping on his chin as he looked elsewhere. A part of him knew that if he got any closer to it, he wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. Probably not at all.

Peter had a job to do, after all. He couldn’t ignore that. His great responsibility was to keep fighting for those who couldn’t, those who were outside this place needing his help. What kind of person would he be if he gave up on that? 

“Think, think,” he mumbled to himself. “What would Spider-Man do?”

Spider-Man would probably break open a window, swing up to the roof, and examine everything from a higher viewpoint. That seemed a bit out of the question given the void that awaited him outside.

Okay, he continued, what would Peter Parker do?

His mind came up embarrassingly blank.

Peter Parker would take a bullet for someone, a voice in his head reasoned. Peter Parker is the one who loves his job and keeping the city safe.

Taking in a deep breath, he looked around the room again in hopes that something, anything, would stick out to him. Eventually, he caught sight of a door on the opposite wall out of the corner of his eye. He approached it slowly. It should lead back into the school hallway, but Peter would be willing to bet otherwise. Chances were it probably led to the same inky darkness outside the windows that’d been following him this whole time. So, he did something only someone as stupid as Peter would do: he gambled his life and opened it.

What met him on the other side of the wall wasn’t an all-encompassing void, but his bedroom in May’s apartment again.

Peter took a few hesitating steps forward, taking in the view of his old twin-sized bunk bed. It filled him with a sense of déjà vu, and he almost expected to see someone sitting there already waiting for him again.

“Jean?” He called out, swallowing dryly as he took a few more cautious strides into the room. “May?”

Peter was met with silence. No response from either of them, he supposed. Slowly, he sat down on the edge of the bed. He spared a glance down, taking in his familiar bedding and pillows. Peter grabbed the closest one and hugged it to his chest, letting his face fall into the material. As he took a deep breath in, he noticed that rather than smelling May’s familiar detergent, it smelled more like something sterile. 

That was weird. 

Peter blinked a few times, drawing the pillow down from his face to squint at it. Nothing about it seemed off, but the slowly building buzz on his neck said otherwise. It wasn’t at its usual dangerous prickle that told him something was wrong, more so just a steady hum that kept him dully aware of the world around him. 

Aware of what?

Once again, Peter brought the pillow back up to his face, inhaling deeply. If he focused hard enough, he could pick up more on the scents of chemicals, disinfectants, and antiseptics. His hands twitched against the fabric, clenching it tightly between his fingers. It felt scratchy and thin, nothing like the soft, smooth texture he was used to. 

Focus, Peter, he told himself. You’re so close.

He could hear it now, if he dialed in his senses—the distant beeping of a machine accompanied by silent snores, if he wasn’t mistaken. Someone was waiting for him.

The thought almost caused a sob to escape him, because when was the last time a person did that? 

Instead, Peter took a steady breath. Released it. 

Breathe, he told himself. Get through this.

Against every urge in his body aching to succumb to sleep, Peter fought. He fought for a home that wasn’t really his, because that’s what he knew May would've wanted. 

When you help someone, you help everyone.

Who was to say he couldn’t help Peter Parker too?

In, out.

He counted the breaths, closed his eyes, and focused on the way each one slowly left his lungs.

In, out.

Peter could feel his chest rising and falling, expanding with each intake of air. The scent of disinfectant became even stronger.

In, out.

Whatever anxiety had felt lodged in his chest seemed to loosen as the scratchy feeling of sheets became all the more clear.

In, out.

There was a distant, warm light beyond his eyes now, almost so tangible he could reach out and grab it. Somewhere, the tug in his chest faded away.

In—

Wading through the in-between of his consciousness and reality, he saw a faint light blooming in the darkness behind his eyelids.

There was a steady ache in his head, a soreness through his entire body. His own breaths sounded loudly in his ears.

This time, he didn’t feel numb. His senses slowly grounded him in reality, returning one by one until he could truly feel.

Distantly, he recalled something about counting up to six.