Chapter Text
Once upon a time on Earth-199999, there lived a boy who had suffered a bite that was truly a curse, which wrecked his life over and over—but he could climb walls and sense things, so it was not entirely a loss.
His name was Peter Parker, and he had been an orphan more times than most boys manage in a lifetime. First, he lost his parents. He didn’t remember them, but it would have been nice growing up with them, he’d wistfully wish. Then the aunt and uncle who raised him—they were kind and fun, but again, good things tend to be ephemeral.
And finally, he lost the King.
While not born into royalty, this one had all the pedigree, the name, and the riches. He forged his own crown, his own weapons, and his own seat. He was, in his own prickly way, a father to the boy when the boy had none. Tony Stark had been called many, many names, but that one time push came to shove, he decided he would make the ultimate sacrifice play. And thus, only one part of his memory—his name—remained. He had become the messiah, a king in the truest sense.
But he had led a very human life, and he had left behind a great many who mourned him personally. The rubble of battle was cleaned, memorials were erected, and most people moved on. But some took longer to recover. One of them was the same boy who had been, in every way but blood, his son—but now, by a twist of fate, was not only alone, but also forgotten. And the kingdom whose adulation he had experienced once suddenly seemed like a cold, strange world.
As is the way of nature, it abhors an empty throne. And to claim that vacuum, smiling with a face dangerously familiar, came the man who called himself Doom.
It would have been easy to mistake Doom for a wicked witch arriving to hex a blessed world, but it wasn’t malice his calloused hands bore; it was gifts.
He was a sorcerer-king from a country of iron mountains called Latveria, and the battle that had made Iron Man a demigod had also birthed curdled hate in his heart. For the universe balances the gains of some with the losses of others.
He had built himself, with science and sorcery—for he was adroit at both—a face and a voice not unlike Tony's own. And then he waited with patience as the world Tony had died preserving descended into chaos again. Every now and then, some hero would step in, fixing the problems briefly, but only Doom knew that the universe was on borrowed time. He waited for the dominoes to stack, and then stepped into their world, hiding his visage under a terrible but powerful mask, and announced, hoping the world would trust him:
"I will take care of you now."
Many in the world understood him. They chose to believe him, for they were already tired of the heroes they had known. Their heroes had become bitter and selfish; many were just ex-villains foisted upon them by the government. Many, many of them had made very public, very devastating mistakes.
So many chose to answer his call. It helped that several of their heroes chose to heed Doom as well, for they had themselves grown wary of the tricks they had pulled to save a now-ungrateful populace. The once-triumphant memories had turned bitter.
Doom was wise. He didn’t come as a conqueror, but as a healer. He mended what had been shattered. He fed the hungry with his own hands. He rebuilt what was broken. The only difference was that the new buildings he erected had green banners hanging everywhere, and his statues dotted public spaces. The Earth was being rebuilt in his image. Nobody minded all this much, for there was peace, for once.
It was not peace, though, was it? It was the calm before the storm. Lambs were being fattened before the inevitable slaughter.
But Peter remained the one holdout. For he remembered the times before, without misery tinting his glasses—even though he was miserable aplenty. He had grown weary of charlatans wielding capes and magic, for one. Mysterio had attempted to replace Tony similarly and had caused only ruination.
What he didn’t know was the fact that his existence wasn’t a cipher in the eyes of Doom, who had spent ages studying him from afar, aware of the relationship he shared with Tony Stark. Having lost an heir of his own blood, Doom was eager to find an heir of his choosing: someone small and bright, someone he could mold into the shape he wanted, someone who would look up at him and love him for what he was. And here, conveniently, grieving and unclaimed, was exactly such a boy.
So Doom came to Peter not as a monster, but as a father, offering a hand gloved in green and gold.
"I know what it is to be banished to the shadows," Doom said to him. "Come. I have a place for you. I have always had a place for you."
And Peter never stood a chance. He wanted to fight, but the fight was never fair—Doom never believed in that—so it was a gentle tap to his forehead, and into a deep sleep Peter went. For the first time in forever, he was at peace, his broken, bruised body healing, his mind divorced from his grief and pain. It had been years since he had slept so soundly.
Other heroes who had resisted Doom had been chained up in deep dungeons. But not Peter. He was laid down on a comfortable bed of silver, covered in gold and silver silk, atop the tower Stark had built once, in the heart of the city Peter had sworn to protect.
Doom filled the place with books and machines he knew Peter would love. The room had a great glass wall through which Doom planned to observe the spider spin. He appointed servants, cooks, and healers—all of whom had signed up to live and die for the boy.
“What could Tony have possibly done better?” Doom hissed when Peter did not seem impressed by all his arrangements. The boy had ignored an elaborate breakfast spread, choosing to pick absently at a lowly piece of toast instead.
“He wouldn’t have locked me up.”
"Given the number of times you put yourself and him in danger," Doom said, "maybe he should have."
He regretted his temper immediately.
"Look at those mortals. You protect them every night, and they didn't so much as glance twice while Peter Parker suffered. Would living above them, ruling them in good faith, be a choice too terrible? Is it a punishment to be loved, Peter? By me? By your subjects?"
Peter felt his heart sink. It was not the proposal itself; it was the sardonic voice, the one he was only too familiar with, that weakened his resolve. He had lived for years playing it over and over in his head. He remembered how he had begged Tony to speak to him one last time, but had to contend with only a fleeting flutter of recognition. And now it was back again, promising to take care of him.
So he stayed in the golden cage, his body recovering from years of neglect, growing stronger. But his will and his mind grew weaker. Partly because giving up felt nice after years of resistance; partly because Doom was taking no chances and reinforced his spells every night.
He spent his days studying the books Doom brought him. He occasionally still climbed with his webs, more out of habit than anything. Doom would stand outside the glass walls and observe, for he found it charming. Peter had everything at his beck and call, but he felt deeply alone, even as he received more attention than he had in years.
Maybe before Strange’s spell, Ned and MJ would have tried to look for their best friend who had suddenly disappeared from their lives. But the current Ned and MJ? They barely knew him. If anything, his disappearance would be chalked up to his avoidant nature.
He was wrong, though. There was nothing suspicious that missed MJ’s eyes, and she had not stopped looking for him. Assisting her, of course, was the man who had created the Spidey-Tracker.
Days turned into nights, which turned into days, and soon it was Peter’s birthday—one of the few in several years in which he wasn’t alone. Doom had kept careful count of every hour Peter had spent at his place, and today was a day of great celebration for him. He summoned the boy to his own room, marking the first time Peter had stepped beyond the walls that held him since he was locked in the erstwhile Stark Tower.
It was bare except for minimal furniture, most of the space occupied by a puzzling, humming, alive spool of silver-green light that hung from the wall—a confusing mess from afar, but as he came closer, he saw the neat order with which it buzzed.
"This is the Spool of Time," Doom said. "It used to be simple and elegant once. Now it survives thanks to the work I do: the stability of your world, your universe—and worlds beyond. Don’t take it for granted, Peter. It takes a lot of effort. Not that I will ever receive any gratitude for it.”
“What do you mean? People love you,” Peter scoffed.
“Their love means nothing. They loved Tony Stark not so long ago, and still, many do. His death did a lot to wipe away his crimes.”
“He died for this very world. The least they can do is feel grateful.”
“No, Peter. He did not care for the world. He died for you.”
Doom tapped his forehead softly as images of Tony’s years after the Blip flooded his mind. Peter tried desperately to fight away the tears, but the magic overwhelmed his will. He sobbed audibly.
“He ended up saving the world because he fought for something he loved. That’s powerful,” Doom said softly. “I need you to help me hold this thing. I grow exhausted by the day. I could use a little help.”
“You have so many Avengers who have sworn to serve you, many more powerful than me.”
“True. But I need someone who is truly mine.”
“And if I don't want to?"
Doom's face, so like and yet so unlike Tony’s, went very still and sad.
"Then you will sleep until you do," he said. "I cannot send you into a world to be forgotten and ignored again. That’s the least I can do for Tony Stark—for while we had our differences, I respect the man enough to honor his last wishes.”
Peter dithered a minute too long. Doom pressed the silver thread to the boy's brow, and Peter's eyes fluttered, and fluttered, and closed once more. This time, for a little longer.