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Chapter Text

He was never the most patient. For all of his younger brother’s bitterness, that title belonged to Jörmungandr. Fenris decided that a serpent’s patience, in its many facets, was a very father-like trait: it was the willingness to bide time with tranquility at one moment and then seethe with impatient jealousy the next. Perhaps it was Jörmungandr’s cold blood that granted him that gift. Fire had always flooded Fenris’s veins, especially in Asgardian winter. When the wolf had longed to bound into the mountains he had done so.

Frigga would fret, eventually - back then she and Odin cared for Loki’s children, for possessing grandchildren - and Týr and Thor would entice Loki’s oldest back with tables upon tables of cooked boar at the mountain foot, hoping the north wind would blow the scent to him. No Asgardian seven year old, massive wolf or not, could resist a lunch table. Fenris always came bounding back on the third day, tripping on on his oversized feet with stag blood on his whiskers, and dug in.

(Fenris knew Thor was jealous of him. Of the spread, of the unnecessary cooing Frigga did over him when he could more than take care of himself. Fenris had adored it while it lasted. Don’t be mad, Uncle, he had wanted to say. Grandmother gets to spoil me now. You’re too old for it. Your turn is over).

But that had been long ago. Now Fenris rested beneath tons of bedrock with gleipnir’s ribbon binding his feet. The days of flight and family had passed. Maybe patience was an acquired virtue too, Fenris decided. After several thousand years of being imprisoned at Midgard’s center he thought he had gained some. It was impossible not to.

Without it he would have gone crazy.

When Frigga died Fenris trembled so fiercely he destroyed a mountain in India. His howl drowned around the long-bloodied sword holding his snout shut. Jörmy, simmering in resentment over being imprisoned, didn’t make a sound. Fenris ignored him. He knew Frigga had agreed to his binding. He knew Loki and Uncle Thor had walked upon Earth already, more than once, and not given him a second thought. Fenris did not care.

He was allowed to grieve for good things already lost.

One of Fenris’ earliest memories was of chewing up Thor’s armor. Thor, smaller and cleaner-faced then, fumed and clutched Mjolnir close. Loki laughed until he cried.

“Brother,” Thor said, “why must you keep having such destructive children? Why do you have children at all? You’re younger than me. It’s too early for this. It’s... weird.”

“I don’t ask for them,” Loki said, wiping a tear from his eye. “They just happen.”

“Unsurprisingly, Loki, children happen when you don’t work on not having them. If you would just - ”

“Don’t give me a responsibility lecture.”

Thor ground his teeth into his lip. Fenris laid on top of his shredded pile of armor, trying not to laugh. His tongue still hung out of his mouth in freedom. Thor saw the wolfish smile and grumbled.

“Your freakish delinquent son is laughing at us.”

“You only dislike him because he doesn’t listen to you.” Loki threw an armor scrap to Fenris. “If someone called Jörmungandr a freak you would be up in arms about it. Is your favoritism that obvious?”

Thor folded his arms, wounded. “Jörmy doesn’t chew up my armor. Fenris is already a danger. Look at him! Look at those jaws!”

Loki smirked. Fenris wasn’t offended. His uncle and father talked this way often in front of him. Thor did not realize he could comprehend it all; Loki knew and did not care. It makes sense, Fenris thought. Uncle Thor loves snakes, attention, and danger that bends to him. Jörmy gives him all of those things or is all of those things.

If Jörmungandr was uncle’s favorite, was he Father’s? Fenris wasn’t sure. He was definitely Father’s oldest. No one else could claim that, however a thankless title it was. Fenris laced pride in his backbone. He had to defend himself. Father may not have given him affection, but he had given Fenris pride and a name. Something to protect. That made him worthy of being Fenris Son of Odinson.

Fenris was still shielding his title the day Týr showed up with a roasted pig and leyding.

The first time a visitor arrived, Fenris was not expecting it. He was napping at Midgard’s core with his head on a shelf of iron and magma oozing through his ribs. The whispers were so soft that Fenris first believed they were part of the magma’s current. He flicked his ears in irritation, opening one eye. He heard a gasp.

There was a shimmery apparition of a man floating in front of him. Fenris was too surprised to blink. Liquid nickel, as hot as the sun’s surface, trickled down the crease of his leg. Fenris finished opening his eyes. The man’s cloak shrunk behind him. It trembled. An infinity stone as green as Fenris’ eyes glimmered at the man’s throat.

“Sorry,” the bearded man said. “I’ll be going.”

Before Fenris could try and speak around the sword in his mouth, the man disappeared.

That’s irritating, Fenris thought. Even if it might be a sign of something.

He fell back to sleep as he mulled over it.

The aspect Fenris hated the most about losing his freedom was losing sight of his younger brother. They had not seen each other or Sleipnir in eons. As much as Fenris loathed Sleipnir, he almost wanted to see the youngest of them. Almost. Sometimes he bubbled lava out of nose and through the sea floor, hoping to tickle Jörmungandr’s stomach with blobs of hot rock. It was the best he could offer since they had outgrown playing.

Listen, Fenris wanted to say, I know you’re the most like our father. I know you overthink things to be petty and make life harder for yourself. If you’re plotting something stupid don’t do it. We don’t have to rise to Ragnarok, you imbecile. What they expect of us doesn’t matter. Don’t become a monster solely to spite them. That’s one of Father’s games and it never works. You do not have to kill your favorite uncle. There are other ways to deal with this; if it must happen, I can kill him. Thor has no love for me. Let me handle things.

If Jörmy heard him, Fenris received no reply. He wasn’t sure Jörmungandr could communicate. Oceans could not push into Midgard’s center. They could only cover it. Fenris hoped his acidic younger brother could hear him. He did not want to lose family that cared for him. That family was definitely not the Odinsons. The Odinsons had made that clear when they locked Fenris and Jörmungandr away based off prophecies.

Loathing filled Fenris when he imagined Týr bringing food to him, alone. New islands simmered to the surface in the Pacific as the wolf ground his teeth. Thor was insufferable, but Týr was worse. At least Fenris had anticipated Thor betraying him.

Thor was not his favorite cousin bold enough to feed him.

When Thor learned that Fenris - like Jörmy - could understand every word being said, though the wolf had trouble replying, he fought with Loki. Fenris heard it from his bed in the barn. Thor showed up in a huff later. Those were the years before everyone but Týr stopped feeding him. Back then, it had been a few people, including Thor. It was not dinner time, but Thor had a cowhide. Fenris perked up with interest.

“We are not friends,” Thor said, his face red. “But I am your uncle. I cannot pretend I’m not. Especially if Loki refuses to be your father. I am not letting you go undefended in cases where you can only use your words and not your teeth.”

All the most beautiful doves in the land went to Jörmungandr, hand fed to him by Thor himself, and Fenris’ olive branch was a cowhide laid on the stable floor. Fenris watched Thor leave with disdain.

He ate every scrap of the hide that night and longed for more.

When Loki placed Odin on Midgard it was hard not to react. In the back of his mind long poisoned by solitary confinement and betrayal, Fenris felt a flicker of genuine fury. Not the paltry hatred he felt for Thor, or the stronger melancholy loathing he felt for Týr. Sheer world-ending fury. It was far from the fond distrust Fenris held towards Frigga’s memory or Loki. Fenris salivated with rage. Clouds of steam billowed around him.

For a moment, Fenris was unfettered and small. He was the damp pup feeding at his mother’s breast. He recalled Loki’s haughty voice breaking with fondness to say “We should name him Fenris.” He remembered later learning that the name was Odin’s suggestion. It was a name dripped in blood: it was the namesake of Hela’s massive wolf steed before Odin buried them both in the underworld. Odin and his ravens had sensed this Fenris, too, would be dangerous. That this Fenris, too, would be buried in a lonely tomb for everyone else’s safety.

Fenris was Loki’s oldest son, Thor’s nephew, and Frigga’s grandson.

To Odin, he was an it.

Fenris writhed against his bonds and snarled into the Bermuda Triangle, destroying a fleet of ships with the earthquake-made waves his thrashing made. He relished their small lights snuffing out before he felt nothing. They were not a challenge. They were not anything. Fenris heaved before composing himself. He sensed Jörmungandr curling tighter around the world, embracing it. Fenris let his molten spine arc against the iciest depths of Norway and Jörmungandr’s glacier scales. Three thousand fish died in an instant, rent apart by their sibling affection. Their cooked white carcasses filled the depths like so many stars.

Don’t think about him, Jörmungandr said.

I don’t, Fenris said.

They parted before they destroyed more and before gleipnir could bind Fenris’ legs tighter.

If some men wandered too deep into remote mines, among the cave dark and deadly gas and crushing pressure, maybe they disappeared into a maw older than Scandinavia. Maybe. Fenris licked the gold from his lips and watched those on the surface squirm. Those consumed did not even whet his appetite. He had not consumed a good meal in a long time. The fretting of humans granted him dull amusement.

He had outgrown his enjoyment of being the feared unknown in the dark. Now, he was…

Fenris stretched, feeling the Mariana Trench quiver above his elbow and the Grand Canyon shake below his foot.

...this.

“I really didn’t want to do this, but I have to. Before I come out, I’m going to ask you to remain calm.”

The formalities are unnecessary, Strange, Fenris said. I know you’re not actually here. I won’t lunge at you again or create a new continent trying to. You can come out now.

Dr. Strange, the man with the cloak, appeared in front of him with a shower of green sparks. Fenris dug his itching feet into iron. It was hard not to snap at the cloak. The movement was so… tempting. The cloak seemed to understand his dilemma. It curled behind Strange’s projection, fussy.

“You’ve settled down a lot since the first time I saw you,” Dr. Strange said. “Any reason for the change in attitude?”

I don’t pursue things I know are fruitless, Fenris said. I’ve had a long time to get comfortable. Eons.

“Right,” Dr. Strange said.

He looked more tired and grey-haired than the last time Fenris had seen him. The defined face made him look rather like Sleipnir. Fenris rumbled out a chuckle. Dr. Strange recoiled from a falling lump of magma. Blinding silvers, yellows, and reds dripped from the metallic hell around them. Fenris breathed molten nickel.

“What do you find funny? I’d love to know,” Dr. Strange said. “There’s a lot I don’t find funny right now.”

Unwind, Strange, Fenris said. The pressure you’re placing on your teeth right now is far greater than than the pressure making diamonds above us.

He could have gone cruder with the joke, but neither Jörmungandr nor Thor the easily amused fool were around to laugh. Fenris settled on restraint. Dr. Strange unclenched his jaw. Beads of spectral sweat broke out on his apparition’s forehead. The nonexistent air around them distorted under a perpetual heat mirage.

“Fenris,” Dr. Strange said. “Monster of the River. The universe’s largest wolf. Loki’s oldest bastard child out of three, produced with the giantess Angrboða. Future killer of Odin. Right now, a half molten mess trapped in Midgard and watched over by Earth’s sorcerers, unable to do anything.”

You’re flexing, Fenris said, softly, rivers of dark dried blood five eons old and metal spilling from his mouth. The sword piercing his palate groaned. How flattering. I’ve never been intimidated before.

He licked his always lacerated tongue over his fangs. Their purification at the Midgard’s center made them blinding. Splinters of Týr’s bones remained in some. Dr. Strange’s arrogant posture deflated. Fenris withheld his satisfaction. While Strange reassembled his courage, Fenris tested his legs. He found he had forty five feet of reach without needing to get up. Strange hovered around twenty five feet away.

“Forces are stirring in the universe,” Dr. Strange said. “You haven’t been pulling at gleipnir lately, have you? Or heard Jörmungandr thrashing around?”

No, Fenris said, I have not.

Dr. Strange’s brow furrowed. Fenris saw calculations running through his head. He levitated backwards as he muttered to himself, counting off options on one hand. Fenris almost lost sight of him as his apparition drifted into a column of iron. The cloak curled around him. Fenris counted the distance as Strange glided away. Thirty feet… thirty five… thirty eight…

Strange, he said. I have one more word for you.

“What?” Dr. Strange said.

Fenris' head shot forward, destroying the columns of metal around them; his fangs snapped shut on the edge of Strange’s translucent chest in a shower of tumbling iron and heat. He glimpsed the look of horror on Strange’s face and the cloak’s panicked twist seconds before the apparition vanished.

Boo, Fenris said.

Strange was not around to hear him. It did not matter. Fenris took pleasure in imagining Strange’s strangled breathing and the cloak’s thrashing when they took physical form in his office. Sorcerers needed handling, or they became intolerable. Both Strange and Father were alike in this. Besides: it was insulting for Strange to be worried about Ragnarok but not admit it. Fenris refolded his legs in a superheated bed of metal. His tail swept through the deepest point of a tin mine in Bolivia, sending bright splinters flying.

Fenris considered his options as he readied for a nap. If he wasn’t breaking free, he doubted Jörmungandr was. That left one option: Surtur and his crown. Disappointment filled Fenris. He closed his eyes. All of Asgard’s feats, all of its land built on blood and soaked with the blood of those Fenris had crunched for the throne, and it was falling to a melodramatic fire giant? There was a repulsive unfairness in knowing Asgard would briefly become like his current home before it fell to pieces. He would not even get to rend the world apart or take on Thor, Týr, or Odin as Asgard blistered to nothing.

At least, Fenris thought, if Loki and Uncle Thor do not stop Ragnarok from happening. He fell asleep to a singular thought:

So they are doomed or snatching victory by the skin of their teeth, then.

Fenris would later resent being half-right.

Chapter Text

Queens was packed. Everywhere Peter looked, there was a seething clump of people or line of vehicles. The cars glimmered in the sun like metal carapaces, honking furiously. Taxis wove in and out of the mire. Every language on Earth was here in Queens, and all of them were being used to laugh, yell, and converse. Cowboy Bebop’s theme boomed out of an apartment window. Peter hummed along to it as he swung by, shooting another web onto the skyscraper next door.

“You have good taste in anime!” he yelled, waving at the apartment window as he swung by. He wasn’t sure its occupants saw him. He did hear a startled laugh. Peter grinned to himself.

As the sun beat down on him and sweat began filling up the suit, Peter took a break. He perched behind a billboard and fanned himself. Queens’ noise echoed up to him from below. I wonder how Aunt May is doing, Peter thought. She’s probably caught in traffic right now. He leaned back on his hands, feeling the breeze on the unmasked lower half of his face. A half eaten bodega sandwich sat beside him. If Peter closed his eyes, he could imagine Stark Tower on the crowded horizon to the east.

Civil War had come and gone. No one had seen Captain America and his team for months. The Vulture was defeated. School had been let out. Peter only cried over ruining Liz Allan’s life twice a week now. If he didn’t think about the bigger picture, things almost seemed normal now. Almost.

Peter got up and pulled his mask down when he heard a bank alarm go off.

I’m going to get some paletas after I stop this robbery, he decided.

He did not think about what lived in the center of the Earth, or what might arrive from space.

Odin’s death was not spectacular. He did not die a glorious death in battle, crushed beneath hundreds of foes. He did not pass away in his king’s bed, surrounded by family, missing Frigga’s warmth by his side. He did not even die in Asgard. Fenris felt him wink out. One moment, the king of Asgard was there, an ancient power flickering in the grass of Norway. Then, in a flap of raven wings, he was gone.

As Hela rose, death in her wake, Fenris only felt disappointment. If there was a string of melancholy or loss it was hidden quickly. Fenris quashed his feelings beneath a reminder to himself: this means one less foe during Ragnarok. If the old man didn’t need killing, he could turn his attention to Týr, then Thor, assuming Jörmungandr fought off the instincts coiled within him and loosed it on the world instead of their uncle. Fenris tried not to think too far ahead. Odin’s death proved anything could happen. The march to Ragnarok was full of tangents. There was no sense in making endlessly complicated plans yet.

Thor’s hammer shattered. Fenris’ half-molten heart leapt. With every punch that dented his uncle, he felt both vidictive and worried. Thor was his prey - his uncle. But Aunt Hela was the harbinger of doom herself. She didn’t share anything with anyone. Fenris remembered no kind touches from her. She was before him. Before all of them.

Fight back, Thor, Fenris shouted at his staggering uncle, shaking the core. The sword through his jaws tore at his mouth. Fight back, you oaf! I can’t kill you if you die!

Odin had always disappointed him. It was fitting his son did too. Thor fell. Fenris did not think he was dead - Thor was more resilient than that - but Thor had failed. Fenris ached to feel it. Loki was the only Odinson who had not disappointed him, which was because Fenris knew precisely what to expect from him: being Loki. And yet, disappointment filled him to see his father fall too.

Fenris blew magma out of his nose in disgust as he felt Hela ascend. The other Asgardians were free to stop this. He was trapped with himself and their mistakes. Anywhere beyond Midgard was too far away to follow. Fenris and Jörmungandr were stuck in the dark about what happened next.

This is going to ruin something, Fenris thought. Blood and metal dripped from his teeth.

Trust his family to let him down a final time.

When the anvil was still hot, when the monster brothers’ musings about the fate of their father and uncle ran thick, when Fenris grow bored of throwing seismic quakes at the capital of Ecuador, he thought about Fenris. The original Fenris. His namesake.

Fenris II had never met Hela’s steed. He only knew of her existence through soft whispers that curled between library pages. Fenris I had been a wolf darker than night. She was made to destroy, Fenris knew, like all wolves were, but she presumably had a choice about the matter.

Did Fenris I feel bound to Hela? Had she been held to Hela’s chest while she was small and wet and weak (the same way Loki had held Fenris II, once) and thought ‘ this is my family, and I must follow ’? Or had she smelled the planetary blood on Hela’s hands and found she liked it better than mauling stags? Fenris II would never know. He had never spoken to her. She was history - nothing more.

In the back of his mind, Fenris knew she might be more than history soon. Hela had powers of rejuvenation. If she took the throne, Fenris I would walk again.

Fenris II could picture it. Fenris I’s once-mummified lungs would breathe air her successor had not breathed since his teenage years. Fenris I would stride across Asgard, the sunset dripping on its crystalline palace, her dark fur shining, and look out at it all as it burned. It’s been so long, she would think. But I am back. Her ancient tendons would stretch with new life. She would howl with joy to be free of death. Of Odin’s constant dehumanization. Then, she would help Hela tear the other realms apart.

Did Fenris II feel threatened by her coming back first? The giant wolf god scratched an itch against a tectonic plate while he considered it. In a way she was him, after all. But more experienced. Asgard was hers first. It wasn’t wrong to feel threatened by her. If he did.

No, Fenris decided. I don’t.

The first Fenris was only an animal.

Jörmungandr thought about all the possible situations on Asgard the longest, but he stopped talking about it first. Fenris knew his younger brother chewing on his tail and moving his head to the Pacific meant he didn’t want to talk about Loki or Thor anymore. Speculation about them bored him. If they got hurt, they deserved it. It was unimportant. Anything short of dying did not matter. Loki’s pettiness lay thick on Jörmy’s forked tongue.

They could be dead, Fenris pointed out. We wouldn’t know.

Oh, please. They’re not, Jörmungandr said. Think of all the stupid things they’ve done without dying. This doesn’t even place in the top five. Remember Uncle Thor cross-dressing to retrieve his hammer? Or Father’s stupid plan that resulted in Sleipnir? Those two are like ringworm. They’ll be back. I don’t care for discussing them.

Fenris gave a curt laugh. Childish faith laced Jörmungandr’s voice behind the disdain, which might have deserved an insult. But he was right.

What Jörmy did want to discuss was everyone on Asgard besides their immediate family.

Uncle Thor told mentioned his friends the last time he visited, Jörmungandr said, his snout tucked close to Japan. Fenris pictured hundreds of giant squid nets ripping on his scales. Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun were still alive. So was Sif. Do you believe Hela killed them? They are strong allies of Uncle’s.

Didn’t Sif call you a slippery, venomous, untrustworthy beast full of temper tantrums and vote for your imprisonment? Fenris said.

Yes, Jörmungandr said. She was right. I love Sif.

Fenris rolled his eyes. Spare me your softness, he said.

Fenris appreciated Jörmy’s company more than Sleipnir’s, but at times, both his younger siblings were insufferable. He didn’t understand how Jörmy could care about those granules. Loki’s sons were not children anymore. The day when people adored them and spoke to them with affection was long over. Jörmungandr needed to mature.

What softness?    Fenris felt Jörmy shift in agitation as he spoke. The tides quivered. I threatened to kill her directly afterwards. She threatened to tie me in a Celtic knot. I was allowed to banter with people besides you before everyone turned against us, and us against them.

Whatever you say, o ruthless brother, Fenris said.

Jörmungandr hissed.

Fenris chalked up Jörmungandr’s lingering weakness due to Jörmungandr being constantly handled and cooed at by Thor when as a child. Thor had spoiled Loki’s middle child intolerably. Worse: Jörmy had loved it. Before his inborn love for destruction and his massive size arose, Jörmungandr gloated. From his spot wrapped around Thor’s hand he had rubbed Thor’s favoritism in Fenris’ and Sleipnir’s faces at every available chance. That was one aspect about childhood Fenris didn’t miss.

Gloating? Pride in being loved; vain pride overall? The want for friends? How Asgardian. Fenris thought, There's a shred of Odinson in him yet.

The ocean floor and the center of Midgard trembled.

I can hear you, Jörmungandr said. You’re talking to yourself again. In case you’ve forgotten, you, too, were beloved and doted on. You were just a fool who threw it away sooner.

Fenris dismissed him. I understood what was coming better than you did. They couldn’t let things like us flourish. It would have destroyed them eventually. Our exile was inevitable. I embraced it instead of clinging to scraps like you did.

They let Father flourish, Jörmungandr said, sulkiness lining his tone.

We are beyond Loki, Fenris said. We always have been.

Jörmungandr sank a fleet of fishing boats and didn’t speak to him for a week.

Sometimes, Fenris thought about his own children. Loki wasn’t the only young single parent among the Odinsons. Sköll and Hati were two other cosmic wolves. In comparison to Fenris, they were small. Fenris guessed his two children had to be about three hundred years old now, mentally. They aged differently. Slowly. In short, they were still children.

Fenris’ errant twins chased the sun around the sky. When they weren’t doing that, they wrecked havoc in the Milky Way. Life was a riot for them.

They sound like spoiled hellions, Fenris thought. He had made some mistakes at fifteen. There was no way he could have raised his offspring successfully. And let Odin or Frigga have them? Let them possibly become dumb steeds, like Sleipnir? Not a chance. As for Loki, nothing Loki felt about his grandchildren mattered. Fenris didn’t bother telling Loki they existed.

By the time Fenris even considered raising Sköll and Hati, he had been bound. He had never met his children. They had never met him. Fenris didn’t think they pondered him much. To them, he was the same as Fenris I: history. Aside from some occasional loneliness, Fenris was fine with that.

Like father like son.

On Midgard, all but the biggest cosmic news took forever to arrive. Fenris hated that. He hated the planet. He hated the realm. He hated the 7.3 billion stupid humans in Midgard that believed they mattered. He hated gleipnir. He hated his family. He hated every single generation of Odinsons and frost giants that had led up to him.

He hated feeling a huge emptiness settle into his soul as he realized Asgard was dead, and had been for weeks. He had missed Ragnarok. Surtur had destroyed his destiny after all.

For a while, Fenris stared at the super-heated sea around him. Tons of nickel and iron crushed his body. It was hard to breathe. Asgard was gone, and he had known that since it died. He had just not wanted to think about it. He bet Jörmungandr knew too.

Fenris hunched until his face was almost buried in his chest. Gleipnir’s silken length smothered his nose. He inhaled, slowly. Hela is gone, he thought. She’s been beaten. It was no comfort. Everything else was gone too. Fenris was glad the sword through his jaw silenced the first sob. He wept bitterly to himself. He didn’t want anyone to hear him.

For all of the hate inside him, Fenris loved the world he had been bound to destroy. Asgard’s gleaming halls and the craggy mountains he explored as a child were his. He had loved the giant tables overflowing with food and his family’s laughter. He had loved the towering library Loki had relaxed in, the one that smelled of secrets and ancient air. The plush throne room and its intricate, beautiful murals on the ceiling. The training field where Thor roughhoused with him. The lush woods Týr ran through. The storm-grey walls built higher than heaven. The blue-walled nursery where Frigga had held a tiny him, once, before they thought about fate.

All of those were gone now.

Fenris killing everything he loved was supposed to provide a catharsis. Now there was nothing to destroy. Only a broken people floating in space, if they weren’t dead. Valhalla must be flooded, Fenris thought, without the strength to add ‘as it should be.’ He felt Jörmungandr tighten around the world (around him). He did not object.

Grief distorted time, even for gods. Fenris and Jörmungandr held each other as best they could through Midgard. They mourned their lost destinies and home. They could not see the sky, but they could feel their people among them. They waited for the remaining Asgardians to find Midgard. Fenris smelled Thor in the stars. Angry hope rekindled in his chest.

Come back, he thought, so I can see you all a last time. So we can finish this. Asgard is gone. You can at least let us end the little rest of what we have left. Let us all have the Ragnarok we deserve, whether it happens this year or in a hundred. Jörmy rested his head near Norway, seething with impatience. They were so close to being reunited again. They only had to wait.

The brothers were both tracking the arc of Thor’s ship through the atmosphere when - suddenly - they felt Loki and all the Asgardians extinguish at once.

Miles Morales was dying in space.

He woke up out of the nightmare so viciously he ripped half the sheets off his bed. Miles tumbled onto the floor, heaving. Several missed calls blinked on his phone, and Pepper Potts was calling again; the sound of his dorm room’s AC sounded like the cold woosh of an airlock opening. The world rippled around him. Miles fled to the bathroom with wood splinters sticking to his fingers to throw up. Ned, snug in his upper bunk bed, didn’t stir once.

When Miles was done vomiting, he answered his phone. He pushed back his hair in the bathroom mirror. Cold sweat lingered on his face. The rest of his boarding school classmates were still fast asleep. His phone clock said it was 4:35 AM.

“Hello?”

“Spider-Man,” Pepper Potts said. “We need you at the tower. Right now.”

“Pepper,” Miles said, his hand still tight on the sink rim, “what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Pepper said. “But we’re going to figure it out.”

“Right.” Miles inhaled. He met his reflection’s eyes and imagined the spider suit over his face and the tune of Sunflower in his ears. It’s going to be okay, he told himself. Miles calmed and straightened up. “I’ll see you at the tower.”

Pepper hung up on him.

As Miles swung to Potts Tower, he couldn’t shake the feeling of deja vu. He lost his grip and crashed into a dumpster once. Thankfully, no one saw it. Miles’ muscles ached. His spidey sense pinged him at random moments. It scratched up and down his neck like a broken record needle. While Miles flew over the skyline, he couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. It was the same one he had felt four years ago when he entered Prowler’s apartment for the last time after the funeral.

Something bad has already happened, Miles thought. We’re too late to stop it.

He bit his lip. He would call his parents later. When he knew what was going on.

The tower was in chaos. Maybe no one was yelling, but Miles felt the tension the instant he stepped inside. Thor, King of Asgard and God of Thunder, was pacing by the window. Every time he reached the end of the room and turned, his prosthetic arm caught the city lights and shone for a second. Miles saw five spots of light in two minutes.

Pepper Potts sat at the table closest to Thor, a cup of coffee already in hand. Miles didn’t smell in any alcohol in it - yet. Dark bags unlined her eyes. The glow of her arc reactor looked sickly through her shirt. As spotless as the long-sleeved silk top was, it was buttoned crooked. Pepper looked like she was in hell. Miles felt immensely sorry for her.

“I don’t understand,” Thor said, reaching the end of the room and turning again. “We collected the Infinity Stones and defeated Thanos before anyone was hurt. But my people are in uproar. Every single one of them woke up in the middle of a nightmare about turning to ash. Valkyrie and Korg are barely holding them together.”

“We all had strange nightmares or migraines, Thor,” Pepper said. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of this. I promise. Dr. Strange is on his way.”

Thor ran his fingers through his blond beard. Miles decided that Thor didn’t look like he had slept much either. Pepper gulped down more coffee, dead-eyed.

Thor turned to Miles. “You too, Man of Spiders?”

“Yeah.” Miles pushed down the knot in his throat. “Me too. But Pepper is right. Dr. Strange will be here soon.”

Thor shook his head and squeezed Miles’ shoulder. Miles didn’t admit it, but he was grateful for the comfort. Ned usually hates being left out of Spidey business, Miles thought. But I think he’ll appreciate being left out of this one.

Bit by bit, the Avengers trickled into the conference room. Bruce Banner walked in cleaning his glasses and sat next to Pepper. The two immediately began murmuring with each other. Bucky arrived in his Captain America suit, looking as reluctant as ever to wear it. The fact Thor didn’t make his usual “one-armed buddies” joke showed what kind of situation they were in. Sam wore a mix of civvies and Falcon gear to accompany Bucky.

“Coffee?” he said, looking to Pepper.

“There’s a pot in the kitchen,” Pepper said. “Feel free to make another.”

“Thank God.” Sam poured himself a fourth of the pot. He swallowed three pills of asprin with it.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Pepper said, “what is Strange’s ETA?”

“Five minutes, m’am,” J.A.R.V.I.S.’ smooth voice said. Miles never got used to him. “Ms. Potts, you have several calls waiting. Two are from students at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Wanda and Pietro wish to speak with you. They say it is urgent.”

“Tell them to hold on,” Pepper said. “I’ll call them back as soon as this is over.”

Pepper rubbed her temple as Clint and Natasha entered the room. Miles took a seat on a sofa. He tucked his hands under his legs so no one could see them trembling. The world’s hard surfaces still felt too much like a spacecraft.

“Where’s Strange?” Natasha said.

“Almost here,” Pepper said. “Take a seat, have coffee - anything.”

“Whatever shit is happening,” Clint signed, “I don’t like it.”

“Me neither, man,” Sam said.

Bucky stared out the window.

The horrible feeling from when Miles woke up did not vanish. It simmered in all the Avengers. Conversation started and stopped amongst them. Miles couldn’t even worry about the Calculus AP quiz he was going to miss in a few hours. A layer of stress thick as tar lay over all of them. Natasha tapped her foot in impatience. Bruce kept cleaning his glasses long after they were spotless. Thor paced, Clint folded his arms; Pepper and Sam drank enough coffee to kill someone. Miles wanted to squeeze his eyes and disappear.

Five minutes felt like four years. Pepper stood when a brilliant orange portal opened up in the conference room. Thor whirled towards it, as did Bucky and Natasha.

“Dr. Strange has arrived,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said.

Dr. Strange looked worse than any of them. A grey streak illuminated the hair above his brow. His cape stuck close to him while it swirled in agitation. Lines undercut his lines. Pepper marched towards him.

“Strange,” she said, “what’s happening?”

“A ripple in reality,” Dr. Strange said. “That’s what.”

“Excuse me?” Clint said.

“Explain, sorcerer,” Thor said.

“Give me a minute,” Dr. Strange snapped. Miles stayed on the couch as he watched the adults fret. Pepper threw out an arm to force the others back. She didn’t pull her gaze from Dr. Strange once.

Eventually, Dr. Strange stopped fighting with his train of thought. He sighed. His cape tucked closer around him with reassurance.

“We’ve all had nightmares,” Dr. Strange said. “I know that. All of them were concerning, confusing visions of another end to Infinity War - possibly of another world. I can’t explain them. I do know they’re a common factor among us.”

“But you know something,” Natasha said.

“I do.” Dr. Strange glanced at the lightening skyline outside of Potts Tower. “I don’t know what the nightmares signify, but I do know where they’re from. That’s why I called you. Thor isn’t going to like this answer.”

Thor crossed his arms. A clear expression of ‘get it over with’ soured his face. All eyes were on him or Dr. Strange now. Miles heard a few upticks in heartbeats. He wanted to scream. Even J.A.R.V.I.S. was quiet.

“Well? Where?” Miles said, because he couldn’t stand the adults dragging this out any longer. Someone had to ask it.

“The ripple in reality and all of our migraines,” Dr. Strange said, “are stemming from the Fenris wolf.”