Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter grit his teeth, releasing a frustrated, carnal groan. Hiding behind the kitchen wall, digging through drawers, throwing silverware on the ground, was a burglar. Dude was short and grating on the ears. A pack of wolves must've taught him how to rob people. He hadn't confronted the man yet, busy thinking of choice words. (It was Saturday, his first day home alone in the new house May owned.) Ugh, talk about nothing being sacred!

Peter encroached the arch that lead to the kitchen, treading lightly. The other guy was emptying May and his medecine cabinet. Pill bottles rolled onto the floor, specifically for Adhd and Ocd, not that it mattered. Ok, this was where the secret hero would come in and stop him.

Knocking his shoulder on the doorway with a 'clunk', Peter sighed disheartenedly. He made sure it was loud enough to grab his attention so he could tell all the burning lame jokes life had to offer. "I didn't know May hired a babysitter for me."

The burglar jumped behind a dented cabinet that dangled from its hinges. Peter's smirk grew into a toothy grin. Under the thief's fuchsia swim goggles, he sized up the smiling kid like a pile of laundry.

"Spider-man," he said through a mask.

Peter stepped back in dismay but nodded.

"Kwite's evil brother." He smacked himself the moment he used that quip. In all fairness, the burglar had on a grey hoodie, black tinted goggles, and black face mask like the one that hospital staff wore.

No thanks to that, he reversefully pleaded. "Don't... Don't move any closer."

Peter gave him a doubtful look and raised his hands. Big mistake. The nervous man padded for his holster, drawing a slick white gun. Unlike the walls, cabinets, and doors, it's color remained snowy when it should've become cream in the late afternoon sun. This was innexplicable, but Peter moved on to learn more, not knowing how much time he had. The barrel was large and seperated by gelatinous cyan windows. For several seconds, neither of his index fingers moved above the trigger.

Peter's eyebrows bent out of shape. "You didn't bring any back up? What do you take me for? Some kid? You know I'm weird and special, dude..." He jumped onto the ceiling as if his famous mutation needed showing.

"This has to be done, Spider-man."

"Cliche villain line number 7, that doesn't even cleverly play off what I just said!" He feigned an ornery attitude.

The gun hissed with a particle charging sound effect from Star Wars.

He gulped, but quickly realized nothing was on fire. Also, his 'spider sense' was either asleep or really reserved today because his neck didn't screamed "DANGER!" While it was true the man was alone, that couldn't have made him harmless. Then he thought about how he was holding the gun.

"You don't want to hurt me," Peter announced. "I don't think- Are you okay? Is anyone forcing you to do this? May I help, sir?"

"Yes, Peter." His lips quirked up. "And you will." He gave a dry, fond chuckle as if slapping the boy on the back. Familiarity bore at the orphan, though he was sure he didn't know any males of this exact one's profile.

As he strided to his left, he raised his gun and fired. "Oh, not a toy." Peter dodged the stream of light barreling towards him. Cackling flooded the room and he realized belatedly that a full sized lightning bolt had appeared in the kitchen. His clothes burned where heat was involved; Suddenly, the ceiling became to sickening to hold onto.

Next, the sight of impact blew up into a dark grey cloud. Once the lightning drew back, it swirled, becoming a mysterious purple portal like a videogame.

Peter, who launched himself at the man's legs and wrestled him to the ground, failed to stay calm. He experienced the five stages of grief in lightning rounds and cursed himself out for not wearing webshooters. That was until the butt of the man's gun smacked away his clear vision. 'Pow...'

"Huh... did you see that spikey speech bubble with the downplayed onomatopoeia too, Batman?"

"What?"

Peter socked him in the jaw when he turned around confused.

"Alright, put your cool gun down for real."

The man seethed and scrambled to his feet. He aimed staight for the kid's head, but Peter scurred behind him. It almost worked, except a large hand wrapped around his ankle and he fell to the floor, vaguely aware of what was coming.

When he tried to get up, something forced him down, and next he heard the charging noise. He felt an awkward shock condense all his muscles into one tiny spot on his leg. Though it was enough to make him scream in pain, it was too confusing to scare him to death. The kitchen tile began amplifying the high pitched sound for no reason at all as his head fell down tiredly.
...
Hovering on the threshold of waking, Peter already knew his back was on the kitchen floor. His dreams didn't take him off it kindly, not that he remembered them. That'd teach him to pass out in battle again. When he roused, the burglar was gone and night replaced the room with pale, cool colors.

By this point, May had to have come home. Maybe she skipped dinner and didn't see him unconscious. Despite the fact that she knew he was Spider-man, this was indubitably good; She didn't know he was still a novice at all the 'hero stuff' yet. 

He was drawn to the molten skin on his thigh before he could quite get up. There was dark blue leading down a hole that seeped with tissue and blood, like he had been stabbed by a wrathful ink pen. Luckily, it was too shocking to hurt so he reached for a paper towel to clean his jeans.

On the plus side of a humiliating home-invasion defeat, he could run upstairs and change his clothes. When he felt ready to scrounge for his phone, he'd shoot Tony a text about this precarious situation. Some things slipped his mind as he limped to the staircase though.

"May?" He shouted weakly.

"Who's down there? Freeze!" Came a man's voice of roughly 20-25. Peter raised his fists, tensing from head to toe, faster than he had even done in the first battle.

All of a sudden, someone was standing in front of the light. They were bald, wearing skinny jeans and a DragonForce T-shirt, thrusting their hands on their hips commandeeringly. This was not Mr. Portal Guy although he shouldn't have been there either. "What are you doing here?" He screamed.

"I live here, you-" Peter cut himself off before he cursed at an adult, who seemed just as confused as he was.

"This is my family's property, and you're scaring us all."

Peter croaked vulnerably. Then, gesturing his hands in a way that seemed to shut him up, the man moved closer.

"Tell me who you are and how you got in... My kids are already calling the police!"
...
As Peter confessed he was home alone that day and someone broke into the house with a gun, he learned "that day" was over 10 years ago. Somehow, time travel was failing to not be a thing of science fiction, which was amazing and terrifying all at once. Of course, he kept his lips sealed. The poor father of three that he had alarmed was angry enough. All of his children were still upstairs because the teenager who woke up on their floor wasn't to be trusted for obvious reasons.

"You say you were already in my house because you live here, and a guy in a grey hoodie broke in, knocked you out, now it's 3 am. You have no recollection of anything happening inbetween."

"Yes, sir. Maybe I have amnesia? I dunno..."

He scratched his head, the appropriate response. "So, an ambulance is also on the way and I want you to get examed. You better not protest. My whole family is freaked out by you breaking in without tripping a single alarm, kid."

Peter nodded understandingly and their eyes parted ways. The living room had been redecorated since he was 17, though he was still 17. His mind and body hadn't changed, but if it was 2033 like the man said, he should be 27. 'The room, focus, Peter,' he mumbled. Blue towels were strewn across the leopard print chair in the corner, covered in thick gold oil that made the hairs on his nose stand up.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man turned around, having gotten on his phone to stay awake longer.

"What's tha-" he trailed off, because for all intents and purposes, it could be fucking piss. This wasn't his house and he had no room to care about a smelly towel.

"Hydraulic fluid, kid." He sounded more proud than mad.

"Oh, we're on some i-robot shit now..." Damn, that movie had possibly the least creative AI lore in history, but what the hell else was he supposed to say.

The man snorted unexpectedly, stretching toward the ceiling as he got out of his chair. "Not many people your age remember that..." He grasped.

"Oh, my bad. Sometimes I still think it's 2023."

"Adorable, so do I. Speaking of the house, that's when a hot young lady lived here with her adopted son."

"Did the son go missing?"

This resulted in an incredulous look, taking years off his life. "No."

Peter chuckled, stopping as the look grew more concerned and somewhat offended. "...Thank you for not shooting me. It's really nice you're letting me go to a hospital because of how scattered my brain feels."

"Uh, no problem, kid... I hope you don't go into other people's houses and play this 'amnesia game' with them though."

"I don't, sir. This isn't a game."

"Good."
...
The cops pulled up to the house in Forest Hill at 3:14, Peter's lucky number. They planned to allow medics see him first in the back of an ambulance with the doors open. All and all, this was a standard procedure (because kids were always ending up in stranger's houses with no memory whatsoever.) Except when he couldn't provide his family's "identification numbers" (What were those? Phone numbers?) They changed routine. A paramedic told him to stay in the ambulance instead of following the officers. Then another cop climbed in. Two went to their own vehicle and pulled out of the drive way. When the ambulance doors closed, Peter knew they started tailgating them, but was assured they were heading to the nearest brain trauma center in Manhattan.
...
"My name is Peter Parker; My aunt is May Parker. We are not biologically related because she's my dad's brother's wife, both of whom have been dead for several years."

"Do you really not know her identification number though? Her name doesn't help you at all, Peter, I'm sorry." A disgruntled brain specialist let her head sink into her palms, defeated. She logged the information he provided in her computer vainly.

She had tried calling May's phone number earlier, but in 2033 it reached some gay club in Jersey. Needless to say, they were very confused about a missing woman and her orphan nephew.

"No," he cracked. "413612-"

"That's not an identification number!" The woman groaned, melding her face beyond recognition. Pretty quickly, things went silent as he shifted on the examination table.

"Sorry-"

"Don't apologize. Just be honest with me, do you not know them?

"I don't know anything about them, like I've forgotten the whole idea behind them. It's... kinda stupid... I don't remember anything since waking up and I know I shouldn't feel bad but I feel really bad." Her lips pursed and she clacked away at the keyboard. Peter felt like he was about to recieve a long list of possible mental disorders from her. Could brain specialists diagnose schizophrenia and inferiority complex? Or was that psychologists?

Doctor DeWolff rolled back in her rollie chair, grabbing the corner of the bed before it crushed an overworked power strip. Claustrophobia must've not been a problem for her if she could work in these conditions. This office was the smallest he ever saw, there was no room he lived in to compare it to.

"You'll have an MRI scan in 15 minutes; My apologies for the wait. People are such goddamn idiots around Christmas."

"Cool."

"Oh God, is the youth calling things cool again? Thank fuck, I mean, thank... the sun... I hated hearing my kids say 'psychedelic' and 'genetic' every other minute."

"I meant genetic." Peter smiled, cheekishly watching her face deflate. She sighed and returned another question. "Who are the current presidents?"

"..."

"Check mate."
...
The MRI didn't introduce new problems to his doctors. He was assigned an electronic bracelet after it ended and lead to a room on the third floor, tbi recovery. Inside, there was a sleeping woman on a messy bed. Then a yellow curtain, behind which was his "room". Peter curled around the divider to see it. His bed was empty except for a Bisharp plush that lay adorably on a little pillow and a large window with yellow drawn curtains.

Bisharp

Popular

Noted.

He looked at the window next. The city lights drew him closer to the frosty glass and shined blue in his brown eyes. Captivated by the image of twinkling construction, he eased against the sill. His thoughts were attentive; 4:13 am had never been more beautiful or strange.

"Mr. Parker?" Asked a curly haired nurse.

"Can I sit in the hallway for a bit, um... Sometimes these places make me have a panic attack."

"Yes."
...
Having Adhd was a bitch. Peter wandered through the accessible rooms on the third floor, getting strange looks from people who had counted his laps. 5... 6. Sometimes he forgot how noticeably bad he had it, which was another problem entirely for this hospital. On his 7th lap, he decided to stop and round up the floor's main desk.

There was a black woman attending to her computer and clipboard.

"Excuse me, ma'am? How are you?"

She tilted her head up confused. "I'm doing good... uh... You're Peter, right? Have you found your room?"

Hospital staff knowing who you were at all times was not something he liked about the future because it was kinda creepy. "Yeah," he said, letting color drift back into his face. "Am I stuck here til my legal guardian finds me?"

"Well..." She froze. "Not really, sweetie. We can't make you stay at the hospital if she never comes back, and we can't in good conscience allow you to leave..."

"In good conscience," Peter repeated on auto-pilot. "I can leave?"

"Er- no. You can request to see people from CPS and then negotiate your leave."

"Genetic." Peter was amazed by that transaction. "Ok, thank you, ma'am."

She nodded and returned to her files.
...
Instead of doing the right thing, Peter planned an escape, and it was stupidly easy. He had chewed off his bracelet, thrown it away, went to the cafeteria which all patients and visitors could attend, then trailed behind the healthiest looking guy. No one stopped him. There wasn't even a red herring on the lunch menu. He just escaped, and it pissed him off.

The amount of effort put into that plan was equal to the amount of effort put into Mr. Portal Gun's stupid costume. Things like that shouldn't work in real life. But they did. Sometimes life was fine with cheaters and lazy assholes, so fine it groveled at their fat fucking feet. What the fuck. WHY. Peter felt like a cheating, lazy asshole, who didn't deserve good things but got them anyway. In other words, he felt like a spoiled bitch.

And not in a good way. He pulled his hair, forcing himself to walk away from the hospital. Next on the agenda was... Ok, he hadn't thought of that. Looking up, he saw New York's skyline poking into beautiful cirrus clouds, then the outline of a stark tower.

Literally.

His teeth raised in a boyish smile as he ran to the big "A".

Chapter Text

When he approached the next desk, a celebrity exited the tower's elevator. One could tell because they attracted a swarm, a mob of people snapping photos and investigating baseless accusations. Peter sighed as the lines continued to vanish.

"Thank you!" He shouted, shooting a hand above a TMZ immitation journalist. Heh. Wonder which gorgeous actor or singer Mr. Stark invited. Then he managed to spot them through two people's shoulders. Right, because of course he was there, he face palmed.
...
"Is it true you're restarting your weapons program?"

"Are you trying to hide from the media?"

"Should the world look for a new Iron Man in light of your most recent heart surgery?"

Jesus T Christ. (Despite the fact that Peter and May were Jewish Orthodox, that word slipped into his vocabulary now and again.) He knew he had to get to the front faster, crawling through the crowd

"Hey! Hey! Mr. Stark!" He winced, but his voice was just another brick in the wall. People pushed him on the floor as he wishfully called his mentor's name, and water softened his eyes.

"Is Spider-Man still at large?"

Huh? A tabloid reporter had asked that one, and she sounded more professional than anybody else in the news team. Peter was knocked down again, but hovered over the marble floor thoughtlessly as the crowd flocked forward.

Kneeling distantly from the tight-knit group, he fumbled with his shoelaces attempting to look normal. 'Please be a vigilante,' he hoped. A realization struck him about his name just then, he hadn't used it. That was stupid. Why would Mr. Stark turn his attention around at a name he probably heard from all his employees? 'Stupid, stupid.' He ran back into the crowd to fix things.

Pushing through the paparazzi was a lot harder the second time; Only reporters with big TV cameras and boom mics made it. Peter glued himself to the floor several times, hoping it wouldn't be too much of an advantage over his peers. When he could see the 'light', he sucked in a huge breath. "Mr. Stark, it's me! Peter Parker! Underoos, 'hey everyone', remember that?" He screamed.

"No questions." Stark worked a different side of the crowd.

"Peter Parker..." His voice cracked a little. Tony's face was apathetic, obscured by whatever brand of aviator shades he wore.

It was like he had been forgotten so he felt annoyed with himself when he kept trying---until the famous hero heard his name (or must've- because his glasses fell down, revealing sketchy, confused eyes.) Peter gawked, he could tell what color they were, but Tony's jaw dropped. Almost as soon as it happened though, he covered his mouth and looked away. A dumb, toothy grin appeared on Peter's face, and nothing else mattered since he was so sure his role model saw him.
...
"O'hara, detain that kid over there," Tony whispered to his body guard. He shoved his thumb back quickly, and normally that would end a person's entire career, but he and Miguel O'hara had a gestical language so unique the government couldn't crack it.

O'hara switched places with another body guard, Aaron Delgato, and phased through the crowd. His boss prepared a distraction.

"Everyone," Stark yawned, "Your questions? Marvelous. Totally valid and thought provoking. I will be answering them on Twitter tonight or in my WIRED interview tomorrow with my acclaimed, trademarked brevity."

The crowd cheered, giving baseball stadiums a run for their money.

"Right now, I'm a tad busy trying to get to my lovely secretary, Betty. Let's make some room for her, people!" He waved his hand, and his fans parted like the red sea. His secretary, a drop dead gorgeous brunette, stood at the end delightedly.

(And then they frenched.)
...
Peter wanted to throw up. He knew that woman from somewhere, then he remembered, his first year of highschool. Oh no, Tony... oh no. Either way, he was already out of the crowd. His body fluttered instead of falling with momentous elation because he had been seen, even if nothing happened. If nothing happened..?

Peter wondered. He had been planning for Stark to assist him in time travel shenanigans which was totally out of the question if nothing happened. Immediately he worried that he should've gone looking for 50-year-old-Mr-Portal-Gun instead. All of a sudden, a claw dropped on his shoulder.

Without having time to react, he crouched down. (Most bad guys expected you to turn and scream.) Next, he rotated his leg, sideswiping the guy's ankles.

"Hey, I didn't mean I actually wanted to find 50-year-old-Mr-Portal-Gun!"

This caused the man to trip to his left and grunt. "That wasn't meant to be a threatening gesture, idiot!"

Peter noticed he had a face and wheezed stuntedly. It wasn't one he recognized, but at least it wasn't him. "Why are you touching kids, dude? I don't even look good underneath these clothes. You will forever regret choosing me if you have to go to jail..."

"Te digo que te quedes aquí en serio! Shit, I mean-"

"I got you, tio. You one of Stark's body guards?" He looked at the suit and shades. Obviously. If this guy was a bit thicker and paler, he'd be the spitting image of Happy Hogan.

He shook his head and watched Stark from the same distance as Peter.
...
Later, he was escorted by 'Miguel' to a high level conference room. Future Tony interacted with him as little as possible until he sat down, folded his hands politely, and raved about a ridiculous time travel plot.

It received a guttural sputter out of ten.

"Mr. Stark I-"

"Just who the fuck do you think you are?" He stalked over to the table and slammed his hands down. His abandoned coffee mug trembled. It screamed "exasperated" rather than "dangerous." There were no windows but the bright fluorescent lighting also moved things away from a-too-uncomfortable-scene.

"That's the easiest way to put it!" Peter laughed, counting down on his fingers. "Home alone, burglar, portal gun, future, hospital." Before Tony could interject, he leaned back in his plastic chair gleefully. "Cis le vie."

"Ok, first of all, c'est la vie-"

"I took Spanish and you know it."

"I don't know you..." he moaned as Peter pulled a cup of pencils toward him. The kid flipped it on its side and used his powers to hold it via finger pads.

"I'm literally Spider-Man," he grumbled. Tony sat down on the other end of the table, grabbing his face.

"How are you doing that?"

"Spider-powers." His voice dribbled but then he was smiling like a madman again.

"Ok."

Peter, having the worst emotional stability, looked up. "Ok, Ok? Ok. Thank you! How's it hangin, T-Star?"

"That didn't mean... Whatever. You're weird, and I'm Iron Man. What can I get for ya?"

"Time machine."

"Oh yeah sure, those were invented in late 2025 and became very popular with mainstream audiences. I'll just loan you one of mine." He pinched the bridge of his nose. His sarcasm would've worked on Peter had he not rolled into a fit of laughter.

"So dude, I can feel that you're the same TS from '23 cause of your energy. Can you feel that I'm the same Parker?"

He leaned back, biting his lip. "Kid, now that you mention it..."

The heater powered on, but otherwise, the room was silent. Miguel, Aaron, and two other body guards stood watch by the glass doors. Which for no reason at all, reminded Peter of pressing issues.

"In the future, am I a criminal? I heard the- Uh- Tabloid girl- Say I was at large- Sorry. What did I do? Don't tell me more than the media knows if you don't believe me."

"I believe you, but save that question for the end please..."

"What happened to me on December 24th 2023 and the years after?"

Tony licked his lips, forewarning of a story that didn't have a 'short answer'. "Don't know how I remember this, but it was a pretty normal Christmas Eve. Except you scared the shit out of your aunt and were never allowed to stay home alone again. New Years was in a week and she dragged you to celebrate with me, but you didn't want to."

"Two months passed quietly, and I sensed you were kinda mad at me, never figuring out why. Brief economic recession happened; May stopped making as much money. In February, y'all decided to move back to the apartment. I offered her support, but she threatened to stick a crystal studded mezuzah up my ass. Which was hilarious but also terrifying. I hated seeing you guys go to that run down old tower so I tried convincing you to stay at the compound on weekends. Instead you went crazy and walked out."

"Which hurt... I thought when you were going through the whole 'superhero thing', we bonded like father like-" He trailed off.

"Then I almost lined your family's pockets with cash out of spite. But I didn't. Because you have to understand, future you would've hated my guts more if I did. We stopped talking after... I don't know. The times were a sobriety nightmare. You became an adult though, who I can only assume is doing well cause one time you flipped me off outside of Target. It was like you realized I used to be a shitty person and left..."

"No you didn't, Mr. Stark! And I wouldn't let myself do that if I could go back in time. I look up to you more than my own-" he coughed. They had a running joke about words like that. When the old man smiled, Peter thought more on the matter. "I'm sorry I flipped you off, but I'll make sure it doesn't happen. I'm sure it had no long term consequences and I was just being a dick."

"Of all the things you've done, Peter, worry about that the least."

He flashed a worried look. This was about the criminal thing wasn't it.

"And 'identification numbers', what exactly are they?"

"Your initials plus 5 digits, wired to every social media account you've ever had, including sites you've lied about your age on or subscribed to accidentally."

"Uh... does everyone have them..?"

"No. Some people can opt out but they get systematically oppressed in elections and tax refunds."

"That's fucked-" Peter stopped. "I don't think I want to know anything else about the future, but my last question is one I already asked. I really need an answer, please."

There was a knowing sigh. "Can I tell you quickly?" Peter gave his approval and creases grew on the elder's forehead like vines.

"You bombed the compound last December and I was so angry I put out an arrest warrant for your alias."

The teen stared at him blankly and skipped one of the more important steps in breathing. Was this some kind of joke? The thought did nothing to quell his horror. His fingers went white, spilling the cup. Why did he- his future self do that? And to- to Mr. Stark?

He didn't become an Avenger. They drifted apart. That was crushing, but a terrorist? How did that make any sense? What was wrong with him? Back in the real world, he was muttering and clenching his teeth so Tony grabbed his hand. He pulled it away, scratching his arms til they turned a strawberry pink.

Had Tony known how to help, he would've been giving his kid the best care in the world. Instead he spoke lamely. "Peter- Peter, that wasn't you. You won't do that- I- I shouldn't have told you what happened. Please don't cry- Oh God, I'm sorry..."

Peter felt like a sinking ship, but everyone who could help him was on the beach. His tongue struggled, speaking ill-advised words.

When he managed to speak, he just wanted to reassure Tony. "That won't be me."

"It won't be you." The business man hugged.