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Peter sneezes.
“Ew.” Johnny takes a bite of his hotdog, chews, then says, “bless you.”
“Thanks, John Boy.”
“No prob, Petey Pie.”
They keep eating. Peter sneezes again. And again. And-
“This is getting ridiculous, come here.” Johnny starts making grabby hands for Peter’s face.
He leans out of reach, almost falling off the building they're perched on, and frowns. “Just allergies.”
“See, that’s the thing. It can’t be allergies because you’ve got your super bug powers. Meaning no allergies. Except for mint, because spiders are allergic to mint,” Johnny finishes triumphantly.
“Ok, but trying to grab me isn’t-“
“Shhh, I’m just going to see if you’re warm or anything.” He slaps the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead, which he forces himself not to flinch away from.
(It was too much like May leaning over, eyes wide and concerned behind her glasses, feeling his temperature, asking ‘feeling any better?’ while the radiation from the spider bite worked its way through him, probably killing him.
He nodded, forced out a smile, and whispered, ‘yea.’
Because the relief on her face worked better than anything she’d given him all day.)
“Am I?”
Johnny squints and nods then retracts the offending limb and stares at Peter. “Not sure,” his hand lights up and he grins as he waves it, “I run hot.”
Despite that possibly being the worst joke he’s heard in a long time, Peter throws his head back and cackles.
“You… are an idiot,” Peter pants out.
Johnny smiles and takes another bite. “You better not get sick on me.”
“And leave you to spend your Saturday doing anything else but screwing around?” Peter shakes his head. “Never.”
So, Peter’s not good at keeping promises.
It’s a well-established fact. He didn’t with Ned, didn’t with MJ, didn’t with May, didn’t with Mr. Stark, didn’t with Ben-
Point is, he’s unreliable. When he wakes up the next day, feeling like complete and utter shit like he’s been hit by a train again and his senses are dialed up to 11, he knows Johnny’s another name he’ll add to the list that really shouldn’t be growing but Gwen makes it hard to not know more people he’ll end up disappointing.
It’d be easier if things would go back to how they were before that phone call. Those few weeks where it was just him, getting knocked down and somehow getting back up. Even if he could sleep more than a few hours at a time, even if talking while lying in bed with the worst headache known to man was better than being alone.
It’s easier, not for him, but it’s not about him.
Anyway, it takes an embarrassing amount of time for Peter to accept that he’s sick.
“I didn’t even think it was possible,” he grumbles to Peter 3 as he rubs his forehead. “Isn’t the super healing supposed to take care of this?”
“It is, but sometimes it doesn’t.”
“That’s lame.”
“Hoo, believe me, I know. I got sick a while back, when I first got my powers.”
Peter finally gets out of bed, grabs the phone, and puts the call on speaker as he shuffles to the closet to grab his only coat.
“How does that even happen?”
“Different reasons,” Peter 3 answers. “Stress, insomnia, not eating enough, not drinking enough water, injury. A super virus intended to target only mutated genes. Unresolved emotional or psychological issues.”
“Those are… wildly different.”
“Yeah well it’s usually the last one, so take it easy and in the meantime, let’s discuss your issues.”
Peter huffs out a laugh. “I thought Peter 2 was the therapist.”
“Oh yea, he for sure is, I mean, you can’t be that old, married, and at least semi mentally stable.”
“I knew someone who wasn’t.”
Though, that description was probably outdated by the time Mr. Stark died, considering the only time they spent together was before Peter died and before he got married and had a kid and settled down and did everything Peter is supposed to do. Get on with it, move on.
“They sound like a blast.”
Peter snorts and grabs his keys. “He was. I’ve gotta go.”
“Ok ok, I’ll leave you be. Oh, but take it easy, k'?”
He’s got shit to do, he’s supposed to meet Gwen at the subway station so they could head to the library together and he’s not going to cancel just because of some stupid cold. “Not sure if I know how to.”
“Then let someone teach you, trust me, life’s easier if you do.”
“...I’ll try.”
Peter hangs up and is halfway out the door when it happens. The air shifts. The hairs on his arms rise. The world stills. Something screams, whispers, ‘behind you’. He turns.
Standing there, in the middle of the apartment atop the creaking floorboards, almost half transparent, half blurry, some weird glitching effect straight out a video game, is Peter 2. Staring hard down at his hands, fiddling with some watch device. He stops, furrows his eyebrows, looks up at Peter and his eyes widen.
Peter 2 stretches his hand out and says, “Pete-“, and he’s gone.
There’s nothing but the sound of Peter’s breaths for a few seconds after, then the world keeps turning. He turns his phone on and frantically navigates to Peter 2’s contact, letting it ring and ring and ring until he’s met with the ‘sorry, but the number you have dialed is not available.’
He stares at the spot, head still aching and getting hotter and hotter even though he’s not wearing that many layers. And he wonders if he should hope, or if it’d be a mistake too. Because the phone calls are good, they're great, they’re enough and all he deserves and he’s not going to drag two people who’ve got so much more of a life than he could ever dream of back into his universe, his mess. He can handle it.
So. Deep breath, in and out. Push the — whatever the hell that was — to the back of his mind. Then. Out the door.
“Hello, Earth to Peter.” There’s suddenly a blur of a hand waving in front of his eyes, snapping his attention away from the cloud he was staring at back to her, standing next to him in the McDonald’s drive-thru. “Ah you’ve returned, good to see you.”
“You too, but I didn’t go anywhere.”
She raises an eyebrow and they walk a little forward as the car in front of them inches onward. “So that cloud over there was just that interesting?”
“Uh, yea? You know how much I love…”
(‘I love you guys.’
Peter desperately wanted to say it back, but the words get stuck in his throat because the last person he said that to, he left bleeding out in a half-destroyed apartment building, surrounded by rubble, dead.
The hand on his shoulder squeezed. He pressed his lips together in a tight smile and nodded and hoped he won’t regret it.)
“…cumulonimbi.”
“Almost as much as you love looking like total shit.”
“Um, no offense taken?”
“Oh no, please take full offense, because you look like crap.”
He rolls his eyes and clears his throat so he doesn’t devolve into a coughing fit like the one he had on the way there. It lasted way over 5 minutes and he was way too out of breath to keep walking for another 10 and he ended up making Gwen wait, which she insisted was fine but it isn’t . “What else is new?”
He goes for joking, but judging by her eyebrows drawn together and frown, he failed.
What else is new?
He rubs his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You most obviously are not.”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” Her eyebrow twitches, because he almost wasn’t. On her floor, in her dorm, bleeding out because he was stupid and selfish enough to throw himself, all of himself, into her life when she deserves better. He wrings his hands. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
He’s cut off by the cashier saying ‘Welcome to McDonald’s, can I take your order?’ over the intercom they walked up to. Gwen gets two quarter pounders, Peter can only afford a small fry.
“Why are we here, exactly?”
“Because I’m hungry,” she answers, grabbing her wallet, “and I’d like to hang out with you, Mr. sorry I was patrolling all night.”
Peter scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry? I was… patrolling, all night.”
She points at him with the wallet. “You’re predictable Parker. When was the last time you ate? Don’t lie and say this morning, because you and I both know that’s not true.”
Damn, she’s good.
He grumbles, she smiles and it’s so different from the weather, cloudy and grey and cool, and the dull red brick of the ESU campus up ahead he has to look away. Looking at her makes him feel like shit. Literally and in that stupid emotional sense she keeps trying to get him to tap into when he tapped out a long time ago.
They get to the window, collect their orders from a slightly confused but amused employee, no doubt wondering why they’re physically walking through a drive-thru, and they’re on their way... right after Gwen snatches the small bag of fries from his hands and shoves the brown paper bag into his.
“Um, that’s theft,” he argues.
She feigns surprise, looks between the fries and the bags he’s holding, and gasps. “No, I didn’t know!”
Peter sighs. “Gwen, I can’t-“
“You know, these fries are pretty filling.” She pops one into her mouth and smiles as she chews. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat those burgers.”
Pieces click into place. “I’ve been jipped.”
“You have, Mr. Parker. So you must deal with the consequences of your actions,” she says triumphantly. “Now, eat.”
He does and doesn’t feel completely terrible for it. Even if he knows he should, even if Gwen insists he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t need help. He should be fine. Spider-Man’s a solo act, Peter Parker… very recently started his solo career. Life, grind, whatever this is that he’s doing. But he keeps dragging more and more people into it, and he can’t because they always end up-
“Peter.” They made it to the library, somehow. Sometime in between him eating the burgers and his mini-crisis. Gwen leans across the table they’re sitting at the library and fills his sight with just her. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
He clenches his fists and whispers, “I should’ve paid.”
The corners of her lips tug up. “But I wanted to. So, let me.”
By Monday, he’s dead on his feet. The burgers helped, but superpowers mean super metabolism means 75% of his income — the meager sum it is — goes to food. Two burgers aren’t enough to hold him over for a day, let alone a few hours. Especially when he’s sick.
He wakes up feeling as though the world is literally out to get him, assaulting him with too many colors and too much light and too much everything and it hurts. His whole body aches, not like having a building dropped on him, but close enough he considers just spontaneously dying. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Spontaneous, sudden death. At this point, with sweat dripping down his face and onto his bedsheets which great, now he’s going to have to wash, he’d welcome it with open arms.
Or maybe that’s just Monday getting to him.
He whispers “come on Peter, come on Spider-Man” to himself. It’s a rather weak attempt at hyping himself up, so he doesn’t actually get out of bed until 10 minutes later when his stomach is growling so loud he’s sure the entire building can hear it. There’s a text from Karen, asking him if he can take a look at their printer because Matt’s complaining that the fax machine isn’t working. He types out a message, then deletes where it says to ‘tell Mr. Murdock to maybe send an email?’ and replaces it with ‘be right there!’
Get ready, run out the door, run back inside to scarf down some food that does not settle but he’s sure he can stop himself from throwing it up until after the job, then out the door and to Hell’s Kitchen. Karen’s not there when Peter arrives, neither is Foggy.
“She had some sudden work in Manhattan and Fogs is sick,” Matt says in way of greeting as he opens the office door to let Peter in. “She called?”
“Uh y-“ he pauses holds a cough, steadies his breathing, then says in the most nasally voice ever, “yea, said your um, printer wasn’t working?”
Matt frowns. “You’re sick?”
“A-a little. I brought a mask I can wear if it’s an issue, I promise it won’t be Mr-“
“Matt, kid,” Matt sighs. He stays still for a second before waving Peter in.
He quickly mumbles out another apology and gets to work on the printer next to Karen’s desk. He expects Matt to back to his office like he usually does and leave Peter be, but the guy pulls out Karen’s chair and takes a seat facing towards where Peter’s hunched over in front of the machine. And you know Peter, silence and him do not mesh. It’s probably why he can barely stand his apartment.
“How’s the, the new… case going?” He asks tentatively, glancing at the man.
Matt shrugs. “Going.”
Right, attorney-client privilege. Peter’s tempted to bang his head on the printer but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself any further or worsen the stupid ass headache that refuses to go away.
“Sorry,” Matt finally says, “I’ve never really been great at small talk.”
Peter gives him a half-smile. “Yea me neither.”
“How’ve you been? Besides sick.”
Peter chuckles, then coughs into his hand and winces at the sound. “Better, I guess. Uh, just, you know, getting by.” He takes the panel off the printer and frowns at the wires.
“Thought I told you to call if you needed anything.”
“Y-you did.” And Peter’s finger had hovered over the contact for so long while his eyes bore holes into the late rent warning he’d gotten last week. “But I’m good.”
His head tilts forward. “You’re sure?”
Not at all. “Positive.”
Matt’s face scrunches and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If he were wearing his glasses, Peter would’ve thought he was staring straight at him.
“Why’d you come to work?”
“…because it’s work?” There’s a long silence until Peter retracts his hands from the wires and stares at them. “I- I need the money. Rent’s not going to pay itself.”
“You’re sick.”
Peter nods. “I am.”
Matt taps his knees a few times. “You could’ve called.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Peter-“
He shakes his head. “No, no I can't. I’ve- I’ve gotta do this myself. I can take care of myself.”
“It doesn’t mean you have to do it alone,” Matt says gently and it makes Peter’s chest hurt more than the coughing fits do. “Do you… have anyone?”
Peter clenches his jaw. “… my f-friends. And my… my brothers. But I can’t put this on them, not after-“
(‘It’s just you and me’)
“-I messed up. I’m not going to put anyone through that again.”
Matt’s fingers twitch. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along the seams of Peter’s shoulder, then rests his hand on it. He doesn’t say anything for a long time until he does. Quietly, softly, filling the silence but not shattering it.
“I haven’t always been… the uh, best friend. A good friend. And you’d think, when there are 7 billion people and I’ve only got two I really care about, I’d learn to trust them but. Yea. No. Took a long time before I did.”
Peter chews on his lip and sniffs. “How- how did you?”
“I was alone for so long it, it wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I don’t.” Matt’s lips quirk up at the corners, then he sobers. “But. I — they — made me realize I was afraid. And I was trying so hard to not be, I didn’t realize that’s ok.”
“To be scared?” Peter whispers.
“To care. To, let people in. Let them care, help, otherwise you’ll always be trapped by it, by that fear. Like I said, 7 billion people, but the people you’re with chose to be with you.”
Peter’s eyes burn. He rubs them. “Yea, they did.”
“Yes, they did.” Matt grins and rises to his feet, offering Peter a hand. “Alright, let’s get you out of here before you keel over, you sound awful.”
Peter accepts, standing shakily having to be steadied, and glances hesitantly at the printer. “I didn’t finish.”
“You’re right.” Matt grabs his wallet and hands him too many $20s for an easy, incomplete job. “Consider this advanced payment.”
“Mr-“
“Matt. Your formalities are going to be the death of me. And it’s just the first half, you’ll get the rest when you finish, which will be when you aren’t coughing out a death rattle.”
Peter sighs, smiles warily, and gingerly pockets the money. “Force of habit. Thank you, Matt.”
“Anytime.”
The two walk back to the apartment, a journey Peter insists he can make alone but Matt further insists he will not. Eventually, he drops Peter off, makes sure he’s actually lying down and not jumping out the door when Matt turns and leaves with a quick bye. Peter did plan on getting back up, but he really does feel terrible, like genuine, ‘I might pass out if I move my head faster than 3 cm a minute’ kind of terrible. So he stays lying in bed, suffering and staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzes. He checks the message, and it’s from Matt.
I know a doctor, in case you need one. Claire Temple. Don’t worry about costs, just go.
Peter blinks blearily at the screen, grins, and puts his phone face down on his nightstand before falling asleep.
(It’s the middle of the night and Peter gets up to get something to drink. Practically drags himself out of bed and almost passes out. He’s standing at the sink, filling a cup with water when it happens again.
Tingle, a flash of light, the appearance of Peter 2, or his apparition or a hallucination. Breathing heavily, looking exhausted and beaten. But he glances up at Peter, meets his gaze, and smiles. He waves. Peter waves back.
‘Hi?’
Peter 2 chuckles, then glances down at the same device he had last time and his smile turns apologetic, strained.
‘See you soon.’ The light surrounding him and weird glitching get more intense. He calls out, ‘and take care of yourself!’ then gone.
It’s blink and you’ll miss it. He knows he'll miss him too much, he already does. So Peter smiles.
‘See you soon.’)
The thermometer reads 103.5
“Shit,” Peter breathes, then coughs because he’s apparently not allowed to have nice things.
Thinking, hoping it’s wrong, he throws off his shirt and tries again. Then drinks a cup of water. Then hangs halfway out the window. No change. And Peter knows he’s screwed. He runs (read: stumbles) down the hall and uses probably every single ounce of charm and whatever bit of childhood innocence he can drag up from the depths of his soul and puts them on full display as he begs Ms. Stanford with her 9 cats and probably less than a quarter of a life left for ibuprofen. She hands him one, not enough but he’s not turning it down, and he swallows it dry.
There’s not much else to do, not much else he can do while semi-delirious, so Peter puts his shirt back on, almost makes it to bed but promptly passes out just before he can make it onto the matress.
Maybe he’ll feel better, if he wakes up.
(‘Where are your pants?’
‘Oh my god, don’t even get me started on that story. Is the door open?’
‘I think so. What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you both in a bit. Let me open… Yooo hooo! Peter prime! We’re- crap.’
‘What’s- oh.’
‘Is- is he still…’
‘…he’s breathing. Just looks awful.’
‘Right, right. Uh, what- what do we do?’
‘Same thing you do for every sick person. I’ll hold the fort and get him into bed, you go grab some bags of ice.’
‘Yea. Yea, ok right, got it… will- will he be alright?’
‘…we won’t let him be anything but.’)
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me mirror, what is wrong~” May sings.
Peter can’t lift his head, but he can imagine her shuffling back in forth in time with the music in her head, bobbing it up and down, maybe sneaking a sly glance to see if Peter’s hating it as much as he always loves to pretend he does because it makes her smile.
“Blah blah blah make-believe.”
“ Maaaaay ,” Peter hears himself say but doesn’t actually push the sound out of his vocal cords.
She laughs. It’s suffocating, the heat in their apartment. He’s not sure why she doesn’t open the windows. She always does in the summer.
“Am I really that bad?” She asks and her voice sounds a little muffled like she’s digging through a box.
“Awful.”
“Aw well…” there’s a pause, there’s always a pause, and Peter always gets scared, thinking she might stop forever and never sing again.
She’s really not that bad, actually halfway decent and he thinks, in another life, she could’ve been on Broadway. Or a movie star. Or anything. But he’s happy she’s his aunt, he couldn’t wish for a better one. And he’ll always be scared of the day she stops singing. He really likes her voice.
“It’s just me, myself, and I~”
Peter groans again, or he thinks he does, and May laughs.
(‘He’s too hot.’
‘What’s the thermometer say?‘
‘106.’
‘Dumping the ice into the bath now.’
‘I’ll carry him over.’
‘Ok, ok…’
‘Hang in there, kid.’)
It’s hot, too hot, really really really hot and Peter’s dying, melting, getting hit by a train, disintegrating into ash and suffocating under a building, watching Ben and Tony and May die.
He sits up and throws off the blanket and whatever shirt he threw on and opens the window that’s still broken and sticks his head outside but it’s still hot. He's burning.
“Underoos.”
Peter turns. Mr. Stark is there, sitting at the dining table, wearing a suit and with a black eye. Like the day they met. Maybe this is the day they met. Right right, it is it is. What’d he say? Something about-
“The, the September…” he rubs his forehead, something in fall, what was it called? (Come on come on! Before he goes, remember, before he goes) “the September Foundation.”
“You’re in dire need of an upgrade.”
“It’s- it’s Spider-Man.” He stumbles to the table and manages to drag out a seat, but Mr. Stark is standing and pacing by the time he gets there.
“You screwed the pooch, raised the hybrid babies.”
“I-“ and god he’s going to cry, but he can’t, not in front of Mr. Stark. And the tears would be too hot anyway and he’s too hot already. “I’m sor-“
“But you did good. I’m proud of you.”
No no, he never said that, he- he said-
Ah focus focus, before he’s going going, before he’s gone (say it!).
“I’m sorr-“
“Kid.”
He forces his gaze up.
(His face is half charred and the lights fade from his eyes. Peter grabbed him and cried and thinks he’s said something like ‘we won’ but he doesn’t remember. It’s not what he wanted to say.)
Peter gasps in breaths but it’s impossible. It’s - no no it’s too cold it’s freezing. He can’t brea- he slaps his hands over his face and closes his eyes and squeezes them shut he can’t-
“Peter.”
Mr. Stark smiles at him. The corners of his eyes crinkle, so many more lines there than he remembers. More grey in his hair than before. Less fear. More-
“Mr. Stark, I lov-“
“You don’t have to say it. I already know. I’ve always known.”
Peter’s back in bed. The mattress is soft. It’s cold, but not as much. He shuts his eyes.
“I love you.”
(‘His- his temperature’s dropped. Thank god…’
‘Good. I was scared- ah, doesn’t matter. He’s good now.’
‘He is. Yea, he is.’)
There’s a rough, calloused hand on his forehead. Peter should probably be alarmed, would probably be alarmed if he had the energy to. He doesn’t though, and it doesn’t feel like danger, so he cracks an eye open, braving the light, and sees Ben. Blue eyes, brown hair. He looks different, but Peter supposes time does that to people (to everything).
“Hey Pete, how’re you feeling?” Ben asks quietly.
“Did I die?”
Ben frowns. “No, you’re alive. You’re alive.”
“But…” you’re here remains unsaid. Peter tries to clear his throat but stops when it hurts. His reaction is underwhelming, he knows. But he doesn’t want his uncle to go. So he blinks back his tears. “I feel like crap.”
“At least you’re not lying. Though,” the hair stuck to Peter’s forehead is pushed back, “I’m not sure if that means you’re getting better or worse.”
Probably worse, if he’s not feeling good enough to lie. But that thought doesn’t stay long, fried out of his superheated brain the moment it enters.
“I- I missed you,” Peter croaks.
“I missed you too, kid.”
The hand rakes through his hair and he wants to grab it before it’s gone forever again. “Please… don’t leave.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You- you did last time.”
There’s a soft hum, kind of sad. “Yea… sorry.”
Peter musters the strength to shake his head, vigorously. “No no, please don’t… I- I’m sorry. May is- I’m so, so sorry.”
The corners of his eyes are wet and so is his face. Probably from sweat.
“Don’t be, I’m-“
“I’m sorry Ben.”
The hand stops and then vanishes and Peter thinks he might not make it if Ben’s gone and-
“It’s, it’s ok Peter,” Ben says but his voice is so fragile it makes Peter’s heart hurt. Fingers keep gently pulling on knots in his hair and he keeps breathing. “I promise, it’s ok.”
“Yea?”
“Yea.”
“So… so you’ll stay?”
“Mhm. I’ll stay.”
(‘…did he-‘
‘Yes.’
‘Are, are you ok?’
‘Mm.’
‘P-‘
‘His fever broke. He’s going to wake up soon.’
‘So-‘
‘I’ll go get some groceries. I don’t think he really has a stocked fridge.’
‘I can do it, if you want.’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’
‘Ok… hey. It’s… still not easy. I get it, you know?’
‘…I know. Thanks.’
‘Don’t, you’d say the same, probably better.’
‘Don’t-‘
‘Put myself down, yes I know, got it. Now get out of here before we starve to death.’)
Peter blinks awake, slightly surprised his head doesn’t explode from that action. Small mercies. The world comes into focus, or his apartment does, and so does Peter 3, sitting in a big, cushioned armchair that definitely wasn’t there before, wearing his suit with sweatpants over it, flipping through a book, and occasionally pushing up his glasses. His eyes snap up the moment Peter’s eyes land on him and he smiles.
“Hark, he lives!”
“Somehow,” Peter croaks. He tries to push himself up and Peter 3 moves to help him.
“You’ve been out for a few hours. Your fever broke, but you needed the rest. Did you... have any dreams?"
Peter frowns. "No, not that I remember." But there was still the lingering feeling of heartache. But maybe that was leftover from way before, since forever ago, since the day Peter was born. "Did I say anything weird?"
Peter 3 shakes his head suspiciously fast. " Here.” A bottle of water is thrust into his hands. “Gotta stay hydrated."
Peter opens it with a good deal of effort and sips some while eyeing his legs. “You’re wearing sweatpants?”
“Yup.”
“What happened to the pants of your suit?”
Peter 3 cocks his head side to side. “Something tragic that happened before I got here, and let me tell you no one wants to possess the knowledge of my underwear being lime green striped with baby blue.”
“…I could’ve done without the description.”
“Could you?”
No.
“Wait,” Peter holds up a hand because something in his brain isn’t clicking. There’s something not right about what’s going on, he should definitely be reacting differently, not focused on the sweatpants that are obviously his because they are so short on Peter 3 it’s ridiculous but there’s also the chair that wasn’t there before and his apartment is brighter like someone changed the lightbulbs that desperately needed to be replaced and it smells good, not like mildew and Peter isn’t alone -
The apartment door clicks open and Peter 2 walks in, carrying a few bags of groceries. He looks exhausted but smiles when he sees the two.
“Good to see you up,” he says as he makes his way to the counter and sets the things down. “Sorry I’m late, it’s crazy out there, I had to beat an old lady with a stick to get this. Cold medicine is on short stock because there’s something going around.” Peter 2 fills a cap full of the bright pink medicine and hands it to Peter. “You’ll have to take double because of your metabolism, but this should do the trick.”
Peter takes the cap, stares hard into the opaque liquid, trying not to let the overwhelming artificial smell get to him, then looks back up at the two. “You two are here.”
Peter 3 gives a thumbs up. “Correct.”
“And you’re real.”
“…yea?”
Peter nods slowly and drinks the medicine, then shakes his head and it in his hands. “I- I don’t- how ?” He tilts his head back up and peeks between his fingers. “That spell, it should’ve stopped everyone from coming through, closed the universe. How are you…”
Peter 2 shares a look with 3 before chuckling, sounding tired, and running a hand through his hair. “Science, lots of science. And a fair bit of crime and… um, hypocrisy. It involves a supercollider and me being an idiot.”
Peter 3 tuts and lightly knocks shoulders with him. “Don’t say that. If I’m not allowed to be self-deprecating, then neither are you.” He shoots Peter a pointed look then says, “That rule applies to all Peters, by the way.”
Peter 2 bites his lip and makes his way back to the stove. “It’s unstable and dangerous, and something I should really, really be putting an end to because if Fisk and whatever scientists he’s got working on the project find out that I’ve got a working prototype-“ he cuts himself off and grabs a spoon Peter didn’t even know he had from the drawer to stir whatever’s in the pot on the stove.
“But I figured I’d give this whole universe hopping thing a shot before Miles and I end it for good. It kind of worked a few times. Fried my phone, and I only stuck around for a few seconds but I got it working eventually. Picked up Peter 3, decided to visit you. It’s.. for a good cause, anyway,” he smiles at Peter before turning his attention back to what he’s doing, which is pretending he didn't just treat fazing in and out of existence in Peter's apartment multiple times over the past week as a normal occurance.
Peter 3 leans over and whispers, “he’s a total sap.”
“I can hear you, you know.”
“I know.” Peter 3 bounces to his feet and starts putting the groceries away. “You should’ve called someone, it was kind of horrifying walking into your unlocked apartment and finding you lying face-first on the ground.”
“Yea I know.” And he does. “I… talked to someone, about that. I’ll try not to almost die again.”
Peter 2 makes a face, flickering between unreadable and pained, then shakes it away and hands Peter a bowl of soup. “Here.”
Peter accepts it and sniffs. “Chicken and rice?”
“Campbell,” Peter 3 announces.
“You guys… bought groceries?”
“Duh.”
“And changed my lightbulbs?”
“It was depressingly dark in here, sorry if you liked it,” Peter 2 jokes.
“And,” he gestures to the chair, “that?”
“I saw it when I was out early.” Peter 3 leaps onto the bed across from Peter. “It didn’t have any fleas or anything and was out for garbage. Figured you could use some decor, so I hauled it over.”
Peter blinks and grips the spoon. He wants to ask why. He really wants to ask. But he knows they’re expecting that, and he knows what their response is. So he shoves a spoonful of soup into his mouth, pretends his eyes watering is from how hot it is, and grins.
“This isn't half bad.”
“So you didn’t burn it,” Peter 3 teases.
Peter 2 rolls his eyes. “I told you I have basic cooking skills. Otherwise, May and I would’ve starved to death every time Mary Jane had late shows.”
“May? Your aunt doesn’t know how to cook either?” Peter asks, leaning forward and blowing on the soup.
“Um, no I meant my daughter.”
“Your what ?!” Peter 3 hisses before Peter can even wrap his mind around that. “Please repeat, I don’t think I heard you right.”
Peter 2 laughs and sits beside him on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t think it’d be that big of news, considering someone’s going steady.”
“Woah slow down, we are not ‘going steady’. Not even close, MJ and I have only been on like 5 dates. Only held hands.”
“MJ?!” Peter echoes because this conversation is getting more and more unbelievable by the second.
Peter 2 gives him a look. “Are you really surprised?”
…fair point.
Peter 3 claps his hands together. “Ok, look, listen. Me dating someone is nowhere near the level of you raising a physically existent, breathing being that shares your genes… Our genes? Are we actually related? Do you guys think, if we took a DNA test, we’d be 100% matches? Or 50%? Oh my god, does your daughter also have web blood?”
“Where’d you get web blood from?”
“You know, you’re,” he makes the web-shooting gesture, “you’re web wrist.”
The other two stare at him in disbelief then burst into laughter. Peter almost spills the soup and has to blindly set it aside on the nightstand before he ruins his sheets, but it’s the last thing on his mind.
(‘I’ve always wanted brothers.’)
Peter didn’t know he needed them.
“Guys.” Peter evens out his breathing and fiddles with the spoon, then continues. “Um, just, wanted to uh, say th-thanks for taking care of me and…” he huffs and throws his arms around the both of them, pulling them into a hug they readily accept. And god it feels so good .
“I love you guys,” he whispers.
Peter 3 snorts. “Now you say it?” He tightens his hold. “I love you too.”
“Love you both,” Peter 2 says, exhaling.
It’s the best Peter’s felt all week.
It takes a bit to settle down, about the entire pot of soup, several packs of ramen, and an absolutely insane story about another New York City that exist deep underground-
“Either that or it was all a really weird dream which, believe me,” Peter 2 shudders, “I’ve had.”
-And so many cat pictures and videos later-
“…and this is Felicia in a dress, and this is her wearing a sunflower cone thing that I thought was the cutest thing ever…” Peter 3 went on and on.
-Peter’s eyes are fighting against gravity and losing, and the sky is well past sunset colors of orange and pink. And time is up.
Peter 2’s the first to go, glancing down at that same device and frowning. “We’ve gotta go soon.”
“You do?”
He waves the watch device. “The rifts created by the supercollider are stabilized with this, but only for so long. Once it's been too long, we basically pop out of-“ then, in a flash, he’s gone.
Peter’s eyes widen. “Oh.”
“Yea,” Peter 3 says, looking down at his hand in mild horror. “Just like that.”
“So, are you going to tell me about the sweatpants?”
Peter 3 smirks and Peter thinks he might regret asking. “So this guy looks like a knock off Spider-Man comes up to me with two swords out and says-“
Their sense goes off just before the door swings open and Gwen steps in, kicking it shut behind her and putting down her backpack by the door.
“I know you're a superhero, but you live in New York, should really lock the door…”
She stops at the entrance. Peter 3 stares at her like he’s seen a ghost. Gwen’s taken aback for a moment, too many emotions flashing across her face for Peter to keep up. Then she pulls it together into a smile and waves.
“Heya, bug boy.”
Peter 3’s mouth opens and closes. He presses his lips together and grins. Shaky, looking like he’s on the verge of breaking, but he doesn’t.
“Hi, Gwen.”
She tilts her head. “Good to finally see you.”
He swallows hard. “Yea, you too.”
And in a flash, he’s gone too.
Gwen’s eyebrows draw together. She points at the spot and looks at Peter. “That was... you, from another universe, right?"
“Yea, how’d you know?”
Gwen doesn’t say anything but her expression is still... something. Wistful. Brimming on the edge of something, like that encounter made too much sense. It looked like it did.
But there’s a crash and a muttered ‘shit’ that snaps both of their attention back to the doorway, where Johnny stands in the middle of fallen baking sheets and a Monopoly box. He smiles at the two sheepishly as he picks them up and sets them on the table.
“Did I miss all the fun?”
“Yes, you actually did,” Gwen says, rolling her eyes fondly. “That’s what happens when you’re chronically late.”
“I am not chronically late.”
“You are, it’s a big issue.”
“Peter,” Johnny basically vaults over the table and grabs him by his shoulders, “tell her I’m not always late.”
He narrows his eyes. “Depends, what am I getting in return?”
“Dude, you’re a superhero, you’re not supposed to say things like that!” Gwen exclaims.
“Off duty,” Peter mentions offhandedly then raised an eyebrow at Johnny while fighting hard to keep himself from laughing.
“I’ll build you a car."
Peter cannot drive for his life. Johnny knows this.
“Deal.”
They shake on it.
Gwen groans and sets up the Monopoly board. “Whenever you two are done being completely stupid, can we start? I call boat, and I am so ready to kick Johnny’s ass.”
Johnny grabs the car and glares at Gwen. "I've got a few thoughts on that."
"A few," Gwen emphasis with a smirk, "and too many opinions."
Peter has to physically bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing and count his breaths. He hears Johnny and Gwen arguing more in the background, but any seriousness either of them might be playing at is completely undermined by their constant smiles.
“You guys can’t make me laugh,” Peter finally gets out, “I’m still sick and trying not to cough up a lung.”
“Oh right! Almost forgot about that…” Gwen leans over and flicks his forehead.
“Ow.”
“That’s for not calling me.”
“Yea I second that,” Johnny says.
“Sorry, but I was fine. You know super healing and all kind of keeps me from dying.”
“I’ll accept that excuse, but,” a finger is pointed at him and stern gaze set, “if you do it again, I won’t hesitate to force you to be my roommate so I can make sure your dumb ass doesn’t get itself killed. You had me worried. And Johnny basically blasted into my class, flames and all, asking where you were like a lost puppy.”
He nods with his eyes closed in total agreement. “That I did.”
Peter snorts, imagining the Human Torch trailing behind Spider-Man. “Sounds like you.”
Johnny gives him an exasperated, amused look, then fiddles with the piece he’s holding. “I was worried.”
“I told you guys, super healing.”
“Does that mean we can’t worry?” Gwen asks.
He chews on his lip. “It means you shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, maybe we want to.” There’s a pause, and she looks him dead in the eyes. “We want to.”
Something eases in his chest at that. “Ok. Thanks.”
She smiles and pushes the silver dog into his hands. “You would’ve chosen it, right?”
“You know me so well.”
“I know. Johnny, can you grab me a soda?”
“Yea sure, give me a-“ he stops shuffling the chance cards abruptly, eyes widening. His head whips up to face Gwen, who’s giving him a questioning look, and then he’s on his feet and racing to the window-
“Wait that’s still-“
“I’ll be back with soda!” Johnny shouts, slides the frame up, throws himself out the window, screams ‘flame on!‘ and is off.
“-broken,” Peter finishes, wincing as he hears the glass that’s tapped together with black duct tape break into even smaller pieces. He sighs. “Why can’t he leave out the front door?"
"Says Spider-Man."
"...no need for the verbal attack."
She rolls her eyes. “Well, now that he’s gone…” she pulls out a box and holds it up. “Wanna help?”
“Is that… the Millenium Falcon set?”
“All 1,254 pieces.” Gwen sets the box down in his lap and watches him read the packaging reverently. “I was planning on giving it to you for Christmas, but it was out of stock and wouldn’t come in time, and I didn’t want to wait until your birthday. So I figured now’s better than never.”
“How… how’d you know?”
She reaches, over, and grabs the Palpatine figure that always stands in the middle of the table. “Saw him last time I had to drag unconscious you here. And considering our debate where you were totally wrong, I figured you like Star Wars just a bit more than your average Joe.”
He sets the box to the side. “…Gwen?”
“Yea?”
“I- can I-?”
“Yea.”
He wraps her in a hug. She holds him back.
“Mm, don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
He pulls her tighter. “Good.”
“…Peter-“
He sniffs and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to wipe his face before he gets Gwen’s shirt wet. “Yea yea, I know. Sorry, it’s just… I haven’t hugged anyone that wasn’t named Peter Parker since…”
“Then I’m glad I’m here,” she says gently, one hand on his back and the other on the back of his head.
“So am I.”
There’s someone at Peter’s (now locked) door.
Like any New York native, he’s wary about who’s on the other side. Like any decent hero, he’s already on edge. Like any person who’s just gotten over the worst bout of illness known to man, he’s not ready to deal with whatever bullshit from who he assumes to be his landlord on the other side.
Still, he forces himself to his feet for the first time in what feels like days, even though it’s only been a few minutes since he finished putting away clothes because Gwen’s recruited Johnny to keep Peter off the streets and in his apartment (the traitor), and shuffles to the door with heavy feet. He waits and listens and feels for his tingle that thankfully doesn’t go off. Then he opens the door.
MJ and Ned are there, both looking as shocked as Peter is.
“Hi,” she says. Ned waves awkwardly.
Peter stutters. “H-hi.”
“Sorry this is, this is weird.”
He bites back a smile. “A little.”
“Very,” Ned whispers. MJ shoots him a glare then focuses back on Peter.
“It’s just,” she shakes the bag she’s holding, glances at and away from him nervously, “I had some leftover tea.”
Peter gazes at the bag and can smell the different herbs. “Oh-“
“Your friend came by the shop today,” Ned blurts out. “And she said you were sick and MJ was like super worried-“ she elbows his side and stops to wince. “Ummm, MJ thought it’d be nice to drop some of it off.”
“We had extra, at the donut shop, where I… work,” she clarifies then clears her throat. “Definitely not new tea because that’d be super weird.”
“Super,” Peter echoes.
“But yea. So I- well she, she gave us your address and I would’ve texted you since, um, but I thought I- I didn’t want to bother you if you were sick.”
“I get it.”
“And I didn’t want this tea to go to waste because that’s, that’s me directly feeding into the worst parts of capitalism and consumerism and…” she heaves in a breath and finally looks directly at him. “I thought it might… make you feel better.”
Peter eyes the bag and feels like crying. In a good way. “It does.”
MJ’s eyebrows shoot up and she blinks a few times. “Oh uh right. Ok, here you go then and um-“
“Do you,” he pauses and fumbles around for the sentence a bit before deciding, “do you guys want to, to come in?”
“Yes,” she answers. Ned nods.
Peter doesn’t bother to stop himself from smiling. He moves aside. They walk in.