Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter heard Tony’s heartbeat slowly fade, the once-powerful rhythm weakening with every passing second.
Thump, thump, thump… thump, thump… thump.

From the corner of his eye, Peter saw Mrs. Potts lean closer, her voice soft and trembling. “You can rest now.”

Sometimes, Peter’s super-hearing was a gift. But right then, it was a curse. It felt like the world wanted him to suffer—wanted him to relive Uncle Ben’s death all over again—as he listened to his mentor’s life slip away. He felt helpless. A crimson tear rolled down his face, his silent begging doing nothing to save Mr. Stark.

Then the world blurred. Light fractured and shattered around him. His chest clenched. And suddenly—

Peter woke with a gasp. Sweat poured down his face like tears. His chest shook with hiccups that echoed through the empty house. His breaths grew frantic, desperate, as he tried to force the memory away.

Before the darkness could pull him under again, a shrill ringing cut through the silence. Peter dragged himself toward the sound, muttering to himself, “You can have this breakdown later.” His voice cracked.

The call came from an unknown number. He picked up the phone.
“Hey, it’s Peter Parker,” he said, trying to sound steady.

The voice on the other end was polite, professional. “Hi Peter, I’m calling from the Youths Mainstream Library about your application.”

Peter’s heart skipped. Maybe—just maybe—he’d get a second job to help with food and bills.

“I’m sorry, but your application has been denied. We don’t feel you’d be a good fit for our team.”

His chest sank.

The woman continued, cheerful, almost apologetic. “If you’d like, I can explain why you were denied, or answer any questions.”

Peter shook his head even though she couldn’t see. “It’s fine. Thank you. I understand.”

“Perfect. Well then, I hope this won’t ruin your day too much.” She chuckled, and the line went dead.

Peter pressed his hands to his face, letting them sit there until the silence felt unbearable. “Great,” he whispered, voice breaking. “It would’ve been nice… could’ve helped with the bills.” Quieter still: “Great. Just great.”

Frustration clawed at his chest. He pulled on his homemade suit, deciding to patrol instead of sitting in his suffocating apartment. At least out there, he could do something.

But as he tugged on the mask, memories hit him harder than any villain’s punch. He missed Karen checking on him in the suit. He missed FRIDAY’s voice. He missed Tony’s late-night calls and Pepper’s scolding when they forgot to eat. He missed the lab, the laughter, the reckless adventures. He missed May yelling at them both, her terrible cooking, her endless care. He missed his girlfriend, his best friend. He even missed Flash’s constant bullying—at least then, he wasn’t invisible.

Now? He was nobody. Just another forgotten soul on the earth.

Peter swallowed, the irony bitter on his tongue.

No wonder so many heroes turned into villains.  

Chapter Text

Peter let his body move on instinct, hands snapping webs as he scaled buildings and swung across highways. He soared over traffic, flipping, twisting, pulling himself back at the very last second just to feel that flash of adrenaline cut through the heaviness in his chest. For a while, it worked.

By the time he reached the tallest skyscraper in Queens, his lungs burned—but in a good way. Perched at the top, Peter scanned the city below. He waited for the familiar signs of chaos: sirens, screams, smoke in the air, something to chase, something to stop. He waited for his hands to stop shaking.

But nothing came.

The city moved like normal—cars honking, voices murmuring, neon lights blinking—but it all felt… wrong. Too calm. Too staged.

That’s when his Spider-Sense blared, like nails down the back of his skull.

“Duck!” he hissed to himself, diving sideways just as a massive slab of concrete hurtled past him, shattering against the rooftop.

“Okay, wow! Not how I wanted to start my patrol!” he shouted to the night, eyes already searching for the source.

He didn’t have to look far.

A man hovered above the street, cape flaring with every gust of wind. Strange glowing runes crawled across his arms, sparking with unstable energy. His face was half-covered in shadow, and his hands glowed with a magic Peter had seen before—but this wasn’t Strange. This was different. Wilder. Meaner.

Peter shot two webs to opposite corners of the roof, sling shotting himself straight at the guy. “All right, Doctor Discount, let’s dance!”

The sorcerer raised a hand, and the air warped. A jagged ripple of light shot at Peter.

Peter twisted midair, the blast grazing his side, heat burning through his suit. He gritted his teeth, snapped a webline to a passing lamppost, and used the swing’s momentum to slam his feet into the sorcerer’s chest. The man stumbled back midair, but didn’t fall.

“Oh, come on!” Peter groaned. “I’ve knocked over bigger guys than you with a strong breeze.”

The sorcerer flicked his wrist, and glowing chains of magic snapped toward Peter like whips. Peter backflipped, dodging one, then fired a web to block the other—but it burned straight through, sizzling the web into ash.

“Okay—note to self, magic equals bad for webs,” Peter muttered. He fired a rapid burst of web-shots, plastering the guy’s chest, face, arms—anything he could hit. The sorcerer staggered, pinned against the side of a building.

Peter landed lightly on a fire escape, breathing quick but controlled. “Not bad, huh? Still got it. Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good workout. Thanks for that—really getting the blood flowing.”

For a moment, Peter thought it was over.

Then the man started laughing.

The webbing around him glowed red-hot and burned away, crumbling like ash. His eyes snapped open, glowing bright gold. “You think this is a game, child?” His voice was layered, warped, like more than one person was speaking at once.

Peter’s Spider-Sense screamed again, and he launched himself away just as a wave of energy erupted outward. Windows shattered. Cars skidded. The street buckled.

“Yeah, you know, now that you mention it—I do think this is a game!” Peter shouted, swinging low between buildings. “Unfortunately for you, I’m really good at games.”

The sorcerer teleported, appearing right in Peter’s path. Peter barely twisted away, the man’s glowing fist grazing his mask.

“Yikes! Too close!” Peter gasped. He fired a webline to a traffic light, spun around it like a slingshot, and dove feet-first into the sorcerer again. This time, the guy caught him midair with a surge of force, slamming him down into a parked car. Metal crumpled under Peter’s body.

Groaning, Peter pushed himself up. “Okay… gonna feel that one in the morning.” He looked up at the sorcerer and pointed. “But seriously, cape? Bit much. You look like you got lost on your way to a Comic-Con afterparty.”

The sorcerer’s face twisted with fury, and he hurled another volley of glowing shards. Peter dodged, flipped, countered with web-bombs—one of them actually stuck, exploding across the man’s chest in a burst of white goo.

The sorcerer hit the wall with a grunt, finally stuck, webs layering around him until he was plastered like a bug on a windshield.

Breathing steady but exhilarated, Peter landed in a crouch, mask lenses narrowing. “Not bad. Haven’t had a fight like that in ages. Gotta say, ten out of ten cardio session. Maybe I’ll cancel my gym membership—oh wait, I can’t afford one.”

He took a step closer. “So, magic man, you’re gonna sit tight until someone smarter than me shows up, okay?”

But then the sorcerer smiled.

The runes on his arms pulsed, brighter and brighter, until the webs began to sizzle and smoke. Peter’s Spider-Sense went wild—louder, sharper than ever before.

“Aw, come on—”

The sorcerer unleashed a final surge of energy, striking Peter square in the chest. The world fractured. His body convulsed, vision splitting into shards of light and darkness. His Spider-Sense screamed so loud he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Peter woke with a sharp gasp, his hands flailing wildly, desperate to grab onto something—anything—that felt real. His stomach dropped when his fingers brushed over soft fabric. He froze.

Bed sheets.

Not just any sheets—soft blue ones, patterned with perfect little Iron Man helmets and Captain America shields, printed in vibrant colors. Slowly, Peter’s wide eyes swept around the room.

Avengers figurines lined the shelves in careful formation. Posters stretched across the walls. Merchandise cluttered the desk. Clothes littered the floor in half-folded piles. And the photographs—so many photographs—of Uncle Ben smiled back at him from every corner.

His chest constricted. He knew this room. He knew it with the kind of detail only pain could carve into memory.

This was the first week after Uncle Ben died.

Peter’s gaze caught the calendar, dangling crookedly from a single nail on the wall. His breath hitched. The date was circled—the day before everything went wrong. The day before Ben’s inevitable death.

His broken old phone sat on the bedside table, screen fractured like a spiderweb. Peter’s vision blurred with tears as the numbers glowed at him. His lungs spasmed with shallow, uneven breaths.

“No… no, no, no…” He shook his head, falling backward off the bed with a heavy bang. His mind spiraled into chaos.

He knew time travel was possible—the Avengers had proved that during the Snap. They’d pulled off the impossible, returning everyone to their rightful place. But this? Randomly sent into the past by some knockoff sorcerer on a Monday? The odds were so impossibly small Peter could practically see the number in his head: 0.000000453 percent.

And of course… Parker Luck made it real.

The commotion must’ve woken May. Peter barely had time to swipe at his face before she appeared in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.

“Peter?” she said softly, rushing to him.

His breathing stuttered, chest rising and falling too fast, tears streaking his cheeks in burning trails. Everything crushed down on him at once—the memory of Ben, the knowledge of the future, the dizzying horror of being stuck in the past, and the terrifying thought that this moment was real.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay.”

May knelt beside him, her arms wrapping around his trembling frame. Peter collapsed into her embrace, burying his face against her shoulder as sobs shook him.

She wasn’t much better off. Her eyes were rimmed red, exhaustion etched deep into her skin. Dark bags hung beneath her eyes, her face blotchy from her own grief. She looked like she was barely holding herself together—but still, she stayed strong. For Peter. For herself. Because she knew if she broke, she might never be able to piece herself back again.

“May…” Peter’s voice cracked, his words barely a whisper. His tear-streaked face turned toward her, his glossy eyes pleading. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever. I love you. Don’t—don’t ever forget that.”

Her arms tightened around him, trembling but firm. She pressed her cheek against his hair and whispered back, voice breaking, “I love you too, Peter. Always.”

For a long time, they stayed like that—two broken souls clinging to each other, against the weight of the world.

Just May and Peter.

Them against everything.

Chapter Text

May guided Peter gently back toward the bed, her hand warm on his shoulder. He moved like a ghost-silent, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. She helped him sit, pulling the soft blue blankets up around his chest, tucking the edges neatly like she used to when he was little.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” she whispered. Her voice was tired but steady, every word dripping with love.

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. For a second, Peter let himself close his eyes. The touch was real. It was warm.

Then May turned off the light. The room dimmed into a soft blue glow from the moon peeking through the curtains. She paused in the doorway, leaving it open just a crack-the same way she always had-so that a sliver of golden hallway light brushed across the floor.

Peter watched her shadow fade before the quiet swallowed everything.

He let out a long, shaky sigh, the sound trembling in his chest. Turning over, he reached toward the bedside table, fingers brushing against something cold and cracked. His old phone. The one that hadn’t worked right since middle school.

The screen flickered weakly to life, a jagged crack splitting across it like lightning. He could barely make out the date through the fractured glass. His stomach twisted. It was really the past.

The phone dimmed again, and Peter lay back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t blink as the memories started to flood in—too fast, too bright, too heavy.

His mom and dad-gone before he could understand what it meant.
Moving in with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, the house warm and safe.
The spider bite. The sickness. The shaking. The power that followed.
Ben’s death. The guilt that never left.
The mask. The homemade suit. Swinging through the city.
Helping strangers. Saving lives.
Meeting Tony Stark.
Germany. The airport fight.
Helping Tony again. Earning his trust.
The moment Tony handed him that sleek red and blue suit, smiling with pride.
Ned finding out—his “guy in the chair.”
The Washington Monument.
The Vulture. Losing the suit. Fighting anyway. Winning anyway.
Outer space. The ship. Sneaking on board.
Thanos. The dust.
Five years gone.
Tony’s arms around him when he came back.
The final battle.
Tony dying.

Peter’s breath hitched. He could still hear the faint echo of Tony’s heartbeat fading.

Then the funeral. The silence. The weight of it all.

Mysterio. The illusions.
MJ—her smile, the warmth of her hand in his.
His name splashed across every screen in New York.
Everyone knowing. Everyone turning.
Doctor Strange. The spell. The mistake.
The villains. The cures. The fight.
May—her last words. With great power…
The other Peters—two faces, two brothers in pain.
Saying goodbye.
Everyone forgetting.

Everyone remembering Spider-man, no-one remembering Peter Parker.   

Peter blinked hard, but a single tear slipped free, rolling slowly down the side of his face.

He didn’t wipe it away.

The ceiling blurred as he stared upward, his chest rising and falling in quiet, heavy rhythm. He was back in the past—back where everything began.

This time, he promised himself, things would be different.

He wouldn’t make the same mistakes.
He wouldn’t lose everything again.
Not this time.

Never again.

If he did, he would shatter into more than a million pieces