Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air at the very top of the Statue of Liberty was bitingly cold and unnervingly still. It felt like nature itself had witnessed the chaos below and was now frozen in shock, waiting with bated breath for the final act to play out. The last rays of a blood-red sun, sinking behind the mangled New York skyline, slowly crept across the Lady’s copper gown, dyeing its folds a deep, wound-like crimson. Under his feet, the cold wind played with fragments of shattered stone and glass – the silent, messy confetti from a battle that had just concluded. The silence that followed was a physical weight – no screams, no explosions, just the city’s distant, muffled groan and a lonely, mournful whistle of wind weaving through the statue’s steel bones.

That very wind, sharp and icy, seemed to harmonize with Peter’s own ragged, heavy breathing – the only real sound cutting through the deafening quiet. He was perched on the very edge of the crown, his fingers, stiff and numb, clinging to the copper spikes for dear life, gripping the cold metal until his knuckles turned a stark white. The view from up here was absolutely postcard-worthy – if the postcard was from the “Retro Apocalypse” collection. It was a magnificent, terrible picture of the world’s end (seemingly localized micro-end though), really only missing a glass of champagne to toast it with (non-alcoholic, of course, because his luck just wasn't that good, and also because Aunt May raised him better).

He’d scrambled up here just moments ago, right after the gut-wrenching goodbye. Now, the faces of MJ and Ned, frozen in masks of pure pain and confusion, were seared into the back of his eyelids. He knew they’d be a permanent scar on his memory. Meanwhile, the air around him began to crackle and hum, filling with a strange, ancient power that grew stronger every second – a power that felt capable of rewriting the universe’s source code.

Every single muscle in his body throbbed with a deep, inhuman ache. Every bone echoed with a dull, throbbing pain. It was a familiar sort of feeling, though – the constant, unwelcome companion to his not-so-glamorous superhero life. His powers were undeniably cool and useful, but someone had seriously forgotten to include a decent painkiller in the superhero starter kit. He could physically feel the cut on his shoulder starting to prickle and burn – a sure sign his healing factor was kicking in. His ribs, surely cracked in several places, emitted a dull, aching hum as they prepared to knit themselves back together.

And all he had to do for that was eat. At some point. His body, pushed miles past its limit, felt completely hollowed out.

Though, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to keep anything down. This sometimes happened. His appetite would just vanish, replaced by a cold, expanding void in his chest. Peter 2 had once mentioned something similar – a mental block where his webs wouldn’t come out and his body just refused to refuel.

Clutched in one white-knuckled fist was the last pathetic shred of his old, severed life – his red mask, easily taken off – upgraded with a shimmering weave of high-tech nanocomposite. It smelled of sweat, acrid battle-dust, and tears – his own. He ran his fingers over its rough, battle-worn texture, tracing every familiar seam as if trying to memorize the last irrefutable proof that a guy named Peter Parker had ever existed.

Soon, even this would be gone. Karen probably wouldn’t remember him either, once the universe finished its big, magical CTRL+ALT+DEL on his existence.

Right now, he didn't even have the strength to put the mask back on his face to say a proper goodbye to his AI friend while he still could. While his face, his voice, his very DNA still registered in her digital brain.

Hovering in the space before him, surrounded by a brilliant nimbus of ancient magical energy, was Doctor Strange. His hands performed a complex, precise dance, tracing blindingly bright golden symbols in the frozen air. Each movement birthed new, increasingly intricate patterns, weaving a hypnotic dance of pure light and unbelievable force. His cloak, the loyal Levitation, fluttered in an anxious, staccato rhythm, like it was feeling its owner’s stress.

A weak, almost invisible smile touched Peter’s lips when a crimson corner of the magical cloth twitched in his direction – a tiny, barely-there gesture. It was either a attempt to comfort him, or a quiet, silent farewell.

The young man gave a tiny nod back, quickly looking away as his vision blurred.

The Sorcerer Supreme’s face, usually a mask of unshakable focus, was now pale and etched with deep lines of fatigue. On his fingers, fading golden mandalas sputtered and smoked, and in his eyes was a heavy, stony resolve – and just a ghost of something that, if Peter had any energy left for hope, he might have mistaken for regret.

Slowly, gritting his teeth, Peter straightened his back. His exhausted body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand tall, his eyes locked on the magical storm gathering around them. He no longer saw the destruction below – only the sorcerer and the raw, primordial force concentrating for one final, universe-altering command.

Strange didn’t see or hear him. His consciousness was already surfing layers of reality mere mortals couldn’t access. All his will was focused on one task – find every single thread, every connection, every memory of Peter Parker in every corner of their universe and carefully, permanently, hit delete.

Mesmerized, Peter watched as the sorcerer’s lips soundlessly formed the words of an incantation – ancient, powerful, and heavy with the weight of eternity. Each unspoken word made the air vibrate harder, making space itself shiver. The golden mandalas around his hands spun faster and faster, merging into a solid, shining ring – a dazzling doorway to nowhere.

He closed his eyes.

He prepared to disappear. To dissolve from the memory of everyone he loved. To vanish, and then to simply walk away into a world that had no idea who he was, to find a corner to sleep in where he was a stranger.

He felt Strange’s magic finally condense around him. It was cold and weightless, like a web of fate ready to wrap him in a final cocoon of nothingness.

He prepared to cease to exist.

And in that exact nanosecond, in the fragile seam between “almost” and “too late,” as the spell was born but hadn’t yet reached its full, reality-shattering power…

…the universe at the top of the statue ripped in half.

Peter’s eyes flew open just in time to see a similarly stunned Doctor Strange, whose cloak was now flapping like a panicked bird trying to escape its owner’s shoulders.

The cold, reliable metal under his feet vanished.

In its place was a gaping, absolute emptiness. This wasn’t one of Strange’s neat, orderly portals. This thing seethed, boiled, and twisted in a furious, chaotic whirlpool that immediately began to suck Peter inward.

On pure instinct, trying to keep his balance, Peter took a single, fateful step backward – away from the terrifying, unknown rift. He always did things at the worst possible moment.

Of course, it was a mistake. His leg plunged straight into the shimmering void, yanking the rest of his body with it. The sounds and smells of his world cut off abruptly, replaced by a mind-bending swirl of dazzling gold, madly mixed with every color of the rainbow – including some that surely didn’t have names.

Strange jerked forward, his hand shooting out, fingers splayed – reaching for Peter. But he grabbed only empty air. The final, concluding words of the spell remained forever unspoken.

The rift, with a deafening, soundless roar, violently swallowed the boy whole, not even giving him a chance to scream. In the very last moment, their eyes met – Peter’s, wide with horror and confusion, and Stephen’s, shocked and utterly bewildered.

Then, Peter’s consciousness began to shred. Even in the complete silence of the vacuum around him, something inside his skull screamed, rang, and cracked, tearing him apart from the inside out.

He winced, feeling the last bits of his awareness slip away like grains of sand through his fingers.

The blinding gold began to fade, slowly giving way to a deep, velvety blackness.

As he closed his eyes, Peter’s failing senses just barely registered something bright red, rushing toward him from… everywhere and nowhere at once.

It enveloped him, tangled around his limbs, and softly but firmly wrapped him in a strange, living cocoon.

Parker didn’t even have time to wonder what was happening.

With a sharp, silent clap, the space around him finally collapsed into nothing.

The air wasn't just crackling. It was throwing a full-blown, multi-sensory tantrum. It smelled like a fried power line that had been dunked in rotten eggs and old pennies – the classic signature of reality getting a serious wedgie. Portals were ripping open left and right, vomiting out things with too many teeth and not enough eyes. This whole mess was less of a battle and more of a desperate, cosmic-sized game of whack-a-mole to keep the world from being overrun by the kind of neighbors nobody wants.

And the Justice League was on cleanup duty. A blue and red blur – that was Superman, zapping entire platoons of nasties with his heat vision. Somewhere in the thick of it, Wonder Woman was a whirlwind of righteous fury, making a mockery of the concept of personal space for any monster dumb enough to get near her. High above, Green Lantern was having an argument with the laws of physics, conjuring giant green anvils and flyswatters to squash the darkness.

And then there was John Constantine.

He was leaning against a chunk of some ancient, probably important, now-broken monument, looking for all the world like a man who’d been dragged to a party he absolutely despised. The sheer, unadulterated noise of it all – the heroic speeches, the laser sounds, the monster screeches – was giving him a proper migraine. The thought of actually joining this colorful fracas filled him with a profound sense of existential boredom. Let the capes and the tights handle their own flashy mess. They were the ones who usually attracted this kind of attention anyway.

He was just trying to enjoy a bloody cigarette.

And then it happened. He did not even think of it, for the record. The words just… arrived.

They didn’t come from a book. They weren't some half-remembered incantation from a bender in Cardiff. They bubbled up from the deepest, darkest, and most annoyed part of his soul, as if the universe itself, utterly fed up with his moping, had decided to use his vocal cords without permission. His lips started moving on their own, muttering ancient, guttural syllables. He understood them only on a level that was more instinct than intellect – the part of his brain that knew how to pick a lock or find the cheapest whiskey in any dimension.

"Per foramen in serie rerum. Per aeternum chaos, per ordinis margines…"

His voice, usually a hoarse, cigarette-ravaged instrument of sarcasm, dropped an octave, gaining a weird, resonant weight that didn't belong to him. He was just a passenger in his own body.

"...non arma deorum, non robur gigantum…"

He wasn't even aware he was speaking. This wasn't a spell he was casting; it was a demand he was screaming into the void. A call to the most basic, grimy law of the universe: that sometimes, the smallest, sharpest thing can hold back the biggest tide.

"...sed vulnus antiquum, sed umbram in anima, sed scintillam in abysso…"

The air around him got so thick with tension he could practically taste it, and it wasn't his cheap tobacco. The unplanned, involuntary invocation was complete, and it was now presenting him with a metaphysical bill. He could feel the cost waiting in the wings.

"...ubi maxima est necessitas, ibi defige ancoram…"

And the universe, against its better judgment, answered.

The sky above the battlefield didn't split open with a boom. It just… flinched. It contracted like a heart skipping a beat. A single, silent, universe-sized shockwave rolled out. For one heart-stopping second, all the light, all the sound, all the everything just… winked out. Replaced by a profound, absolute nothing. And right in front of Constantine, a tiny pinprick of light flared into existence – a microscopic singularity of pure, undiluted "maybe" – and then died just as fast.

And then… nothing.

Well, not nothing. The pressure dropped. The magical hum in his teeth vanished. The battlefield was still there. The fight was still going. But absolutely nothing had changed. It was the most anticlimactic apocalypse-prevention ever.

Constantine blinked, shaking his head like he’d just taken a punch. He was back in the driver's seat. He looked at the smoldering fag between his fingers, then back at the ongoing circus of violence.

"Well, that was a right load of good that did," he rasped to nobody in particular, his voice back to its usual cynical drawl. "Where'd all that power piss off to, huh?"

The spell had worked. He felt it in his bones, in the hollow ache that now lived in his chest. The energy was spent. But the result was a big, fat zero. All he got for his trouble was a ringing in his ears and the ever-louder roar of the advancing horde, who seemed entirely unimpressed by his metaphysical efforts.

He took one last, deeply aggrieved drag on his cigarette, flicked the butt into the dirt with utter contempt, and spat on the ground with a theatrical sigh that conveyed a lifetime of resentment.

"Right then, you ugly gits," he muttered, glaring pure hatred at the encroaching darkness. "The faster we mop up this unspeakable bollocks, the faster I can get absolutely bloody hammered."

And with a litany of curses muttered under his breath, John Constantine, magician, cynic, and profoundly unwilling participant, shoved his hands in his trench coat pockets and stalked forward into the chaos, determined to get this over with and find out what the hell his magic had just bought him.

The landing wasn't graceful. It surely wasn't a superhero three-point landing. It was more like the universe had gotten bored and unceremoniously spat him out onto the pavement. Peter hit the ground on all fours, his spider-reflexes and enhanced muscles absorbing the worst of the impact, but doing exactly zero to help the world stop spinning inside his skull.

Everything was a woozy, tilting mess. His head throbbed like a bad bass speaker, and a high-pitched ringing was the only thing in his ears. His stomach did a nauseating flip-flop. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up on trembling hands, feeling the cold, weirdly sticky asphalt under his palms.

His mask was off. He was clutching it in his white-knuckled fist, the red and blue material a crumpled, familiar comfort. Well, at the very least he didn’t lose it while tripping.

"Karen," he croaked out, his own voice sounding weirdly loud in the creepy, tomb-like silence of this alley. "Run a... run a scan. Where are we? What's the deal?"

A response crackled to life, but it wasn't from the air around him. It was a tiny, distorted voice emanating from the nano-weave in the mask itself, sounding like a radio station barely in range.

"...Atmosphere… breathable. Pollution levels – critical. Reading off-the-charts levels of heavy metals, nitrogen oxides, industrial particulates… Carbon monoxide is… not great. Geolocation… failed. No satellite networks detected. Local wireless signals are present, but the protocols are… outdated by… estimate… 10-15 years… User biometrics indicate shock, disorientation, a seriously elevated heart rate…"

He finally got to his feet, wiping his palms on his thighs. The grime was oily and disgusting. This place was filthy. And his spider-sense – it was going absolutely crazy. It wasn't just pinging; it was screaming a five-alarm fire in his brain. Danger. Filth. Wrong. Despair. This city… it felt alive, but in the worst way. It was a living thing that was deeply, deeply sick, oozing pain, fear, and a low-grade nasty vibe from every brick.

His suit – a bright, almost cheerful splash of blue and red – looked ridiculously out of place in this kingdom of grimy gray, faded black, and brick that had given up and turned a dirty brown. A cold, miserable drizzle started to fall, because of course it did.

And right then, his spider-sense dialed in, sharp and specific – right there. Behind a overturned dumpster that smelled like death warmed over. A sharp shuffle. A choked-off, terrified sob.

Peter’s head snapped around. Deep in the shadows of the alley, a big, burly guy in a soaked jacket had a scrawny kid pinned against the wall, yanking a beat-up backpack out of his hands.

Peter didn't think. There was no "what would a hero do?" moment. It was just pure, automatic reflex. Like it always was.

He crossed the space between them in one blur of motion. He didn't even bother with a web – his hand just shot out and clamped around the thug's wrist. The guy's bones creaked in a nasty way under the pressure. Parker winced at the sound. He really did not apply that much strength, huh. Still, with his other hand, Peter gently but firmly pushed the man away from the kid.

"Hey," Peter's voice came out low, a dangerous growl that had none of his usual quippy lightness. "The kid's not interested. Get lost."

Something in that voice, in the impossible speed, made the thug's blood run cold. He threw one wild, terrified look at Peter – at the weird costume, his probably still a bit beaten up face – mumbled something utterly incoherent, and just bolted, vanishing into the maze of alleys like a roach when the light turns on.

Peter let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He scooped the backpack off the wet ground and turned to the kid, his voice switching back to its normal, friendly neighborhood tone.

"Hey. You okay? He didn't hurt you, did—"

The words died in his throat.

The kid hadn't run. He wasn't screaming. He was just frozen, pressed against the brick wall like he was trying to phase through it. His eyes were wide open, so wide Peter could see the whites all around them, and they were filled with pure, silent, absolute terror. His breath hitched in quick, shallow gasps that whistled in the eerie quiet. Silent tears cut clean tracks through the dirt on his pale cheeks.

Confused, Peter took a single step forward to hand him the backpack. That was all it took.

The boy's eyes rolled back into his head. His knees just gave out and he slumped to the ground without a sound, a boneless ragdoll. He'd completely short-circuited, his brain overloading from the mugging, the fear, and the sudden, terrifying appearance of something he couldn't possibly understand.

Peter froze, his arm still stuck out, the backpack dangling from his fingers. A cold, heavy feeling of dread started to fill his chest, tightening around his throat. He slowly knelt down beside the unconscious boy, his fingers quickly finding the pulse in his neck. It was racing, a frantic flutter against his fingertips.

"Karen, full life scan. Now," he whispered, his voice tight.

"The victim has seemingly lost consciousness due to extreme psychological shock. Vital signs are stable," the AI reported, her emotionless tone a stark contrast to the panic Peter was starting to feel.

Peter didn't say anything. He slowly lifted his head, his gaze tracing the tall, gloomy silhouettes of the skyscrapers that clawed at the dark, rainy sky.

He’d done it. He’d saved the kid from a thief. And his reward for being a hero was literally scaring a child into unconsciousness just by showing up.

Wherever he was… this was definitely not his New York. And here, his strength, his suit, his desire to help… they didn't inspire hope. They only inspired terror.

Chapter Text

A cold autumn rain, more like a prickly mist, drummed against his face, making his skin go numb and covered in goosebumps. From the speaker of the mask, clutched in his whitened fingers, Karen's voice sounded: "Vital signs are stable." The words that were supposed to be comforting pierced him like icy spikes. Stable. Yes, but they could have been so different. So very different. And he was the reason.

Through the rising panic, a familiar, cold, and merciless logic broke through. Okay, Parker, think. First: you can't leave him here. On the cold, wet ground. All alone. That's not even up for discussion.

His movements became sharp, hurried, but surprisingly careful. He gently slid one hand under the boy's knees, the other under his back, and lifted him. The body went limp, frighteningly light. Like a feather. This wasn't a saved person. This was a consequence. A consequence of his carelessness and his mistake, for which he was now fully responsible.

His gaze darted around the dark alley, searching for anything suitable. He didn't feel like a hero saving a child, but more like… no, there wasn't even a suitable comparison. Just Peter, who had messed everything up again.

The first somewhat suitable shelter was a deep niche of a boarded-up entrance, half-shrouded in scaffolding and gloom. Perfect? No. Better than nothing? Definitely yes. He laid the boy down on a relatively dry patch of ground, shrugged off the worn-out backpack (thank you, heightened senses and the habit of carrying a bunch of junk "just in case") and tucked it under the boy's head, rolling it into an awkward but somewhat comfortable lump. The gesture came out timid and clumsy.

Peter jumped back a few steps, as if burned, leaned his back against the cold, rough concrete wall, and crossed his arms. Distance. He needed to keep his distance. Although in this narrow, crate-cluttered nook, the "maximum distance" was maybe a meter and a half.

Ugh.

He didn't take his eyes off the boy, and the weight of guilt pressed down on him harder than any wall that had ever collapsed on him.

And then the boy groaned. His eyelids fluttered. Peter froze, rooted to the spot, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. The main objective was not to scare him again.

"Hey… Hey, hello… It's… it's all good," his voice came out hoarse and broke off, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. "You… you're safe. Now. Honestly. I won't hurt you. I'm… a friend."

The boy's eyes opened. Glassy, full of tears, they slowly swam through the darkness until they found his figure. Peter. In his wet, darkened suit. The fear in them didn't go away, but it was joined by a strange, utterly bewildered curiosity.

Peter saw that look and had not even the slightest idea what he was supposed to do now. His own panic was looking for any way out, any action.

"I need to… I mean, we need… you need to get to a safe place," he began to babble, the words tangling and tripping over each other. "Listen, is there somewhere… you know, somewhere you can go? To someone? Maybe parents? An aunt, an uncle, neighbors? Or a shelter? I'll take you wherever you say! I just… I'm not exactly sure where things are here… should probably find a map…"

He fell silent, seeing the boy slowly, barely shaking his head. His lips trembled, and silent tears left clean streaks on his dirty cheeks. The answer was clear without words. Nowhere. There's simply nowhere to go.

Despair tightened around Peter's throat like a noose. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away raindrops and trying to erase the mask of fatigue.

"Okay… Okay, all right," he whispered, more to himself, trying to calm the trembling in his own hands. "Listen, the thing is, you can't stay here. Understand? It's cold, wet, dirty, and... and I can't stay with you. With me…" he hesitated, "...with me, it's too dangerous right now. Believe me. Very."

He said it with such bitter, hard-won sincerity that even a child could understand it. He was already expecting the boy to curl into a ball, crawl away, scream. But the opposite happened.

The boy slowly, uncertainly, got up on his knees. His huge, tear-filled eyes looked at Peter not with horror, but with a quiet, silent question. And then he reached out. Not to push away. But to hold on. His small hand, weirdly hot despite the icy rain, still smeared with street grime, clenched Peter's trembling fingers with such force, as if they were the only anchor of salvation in the worst storm of his life.

"Don't go," he exhaled, and those were the first words from his lips, hoarse from fear and an oncoming cold. "Please."

Peter froze. All his armor of fear, guilt, and despair cracked with a deafening sound. He looked at that small hand clutching his fingers as if they held all the hope in the world, and he felt an invisible but unbreakable thread stretch between them. This child, whom he had scared half to death, for some reason now saw him as his only protection. In this dark, cold, and utterly unfriendly world, he, Peter Parker, the eternal loser, was someone's savior.

He wasn't a monster to him. He wasn't a threat.

He was warmth. Even though just a minute ago, he had been the one to take it away.

And that was simultaneously more terrifying and more important than anything that had ever happened to him.

Peter saved people every day. He put on the suit and mask and patrolled until it was time for school, or until it seemed like his drastically dropping attention and concentration would start causing more harm than good.

But never before had someone pinned their hopes on him like this. On Peter. On him, himself, on his support and his warmth, and on something else he wasn't sure of but was ready to give for as long as he had the strength.

He slowly, very very carefully, so as not to scare him, placed his large palm over the small, trembling hand.

"Okay," he said quietly, and a new, firm note suddenly appeared in his voice, banishing the betraying tremor. "Okay, deal. Agreed. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

They are frozen in that fragile, precarious silence, where the only bridge between them is the boy's – as a spider's thread and just as easily broken. The cold rain continues its monotonous tap-tap-tap on the asphalt and scaffolding, and one particularly bold drop lands smack on the back of Peter's neck, making him flinch and finally snap out of his stupor.

"This rain doesn't seem to be planning on stopping," he mumbles aloud, more for the little guy's benefit, as if apologizing for the need to disturb him again. "If we stay here much longer, we'll turn into two icicles. Karen? Let's try again. Scan everything you can around here. Maybe there's an abandoned building, a basement, a heating vent nearby... I don't know! Anything relatively cozy with a roof over its head!"

The AI's voice, still calm and metallic, sounds from the mask, and Peter already winces, anticipating the answer:

"Unfortunately, Peter, without a connection to satellite networks or public databases, my functionality is severely limited. I cannot perform a terrain scan in the format you request. For accurate mapping and infrastructure analysis, I require–"

"–a network connection, yeah, I got it, thanks, Karen," he interrupts her quickly, exhaling in irritation. The irritation, however, is directed more at the situation than at Karen. Never at her.

Despair tries to wash over him in a heavy wave again, but Peter recoils from it as if from fire. No, thank you, he has already played that game. There will be time for that later. Right now – the child. He needed to act.

He slowly, so as not to startle, crouches down, coming almost eye-to-eye with the boy. Little one looks at him with wide eyes, where fear has now been replaced by wary curiosity.

"Right!" Peter begins, trying to inject a cheerfulness into his voice that he does not really feel. "I'm Peter," he introduces himself, offering a careful smile.

He sees the internal struggle in the boy’s eyes. Caution warring with a desperate need for some kind of connection. The boy licks his dry lips, frowns as if sorting through all possible names in his head, and finally whispers so quietly that even Peter with his hearing has to strain:

"Liam…"

"Liam!" Peter smiles, this time more genuinely. "Great name! Strong. Means protection, I think? Well, Liam, nice to meet you." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "Here's the problem. We need to find a place that's warmer and drier. And to do that, we need to move. And honestly, on foot we'll be trudging forever. So…" he hesitates, choosing his words. "Do you mind if I carry you? I promise I won't drop you."

Liam silently nods, and his eyes show a weary acceptance of the situation. Fear has receded, giving way to complete mental and physical exhaustion. He allows Peter to carefully, almost ceremoniously, pick him up. For the first few seconds, he freezes, stiff with awkwardness, but then instinctively starts to squirm a little, settling his chin somewhere on Peter's collarbone, trying to get comfortable in this new, shaky world that now consisted only of him and this strange, talkative guy in a wet, battered suit.

"Alright," Peter mutters encouragingly, to both himself and the boy.

They move deeper into the dark alley, further away from the noisy road of the unknown city. Peter walks quickly but doesn't run, trying not to attract unnecessary attention, just in case other rare individuals like themselves are lurking in the nooks and crannies.

His spider-sense doesn't quiet down for a second. An unusual, annoying hum at the back of his consciousness, like the crackle of an overloaded power grid. Much louder and more persistent than it ever was in New York. There, it seemed to clearly indicate direction: "Left! Above! Dodge!" Here, it just hums in the background, like a damaged speaker turned to max volume before giving out.

But the moment he lifted Liam into his arms, something clicked. The crackle became a bit sharper, a bit more purposeful, as if his internal radar was trying to focus on something specific but failing. Peter just shakes his head grimly, feeling goosebumps run down his spine.

He understands – the danger isn't imminent. The sense isn't warning of a direct threat, just insistently advising caution and to avoid attracting attention. And he himself sees how strange he must look from the outside: a guy in a tattered suit, with not-quite-healed scrapes on his face, carrying a frightened child.

Peter instinctively holds Liam a little closer, trying to shield him from possible gazes. He walks looking straight ahead, but every nerve is on alert, catching the slightest movement in the darkness. His steps are quick and precise, but there's no panic in them – just focused caution.

The quiet, anxious hum of his sense doesn't fade, accompanying every step. Peter just clenches his jaw slightly and continues moving forward through the damp gloom of the alley.

They move in oppressive silence, endlessly navigating a labyrinth of narrow, identical-looking alleys. Weaving their way, they leave behind piles of garbage and locked doors. A couple of times at intersections, Liam, listening to his internal compass of fear, raises a hand and lightly touches Peter's shoulder. Peter looks down at him, and the boy silently but decisively shakes his head – don't go that way. Peter just nods and quietly, almost soundlessly, asks Karen:

"Log the route. Map these alleys and remember these points. We'll check them later."

A ghostly, anxious map of this place begins to form in his head.

They come across a low, sunken entrance to some basement. Near the entrance – fresh traces of someone's vomit (breakfast? Lunch? Peter doesn't dare to guess). He wrinkles his nose, freezes in place, and sniffs the air, trying with his sharp sense of smell to separate the cocktail of city stinks from the odor rising from the darkness. He closes his eyes, completely focusing on the sounds and smells. From down below, he hears someone's strained, hoarse groan, muffled talk, someone's aggressive, snapped growl in response to something, and monotonic muttering. It smells of musty dampness, mold, days-old sweat, and dirt. The basement is clearly occupied, and clearly not by people known for their hospitality.

Peter exhales evenly, almost resignedly, and without a word, turns around and walks on. Liam quietly, almost inaudibly to a normal ear, makes a questioning sound, looking up at him. Now it's Peter who, meeting his gaze, silently and briefly shakes his head before moving away.

Soon the alleys unexpectedly lead them to a deserted street in some semi-abandoned district. The streets here are strangely and frighteningly empty. Liam lifts his head with timid interest, looking around.

"Ever been here before?" Peter asks quietly.

The boy shakes his head – bit more briskly than before – but then his eyes go wide as some freak with a glazed-over look runs past them without slowing down, screaming something incoherent into the void. Peter instinctively pulls Liam closer to him, shielding him, but the freak pays them no mind, disappearing around a corner.

Peter allows himself a slightly nervous exhale, scans the street lined with rusty, beaten-up and battered cars, and almost at a run crosses it, diving into another archway.

And then he sees it. Not far away – an abandoned structure, not the only one here, small, with a partially collapsed roof. But it inspires a bit more confidence than the other ruins. From inside, as far as his hearing can tell, no groans, suspicious rustles, or screams are heard. Finding an entrance with a long-shattered door, Peter freezes again, sniffing the air, and cautiously steps inside.

But the next instant, he freezes. Without letting go of Liam, he shifts the boy higher on his arm and with his free palm carefully but insistently turns his head, hiding his face in the folds of his suit against his chest. "Don't look," he says hollowly.

Someone clearly fought here. Not just fought – slaughtered. The walls and floor are spattered with the congealed streaks of dried blood. Everywhere are signs of a fierce, desperate struggle – torn-off baseboards, dark stains on the floor, scattered junk. And the smell of chemicals, herbs, and medication is so strong and pungent that it almost completely overpowers the heavy, coppery scent of blood hanging in the air.

Peter turns sharply and almost flies back out onto the street, into the damp but clean air.

Peter blinks frequently, trying to erase the gruesome picture from his memory. He's seen similar things before, more than once, sometimes even finding himself at the epicenter of events where such "pictures" were created. But now, with a child in his arms, everything felt different – sharper, more painful.

His spider-senses, already heightened to the limit, are now working overtime: his hearing picks up every rustle, his smell distinguishes the slightest nuances of odors, and his touch has become so sensitive that he literally feels every millimeter of his suit's fabric on his skin.

He gives a restrained shrug, issuing a quiet command:

"Karen, mark this spot."

"Already done," the AI replies calmly. "Coordinates saved to memory."

Peter exhales tiredly:

"You're a star, Karen. Thanks."

A short, almost human "Mhm" sounds in response.

They wander through the abandoned district for a while longer. (He'll definitely have to find out why no one is here. What in the world happened here?)

Liam even manages to doze off for a bit, his head nodding limply onto Peter's shoulder. Peter just smiles silently, feeling the boy nodding off, and says quietly, "Welcome back," when he opens his eyes again. Liam looks at him owlishly, blinking slowly, and a timid but seemingly genuine smile appears at the corners of his lips.

Peter counts that smile as a personal, infinitely important victory.

Time drags on slowly, but he finally manages to find what he was looking for. A building standing a bit apart from the others. Surprisingly unoccupied, judging by the lack of sounds and foreign smells. Old, crumbling, dirty, but – empty.

It seems it was a three-story sewing workshop, judging by the barely legible, stained-with-something-unpleasant sign hanging on by a thread. The windows are boarded up, all entrance doors are shut tight. The only way in is through a broken wall, covered by piles of rubble, in the back of the courtyard. Peter finds it only thanks to his sharp eyesight and the barely perceptible noise of air moving through the cracks.

The actual passage to the first floor seems completely blocked at first glance. The way up is via a dangerous, rickety staircase where several steps are simply missing, leaving gaping holes into darkness. Holding Liam tighter, Peter carefully ascends, balancing and swaying slightly as his head spins for a moment, vision blacked out.

He wasn't an idiot, okay? He knew he had to take care of himself too. He did. As much as possible. And necessary. Urgently necessary.

He understood he desperately needed rest himself. For heaven's sake, he'd just finished a battle in New York and gone through some endless kaleidoscope... A multiversal corridor? An inter-temporal portal? All of the above?

But he'd figure out the nature of his arrival here later. First – rest.

Outside, the rain still drums monotonously against the few surviving panes of glass.

Peter surveys the floor. Several doors, all closed. Choosing the nearest one at random, he pushes it open.

Behind the door is someone's former office. Empty. Dusty. Quiet. With a battered couch, an overturned desk, and papers and books scattered everywhere. Peter clears a spot for Liam with his hand and sits him down on the couch before starting to look for something to wipe off the dust. In the room's gloom, he has to rely only on his vision – and on a slightly torn scarf that's lying on a shelf above the couch. Well, at least, by all appearances, it hadn't been used to wipe up anyone's blood. Seems so. Though who knows. Peter was sure of approximately nothing now.

Quickly brushing the main layer of dust off the couch under Liam's watchful gaze, Peter tosses the scarf into a corner – they'll deal with it later – and crouches down in front of the boy.

"We need to rest," he says with a soft smile. "We'll get to properly know each other over breakfast tomorrow, and then we'll figure out what to do, okay? Lie down," he nods at the couch. "It's a bit chilly, sorry, but right now this is our best, if not only, option."

Peter awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, chuckling sheepishly. The boy obediently lies down, seeming to become even smaller in the darkness, curling up on the couch. Even with his vision, with all the darkness it's hard to make out his facial features, but Peter is sure – Liam can't be more than ten.

"I'll be right here if you need anything – wake me," he nods at the floor next to the couch.

Liam immediately frowns and grabs his forearm, shaking his head.

Peter blinks in confusion.

Liam squirms and scoots deeper toward the back of the leather couch, clearly freeing up space for Peter.

Peter feels like his face might crack from a smile or his heart might crack from aching tenderness. Pressing his lips together so they don't tremble, he offers Liam a careful smile and gives a barely perceptible nod. Noticing this, the boy visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping, and a faint smile appears at the corners of his lips.

Peter carefully lies down next to him, propping himself up on an elbow, trying to take up as little space as possible on the clearly not king-sized couch. Freezing for a moment, he finally lies down completely, and a second later feels Liam timidly adjusting to him, resting his head on his own arm somewhere under Peter's chin.

Giving in to a momentary weakness, Peter touches his dry lips to the boy's crown for a second, leaving a weightless, almost imperceptible kiss. Liam freezes for just an instant, then completely relaxes beside him.

Peter allows himself to exhale with noticeable relief.

Curling into himself a little – the boy's warmth was comforting, but the rain and chill were still getting to him – Peter closes his eyes. He'd never gotten along with the cold. Not after the bite.

Listening to Liam's steady, calming heartbeat, Peter finally allows himself to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up wrapped in warmth.

That’s the first thing that cuts through the groggy haze of a deep, heavy sleep. Warmth. Which is seriously weird, considering he’d passed out curled on that icy leather couch, soaked through with the kind of damp chill that gets into your bones. He’s lying on his side, back to the room, and right there, forehead tucked against his chest, Liam is breathing softly. Steady. For the first time since they’d met, the kid had truly peaceful sleep.

But the real heat isn’t coming from the kid. It’s something else – something weighty, incredibly soft, and weirdly cozy draped over them like a proper blanket. It’s holding their body heat close, forming a little pocket of safety in the otherwise freezing office.

Eyes still shut, Peter flexes the fingers he’d buried in the couch cushions. The texture is all wrong. Not the cheap leather of the couch, not the advanced fabric of his suit (which, honestly, is still mind-blowing in the tactile department for something that’s, y’know, basically full-body coverage. Wild). Even through the suit – and he’s gonna mention it again because it’s just that cool – he can feel something thick, slightly textured, almost plush on the side touching his skin.

And… it’s kinda shifting.

Like it’s alive.

It’s rising and falling in a rhythm that matches his own breathing.

Okay. Super normal. Totally not a reason to start freaking out.

His brain, still half stuck in dreamland, sluggishly tries to connect the dots. A blanket? But where from? He sure didn’t find one. Liam? No shot – Peter’s a light sleeper; he’d have woken up.

His spider-sense, which had been buzzing quietly in the background this whole time (way louder than usual, honestly, but at least not screaming), gives a little jolt. Not a danger jolt. More like it… twitches. It’s muttering something confused, puzzled, almost… recognizing. But still a little on edge.

Peter cracks one eye open slowly, careful not to disturb the kid.

And freezes.

Draped over them, is a large piece of scarlet fabric… No. It’s the Levitation Cloak.

It glows faintly even in the dim light, missing its usual dramatic collar – looking like just a really nice piece of cloth (weird to call it that, but yeah). But there’s no mistaking it. Peter would know that thing anywhere.

A second later, the full force of the realization smacks into him. Peter’s head shoots up, eyes wide, and he nearly whacks his forehead on that stupid low shelf (Which is… Why exactly is it here…?)

The Cloak? Here. How?! What?!

His eyes dart around the shadowy room, catching on dusty furniture shapes. No one. Just him, Liam, and… a runaway magical artifact.

The Cloak, sensing his movement, stirs. The corner hanging off the couch gives a little twitch, like a happy dog’s tail. Then, slowly, almost shyly, it lifts that same corner and gives a small, fluttering wave.

Peter can only stare. His brain, the one that can calculate ballistic trajectories and solve insane equations in a split second, completely short-circuits. Doctor Strange. The botched spell. The freefall. That messed-up version of New York that looked like a medieval warzone.

Liam.

And now… the Cloak?

He swallows hard, a shiver that’s not from the cold running down his spine.

It followed him, clicks into place with dizzying clarity. When that portal tore open… the Cloak must have flown in right after.

He remembers a faint gesture he thought was a farewell. Maybe it was. But not to Strange – to him. The Cloak… it made its choice.

His thoughts start spinning. If the Cloak is here, does that mean there’s a link back? Or is it just as stranded as he is? What does this even mean?

His Spider-Sense finally settles down, emitting a soft, almost pleased hum. Now it makes sense – it wasn’t sensing a threat. It was sensing… a friend. An ally in this emo-NYC.

Or that’s not it at all, and he’s about to have a permanent alarm bell in his skull for the rest of his life.

Moving slowly, like he might spook it, Peter slips his hand out from under the Cloak and reaches toward the fabric.

“Levi?” His voice comes out a rough, sleep-filled whisper.

The Cloak responds instantly. Its edge lifts and nuzzles against his fingers, like an affectionate cat. Then it turns its attention back to Liam, gently tucking the fabric tighter around the sleeping boy before settling down with a soft, rustling sigh.

And in that moment, looking at the vibrant red cloth sheltering them both with such simple, gentle care, Peter feels something he hasn’t felt since he fell into this nightmare.

A sense of calm.

And a tiny, fragile spark of hope.

Crazy, stupid, probably naïve. But hope.

He isn’t alone. In this creepy, dark, rain-soaked (and he could add so many more adjectives) city where he’s a complete nobody, he has a friend. A quiet one, but a loyal one.

He lets his head drop back onto his makeshift pillow (his own arm), a disbelieving, slightly wobbly smile spreading across his face. He pulls Liam a little closer, feeling the kid’s solid warmth, and feels the Cloak immediately adjust, draping over his hand on the boy’s back.

Outside, the cold rain keeps tapping against the glass. Somewhere a few blocks over, a police siren wails. The city is still doing its dark, dangerous, gloomy thing.

But in here, in this dusty room under the wing of a magical relic, it’s quiet. It’s warm. And for the first time in what feels like forever… it feels safe.

Peter closes his eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll have to figure things out. Later this morning, really, but a guy still needed his 8-hour beauty sleep.

In the morning, he’d have to ask the Cloak what it knew, if it could contact Strange, how to find food, how to keep Liam safe…

But right now, in this single, quiet moment, he was allowed to just exist. To be alive. To not be alone.

And that was so much more than he felt he deserved, after everything that happened, after everything he’d done.

This time, waking up is anything but gentle. He's ripped from sleep's embrace by a sharp, terrified scream right next to his ear.

If his internal clock hadn't already conked out – and it totally had – he’d guess he got about six hours of beauty sleep. It could have been worse. Frankly, it was weird it wasn't. Between Midtown High, his superhero side hustle, and his photographer gig at the paper, his beauty sleep was consistently hacked down to a measly three or four hours. The only exception was that one time Miss Potts locked him in her office and refused to work until he’d crashed on her couch (a one-time event they both still pretended never happened, along with the idea that Mrs. Potts couldn't work anywhere else).

Peter jolts and is on his feet in a flash, falling into a defensive stance, putting himself between the threat and the couch. The Cloak of Levitation, like a spooked cat, puffs up into a crimson shield hovering in the air.

On the couch is Liam. He's pressed back into the cushions, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of pure, animal terror, locked onto the magical object floating in the air. His fingers are white-knuckled, gripping the sofa's leather.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Hey, easy, easy, Liam!" Peter immediately drops to his knees in front of the boy, waving the Cloak aside with his hand. "Look at me! Look at me. He's a friend. He's cool."

Reprimanded, the Cloak droops, almost sheepishly, shrinking down and scuttling into the corner of the couch. In an instant, it transforms from a powerful artifact into a scolded puppy that's been pushed away.

Liam's wild gaze flicks from the Cloak to Peter. His breath is coming in fast, ragged hitches.

"That… what is that?" he breathes, his voice shaking.

Peter's mind races. How do you explain a living, magical cloak from another universe to a kid who's just on the edge of losing it?

"It's… my cloak," he lands on, going for the simplest answer and hoping Levitation wouldn't be offended he'd claimed it so easily.. "He's… special. He's alive. And he's really gentle. He kept us warm last night. Remember how warm it was?"

Liam slowly looks over at the shrunken piece of fabric in the corner. The sheer terror in his eyes begins to slowly give way to a cautious, dawning curiosity. Kids have this incredible knack for accepting the impossible once the immediate danger passes.

Seeing the shift, Peter gestures to the Cloak.

"Come here. Nice and easy."

Levitation lifts off uncertainly, hovers for a beat, then drifts toward them as slowly as a falling leaf. It stops a foot or so from Liam and timidly extends one of its corners, like it's offering a handshake.

Liam freezes, his breath catching.

"You can touch him," Peter says softly, offering an encouraging smile. "He wants to say hi."

Without looking away, the boy slowly, ever so slowly, reaches out a trembling hand. His fingers make contact with the velvety fabric.

The Cloak gently loops around his wrist – not a grip, just a soft hold – and emits a faint, soothing vibration, almost like a cat's purr.

And then, a miracle happens on Liam's face. The fear simply dissolves, replaced by pure, unadulterated wonder. His eyes go wide, his lips forming a silent 'o'.

"He's… warm," he whispers.

Peter feels a massive weight slide off his shoulders. He offers them both a tired grin.

"Yeah. And he's with us. So… this is Levitation. Levitation, this is Liam."

The Cloak gives a cheerful flap of its collar (which had, Peter only now noticed, returned overnight) in clear greeting, then starts gently wiping a smudge of dust from the boy's cheek. The action draws the first, genuine, happy laugh from Liam.

However, Liam's laughter – quiet and a little raspy, clearly from disuse – cuts off as abruptly as it started. The boy frowns, looking down and instinctively wrapping his arms around his stomach.

Peter feels the familiar stab of guilt and responsibility. His own stomach answers with a painful cramp. His super-metabolism never bothered to ask if it was a convenient time for its owner to find food.

"I know, buddy. Me too... I'll figure something out," he says, getting to his feet and stretching, feeling his bones protest with a series of pops. "Stay here. I'll be quick."

But Liam immediately slides off the couch and latches onto his arm. The silent plea in his eyes is more eloquent than any words. Don't go. Don't leave him alone.

Peter sighs. He can't blame him. His heart aches as he crouches back down to the boy's level.

The Cloak of Levitation, picking up on the mood, gives a faint shimmer in the air. It swoops up, folds itself neatly in half, and drapes itself over Peter's shoulders, tying itself into a tidy knot at his neck. Now it looks less like a bulky mantle and more like a stylish, if eccentrically patterned, scarlet scarf. Peter feels its encouraging, warm pressure and cannot help a tired smile.

"I'll be back. I promise. Cross my heart. Believe me?" He offers another weak smile as Liam frowns in response before finally, hesitantly, nodding. "Look, we've got a personal bodyguard now," he says, nodding toward the scarf, which puffs up importantly, confirming the statement. "He'll stay with you. If anything goes wrong, he will... uh... bring you straight to me. Okay?" He glances down at Levitation, which responds by patting its own ends together in agreement.

The mention of the scarf, however, makes him pause, looking down at his own clothes. Or lack thereof. There is just the suit, clinging tightly to his body, and the mask, which, judging by the faint web pattern, is dormant and fixed sleepily and sloppily to his hip with webs.

He feels the automatic urge to say hello to Karen, but he probably shouldn't give Liam any more reasons to have a heart attack at such a young age.

His gaze falls on his own hands, sheathed in the bright red nanotech gloves. Then he takes in Liam – in his tattered, dirty clothes that hang off him like he's a coat hanger.

Peter straightens up, walking over to the boarded-up window. He stands to the side and carefully peers out through a narrow crack. The morning in this part of town is predictably gray and lifeless.

He walks back to the center of the room, his eyes finally landing on the wardrobe in the corner. But Levitation is already one step ahead, swiftly flowing off his shoulders and morphing mid-air into a red jacket, hovering expectantly in front of him.

Peter lets out a soft laugh, smiling at the Cloak.

"Thanks, buddy," he says, shaking his head. "But I'm not sure that's a long-term solution. Plus, I'm still gonna need pants."

Almost certainly just to tease him, the Cloak briefly morphs into a red jumpsuit before returning to its usual cloak shape, bouncing in the air and then floating over to the wardrobe doors, which were holding on by a prayer.

Slipping its edge into the crack between the wooden doors, Levitation gives a sharp tug. The wood, of course, gives way with a splintering crack, swinging the doors open and sending up clouds of dust.

Liam coughs weakly, turning away. Peter just winces, almost feeling the grit in the air physically.

Peter peers inside, giving the Cloak a grateful stroke with his hand, which would definitely have earned him a purr if it could purr out loud.

Stepping aside slightly, he lets Liam and Levitation get a look at the wardrobe's meager contents.

Several garment bags hang inside, all empty except for one. Inside, he can make out the shape of a suit, obviously belonging to the former owner of this office. Pulling the zipper down, Peter looks at the dark gray suit and the shirt the color of dusty ash.

Okay, not ideal. A stranger's suit, probably lying here for decades. It reeks of mothballs and dust, of course, but it looks intact. And it's not like he's swimming in options.

He shoots a meaningful look at the Cloak, which understands without a word, gently turning the boy around and guiding him back toward the couch. Liam frowns, trying to look back at Peter, but seems to quickly catch on and obediently turns away. Sighing, Peter presses down hard on the spider symbol on his chest.

His hypersensitive skin registers a faint, tingling movement – the suit's nanites flowing in liquid, silvery streams from his limbs toward the center, converging at his symbol, before streaming back down his arms and coalescing into compact bracelets on his wrists. The mask, anchored by the nearly dissolved web on his thigh, is the last to be drawn in, joining the flow. A moment later, he's standing in just his underwear, a shiver running through him as the morning chill seeps through the cracks in the walls.

He walks back to the wardrobe. Pulling out the dusty garment bag, he retrieves the suit and shirt inside. The fabric feels cool and stiff to the touch, and it smells not just musty, but with a hint of something medicinal, sweet and definitely unpleasant.

He starts getting dressed. The shirt is a bit too big in the shoulders, but otherwise fits passably. The jacket, to his surprise, fits almost perfectly, just slightly restricting his movement. The trousers are a little short, exposing his ankles, but that's a minor issue. Digging around at the bottom of the wardrobe, he finds a pair of worn leather boots. The soles are nearly smooth, but a quick inspection reveals no holes. He leans against the wardrobe to put them on, hastily tying the laces while standing.

There's no tie in this young businessman's ensemble, so after fiddling with the empty, somehow sad-looking collar for a moment, Peter unbuttons the top two buttons and straightens the grayish fabric.

Standing up, he dusts his hands off on his trousers and turns to his silent audience, clearing his throat to signal it's okay to turn around.

"So?" Peter spreads his arms, presenting his new look. His smile is a little crooked, uncertain. "Do I pass for a decent guy?"

Liam, his eyes serious, slowly looks him up and down, his gaze lingering on the slightly-too-short trousers. Then he nods, once, short and businesslike. The Cloak, as if waiting for its turn, gives a soft flutter, loops in the air, and makes an approving snap with its free end, like the light crack of a whip.

Peter crouches in front of the boy, bringing himself to his level. His smile softens, becoming more genuine.

"I'll be back before you have a chance to get bored," he says, casting a glance at Levitation. "Levi will look after you better than anyone else could. Try to get some rest, okay?"

Liam frowns, his fingers worrying the edge of the Cloak. But after a moment's thought, there's another nod – this one a little more confident. And then Peter, giving in to a sudden impulse, rises slightly and presses his dry lips to the boy's crown. Liam doesn't flinch or pull away—and in Peter's chest, a small but significant victory glows warm.

He makes his way out of their hideout, down the rickety staircase, and squeezes through a gap on the first floor, finally emerging onto the street. The neighborhood greets him with the same gray dreariness and cracked sidewalks. Peter shrugs his shoulders, trying to get used to the rough fabric of the borrowed jacket, and winces at the cold wind. At least yesterday's downpour is over – there were clearly no raincoats in that wardrobe.

He heads in the direction where he found Liam the day before, hoping to find some signs of civilization – or at least something resembling a store. There's just one small problem. Well, a big one, actually. He has no money.

He checks the jacket pockets once again just in case – empty, except for a crumpled slip of paper with a phone number and a hasty "baby." Peter grimaces in disgust. Better not to think about who that "baby" was or why their number ended up in a suit that's been lying around for decades. He tosses the paper ball into an improvised trash can – which, frankly, is any free centimeter of sidewalk – mentally cursing his traitorous memory, which will definitely not forget those digits. "Just in case."

As he wanders the gradually waking streets, Peter notices a shift. The gray district gives way to blackness, punctuated only by the occasional orange spots of streetlights. He coughs awkwardly, tugging at his shirt collar. This New York is getting stranger and more unwelcoming by the minute.

Peter moves through a maze of alleys, feeling like a lab rat in a particularly dismal experiment. The city persistently reminds him of home – there's a building corner exactly like one in Queens, there's a fire escape hanging with the same careless grace. But it's like New York filtered through someone’s nightmare. The stones here are darker, the air thicker, and the silence isn't peaceful – it's waiting, taut like a string.

He passes a hardware store locked with a padlock, and his nostrils twitch at a familiar smell – fried oil and something sweet. A New York hot dog, unmistakable! But when he finds the cart, it's abandoned, with something inside that only vaguely resembles a sausage, lying in a congealed lump. His stomach betrays him with a painful cramp.

On the corner, he spots a newspaper stand. He glances at the headlines, hoping to finally figure out where he is. "The Gotham Herald"? Nothing like "The Daily Bugle", not to mention he's only ever heard the name "Gotham" for New York a long time ago, from one of MJ's history rants. The front page features a blurry photo of some gloomy mansion and a headline screaming about a "tycoon's mysterious disappearance." Peter snorts. Typical tabloid stuff. Although in this city, even the sensational news sounds dreary.

Peter turns into an alley where the air smells thickly of paint, dampness, and something else - sweet and chemical, like burnt wiring. Two teenagers with spray cans are painting a strange symbol on a brick wall - a stylized playing card spade, engulfed in an aura of a sardonic grin. The lines of the graffiti look surprisingly crisp, as if it's been painted not once, but hundreds of times.

A lanky blond in a jacket with a torn sleeve is the first to notice Peter. His eyes – quick, appraising – slide over the ridiculous suit, lingering on the slightly-too-short trousers and the jacket that's clearly from someone else's closet.

"Hey, look," he nudges his partner with an elbow, "a businessman got lost. Or maybe he's with the IRS?"

The second guy, stocky with a hood pulled over his face, turns around. His gaze – heavy, devoid of any hint of irony – slides over Peter with poorly concealed avarice.

"Looks like the gentleman has trouble with his navigation," the blond takes a step forward, his worn sneakers silent on the damp asphalt. "Maybe we can help you find your way? Our services aren't free, though."

His spider-sense gives a quiet thrum in his temples – not a danger signal, more like a light warning, similar to the vibration from a truck passing in the distance. These guys aren't a serious threat, but underestimating them would be unwise. They stand too confidently; their postures speak of a habit for these kinds of confrontations.

Not to mention the fact, that he is not Spider-Man right now. Merely Peter Parker.

Peter slowly raises his hands in a placating gesture, his fingers trembling slightly – not from fear, but from restrained tension, from the sudden, sharp worry for Liam and Levitation.

"Guys, let's not do this," his voice sounds placating, but his eyes, hidden under furrowed brows, are quickly scanning the space. Potholes in the asphalt, a broken bottle by the wall, exposed wiring overhead. "I don't have anything valuable. Honestly."

"That's exactly what we're gonna check," the blond takes another step, and the blade of a knife, appearing in his hand as if from nowhere, twitches in time with his breathing.

At that moment, a deafening car horn blares from the next street over - long, irritated. A natural reflex makes all three of them flinch for a split second. Peter can't help but use that fraction of a second.

But he doesn't even have to.

Peter barely has time to shift into a defensive stance when the air in the alley begins to vibrate, filling with a low hum. A blur of scarlet and white streaks past, leaving a shimmering golden trail in its wake. The two teenagers suddenly jolt into the air before slumping heavily onto the asphalt. Another moment – and the high-speed blur begins swirling around them, kicking up a tornado of dust and debris until they scramble to their feet, faces twisted in fear, and bolt away.

Peter's sharp eyesight manages to catch a human outline in the blur itself. The knife vanishes from the ground with a quiet snick, and then the figure, still vibrating slightly, comes to a halt right in front of him. A guy in a red-and-white suit stands there, with coppery hair still ruffled by the residual wind and wide aviator-style goggles with bright yellow lenses. His pose is endlessly… energetic, brimming with readiness for movement – as if he's only paused for an instant and is about to bolt again at any second.

"Whooooa!" The words tumble out in a rapid-fire stream, syllables barely having time to form, tripping over each other. "You're already here? I'm Bart, by the way, Bart Allen! Don't worry, Mr. Parker, I won't blab to anyone, but I've read so much about you! It's an honor, for real!"

Not letting Peter get a single word in, Bart vanishes. The next instant, he's back in the same spot, shoving a warm, fairly heavy paper bag into Peter's hands that smells of coconut and lemongrass.

"Here, eat it before it gets cold. Just bought it – best Thai food stall in the city, near the Vincefunk-whatever Bridge… Well, out of the ones I managed to check in the last half-second! Not spicy, 'cause I remember Liam can't have it. Well, not that he can't, but… anyway, it's all safe!" He gives Peter's suit a quick once-over, wrinkling his nose. "Just a sec!"

He disappears again. Before Peter can even process where the food guy went, just barely having time to put the paper bag on the ground, Bart is standing in front of him once more, struggling to hold three overstuffed backpacks. Sleeves of hoodies, denim, and even the edge of a jacket are sticking out from under the zippers, obviously shoved inside in a hurry. With a clatter, he drops all three backpacks on the ground in front of the stunned Peter.

"Clothes!" Bart blurts out, dusting his hands. "For all three of you! Even the little guy. All the right sizes, I just… uhhh… estimated!" He lets out a nervous laugh, tapping his temple. "I meant Peter!" he quickly corrects himself, noticing Peter's dumbfounded stare (though, to be fair, he wasn't dumbfounded by that). "It's just I usually call you “Mister Parker,” 'cause it makes him so mad and snappy, and funny… Ah, never mind! I didn't know you were already here, otherwise I'd have met you earlier, honest!"

He's already starting to blur, his legs vibrating in place.

"I really gotta run now, I'm already late! But we'll see each other tomorrow… or the day after… Or on the weekend! Just make sure you eat before it gets cold! There should be enough even for you."

And he's gone. A whistle of parting air, a soft thwip – and a tomb-like silence falls over the alley. Left on the ground in front of Peter are the bag of food, three mysterious backpacks, and a complete jumble of fragmented phrases in his head about some books (books about him? Which is what the hell exactly?) and someone who gets annoyed by "Mister Parker."

Peter blinks slowly, pondering why the strange Bart Allen strangely thinks there are three of them, deciding to ignore the fact he is in fact aware of Liam in the first place

He bends down, picks up the food bag, and peeks inside, indeed finding a couple of plastic containers with soup, several coconut rice balls, and a few more containers with something equally delicious-smelling at the bottom that he can't quite make out.

The realization comes belatedly. His Spider-Sense was strangely silent, even dialing down its crazy hum, while the stranger was here. Right now, it's practically purring, pleased with the gifts and clearly not the least bit alarmed by the other's unexpected knowledge.

Peter finally exhales, and only now does he feel the folded knife in his hand previously dropped by one of the guys. Staring at it dumbly for a couple of seconds, he lets out another heavy sigh and stuffs it into his pocket.

At the very least, he now has food and clothes for Liam. Bart Allen can wait – until tomorrow, or the day after, or the weekend.

Belatedly, he realises, that New York doesn't really have Vincefunk-whatever Bridge. Even remotely.

Chapter Text

The spacious briefing room in the Watchtower breathes with exhaustion.

The air is cool and sterile, but the gathered members of the League radiate the tension of a recent fight. They stand in small groups or sit at the polished table, their postures relaxed but involuntary – a telltale sign of muscular fatigue. Victory hung in the sterile coolness, but it felt like a bruise: triumphant, yet painful.

Batman, his cape dust-covered and torn in several places, does not sit. He moves toward Barry, who is leaning against a wall, glued to his phone. Bruce approaches in such a way that his low, chesty voice becomes audible not only to The Flash but also to Diana and Hal standing nearby.

"Flash. Impulse is delivering Red Robin to Gotham. Shoulder wound, non-critical, urgent. Agent A will provide medical assistance. Impulse will return to the Tower after. Just so you know."

The words are clipped, a dry statement. Barry flinches, looking up from the screen. His fingers, already typing a message to Bart, freeze. He nods quickly, putting the phone in his pocket. Relief flashes in his eyes but is immediately replaced by understanding: Batman new who he was going to text, and warned him before starting the general meeting.

Batman returns to the head of the table and begins the speech. His report is characteristically laconic, devoid of unnecessary details. The threat has been neutralized. No civilian or cape casualties. The Titans handled their part and have departed for their own debriefing at their Tower. Each word falls like a stone, marking the boundaries of what happened and bracketing out everything else.

But during his speech, the glances of those present keep sliding to the same corner. There, away from everyone, sits John Constantine. He is slouched in a chair, one leg thrown over the other. Constantine looks like he is brought here against his will. Hovering in the air before him, shimmering with a dull green-gold light, is a magical ashtray. He takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke rings, his face a mask of detached boredom. Yet everyone in the room feels the invisible, heavy presence of the elephant in the room – that very disturbing, anomalous calm that hung in the heat of the battle.

Batman falls silent, finished with his report. A heavy, thick silence hangs in the hall. Superman is already drawing a breath, ready to defuse the situation with his warm baritone, to offer help…

But Batman preempts everyone. His head turns towards Constantine. His voice doesn't rise, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Moving on to unaccounted factors. During the battle, an anomaly of zero duration occurred. A global reality freeze. Everyone registered it intuitively, social media is buzzing with questions about a 'frozen world,' but no sensors recorded the event. Does anyone care to explain that?"

You can probably hear a pin drop. Suddenly, everyone finds the patterns on the table, the walls, or their own gloves incredibly interesting. Them trying not to look at Constantine is as obvious as pointing and yelling "It was him!"

John just rolls his eyes, like he is watching kids hide behind a clear curtain.

Hal Jordan opens his mouth, ready to blurt out his opinion. But he doesnt get a sound out – Barry, sitting next to him as usual, elbows him hard in the ribs. Hal turns with an offended look, but one sharp glance from The Flash makes him shut his mouth with a huff.

Constantine slowly, almost voluptuously, takes a drag. He holds the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary, then releases a steady, poisonous stream directly toward Batman. The Dark Knight doesn't flinch. Only after a couple of seconds does Bruce give a slight cough – dry, short. Hardly from the smoke; he's certainly tougher than that. More like a signal to get on with it.

Constantine heaves a heavy sigh, as if the entire weight and stupidity of the mortal world has been dumped on his shoulders.

"Right then. What is it you lot want to hear from me?" Constantine stubs out the cigarette in mid-air, and the magical ashtray evaporates with a quiet hiss. "That it was me? Brilliant. Now sod off and forget about it. Go play with your gadgets. And keep your noses out of my business – it's not meant for your minds and your eyes. And definitely not for your bloody sensors."

He rises from the chair, and his gaze suddenly lost all its bored mockery, becoming flat and dangerous.

"And trust me, you really don't want me to start explaining. Because if I do, you'll have to sit through all of it. And that ends rather badly for everyone in this room. For me – first and foremost."

"Are you threatening someone?" Hal grins, leaning forward, only to hiss again as Barry gets him – this time in the shin.

"Threatening? Don’t be daft." Constantine smirks, but there is no mirth in his eyes. "I'm stating a fact. You want me to translate into your language something that shouldn't be spoken aloud. Some things are better left unsaid."

He pauses, studying their faces.

Superman steps forward.

"John. We're not trying to control you. We're trying to understand if the world is facing a new threat."

"The world is always under threat!" Constantine's voice suddenly cracks, genuine irritation breaking through for the first time. "Blimey, every single second! While we're standing here having a chinwag, a rift's opening somewhere that needs plugging, or you'll all be puking up reality! And what I did..." He falls silent, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A pause hung like a heavy, tangible veil. The air in the hall freezes, as if truly bewitched. Constantine stands, head lowered, his fingers digging into the bridge of his nose so hard the knuckles turn white. He isn't just silent – he is waging a silent, furious argument with himself, and from the tense line of his back, his sharp shoulders, it's clear this argument is life or death.            

The thought of a portal, of the House of Mystery, where none of these bright idiots can reach him, is as sweet as nicotine. A slight movement of the wrist – and silence. But something clings to the hem of his coat with invisible claws. Something insistent, almost tangible, whispering in the very language of magic: Stay. Explain. Give them a chance to hear.

He hates prompts like that. They always lead to pain.

He exhales. The sound is strained, almost a moan. His hand falls, and he raises his gaze to them. There is no malice in it, not even the usual cynicism – just a complete, bottomless, tired disgust. Disgust at the necessity of saying this. At them. At himself. At this whole circus.

"Fine. Bloody hell." Constantine exhales, and the sound fights his whole nature. "You won't let it go until you get your nice simple explanation for a bloody complicated universe, will you?

He looks up at them, and his eyes hold not their usual mockery, but a weariness of having to explain things to them, like they are unreasonable children.

"You want to know what it is? I'll tell you. Per foramen in serie rerum…"

He starts speaking in his usual voice – raspy, smoke-stained, with a layer of eternal distaste. But on the last word, his voice plunges into an abyss. It becomes thick, layered, as if dozens of beings speak through his mouth at once. The air in the hall hums at a low frequency, making the glasses on the table vibrate. The viewports, beyond which Earth hangs serenely, suddenly rattle as if from a powerful infrasound.

"Per aeternum chaos, per ordinis margines… non arma deorum, non robur gigantum…"

Constantine clutches his throat, his fingers digging into the skin. His eyes widen in horror and confusion. He tries to clamp his lips shut, to hold back the pressure, but the words keep tearing out – ancient, heavy syllables, filled with a power that clearly is not his. Every word leaves a taste of soot and decayed matter in his mouth.

"Sed vulnus antiquum, sed umbram in anima, sed scintillam in abysso… Ubi maxima est necessitas, ibi defige…"

On the last word, his voice breaks into a rasp, never finishing the spell. Constantine shakes, his eyes roll back, and he would collapse to the floor if Superman isn't right there. He catches him just above the ground. The magician's body convulses, he coughs spasmodically, trying to breathe, his fingers frantically tearing at his tie.

And just as suddenly as it begins, it ends. The hum dies down. The trembling stops. Constantine roughly shoves Superman away, straightens up, swaying like a drunk. His face is ashen-gray, dark shadows lie under his eyes.

"That's all," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if trying to wipe away a defilement. "Can't do more. Not because I don't want to. The spell… it's gone. It was for one single moment. Did its job – and vanished. Like a stitch that dissolved."

He looks at them, and his eyes show not disgust, but something much deeper – a quiet shock, an echo of what he had to channel.

"It called forth what was needed. And now that 'something' is here."

He falls silent, letting the words hang in the air like a poisonous cloud. The hall becomes so quiet you can hear the ventilation system humming somewhere above the ceiling.

"And I haven't got a clue what it is or where it is. Though I suspect our 'what' is a person. But I don't bloody want to know. Because if a spell that powerful chose him – it means he needs to stay under the radar. Even from me. Especially from me. Otherwise, I'd know already. And you'd know too."

A silver flask appears in the air before him. Constantine takes a large gulp of whiskey, and droplets of the liquid glisten on his lips in the cold light of the hall.

"Your best bet right now is to do absolutely nothing. Don't go looking. Don't scan a thing. Any meddling in is life could stuff up the balance this spell has created."        

He takes another large swig, and his fingers tremble slightly around the flask.

"And if you don't listen – you can deal with the fallout without me. I've got enough on my plate as it is." Constantine takes a final gulp, and the flask disappears as quickly as it appears. "But since you won't listen anyway…"

He turns to Batman, and a familiar spark of cynical foresight flashes in his eyes.

"When it starts – and it bloody well will start – look for things that seem… too perfect. Too much of a coincidence. Some bloke always in the wrong place at the wrong time, but exactly when it's needed. A lucky sod. An unlucky git. Some mysterious chap popping up out of nowhere just when everything's going to shit."

He smirks, but the smirk again has no fun – only bitterness and tired knowledge.

"It won't be like some alien invasion. It'll be like the universe itself starts bending over backwards for one specific person. Or the opposite – dumping all sorts of trouble on his head that somehow turns out splendidly for everyone else."

Constantine adjusts his tie, and the movement looks almost painfully ordinary after everything that happens.

"And now, if you excuse me, I've got a prior engagement with a bottle of whiskey. No witnesses."

He is already turning to leave, but Batman stops him with a question that makes Constantine freeze on the spot:

"This 'someone'... does he know he became part of a spell?"

Constantine slowly turns around. His eyes show open thoughtfulness.

"Interesting question, that," he says, as if he is only now thinking about it, sorting through his own feelings in this whole mess. "If he is lucky – not a clue. He'll just think he's got the devil's own luck, always in the right spot." A pause hangs in the air, filling with ominous meaning. "If he's unlucky… he'll feel every single thread, every connection that's now tying him to the reality that was screaming for him to show up. And that," – Constantine pulls out a cigarette again, this time his hands are completely steady – "that will do his head in far quicker than anything else."

John gives a humorless snort at his own words.

"My professional advice? Don't interfere. Obviously, for some reason, his appearance here was absolutely necessary. And I rather doubt it's for something trivial. I'll admit, it's even a bit frightening to imagine what sort of person would warrant such a summons. But only a bit." He lights up, inhaling the smoke with an almost ritual concentration.

Smoke rings float up, dissolving in the cool air of the briefing room.

"So off you go, start your little search. Just remember – if you do find him, you might be signing his death warrant. Or you'll become the very thread that snaps first. In the end, I reckon if any of you is desperately needed by him – he'll find you himself. If the universe doesn't shove you together first."

Shrugging his shoulders, Constantine relaxes his pose, then makes a joking bow, full of his characteristic theatricality.

"Right. I'll be off then. Do try to have a pleasant evening, heroes. Or don’t."

This time, his departure is final. A fiery circle blossoms in the air, smelling of sulfur and ozone. The portal closes behind his back, leaving the hall in a tomb-like silence, broken only by the quiet buzzing of equipment and the heavy thoughts of those who remain.

Chapter Text

Peter returns to their hideout, effortlessly balancing a paper bag and three backpacks. Even before he reaches the building, his senses sharpen instinctively – but the tension in his shoulders eases almost immediately. From inside comes Liam’s heartbeat: slightly quickened, yet steady. The boy is not panicking. He is simply awake.

Out of habit, Peter’s eyes flick toward the alleyways, scanning for the stranger he met earlier – or anyone else who might be lurking. The street is empty. His spider-sense, which has been purring contentedly since his encounter with Bart, now hums with a curious duality – soothing yet unsettling.

What unsettles him even more is how clearly he can hear Liam’s heartbeat. He could probably pick it out from the very alley where he spoke to that speedy stranger. That feels strange. Just yesterday, the farthest his hearing reached was a crying child a few blocks away or the clatter of dishes ten floors down.

He slips inside soundlessly. The office they spent the night in has already transformed. Dust and grime have visibly receded, and in one corner sits a neat pile of rags torn from old clothes. But neither Liam nor Levi are there.

Peter forces down a surge of panic and stills himself, focusing intently until he pinpoints the familiar rhythm – on the third floor. With a quiet curse, he realizes they collapsed into the first room they found last night, too exhausted to explore further. He never even checked what was above them.

As he steps into the hallway and heads for the stairs, he notices another tidy heap of debris – boards, more rags, paper scraps. The door to the adjacent office stands wide open. A quick glance reveals a second room, previously buried under clutter near a cabinet, and now cleared enough to expose two desks, each holding a bulky, old-school desktop computer – the kind that looks like monolithic relics.

Peter wrenches his gaze away before his eyes can betray him with that telltale spark of excitement. With a suppressed sigh, he continues toward the stairwell. The door at the top is slightly ajar – less battered than the one downstairs, though still far from trustworthy. He silently hopes Liam was carried up by Levi, not that he climbed by himself.

“Liam?” he calls as he comes up the stairs.

A soft rustle answers from the room opposite. Peter peers inside. Over the back of a massive double bed, a familiar tuft of hair appears. Peter freezes for a beat, staring dumbly at the bed, then snorts.

“Yeah, I really should’ve checked the third floor first,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with mild annoyance. “Should’ve guessed there’d could be something livelier up here than that couch. Sorry, Liam.”

He winces, adding a silent, apologetic grimace – but Liam is already shaking his head vigorously, his tousled hair bobbing like a tiny, animated beacon. Only now, in daylight and standing face to face with the boy, does Peter truly take in his features.

Liam cannot be older than ten – maybe even somewhere in between six and eight, if Peter had to guess. His sun-bleached hair, oddly light despite the city’s perpetual gloom, is the color of ripe mango. Bright blue eyes regard Peter with lively curiosity. His face – still round from baby fat – radiates an almost disarming charm.

Peter’s lips tug upward on their own.

“How’s it going? Miss me yet?” he drawls, dropping the backpacks and setting the food bag down just a bit more carefully.

Liam lets out a questioning hum, eyes darting to the bags, then back to Peter with a puzzled frown.

“Managed to scrounge up a few things. Not really my doing, though…” Peter rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, chuckling. “But help’s help.”

He catches a whiff of the room and instantly regrets it – dust clings thickly to the mattress, curtains, and pretty much every other surface. He pinches his nose with his sleeve and walks around the bed, crouching in front of Liam with a gentle smile.

Liam immediately places a small hand on Peter’s knee steadying him, or perhaps himself – and stares up with wide, questioning eyes.

“Let’s have breakfast first,” Peter says softly. “Then we’ll figure out the rest. Together. Deal?”

Liam nods solemnly, then withdraws his hand and blinks slowly, waiting.

It takes Peter a moment to realize what the boy wants. Then his eyebrows shoot up in understanding, and he straightens.

“Think there’s a table nearby?” he calls over his shoulder, poking his head into a couple of adjacent rooms–first choosing poorly, as usual, but eventually stumbling upon a kitchen. It’s ancient, barely holding together by what could only be described as sheer stubbornness.

“Liam! Levi! Over here!”

Hoping this will be the last of his frantic shuttling between rooms and floors, Peter drags over three chairs – he isn’t about to deny Levi the right to sit with them – and turns just in time to see Liam and the Cloak enter. Levi holds the food bag delicately in one corner of its fabric. Judging by Liam’s scowl, there has been a brief but valiant struggle over who got to carry breakfast – lost honorably by the child.

Peter cannot resist ruffling the boy’s gingerish hair. The scowl vanishes instantly. Liam climbs onto his chair, folds his hands neatly on the table, and blinks up at Peter with those impossibly blue eyes, expectant.

Peter steps closer, opens the bag, and the air fills with the rich scent of food. He arranges the containers – fogged with warmth – on the table. He leaves a few untouched inside the bag, saving them for later.

“This looks pretty good,” he remarks, lifting the lid off a steaming soup.

Liam reaches for the sticky rice balls. Peter slides the spiciest-looking soup toward himself and places a container of mild coconut curry in front of the boy.

“Here you go,” he says, handing Liam a clean plastic fork from the bag.

Levi hovers nearby, one edge elegantly draped over the back of Peter’s chair. Another corner drifts toward the container of fried bananas, brushes it gently as if testing its worth, then gives Peter an approving pat on the shoulder.

Peter grins. Breakfast for three. In an abandoned workshop, in a city that is not his own. What a strange life indeed.

He takes his first spoonful of soup – and his eyes widen. After endless hours of hunger and stress, warm, fragrant food feels like a miracle.

“Okay, this is amazing,” he admits. Levi responds with a cheerful flutter.

Liam takes a cautious bite of curry, his serious expression melting into bright curiosity. He immediately reaches for the rice, clearly famished.

They eat in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft scrape of plastic against containers. Peter watches as Liam’s shoulders gradually relax, his eyes softening with something that looks very much like trust. All the while, Peter’s spider-sense purrs quietly in the background, like a cat curled up in a sunbeam.

When the last grain of rice disappears – Peter still far from full, though he knows better than to complain; Parker has learned to prioritize long ago – he pushes his empty container aside and leans back in his chair, studying Liam.

“Alright,” he begins, keeping his tone light. “Let’s get this straight. I’ve figured out this isn’t my New York. You can just nod or shake your head. Are we still on Earth?”

Liam nods quickly, frowning slightly as if confused by Peter’s question.

“Good. Are we in America?”

Another nod – but slower this time, hesitant.

“Do you know the name of the city we’re in?”

Liam just keeps staring, brow furrowed.

“New York, maybe?” Peter offers with a half-smile.

Instead of relief, Liam’s reaction deepens Peter’s unease.

“Dresher,” the boy says quietly, eyes clouded with silent confusion.

Peter blinks slowly, staring blankly at the child. Liam frowns, opens his mouth, then freezes – clearly searching for words.

“New Jersey?” the boy ventures in a near-whisper, now thoroughly lost by Peter’s reaction.

That snaps Peter back to reality – though the world around him feels increasingly unreal.

“New Jersey,” he deadpans. “I feel like I should make a joke here, but I’ll spare us both out of respect. Wait… but Gotham…?”

He perks up suddenly – Gotham is an old name for New York, isn’t it? He might not have been a history buff, but MJ’s teasing and Aunt May’s hopes for him to graduate valedictorian have kept him from slacking off completely.

“Gotham?” Liam echoes, as if trying to decide whether Peter is joking. “That’s… a city. Nearby. That’s where Batman is.”

Peter blinks.

“Who?”

“Batman.”

“…Bat-who?”

Liam looks at him as though, for the first time, Peter is the one who doesn’t understand anything.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Peter frowns. “Is he… a person? A group? An organization? Like… Batmen, plural?”

“A person,” Liam says. “In a black suit. With a cape. He has a car. And a motorcycle. He… helps. Sometimes. But I’ve never seen him.”

“How does he help?”

“Stops bad people. Saves people.”

Peter drags a hand down his face.

“Alright. Let’s say there’s this… guy in black with a cape. Sounds almost familiar, but not quite. Why’s he in Gotham and not here?”

“Dresher’s small. Quiet. Nobody comes here. Not even bad people.”

“Well, that’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one,” Peter chuckles. “‘Welcome to Dresher: even villains ignore us.’”

He falls silent when Liam doesn’t smile. After a beat, he asks carefully, “And New York? Is it… close?”

“Across the river,” Liam nods, then frowns deeper. “I’ve never been there.”

“Right. New York,” Peter sighs, muttering under his breath. “So we’re in a tiny town in New Jersey, next to Gotham, where some cape-wearing guy named Batman lives – whom I’ve never heard of.”

Liam gives him that same strange look again – as if Peter has just said something profoundly foolish – and offers no reply, leaving Peter squirming awkwardly in his seat.

Oddly, his questions dry up with a blink of an eye even though he was just thinking of the next topic to cover. That’s quite unusual. He rarely forgets anything – thanks to his super-duper memory. But now, the names of streets in Queens, his chemistry teacher’s name, even what day of the week it is – all of it slips through his fingers like smoke.

He hasn’t lost his memory. He’s lost his context.

His hands clench into fists. His breath grows shallow, as if his lungs have forgotten how to expand. He tries to inhale deeply – but the air lodges in his throat like a stone.

He looks at Liam. The boy waits silently, watching him with those wide blue eyes.

Peter can’t remember the name of his street. Can’t recall his teacher. Can’t tell if it’s Tuesday or Wednesday.

His fingers begin to tremble. He grips the edge of the table, but the wood feels too solid, too real–as if it shouldn’t exist. The wall behind him presses too close. The window seems impossibly far. The room itself seems to inhale–and forget to exhale.

Liam stands. Takes a step forward.

“Peter…” he starts quietly.

But Peter doesn’t hear him.

The wind outside becomes a hum. The hum swells into noise. The noise presses inward, heavy against his chest, his temples, his eyes. His pulse roars in his ears – too loud, too fast.

He tries to stand – but his legs betray him. He slides off the chair like a marionette with cut strings, collapsing to the floor. His back hits the corner of the wall. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, as if trying to hold himself together.

Liam stands nearby. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t speak. Just watches – first with confusion, then with fear.

Levi, who has been drifting quietly near the table, drops instantly. The Cloak unfurls in midair like a living net and settles softly beside them, as if ready to absorb their weight, their fear, their warmth.

Peter stays curled, breathing through his mouth as though his nose no longer works. His fingers dig into his pants, knuckles whitening. Fabric tears under his nails, leaving jagged little holes.

One minute passes. Then two. Three.

Slowly, his breathing steadies. His pulse calms. The pressure in his chest recedes, leaving only dull exhaustion and a faint dizziness.

He lifts his head.

Liam is still there. No judgment in his eyes. No irritation. Just worry – and fear, not for himself, but for Peter.

Peter nods. Slowly. Uncertainly.

Levi rises gently, wrapping around them both like a blanket. Warmth returns. With it comes silence.

“I don’t think I’m from here,” Peter rasps at last. “I mean – I’m sure I’m not. I’m no geography expert, but there’s no Dresher or Gotham in New Jersey. Just a burger joint in Manhattan.”

Liam slides down beside him, inching closer without a word. Peter instinctively loops an arm around his shoulders. The boy remains tense, as if ready to bolt at any second. Peter doesn’t blame him. Honestly, he’s surprised Liam trusts him this much already.

After so much fear and pain, even a sliver of hope can feel like salvation.

Not that Peter sees himself as either hope or savior – but if Liam believes he is, then Peter has no choice but to live up to it.

“And I think my ‘not from here’… is farther than anyone could guess.”

“Another planet?” Liam whispers.

Peter snorts, shaking his head. “No. But probably not even from this reality. Or… well…”

He frowns, searching for the right words.

“Ever heard of Thanos? The Snap? Did that happen here?”

Liam shakes his head.

“Captain America? During World War II?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they teach it in school. Haven’t been there,” he mumbles.

“You will,” Peter says firmly, squeezing Liam’s shoulder briefly before loosening his grip. “I promise. You totally will.”

He lets his mind wander the bigger picture.

Realities within a single universe could theoretically be infinite – or limited. They are defined by key differences, but also by essential similarities that tie them to the same cosmic whole.

At least, that is Peter’s understanding of the multiverse.

And if the fundamental similarities between his world and this one are truly absent, then this isn’t just a shift between realities – it is a leap between universes. Maybe that means Strange’s unfinished spell won’t unravel this place. If Peter Parker doesn’t exist here, perhaps this world is safe. Maybe his mere presence won’t tear reality apart.

…At least, not until the sky starts cracking just from him breathing.

He smirks at his own dark humor, then returns to the real reality – ha-ha – and looks down at Liam.

“One more confession,” he says, his voice softer now, almost playful but edged with gravity. “Where I’m from… we had magic. Artifacts. Superhumans. And Levi…” He places a hand on the Cloak, which immediately coils gently around his wrist. “He’s my friend – I told you that. And he’s a magical artifact. A very valuable one. A very… noticeable one. So you cannot tell anyone about him. Anyone. Got it?”

Liam nods eyes wide – but not with fear. With understanding. He nods again, quickly.

“Levi,” Peter says, turning to the Cloak, which instantly pivots toward him as if listening. “If you go outside with me or Liam – no tricks. No flying. No dramatic billowing in the wind. I can’t risk losing you.”

The Cloak says nothing, of course. But after a moment, one edge folds into something vaguely resembling a thumbs-up – clumsy, accompanied by a soft rustle.

Peter smiles, running his fingers over the fabric in response, pressing his palm against it for a heartbeat – as if to confirm this is real. That he isn’t dreaming. That this isn’t another nightmare where everything crumbles the moment he reaches for it.

He looks at Liam. The boy still sits on the floor beside him, knees drawn up, face pale but no longer frightened – just tired.

Without a word, Peter stands, turns to Liam, and lifts him effortlessly – like he weighs no more than a stuffed toy. Liam automatically wraps his arms around Peter’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder.

“Come on,” Peter murmurs, more to himself than to the boy. “There are the bags left. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He steps out of the office, treading carefully over the creaky floorboards. Levi follows, floating just behind them.

In the next room – the one with the two old computers and the mountain of paper clutter – three backpacks lie neatly on the floor. Not tossed down in haste, but placed with deliberate care.

Peter sets Liam down but doesn’t let go right away, holding his shoulders until the boy finds his balance. Only then does he step back and approach the first pack.

Inside – everything needed to survive in the shadows – dark, unmarked clothing, two plain suits without logos. Also tucked inside are two leather-bound notebooks, several empty vials, maps of the world and the United States.

And three newspapers.

The Daily Planet, dated August 2. The Central City Citizen from February. And The Gotham Herald – the same one Peter glimpsed at the newsstand – dated August 17, 2015.

Peter’s finger traces the date slowly. In his world, it is 2023. Was. Is? He vanished yesterday. Here, it is eight years in the past.

He says nothing aloud. Just folds the papers back and sets them aside for later, then reaches for the second backpack.

This one holds everything for a child: warm sweaters, pants with suspenders, patterned socks. And at the very bottom – a plush spider with worn legs

Liam spots it first. His breath hitches, and he reaches for it as if he can’t believe it is meant for him.

Peter stays silent, watching as the boy clutches the toy to his chest like a piece of something long lost.

The third backpack lies slightly apart. No patches. Just a blank tag, as if someone forgot to label it.

Peter opens it, not really expecting anything.

There lie clothes. Tailored trousers, plaid shirts, simple sweaters. Sized for a tall, slender teenager – definitely not for him. Beneath them – black-lensed glasses, law textbooks, a sleek but vintage-looking music player with physical buttons and wired headphones – the kind Peter has only seen in retro tech museums. And a small box: a gift set of herbal tea labeled “For Mental Clarity.”

Peter falls silent.

His spider-sense – quiet and content just minutes ago – shifts tone. Not alarmed. Not warning. But insistent, as if trying to draw his attention to something vital.

A low hum begins in his skull. At first just background noise, then a vibration in his temples, then a grating buzz at the edge of hearing – like rusted chains dragged across tile, or fingernails scraping glass.

He winces, clutching his temple.

Then comes the pull.

Not metaphorical. Physical. As if an invisible cord has been tied to his chest and someone on the other end yanks – hard, urgent, almost painful.

His ears ring. His nose itches with the ghost of burnt wiring or old medicine. His eyes burn faintly. Heat surges through his veins, as if his blood has turned molten.

He doesn’t realize he is speaking. Fragments of his own voice float through his memory like echoes:

“Stay here… Don’t go anywhere… Levi, stay with him… Be careful…”

The words come automatically – his body remembering to care even as his mind slips away.

He moves to the window. The boards nailed over it shatter under his fingers – he doesn’t even notice.

Everything narrows to a single path, lit by an inner light only he can see.

He leaps.

Dresher blurs past – gray, empty, bleached by rain. Streets that seem inhabited only by Liam, Levi and himself give way to blocks where people occasionally flicker past – shadows in windows, hurried figures avoiding eye contact.

The world looks filtered through a dull monochrome lens. Yet the wind feels colder. The sunlight, piercing through dark clouds, burns brighter.

A five-story building swallows him – an entrance worn down, paint peeling, glass missing from the door. The stairs are cold, slick with damp. He reaches the fourth floor in under a minute – not because he rushes, but because slowing down is impossible.

He stops beside a door. Leans his back against the wall as if his body has finally granted itself permission to pause.

Then it hits him.

Not fear. Not panic.

Grief.

Deep, all-consuming, nearly physical – as if someone has ripped every warm, bright, living thing from this place, leaving only a hollow that remembers what it has lost.

He doesn’t know who is behind the door. But he feels their pain as clearly as his own pulse.

He stands there, eyes closed, breathing heavy but even.

His hand rises toward the doorbell – and halts a centimeter away. Not from fear.

From something deeper.

Suddenly, Karen’s voice crackles from the web-shooters on his wrists–deafening, sharp, as if blasted from a speaker pressed against his ear. Or maybe it is just his mind screaming at itself.

“Peter, risk of unconsciousness is high. Pulse exceeds safe thresholds. Immediate–”

He doesn’t hear the rest. Doesn’t get to respond.

The world goes dark.

The heat vanishes from his limbs. His body turns to ice – foreign, leaden.

He falls. Quietly. Softly. Onto the grimy floor of the stairwell, among cigarette butts, dust, and peeling paint.