Chapter Text
Peter probably would have noticed sooner, was it not for the - uh, circumstances of that very first day, when suddenly three distinct Peter Parkers walked the world's streets all at once.
He could say that he'd been… distracted. To not have immediately seen him . But distraction did not precisely describe the utter chaos of the hours that followed the materialization of two brand new Peters.
From that day, he remembers only flashes. It's odd, not quite remembering such a vital part of one's existence. He did read somewhere in a research magazine that amnesia is a form of coping mechanism in traumatic circumstances; and it might even be the case - but Peter doesn't dwell on these things.
In hindsight, it's for the best that he doesn't remember, afterall. He rather not have full access to every excruciating moment of the day when he'd lost, well - everything .
It was not just Aunt May, who died in his arms with tears in her eyes and a solacing smile on her lips - as if Peter was the one in need of solace, as if her death wasn't about to irreversibly shatter his life to bits. It was also every other person he ever knew. Colleagues, friends, his girlfriend. It was the day he'd lost Ned and MJ, and although their loss wasn't quite the same as Aunt May's - lacking the irreversibility of death - it shattered his life all the same.
May Parker had died. Peter was distracted. Overtaken by something unrelenting and rageful, drenched in a darkness that he knew would accompany him to the last of his days. A darkness that would be eventually muffled in the fading thread of time, perhaps, but it would be ever available on its full extent was he only to reach.
That day, it engulfed Peter entirely, stretching firing rage to the farthest corners of his being until he was blinded by it. He remembers being on the rooftop - his rooftop - when Ned and MJ came to him.
White hot anger boils in his gut at the sight of them - why are they here ? H e doesn’t want them here, he wants to be alone! Only him. Or preferably, him and one certain Green Goblin.
He should ditch them, simply swing off somewhere else; anywhere else - he doesn't care. But their presence sheds a timid light on his wrath and he hesitates. MJ delicately wraps her arms around him, and as he suddenly inhales , he realizes he had been holding his breath all along.
Something inside him fractures and he just lets go, all of it - and he cries, he ugly cries, like a child would; naïve, as if he doesn't understand where it all comes from, it is just there , and it is all there is. Peter isn't one to masochistic tendencies, but he has to allow himself to stretch that moment just a little further, because he knows, deep down, that after this, and after what he's about to do, he will be a child no longer, nor can he ever go back. And so he crumbles and sobs, and lets the tears freely stream down his cheeks and into MJ's sleeve, where she holds his face close to her chest.
"I'm sorry." MJ whispers into his ear, earnest and helpless, because what else could she possibly say?
Yet, Peter can't find it in himself to answer. It crosses his mind to soothe her, lie and tell her it’s okay, he’ll be okay - but the thought vanishes as fast as it had risen. As much as it hurts him to see her in pain for his sake, he can't hide there forever, in the soft oblivion of his friends’ warm embrace. In truth, he doesn't want to.
MJ's touch is soothing and Ned's support is warming, both surprisingly welcome, but it is all shallow and distant, like a polite nod towards an acquainted someone. Peter loves them, he knows that he does, but his friends can't quite reach the darkness rotting his heart, and he finds himself leaning into their embrace only to keep his vengeful intentions from showing through. They wouldn't understand.
He needs to get off the rooftop - find Osborn - and he's about to, when a warning prickles in his awareness and his hairs stand on end in a much too familiar way.
There is something - someone - else with them.
"Peter, there's… There's some people here." MJ sniffles quietly, as if any rattling sound could scare him off.
"What?" He hears his own cracked voice and blinks at her. He turns around, towards where all his senses scream for him to look at.
And he immediately stands up.
The world might have crumbled down to pieces, but Ned and MJ are still standing, and he has to protect them no matter what. He braces himself, preparing for imminent combat, and then he sees them.
Somewhere deep down, Peter knew this would happen. All these multiversal villains talking about their near-death experiences with a Peter Parker that was certainly not him. Sooner or later, they would have to show their faces.
"Hey!" Peter yells, one hand raising in warning as both Spider-men jump down the tower. "Hey, wait!" He urges them to keep their distance. For all he knows, these guys are killers. Just like Peter himself is about to become, but that isn't the point at this specific moment.
Peter’s eyes dart frantically from one Spiderman to another, trying to access the threat, but they have their hands raised in a peace offering, and aren't even wearing masks.
"Sorry… " The one who seems to be older starts, crouching down from a distance. "About May."
Peter swallows down the vile wave of anger that surges at the sound of her name, coming from the mouth of a complete stranger.
"Yeah. Sorry…" The other one intervenes before Peter can react, his face half hidden in the shadows. "I've got some understanding of what it is you're -"
"No!" Peter cuts him off. "No. Please don't tell me that you know what I'm going through." He doesn't. He could never.
"Okay." The man concedes with an annoyingly understanding frown. He looks tall - taller than Peter himself, and somehow genuinely upset, which just makes Peter feel like punching him in the face.
"She's gone." Peter states, unsure if for himself or for the others around him. "And it's all my fault. She died for nothing."
"Peter -" the older one tries again. Why are they even doing this?
"Please, don't." Peter exhales. "You don't belong here." Looking at the tall one, he adds, "Neither of you. So I'm sending you home."
He watches with clenched teeth as Tall Peter's head ruefully falls down. That is typical Peter Parker - so much feeling sorry, but only being able to further fuck things up.
Enough with this bullshit . Peter reaches for Dr. Strange's cube - he has other activities in mind for the moment, and talking to more pathetic Peters feels like a gigantic waste of time. Besides, one Peter Parker already creates enough of a mess as it is. The world certainly doesn't need two more.
"All those other guys - they're from your worlds, right?" Peter asks. They brought them here.
The tall Peter nods quietly, eyes already glazed and red rimmed just like Peter’s probably are. It twists something in his gut, and he almost feels sorry, but he pushes the feeling away.
"So you deal with them." Peter grits out sternly. "If they die… If you kill them - that's on you. It's not my problem, I don't care anymore. I'm done."
It was never his problem in the first place, which is the reason why he is to blame for May's death. He just had to try and save everyone. But Peter won’t dwell on any of these things anymore - he knows what to do. The only thing left to do.
However, if Peter has any idea who he's talking to, he knows that they would never let it go that easily. Not when his intentions are so blatantly written across his face. "I'm really sorry that I dragged you into this." he adds earnestly. "But you have to go home now. Good luck."
He sounds final. He knows that because he truly means it. Even so, MJ pulls the cube closer to herself when Peter tries to take it from her. He's never seen MJ, the most headstrong girl in the world, with eyes so round and pleading. Please, don’t, says her silent request.
"My uncle Ben was killed." Older Peter’s voice cuts through the silence, and Peter snaps his head towards him - his big blue eyes glistened in the low light. "It was my fault."
Oh. So this isn't a first.
"I lost…" Tall Peter strangles out, the long column of his neck bobbing as he visibly swallows, taking a painfully long moment to choose his words. "I lost Gwen. My, uh… She was my MJ."
Another moment of stunned silence follows, and Peter suppresses the instinct to search for MJ's hand and hold it.
"I couldn't save her." Tall Peter continues, and even though it is a mere whisper, his tone is silver clear - he is stating a fact, something he can never fix, and now it is something Peter understands way too well. "I'm never going to be able to forgive myself for that."
As much as every fiber in Peter’s body urges him to just be done with this conversation, he can't fully suppress his curiosity - how, exactly, are these Peters different from him? What went sideways in their lives?
He tries not to imagine what it would have felt like, if it was MJ under the wreckage of Happy's building just a few hours ago. But the picture of her lifeless body in his arms - caramel skin turned gray and warm eyes turned glazed - is immediately imprinted on his retin and he curses his much too fertile imagination.
"But I carried on." Tall Peter’s voice becomes thicker and wobblier with emotion. "Tried to keep going, tried to keep being that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Because I knew that's what she would have wanted, but at some point, I just… Stopped pulling my punches." He averts his gaze to the concrete floor, face contorted into a tortured frown. "I got rageful -" he confesses, "I got bitter. I just don't want you -” he raises his eyes to Peter, “To end up like me."
Peter can't understand why that man even cares about him that way, but it stirs something in his chest. Maybe, in another life, they could've been friends. But the tinge of curiosity from before is gone - as heartfelt and tragic as all of this is, he reminds himself that he doesn't care. Not anymore.
Still, the blue eyed guy is talking again. "The night that Ben died, I hunted down the man who I thought did it."
Peter looks at him, and, well, perhaps there hadn't been much to be curious about in the first place. These other Peters are not so different after all - hunting down Osborn is exactly what Peter is planning on doing.
"I wanted him dead." The older one continues, and Peter clenches his teeth, unable to hold his gaze. "I got what I wanted. It didn't make it better."
Reason tells Peter that he should feel ashamed, should listen to what they're saying and just go home. But right now there is no reason; no rational line of thought, only the screaming need to soothe the darkness.
"It took me a long time to learn to get through that darkness." The older one adds, and Peter's eyes instinctively snap up to assess both men again. Can they read Peter’s thoughts?
Tall Peter’s stare is still focused on the tiles on the floor, his lip tucked up into a knowing, bittersweet smile, but his gaze rises to meet Peter's as if he could feel him looking.
Peter can't sustain the gaze.
"I wanna kill him." He admits, swallowing, but not holding back. He is not ashamed. It is what it is . "I wanna tear him apart." There’s no telling if the words are spilling out of his mouth or if they're just really loud thoughts, but his fingers tremble by his sides as the air becomes thicker and harder to breathe and his eyes burn through tears that threaten to leak.
The ridiculous breakdown is probably more evident than Peter first believed it to be, as he can feel MJ lurking closer to comfort him. Still, that also doesn't matter. It's out there now, she heard him, Ned heard him, his true self is on full display for all of them to see; so what is there to stop him? "I can still hear her voice in my head - " he says, voice failing as the words slip through the lump in his throat, "Even after she was hurt, she said to me that we did the right thing. She said to me, that with great power -"
"Comes great responsibility." Older Peter completes, eyes widening in recognition. He turns to Tall Peter, a smile full of emotion softening his expression. Tall Peter nods in confirmation, still looking absolutely wrecked like this is all somehow about him as well.
"Wait, what?” Peter asks, narrowing his eyes. “How do you know that?"
"Uncle Ben said it." Tall Peter claims, pride written across his teary smile.
"The day he died." The older one agrees. "Maybe she didn't die for nothing, Peter."
Peter feels nauseous. He can see Ned and MJ tensing, their eyes bright in expectation. The other Peters are also on their toes, all of them just waiting for Peter to make the right decision.
He should’ve known that this was a trap. It’s not that he didn't listen to what his other versions had to say, and it is also not that it didn't resonate with him. But Peter has blood clouding his thoughts. He has the image of a single tear streaming down May's pale cheek imprinted on his mind. He has fire and rage and he has darkness, and right now it's all so loud that nothing else matters.
Ok, so maybe he and these other Peters have had similar experiences. Maybe they are better Spider-men than him; maybe they took the right call when their time came. It doesn't matter. May is dead. Norman Osborn needs to die.
And so, Peter is trapped, because for once, he certainly cannot outmatch two more experienced versions of himself; and second, he must handle Ned and MJ carefully.
So he’ll just play along. And when the time comes, he'll strike .
–
Later, in the laboratory, the turmoil in Peter's mind dimmed into a milder, latent thunderstorm, as if he’s somehow found temporary shelter - the rage still rumbles like distant thunder, but it is as if Peter watches it from afar, other than being in the eye of the storm. It enables him to focus on sciencing his way out of that mess; at least for the time being.
Peter is gathered with the rest of the group, all eager eyes turned to him, waiting on his instructions on how to proceed - which feels like a nice change in atmosphere, considering how wary they’d all been around him before. He takes a quick look at his companions - in the bright lab lights, he can now clearly see how abysmally different all of his multiversal versions are.
The older one doesn't even look like a Spider-man, he's wearing ordinary clothes and doesn't seem particularly athletic in his forties. Something about his blue eyes, though, is oddly unsettling - when he looks at Peter, it feels as if his sight can pierce past all of his layers like he's made of glass. He feels exposed, as if the man knows him better than he lets on.
The tall one is wearing a suit that is clearly Spider-man's, but certainly not something Peter ever wore. He's older than Peter, but still a young adult, and the way his hair curls nicely around his face has Peter holding back the reflex to fix his own stray hairs with his fingers. Their eyes meet awkwardly for a second and Peter clears his throat, reaching for the bag that contains all the antidotes he'd synthesized back in Happy's place.
"Okay!" He exclaims, emptying the bag on the table and presenting the scattered devices to his companions. "Connors, Marko, Dillon…" he names each device, organizing them on the table, and quietly sets Osborn's aside. Tall Peter lurks closer and bends over the table, right next to Peter, his eyes focused on the antidotes and listening intently. "Look, I think I can repair the devices for Dillon and Marko." Peter informs. "But the others, I don't-"
"Oh, I got Connors." Tall Peter intervenes, grabbing Connor's device and confidently standing up straight as Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “I already cured him once, so no big deal." He explains, shrugging.
He really is tall - almost three inches taller than Peter himself. It's intimidating, but also… somehow, annoying. Peter spent months trying to get over the fact that he is shorter than MJ. Why does this Peter get to win the genetic lottery?
"What? It's no big deal." Tall Peter repeats after a moment of silence, exasperatedly raising both hands in the air; and Peter realizes he’s been staring.
“Great.” Blue-eyed Peter answers, to Peter’s unadvertised relief.
“Yeah -” Peter stutters, rushing to agree. “That’s great.”
Tall Peter takes an athletic turn around, his lip twisted down in mild annoyance, and sets himself to sort through bottles of chemicals on a nearby shelf.
"I think I can make an antiserum for Dr. Osborn.” Blue-eyed Peter says, carefully eyeing the device Peter had set aside. “Been thinking about it a long time. Gotta cure all of them, right?"
“Right”, Peter murmurs, trying not to harden his expression too much.
"That's what we do." The man states - a gentle reminder - as he proceeds to the farthest worktable, taking Osborn’s device with him.
Peter exhales, overwhelmed for a second. He catches sight of MJ, who’s smirking at him.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s… Three yous.” she marvels.
Peter chuckles, which he didn't think his facial muscles were still able to do after the day he’d had. He squeezes her hand in gratitude, reveling in the heat of her skin for a moment, before leaving to put the gears in his brain to work along with the other Peters.
–
He ends up working on the same counter as the tall Peter, since it’s the only one equipped with Bunsen Burners, which he needs. As he waits for his compost to reach the mild boil required to proceed with the next step in his antidote, Peter leans back on his chair and lets his eyes wander around the room.
Now that the adrenaline levels in his veins have drastically lowered, he begins to feel the results of the fight with Osborn. His entire body feels sore, but a few particularly stinging spots suggest that he has some broken ribs and probably a sprained ankle. His back aches like he’s been hit by a bullet train - he knows the comparison to be accurate from experience. It’s inherently irksome as he shifts painfully on his seat, unable to find a comfortable position. He’s about to try and stand when his eyes fall upon the man across from him on the table.
Tall Peter is wearing a lab coat over his dark-red and blue suit, along with huge protective goggles, though they’re covering his forehead rather than his eyes, as if he’s just so focused on what he’s doing that he forgot to put them back down. Self consciousness washes over Peter at his own lack of personal protection equipment, and he lowers his gaze to the counter, where Tall Peter’s hands write down a particularly complex-looking equation.
Peter gulps at the sight, the strangest warmth filling his belly. Tall Peter’s hands are… Nice?
If that's even something to notice about people. As foreign as if feels, Peter watches, dazzled, as he lays down the pen and deftly slips on blue latex gloves, flexing his long fingers before wrapping them around a pipette. Yes, okay - so Tall Peter has nice hands.
For a few intrigued seconds, the clumsier, weirder one of both newly arrived Spider-men has Peter’s entire attention. Although the messy brown curls and unnecessarily long limbs had their charm, it is his hands that have Peter gaping and almost drooling like an idiot, even with MJ standing just across the lab (but only momentarily. To be clear.)
It’s like those fingers were made for that, handling pipettes and writing down calculations and filling bechers. They work with the kind of mesmerizing deftness that Peter can only dream of ever achieving.
“Peter?” MJ’s voice startles him from behind.
“Yeah?” Both Peter and Tall Peter ask simultaneously, lifting their heads to look at her.
Peter hopes his warm cheeks aren’t an indication that he’s blushing. For some reason, he feels as if he’s been caught doing something naughty.
“Uh - Peter Parker, I mean.” She huffs a laugh, her cheeks tinted a peachy pink.
“That's also still me, lady.” Tall Peter flashes a crooked smile. MJ blushes even further.
The heat crawling up Peter’s throat was probably just annoyance, afterall. “I think she meant me.”, he grunts through gritted teeth.
MJ shifts her weight from one foot to the other, tugging a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re so different from my Peter that I forget you’re both the same person.”, she justifies, her gaze darting from one boy to the other.
“That’s because we’re not the same person.” Peter mutters, crossing his arms. “Not exactly, anyways.”
“Oh, for sure - “ Tall Peter snorts. “I’m much better looking.”
The audacity?!
“You-re -” Peter gapes, out of words.
“I’m joking, man.” Tall Peter grins. “But we should choose less confusing names for ourselves. Otherwise, this is going to be a problem.”
"He's right!” Blue-eyed Peter yells from across the lab.
Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. “What do you suggest?” .
“Uh, well, do you have a middle name or something?” Tall Peter tries, tilting his head.
“I don’t.” Peter grunts.
“You should be just Peter, then. It’s your universe, it’s only fair that you get the original name.” Tall Peter offers, lowering his gaze to his burner on the counter. “My middle name is Benjamin. You guys could call me Ben if you like. It's gonna be a bit weird, but I’ll live.”
“Hey!” Blue-eyed Peter laughs. “But my middle name is Benjamin, too.”
“Oh.” Tall Peter frowns. “In that case -”
“I’ll be Parker.” The man interrupts. “The kid gets the first name, you get the second and I get the last. Sounds fair?”
“I think that works.” MJ declares, squeezing Peter’s shoulder in reassurance.
“Yeah, whatever.” Peter gives in with a huff.
Tall Peter’s - Ben’s - lips burst into a big, toothy smile. “It’s settled, then.”
Peter stirs the mixture in his Becher, wondering why on earth was this taking so long.
“I’ll leave you boys to it, then.” MJ says, pressing a gentle kiss to Peter’s temple.
“Did you need something?” Peter asks her, leaning into the curve of her neck and reveling in her scent there.
“No, just checking on you.” She murmurs, her lips grazing his skin. Her soft hair brushes on his cheek before she turns and leaves, and part of the tension on Peter’s shoulders eases.
When Peter turns to the worktable, Ben’s joyous face from before is gone, replaced by a countenance that oddly resembles a sad kind of longing, if Peter dares to conjecture. He frowns for a moment, confused, and then inhales a sudden little pang of air when it dawns on him that he’s been freely displaying affections with his girlfriend in front of a man whose lover had died. His mouth moves before he can stop it, and he wonders out loud: “You have someone back in your universe?”
It is probably not the most appropriate topic to bring up, not at this moment, not with this particular version of Peter. A tinge of guilt scrapes at the back of his mind as he notices Ben’s movements freeze at the question, only for a fraction of a second, but enough for Peter to notice and enough to denounce his unease.
“No.” Ben huffs unassumingly, fully back in control as he displays his easy-going stance from before, which now seems a delicately built outer shell. He shakes his head as if the idea is absurd, his eyes meeting Peter’s as he continues; “I’ve got no time for, ah - Peter Parker stuff, you know?”
Peter hates that he’s so annoyed by this guy. Most of Ben’s demeanor seems a distraction built to be entertaining enough to hide the ugly scars of a man who’s not only seen the dark side of life, but seems to actively live in it. It reeks of self-destructing grief, so it is most surprising that his eyes still glint so earnestly and vulnerable when they meet Peter’s. It fills Peter’s stomach with unwelcome, misplaced butterflies.
“I - uh, sorry for asking.” Peter mutters, blood roaring in his ears.
“Don’t worry.” Ben shrugs off, and there is his crooked smile once again. Peter’s heart leaps in his chest as he realizes the honesty in his smile for what it indicates: if Peter’s seen under Ben’s facade, peeked at his underlying darkness, it was no accidental deed. Ben let him through. “Let’s just focus on curing some ass, right?”
Peter laughs tonelessly. “Yeah,” he says, ignoring the flutter of his heart and avoiding to stare at Ben’s now bare hands. “Let’s do that.”