Chapter Text
Something strange was going on, Peter thought.
It was an average night as far as average nights went for him. A classic Spider-Man and Dr. Strange team-up. They were staked out by an old warehouse close to the shipping docs, watching, waiting to make their move. Peter was sitting down, propped against his backpack as a sort of makeshift pillow. Tossing a granola bar back and forth between his palms. Daredevil had thrown it his way when they’d crossed paths on his swing over. People did that a lot these days, throw random food at him like he was a stray cat or something.
He was half-mindedly paying attention to Dr. Strange. Watching while he did whatever it was he was doing, based on the subtle glow, it involved magic, or more likely, probably sensing magic. Whenever Peter tried to make sense of it and rationalize it through science and facts, he never could. It's best not to try. Magic was weird like that.
The freaky cult they were after had called some sort of gathering; their wacko leader was finally gonna show. Apparently, they were trying to summon some ancient entity through dark magic or something, which was why Strange was involved. They also didn’t have a problem hurting innocent civilians to get what they wanted, which was why Spider-Man was involved. All in all, a pretty average, mundane day, no need for concern- well, actually, there was one particular reason. That sharp buzz in the back of his head. His senses were flagging things as a little more deadly than they should be.
Something's coming, something big's going to happen, something dangerous; they seemed to be whispering.
He chalked it up to magic. Magic always worried him, set his senses on edge, he told himself. If only to calm his nerves.
But had they ever failed you before? The logical part of his brain asked.
No, no, they hadn’t.
He couldn’t help but think back to a few months ago, one very odd, very particular conversation that seemed to put everything in motion...
-Three and a half months ago-
Dr. Strange was staring, not an odd occurrence. He stared off into who knows what a lot. Seeing or hearing things meant only for him. But usually it wasn't pointedly and directly at him, like Spider-Man was some sort of complicated little puzzle in need of solving. He'd popped up out of nowhere, too, looking like a man on a mission, while he rubbed absently at his chin.
They were on the rooftop of some painfully average apartment complex. Peter had just finished up his first patrol. It was a sunny autumn day, the kind of autumn day where the weather didn't quite get the memo that it was supposed to start cooling down now. People would be starting school soon, if they hadn't already.Not that long ago, Ben and May would have insisted on back-to-school shopping. The three of them would have ended the day with some greasy pizza and milkshakes at the hole-in-the-wall place right down the street from their apartment, like they always did on days like that.
The sun was starting to set, casting a golden glow. It was almost time for him to move on to the night, where his efforts would be spent on more grim, intense tasks. But, for now, he was sprawled out on an air conditioning unit, his mask rolled up just past his nose, enjoying a juice box some elderly lady had tossed his way as thanks for the return of her purse. While he tried not to think about how she and May had those same kind eyes, all crinkly at the edges when they smiled. It was cherry flavored. Yum. Peter took a sip and found the pictures he was clicking through on his phone were blurry for some reason.
Strange tilted his head, and, well, strangely, he had yet to say a single word.
It wasn't that it was unusual for Dr. Strange to seek him out; they worked together a decent amount these days. Partnering up when things were just a little too mystical for Spider-Man alone, if the threat was a bit too out of Strange's comfort zone to handle himself. They complemented each other well; his spider sense provided nice insights into the unpredictable nature involved with most magic issues.
And bonus, Strange would occasionally let him crash on his couch, literally. But something about this visit told him it probably served a much higher purpose than their usual impromptu team-ups.
Peter took a big slurp, then bit the bullet. “Whatever it is you wanna say, you should just say it.”
Strange froze; his hand fell from his chin, and he seemed to be deeply contemplating what the right words would be, then slowly, “There is a situation, somewhere...distant.”
Peter's head cocked to the head slightly; he flipped his phone shut and rested it on his lazily crossed legs. “Okay?” Peter prodded slowly.
“A group of people, in need of... assistance.”
“I gotta say, I’m not really following. Isn’t that sort of what we do, what we are doing, help people?”
Strange had a hint of a smile; that was maybe something a little too close to pride. “I suppose you're right; that is what we do.” Then, his face went distant, and he looked older than he should, maybe sad? “This would be more..." he trailed off for a moment his lips pinched into a thin line, "permanent.”
“How very vague of you.”
“I’m sorry.” He said, genuinely, “I wish I could give you more, but-”.
“Yeah, I know.” Peter waved him off. They'd spent enough time together these past few months for him to get the gist of it: timestreams, ‘knowing the future could prevent the future’, and whatnot. Peter wouldn't be getting much info. Knowing Strange, it could be now or twenty years in the future; he would never know until it happened. But he did know one thing for sure: Strange never intervened unless absolutely strictly necessary.
“These people, they need help.” It was more of a statement, but Strange answered him all the same.
“Undoubtedly”
“And they need me, like really need me?”
Strange let out a breath. Not frustrated, just… well, Peter couldn't quite place it. “That's the one linear point in this whole mess that seems certain.”
Peter paused. Things have been safer here in New York recently. A new good-doing vigilante was popping up almost every month. And not to brag, but thanks to his own efforts, the streets were a much safer place. His villains were hopefully permanently locked up; he’d even helped test and develop the new reinforced prison cells.
(It was amazing, all you could do if you didn’t go to school, barely slept, or socialized, and never took off the mask.)
But that wasn’t to say things could change; he knew that better than anyone, all it would take was a single second. “And things would be okay here, I mean, while I’m gone?” Peter asked
Strange paused, then said, “As good as they can be.”
As good as they can be, isn’t that an accurate description of the current state of the world “Alright.”
“Alright?’ Strange asked, his eyebrows shot up. Peter had surprised him, and he felt strangely proud of himself. It’s not easy to surprise someone who can more or less see the future.
“If they need help, I have to help.” Peter said, easy and final.
“Just like that?”
“I gotta tell you, doc, you're really not doing a good job of selling this.”
”I can't even tell you what you're agreeing to. I can't guarantee your return. It could mean leaving everything; it would be demanding, and it will bring you pain. And... and you're so young you shouldn't have to, but can you really handle that?”
Peter didn't know how to say I don't have anyone left to leave behind. That his whole life seemed to be one demanding, lonely task. That he was no stranger to pain. How he knows theoretically 15 is maybe young, but somehow he hasn’t been that young in a really long time. He has to handle things, make his parents, Ben and May, proud, make their lives, their deaths mean something.
So he just shrugged, took another big ol slurp, then said, “They need help; I have to help.”
And that was that.
More or less.
Except for the occasional odd, vague wisdom drop. Those were kind of weird.
******
Ever since that conversation, Strange started hanging around him more, even without the excuse of some overhanging threat to handle. Peter got the impression he was subtly being prepared for something, but what, he had no idea. It was unsettling, and he tried not to think too much about it, things were easier that way.
Plus, it was sort of nice, though, the company, not being alone all the time.
*
“We can’t run away forever.”
“I’m pretty sure if a spider-themed vigilante and a wizard popped up out of nowhere, I would run to”
*
“Things always run deeper than they seem.”
“What a comforting piece of advice you’ve provided me with.”
*
Or that time he dropped his hot dog; it was a real tragedy too, upside down and straight into a puddle.
“Aw, man,” he groaned. The bun instantly soaked up the grey water; it got all soggy on impact and was crumbling apart into an unappetizing, bloated paste. He stared down at it longingly. That was his lunch.
“Sometimes things will feel impossible, but they will get better; we just have to keep fighting forward.”
“It's just a hot dog?” Peter shrugged. I mean, he’s been through way worse; heck, he’s living through worse.
*
“We're never as alone as we think.”
“That's a terrifying thought.”
*
Then something changed. Peter couldn't pinpoint an exact moment, a single linear point where something must have shifted, but he noticed it all the same.
When Strange looked at him now, it was heavier, distraught, maybe a little sadder. A look filled with something close to Regret? Sorrow? Concern? Maybe even somehow all of them at once.
It wasn’t for a couple more weeks until he would find out exactly why...
-Current time-
“I’m sorry, what?” Peter asked.
Strange crossed his arms. “I said he’s here,” he repeated, giving him a look. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Peter said, giving his head a shake. He needs to snap out of it, get his head in the game. “I’m fine,” he repeated half to himself.
Strange opened his mouth, as if wanting to press
Peter sprang up before he could and slipped his backpack back on; they had a job to do after all. “Let’s do this.”
*
They both looked down through an open skylight, if you could even call it that.
Below, a dimly lit room filled with candles, a weirdly drawn circle, and a bunch of cloaked figures; a few even had some very large swords- wow, they were really sticking to the theme here.
It had a strange smell too, a coppery smell.
They looked at each other.
“Is now a bad time to mention I sort of have a fear of cults?” Peter asked.
The corners of Strange’s mouth tugged up. “I’d say you’re just about the most fearless person I’ve ever met,” he said, then he turned away, did something with his hands, and floated down through the opening.
Peter was left stunned for a second.
What an odd thing to say, he thought.
Why would he say that?
Peter was snapped out of it by the sounds of clashing metal and shouts below. “A little help here, Spider-Man-” Strange called.
Spider-Man jumped down and joined the fight.
*
“There’s a kid here. They have a little kid.” Peter yelled over to Strange; the sounds of the surrounding fight muffled him.
So far, things had been pretty run-of-the-mill. The Cultists weren't exceptionally skilled; I mean, they knew how to fight. But they weren’t skilled enough to be anything more than a little challenge, and it had him thinking maybe his senses were just overreacting earlier.
Then he spotted the cage at the edge of his vision, and that's when everything seemed to go wrong.
*
“You guys are really giving me the creeps,” Peter quipped. Then he jumped into one of them and pushed off their chest into a backflip, which in turn sent them crashing into a pile of crates stacked behind. One of his personal favorites. They let out a miserable groan, which served them right.
It looked like an oversized bird cage. Peter slowly, as gently as he could, made his way over to the little mass cowering inside it.
He was maybe around seven or eight with fuzzy black hair and big brown eyes. He was a little scuffed up, maybe a few bruises, but thankfully, he seemed relatively unharmed, at least physically.
Peter pried off the lock and ripped the door open.“Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you,” he said gently, crouching down to his level
“Y- your sp-Spider-Man, I saw you s-swing by the park.” The kid stuttered out
“Hey, Yeah, I’m Spider-Man. What’s your name?”
“Miles”
“Miles, that’s a nice name,” Peter said, and somehow it felt right; it felt important. He reached his arms out now, hoping to grab him. It wasn’t safe here. He needs to-
Miles crashed into his chest; it rocked him back onto the balls of his feet. “Thank you, Spider-Man,” he whispered, clutching at the suit.
Peter froze for a moment. When was the last time someone had- “Hey, of course, it’s okay,” Peter repeated, wrapping his arms around him cautiously. He stood. “You're safe now, Miles. I promise. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
A sharp jolt at the back of his head- their time was up; a few of the stragglers had grouped together- and right in the center, a tall, lanky man clad in deep red. His covered head shifted to the side, then he pulled a sword from his back, his red cloak flowing, the rest of the cultists trailing behind.
He needed to get Miles somewhere safe. Away from the guy with the sword, away from his creepy followers in black trailing behind. A plan began to form: swing Miles up to the roof, keep him away from the fight- he just needed to make it to the skylight-
One second they were running, and the next he’d slammed to the ground hard. Miles let out a scream.
What happened-
He looked around, but no one was close. Wait? Had he tripped?
Seriously? He never trips, not anymore-
Peter sprang up as fast as he could; the crazy guy was running at them now.
Okay, plan B, he aimed his wrists-
Nothing came out?
What-
His web-shooters were clogged!?
They never clog-
Not since the beginning, when he was still fine-tuning and figuring everything out.
The guy was close now, but they had nowhere left to go-
They were cornered-
Everything was happening so fast and-
How was everything going so wrong?
The guy in red was raising his sword; he was about to strike-
Peter did the only thing he could think of; he turned his back, and he pried Miles away and stuck his arms out, trying to get the screaming kid as far away from the danger as possible.
Fiery burning agony erupted in his chest; he looked down-
That couldn’t be good
The tip of a bloody sword peeking through his suit...
Right where-
Right around where-
Where his heart would be…
If the anatomy books didn’t lie.
He watched the tip of the sword disappear again, back through him.
His suit was red before, but now it was blooming with red.
The only thing keeping him upright was the thought that he couldn't let them get to this kid-
Miles was wailing now. He pulled him close again.
He used his free hand, the one not holding him, to throw a sloppy hit
The guy wasn’t expecting it; he crashed to the ground and didn’t get back up. Maybe he may have used a bit too much strength-
He tried his web shooters again, and someone must be watching out for him because they actually worked now-
He webbed the guy to the ground. He looked up
Three more blurry shapes were coming for them.
Peter sucked in a burning breath and bit back a scream; he must be shaking or something; his body was rattling. He fought through the black spots in his vision-
He shifted Miles for a second and shot a gob of webbing over the pulsing wound to help slow the bleeding. He tried not to look at it while he did it. In his experience, things always felt worse the more you looked at them. And he was already feeling pretty terrible.
Three more people he could do three more; he does impossible things all of the time.
A few sloppy kicks and some one-handed punches left his vision swimming in agony. It was a little tricky balancing Miles, but he managed.
His web shooters were difficult; he couldn’t get his fingers to move- hypovolemic shock, his evil brain supplied. He had to slam his other elbow into it to get anything to come out.
The battle had simmered down; Strange was fighting the last two standing. He should be able to handle them, no problem-
Sirens- he heard sirens. The police were here; they couldn’t help him, but they would help Miles.
“Miles, hey, it’s okay.” Peter wheezed out.
“But you, your-”
“This is nothing, I’ll be fine,” Peter said, even though he didn’t really believe it himself. His own voice sounded as if it came from somewhere impossibly far away, like underwater or from space. “Could you help me? Could you go get the police?” he asked, vaguely pointing towards a door, flashing lights visible through the glass.
Miles bit his lip, then nodded.
“Thanks, Miles,” Peter said, groaning when he bent to set him down, which ended up being more like dropping him; his arms weren’t exactly cooperating-
Miles gave him one last determined look,” You'll be okay,” he comforted, patting his arm, then he turned and ran for the door.
Peter looked down.
Blood, so much blood. He could taste it; it was in his mouth, it was everywhere. Did you even have this much blood? How did he have any left to keep losing? It wasn’t slowing down- not like it should have- maybe it was even getting worse- maybe this was it, maybe he could rest, maybe his family would be waiting for him.
Peter looked up.
Strange was close now. When did he get so close?
“Doctor, I think you're gonna need to put someone else on that assignment,” Peter said slowly. His mouth felt sticky and cottony and like it wasn't really even his to use. The ground was getting closer. “ I may be taking a bit of a forced vacation-”
“No-no-no, Kid,” Strange said. He grabbed him before he could hit the ground, leaning him against his side- when was the last time someone had done that- “We were supposed to have more time, you were supposed to have more time,” he muttered, dragging him well, somewhere; Peter didn't particularly care right now
“Yeah, who knew all it would take was a s-sword? h-honestly, I’m a lit- tle embarrassed,” he forced out between shaky half-gasps. It took a lot of effort; maybe he should be concerned, but he couldn’t really bring himself to be.
“We’re out of time,” Strange said, easing him to the ground.
Peter could have told him that, but it was nice of him to do. They were in an alley now; he didn't really know how or when- he was propped against something cold- or maybe he was just cold? Cold like he'd never been before-
At one point, he must have ripped his mask off, because he was staring up at a dark sky unfiltered through lenses. The stars were actually out, the one time you could actually see the stars, and he couldn’t even enjoy it.
The shaking had stopped. Maybe that was a good sign or something? But everything was floating like a distant echo. He felt numb and cold all over. Something was wrong. He was freezing; his bones felt like ice. Wait, was he supposed to do something?
“Peter,” Strange said. Huh, when was the last time someone called him by his name? Wait, when did-
“Peter,” Strange repeated louder, more desperate. Something about it broke through the thick fog he was stuck in the middle of. Strange grabbed his hand, and huh, he found he couldn't really feel his fingers.
“Sometimes, no matter how hard we fight it, life has a way of putting us right where we belong.”
Oh...
That must be it.
The reason for his subtle shift. The sorrowful glances he’d tossed his way.
He was never meant to survive.
“Remember that, you need to remember that, Peter.”
A distant, fuzzy feeling in his palm, a subtle orange glow breaking through the edge of his vision, then everything went black.
n-o pulse-.”
“I told you Clancy ain't no way. You see that-? No one could survive that. Probably not even the Bat himself.” He felt a light kick to his thigh; his body rocked. “It's too bad to. Look at him, he’s just a kid.”
A sound of agreement, then a long exhale. “Must have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Someone scoffed, and he smelled smoke. “And ain't that how it goes?” It sounded like a statement.
It was quiet then, except for the sounds of distant sirens. Every once in a while, they would shift their weight, gravel crunching beneath their shoes.
Peter found he didn't really care to rouse himself; he would rather just keep floating. It was nice here, nothing to do, nothing to feel; he didn't have to think or move or exist-
Peter's body forced a gasped, shaky, desperate inhale. It was painful; a metallic taste stuck in his mouth. He spluttered and coughed towards the end of it; everything burned, and he was freezing-
Through the painful fog, he distantly heard them shriek, “I ain't touching that, man!” one of them yelled through thundering, fleeing footsteps.
Peter waited, then slowly cracked open his eyes. He groaned; his head was pounding, and it took longer than it should for the fuzzy outlines to turn into- you know, actual things.
He was staring up at a dark sky, with big white stars scattered about. He was lying flat on grimy, cold concrete, a dingy brick alleyway surrounding him. There was the faint smell of damp pollution and wet pennies.
He tried to sit up, but was met with resistance, almost as if something had stuck him to the ground. He turned his neck halfheartedly and looked to the side; ah... that would explain the metallic smell.
Peter slowly rolled to the right, groaning, and peeled himself up; literally- the pool of blood that surrounded him had begun to dry and fuse his suit to the pavement. His chest ached; everything burned. A metallic taste in his mouth. He couldn’t stop coughing, no matter how hard he tried, because it made everything hurt even worse-
Peter eased himself up against the crumbling brick wall.
What happened…?
It took longer than it should have, then it all came crashing back: Dr. Strange, that warehouse, a cult, the kid, he was protecting a kid, and then he, and then-
Peter looked down at his chest and sucked in a breath- half-dried blood, so much blood; it was everywhere, but there in the middle, frayed edges, he used his fingers to stretch the tacky fabric wider; he sucked in another painful breath.
A raised pink line at least two inches long, right over his heart, he supposed his healing did take care of it in the end; Peter gave it a poke- A sharp pain shot through his body like lightning; he bit back a scream. Okay, maybe not all of the way- but where was Strange? He wouldn’t just leave him here, would he?
...
No, he wouldn’t do that, not unless something happened, not unless something went terribly wrong. But what, what could have gone wrong? All those creeps were taken care of- at least he thought they were.
Peter gave the alley another scan, his backpack. He had his backpack. Peter reached for it with one hand and dragged it onto his lap. He went to unzip it with the other hand. Wait- He was already holding something; he loosened his fist, red with big white eyes, his mask. He stuffed it in the bag. Until he figures out what's going on, maybe it would be best for Spider-Man to lie low. He should have a sweatshirt and a change of clothes somewhere in here.
*
Turns out, putting clothes on was absolute misery, a new, slow form of torture he somehow managed. Oh yeah, and the coughing turns out it wasn’t just his body pointlessly tormenting him. It was his lungs forcing him to hack out blood, which was… not pleasant.
Peter staggered towards the mouth of the alleyway, his hand balancing him against the wall. He was at the entrance now; he walked out onto the sidewalk-
Where in the world was he?
Claustrophobic stone buildings towered over him. It could almost be New York. It could maybe be New York. But everything was darker, dirtier; his senses were screaming-
His shoulder collided hard with something, whipping him around in a half circle. It jostled his chest. Peter bit back a scream.
“Watch where you're going,” the affronted man hissed. “ fucking asshole,” he yelled, tightening his coat around himself and quickening up his pace.
This isn't right, something's wrong-
Sirens blared; a cluster of police cars with red and blue flashing lights sped by.
He spun in a circle; gothic architecture towered over him, flickering streetlights, the sidewalks- they were covered in stains.
“I don't think this is New York,” he whispered to himself, barely as loud as a breath.
His eyes caught on a trash can across the street; he could just barely make out a crumpled black-and-white tabloid. It wasn’t much, but it was something; he booked it-
A spike in his sense and he jumped to the side; headlights swerved, their horn rang in his ear. The vehicle got caught in a pothole on its way, splattering him with grey water. But he didn't care. Peter grabbed at the paper desperately, smoothing it out between the edge of the trash can and his palm. The Gotham Gazette, it said. What in the world was The Gotham Gazette!? He scanned it frantically.
Hamilton Hill For Mayor!
The image of some plain-looking politician speaking up on a podium. Camera flashes going off in the background.
“Your Safety Has Always Been My Prime Concern! Under my leadership, no place will be safer or more free of crime than Gotham City” - Hamilton Hill.
He did a double-take at the date, no. That couldn't be right-
He jumped; thunder clapped in the distance. He read it again...
August 21st, 2012-
2017.... How? That doesn't make any sense,
It’s not possible- Why would a newspaper be dated years into the future? For a place he's never even heard of?
What happened in that alley-
Sometimes, no matter how hard we fight it, life has a way of putting us right where we belong.
Oh.....
A sharp spike in his senses-
Peter whipped around in every direction, but... no one was there? His senses were screaming, but he couldn't find anyone, no hidden heartbeats-
His spider sense had never let him down; Peter ran.
He ran until his skin stopped crawling.
He ran until his lungs burned even more than they did before,
He ran until his sense stopped screaming.
Then, when he couldn’t run anymore, he must have climbed because he came to on top of a building, squished between an HVAC system and some sort of storage shed. And when he couldn’t fight it anymore. The exhaustion that poured over him. He must have drifted to sleep.
Tomorrow, he would have alot to think about.
But for now, there was nothing.