Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night Peter Parker died, the world didn’t just lose a boy, it lost its very soul. His final, shuddering breath echoed through the universe like a cruel whisper of fate, and in that instant, something fundamental unraveled. The light in his eyes once so full of warmth, of hope, winked out, and with it, went the fragile balance that held the world together.

The streets, once alive with the hum of city life, were swallowed by an eerie stillness. Shadows stretched long and heavy, curling around buildings like grief itself had taken form. The stars above, once distant beacons of possibility, seemed to dim, mourning the loss of the boy who had burned brighter than any of them.

Peter’s death wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a wound carved into the timeline, a scar history would never let fade. He wasn’t just another fallen hero, another name on a memorial. He was theirs, the heart of the Avengers, the son of the world's most powerful rulers, the beacon that stabilized their ruthlessness. And without him, mercy died alongside with him.

Peter wasn’t their son by blood. No strands of DNA bound him to them, no genetic ties linked their fates. But none of that mattered, they didn’t need blood to prove that Peter was theirs, and no one dare to question them.

They found him on a night as merciless as the world that had abandoned him, a small, trembling shadow curled up against the biting cold. His clothes were little more than scraps, thin fabric barely clinging to his frail frame, his skin marred with dirt and bruises that told a story no child should ever have to live. A deep purple bloom spread beneath one eye, stark against his tear-streaked face. He didn’t cry out when they approached, didn’t flinch, just stared up at them with hollow, haunted eyes that had already seen too much.

They had fought wars, seen entire civilizations crumble, stood against gods and monsters. But this, this tiny, broken thing shivering in the dark, so innocent, was the most devastating sight of all. They couldn’t walk away. They wouldn’t.

So they took him in. They wrapped him in warmth, bathed away the dirt and the past, dressed him in clothes that actually fit, clothes that were as soft as the child skin. They fed him, coaxing him to eat, to trust, to believe that maybe he was safe now. And when night fell, when they tucked him into a warm bed for the first time in who knew how long, his small frame curled beneath the covers, something inside them shifted, something inside them broke .

It wasn’t just a child they had rescued. He was theirs now. In every way that mattered, and that changed, so much that it was hard to believe.

From the moment they took him in, Peter became the center of their universe, their unspoken agreement, their shared purpose, the one thing they all protected with an almost terrifying devotion, the one thing that they all agreed on. Peter had them all wrapped around their finger and he didn’t even knew it.  

The world could crumble, cities could fall, and they wouldn’t bat an eye, so long as Peter was safe. He was untouchable, not just because of who his family was, but because he had become something greater than all of them.

He was their innocence, the sliver of light in their bloodstained lives, the proof that they could be more than warriors, more than killers. He was their redemption, a reason to believe that there was still something good in a world that had only ever taken from them. No one would dare harm him, not out of fear, but because the very thought was unfathomable. To hurt Peter was to defile the only pure thing they had left.

They loved him in a way they had never truly understood before. The Avengers, hardened, battle-worn legends, men and women who had seen the worst the universe had to offer, became something else entirely when it came to him. They were softer, gentler. They doted on him, protected him, taught him to be kind, even as the world had long since stripped kindness from them.

Peter was their boy. Their greatest weakness. Their only salvation.

They wanted Peter to be everything they weren’t, to be good, to be better. And he was. He exceeded every hope, every impossible dream they dared to have for him. His heart was too big for his small frame, his kindness boundless, spilling over into everything he did. He was living proof that despite their sins, despite the blood on their hands, something pure could still exist in their world.

But it was that very goodness, that relentless need to help, to heal, that would one day lead him to his tragic end.

Peter couldn’t ignore suffering, couldn’t turn away from someone in need. It was as natural to him as breathing. He’d stop in the middle of a downpour to help a lost child find their way home, carry heavy bags for strangers as if it were second nature, hand over his lunch money to a homeless man with a bright, easy smile and not a single hesitation. He saw the world not as it was, but as it could be, as it should be.

And that was why they had failed him.

Because in the end, the world did what it always did to people like Peter. It took and took until there was nothing left.

His parents worried, they hated seeing him go without, watching him give away his lunch or his jacket simply because he couldn’t stand to see someone else suffer. It broke something in them, this endless selflessness of his. He would have given away the whole world if he could, piece by piece, just to make someone else’s life a little easier.

But Peter’s heart was too large, his empathy too deep, and no amount of pleading could change that. And when fate gifted him powers, when he realized he could do more, that boundless kindness became something else entirely.

What had once been a boyish impulse, a simple need to help, turned into a calling. A mission.

The bruises started appearing first. small, barely noticeable. A split lip here, a dark smudge along his ribs there. He brushed off their concern with a sheepish grin, quick words, and faster reflexes. But they weren’t fools.

Then came the sleepless nights, the moments they’d find his bed empty, his room chillingly silent. He thought he was careful, but they knew. Of course, they knew.

Peter had taken the weight of the world onto his too-small shoulders, and no matter how much they tried, no matter how fiercely they wanted to protect him, there was no stopping him now.

They had their suspicions. The bruises, the exhaustion, the way Peter sometimes winced when he thought no one was looking. But he was quick with his excuses, quicker with his smile, and despite their fears, they let themselves believe him.

Until the night he staggered through the front door, pale and trembling, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps.

For a split second, they thought he was just exhausted, maybe overworked himself again. And then they saw it.

The knife.

Embedded deep in his stomach, its handle slick with his blood.

He swayed on his feet, his lips parting as if to say something, maybe an apology, maybe an explanation, but no words came. Instead, his knees buckled, and he collapsed right there in the middle of the living room, his body hitting the floor with a sickening finality.

Blood spilled out in waves, dark and endless, staining the floor beneath him. It took less than a second for the Avengers to react, but in that single, horrifying heartbeat, time seemed to shatter around them.

Because no matter how many battles they had fought, no matter how much death they had faced, nothing had ever prepared them for this.

For Peter, for their precious boy to be spilling out blood, to be hurt.

Peter survived. But the fear of losing him almost killed them.

They had faced death before, had stared it in the eye and defied it time and time again, but nothing, nothing, had ever compared to the sheer terror of watching Peter bleed out in their arms. The memory haunted them, seared into their minds like an open wound that refused to heal. It wasn’t just fear that gripped them, it was desperation. A bone-deep, soul-crushing need to keep him safe, no matter the cost.

They wanted to lock him away, shield him from the cruel, unforgiving world. He was too good, too precious, and they had already lost too much. They couldn’t lose him too.

But Peter, damn him and that stubborn, reckless heart of his, looked at them with those wide, earnest eyes, full of fire and conviction, and begged them to let him keep fighting. He swore he’d be careful, that he’d never make them go through that again. He even agreed to let one of them accompany him, a compromise they weren’t sure would be enough, but somehow, they relented. How dumb they had been.

But, how could they not?

He was their boy, and they couldn’t stand to see him hurt.

But they also couldn’t stand to see him unhappy.

For a while, it worked.

For a while, they had peace.

Peter still fought, still threw himself into danger with that same unshakable determination, but at least he wasn’t alone. At least they were there to watch his back, to make sure he came home at the end of the night. And for a while, it was enough. They let themselves believe it was enough.

But peace, they learned, was fleeting.

Someone found out. Someone uncovered the secret they had fought so hard to protect. They learned who Spider-Man was beneath the mask, who the boy was that the Avengers guarded so fiercely. And they waited.

Peter never saw it coming.

They caught him after school, dragging him into the shadows before he could even react. Maybe he fought. Maybe he screamed. Maybe he was terrified in those last moments, reaching for help that would never come.

By the time the Avengers arrived, it was too late.

He lay there, crumpled and still, his body already cold beneath their trembling hands. The blood had stopped pooling. His bright, shining eyes, full of so much warmth, so much life, were dull, empty… lifeless.

Peter was gone, Their Peter was gone.

The years that followed were a slow, spiraling descent into madness.

Without Peter, the Avengers became something else, something darker, something ruthless. They had lost wars before, lost friends, lost pieces of themselves in battle, but nothing had ever broken them like this. Nothing had ever stolen their very souls.

They were no longer heroes.

They were monsters, wielding their grief like a weapon, their fury like a storm. The world, once shielded by their strength, now trembled beneath it. Cities whispered their names in fear. Governments no longer saw them as allies, but as gods with bloodstained hands, unchallenged and unstoppable.

Mercy became a foreign concept.

There were no second chances, no warnings, only judgment, swift and merciless. Justice, once tempered by Peter’s compassion, turned into vengeance, cold and unrelenting.

Because Peter had been their tether, the fragile thread that kept them human. He had saved them from themselves.

And when he died, that last shred of humanity died with him.

The family they had once been shattered alongside their hearts.

The tower, once a home, became a mausoleum. The echoes of laughter that had once filled its halls were silenced, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. What had once been his space, his room, his favorite spot on the couch, the chair he always claimed at the dinner table, became untouched relics, frozen in time, too painful to face yet impossible to erase.

There were no more family dinners, no more movie nights where Peter would argue over popcorn flavors or fall asleep curled up against one of them. The lab, once filled with Tony’s exasperated groans and Peter’s excited rambling, sat eerily quiet, covered in dust.

One by one, they retreated into themselves, drowning in work, in missions, in anything that could make them forget, if only for a moment. But it never worked.

Because Peter was everywhere. In the half-finished projects he’d left behind, in the old sweaters still tucked away in his room, in the silence that screamed louder than any battle ever could.

They had lost teammates before. They had lost friends. But this?

This was different, this was everything.

This was losing the one thing that had held them together.

And without him, they weren’t a family anymore.

They were just... fragments.

No one suffered more than Tony.

Peter had been his shadow, his partner in science, his heir.

They had shared something deeper than blood, something beyond father and son, beyond mentor and protégé. Peter had been his, in every way that mattered. A kindred spirit, someone who looked at the world with the same wide-eyed curiosity, the same insatiable hunger for knowledge. Together, they had built, discovered, created, dreamed.

But now, the lab, once their playground, their sanctuary, was nothing more than a graveyard of memories. Half-finished projects sat untouched, collecting dust. The whiteboards, once cluttered with equations and doodles, remained frozen in time, Peter’s messy handwriting still lingering like a ghost.

And the silence... God, the silence was unbearable.

Tony tried. Tried to step inside, tried to pick up a wrench, tried to drown himself in work the way he always had. But without Peter’s endless chatter, without the hum of excitement in his voice, it all felt meaningless.

So he stopped.

Stopped going to the lab. Stopped working. Stopped caring.

For the first time in his life, Tony Stark, the man who never knew how to sit still, did nothing. Because what was the point? The one thing that had ever truly mattered to him was gone.

Until one day, an idea struck him. Wild. Unthinkable. Impossible.

But it didn’t matter.

Because if there was even the smallest chance, no matter how insane, he would take it.

Because Peter was gone.

And Tony was going to bring him back.

Tony had toyed with the concept of the Multiverse before, back when it had been nothing more than a distant theory, a puzzle to unravel for the sake of curiosity. It had fascinated him, sure, but it had never been real.

Now, it was all he had.

It became his obsession, a singular, all-consuming purpose that burned through his grief like wildfire. He knew he couldn’t bring their Peter back, no amount of genius, no miracle of science, could undo what had been done. But maybe, just maybe, there was another Peter out there. One who still had a chance. One who needed them just as much as they needed him.

It wasn’t about replacing their son.

It was about saving him.

A desperate hope, a reckless dream, but it was the only thing keeping Tony from collapsing under the weight of his own grief.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he called the Avengers together. Forced himself to care again. To shower, to eat, to scrape together the shattered remnants of the man they had once known.

When he stepped into the meeting room, the air was thick with something heavy, suffocating. He saw it in their faces, the same brokenness, the same exhaustion. They had all been drowning, each in their own way.

But now?

Now, for the first time since Peter died...

They had a reason to fight again.

"Tony, what is this about?"

Steve’s voice was tired, exhausted, but there was something else buried beneath the weariness. A sliver of hope. A fragile, flickering spark that hadn’t been there before.

Tony took a breath, steadying himself. He had spent so long drowning in grief, in silence, in nothingness. But now, he had something. A chance. A purpose. And if there was even the smallest possibility that it could work, then he had to try.

"I think I’ve found a way to bring Peter back."

The words cut through the air like a shockwave, a whispered impossibility that sent the room into stunned silence.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Disbelief clung to them like a second skin.

"Tony," Bucky said slowly, his voice careful, like he was trying not to spook a man on the edge of a breakdown. "Have you been sleeping?"

Tony clenched his jaw. He knew what they thought ‘he’s lost it, he’s grasping at ghosts’ but they didn’t understand. Not yet.

"I’m serious," he said, firmer this time.

Barton exhaled sharply, arms crossing over his chest. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?" His voice was sharp, slicing through the fragile hope in the room.

Tony didn’t flinch.

"I’ve found a way to travel through the Multiverse."

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the tower, the distant pulse of a world still turning, a world that should have stopped when Peter died.

So Tony laid it all out.

The theory. The science. The possibilities stretching infinitely before them.

Somewhere out there, in another world, another timeline, another Peter existed.

A boy who needed them.

A boy who could fill the gaping void that was tearing them apart.

A boy who could bring them back.

"You want to replace our son?"

Bucky’s voice cracked, thick with anguish, the accusation heavy enough to make the air in the room turn suffocating. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his entire body coiled tight, like he was barely holding himself together.

Tony felt the words like a punch to the gut.

"No," he said immediately, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "No."

His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of the only people in the world who could understand the gaping, unfillable hole inside him.

"But we can’t live without him," Tony admitted, his voice breaking on the words. "And somewhere out there, there’s a Peter who needs a family. Who needs us."

The room blurred for a second as tears welled in his eyes, again. The same damn tears that always came when he let himself think too much, feel too much.

This wasn’t about replacing Peter. It never could be.

But it was a chance, maybe their only chance, to claw their way out of the darkness, to find some small, fractured piece of what they had lost.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable.

The Avengers exchanged glances, unspoken conversations passing between them, grief tangled with doubt, longing with fear.

They had all lost the same person.

But they had each lost something different.

Something uniquely, irreversibly theirs.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Steve nodded.

"Alright, Tony." His voice was steady, but there was something deeper beneath it, something raw. "We’re in. What’s the plan?"

Tony exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

For the first time in years, something inside him shifted. His heart. buried for so long under layers of grief, suffocated by loss, fluttered. Fragile. Tentative. But alive.

Hope.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus.

"This isn’t going to be easy," Tony started, his voice firm, but there was a spark there now. "We need a machine strong enough to breach dimensions, a way to track his unique signature across universes, and a plan for what happens when we find him."

Because they would find him. They had to.

One by one, the Avengers straightened, the weight of despair shifting just enough for something else to take its place.

For months, Tony and Banner worked tirelessly, pouring every ounce of their genius, every fragment of their grief, into the project. The lab, once a tomb of silence and regret, became something else entirely.

A beacon. A place where dreams, impossible dreams, might just come true.

And slowly, so slowly, the Avengers began to feel like a family again. Not the same as before, never the same, but closer. Bound by a singular purpose, a desperate, unwavering mission.

Find Peter. Bring him home.

But the search for a compatible universe proved more difficult than they had anticipated. The Multiverse was vast, endless, and sifting through it felt like trying to catch stardust in their fingers.

Tony had known this wouldn’t be easy. He had prepared for obstacles. But he hadn’t expected it to take this long.

Hadn’t expected the endless hours of dead ends, the false hope of universes where Peter didn’t exist, or worse, where he had already been lost.

Doubt crept in, insidious and cruel, whispering in the back of his mind.

What if they never find him?

What if this was all for nothing?

What if Peter is truly gone?

And for the first time since this all began, Tony was afraid.

Afraid that the one thing keeping them all together, the fragile thread of hope, was beginning to fray.

Just as the weight of doubt threatened to suffocate him, the lab doors slammed open.

A scientist burst in, breathless, wide-eyed, his face flushed with urgency.

"We’ve found a compatible universe!" he gasped, voice trembling with excitement and exhaustion.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, Tony froze.

Then his pulse exploded, hammering in his chest as he shoved away from his desk and followed the scientist at a near run, his mind racing, hope clawing its way back to the surface.

They found one.

They actually found one.

The lab was alive with energy, screens flashing with data, holograms flickering across the air like ghosts of possibilities. And there, glowing in brilliant blue, was a projection of a world that could be their salvation.

"It’s different from ours," the scientist explained, still trying to catch his breath. "But it has everything you were looking for. And, the Avengers in that universe are either dead or retired."

Tony barely processed the words. His focus was locked onto one singular thought.

"And Peter?" His voice was raw, almost desperate.

The scientist hesitated, glancing at the data. "Peter and the Avengers never met. He lives with his aunt."

Tony’s breath hitched.

His aunt.

His stomach twisted, because in his world, Peter’s life before them had been a nightmare. A brutal, suffocating darkness. The reason they had taken him in.

"The same aunt?" Tony forced out, his voice barely above a whisper, dread and hope warring in his chest.

Because if she was the same, if she was anything like the woman Peter had suffered under, then this boy…

This Peter needed them.

Just as much as they needed him.

The scientist hesitated, clearly sensing the weight behind Tony’s question.

"Yes," he admitted carefully. "But we don’t know if she’s the same as the one in our universe."

Tony’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides. That answer wasn’t good enough. But right now, it was all he had.

"Okay, go on." His voice was tight, controlled, but barely.

The scientist shifted nervously before continuing. "He doesn’t have his powers."

Tony’s breath stilled.

"What?"

"We checked every possible trace. There’s no indication of enhanced abilities. No Spider-Man. No vigilante activity connected to him. He’s just… a normal kid."

Tony swallowed hard, the words hitting him harder than he expected. Peter without his powers.

Just a boy.

A boy who had no idea what was coming.

"We couldn’t pinpoint his exact location," the scientist added, shifting uneasily. "We only know he’s somewhere in New York."

Tony exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

"Leave everything you have on the table," he said, already reaching for the files. His mind was spinning, calculating, planning. "You’re dismissed for the day."

The scientist didn’t need to be told twice, hurrying out as Tony flipped through the pages, scanning the data with laser focus. His fingers curled around the edges of the reports, gripping them like a lifeline.

Then, without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and called the one thing that still mattered.

"Get to the briefing room. Now."

Minutes later, they arrived, one by one, their heavy footsteps echoing through the room. Shadows of their former selves, but standing. Present.

And as they took their seats, as the weight of what was happening settled over them, Tony met their gazes and said the words that changed everything.

"We found him."

"We found a compatible universe." Tony’s voice remained steady, but the weight of the information threatened to crush him. He knew what he was about to say would change everything.

"It’s different," he continued, scanning their faces as a cautious hope flickered in their eyes. "But it has a Peter."

Silence filled the room as they absorbed the words, an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere. He took a breath before laying out everything, the retired Avengers, the unfamiliar setting, and the fragile possibility that they could find their boy again. He watched as hope began to bloom, but he knew it would be short-lived.

"There’s one problem." His voice was quieter now, the words heavier. "In this universe, Peter never met us. He still lives with his aunt."

The reaction was immediate.

Bucky shot out of his seat so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor, the sharp noise echoing through the tense silence. His entire body was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as fury darkened his expression.

"What?" His voice was low, but it carried an undeniable edge of rage.

Around the room, the others reacted similarly, their faces hardening, their hands tightening into fists as they processed what Tony had just told them. They all knew exactly what that meant.

The woman who had hurt Peter. The woman responsible for sending him into the cold that night, battered and trembling, abandoned like he was nothing. The woman whose cruelty had carved wounds so deep into his soul that even after years of love, care, and reassurance, they had never fully faded. They had spent so much time healing Peter, breaking down the walls of fear and neglect that she had built around him, proving to him that he was safe, that he was wanted, that he was loved. Now, the thought of another version of Peter still trapped in that house, still enduring whatever pain she inflicted, made something dark and violent settle in their chests.

"Calm down," Tony said, raising his hands, trying to contain the tension before it spiraled out of control. "We don’t know if she’s the same person as the one we knew. This is a different universe, and we need to gather more information before making any assumptions or decisions."

The anger in the room didn’t dissipate, but the Avengers forced themselves to remain still, barely containing the storm of emotions threatening to consume them. The possibility that this version of Peter was suffering the same fate as their Peter had once endured was something none of them could ignore. If they discovered that he was in danger, if they found out that his life was anything like the one their Peter had been forced to escape from, they would not hesitate to intervene. They had lost Peter once, and they refused to stand by and let another version of him suffer the same fate.

The room simmered with barely contained emotion, the tension so thick it was nearly suffocating. No one spoke, but the weight of their unspoken fears, their unyielding desperation, crackled like electricity in the air.

Tony exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he spoke. "Now, we need to form a plan to get him back. And I think I’ve got just the one."

The Avengers leaned in, their eyes locked onto him, searching for something to hold onto. For too long, they had been drowning in grief, suffocating under the crushing weight of their loss. Now, for the first time in years, something flickered in the darkness that had consumed them. It wasn’t just hope. It was something more.

It was the chance for redemption. It was the possibility of restoring what had been shattered, of finding the missing piece that had left them hollow and broken. It was the whisper of fate, the universe telling them that perhaps, after everything, they weren’t beyond saving.

The road ahead would be long and uncertain, filled with obstacles they had yet to face. But none of that mattered. Somewhere out there, across the vastness of the Multiverse, their Peter existed. And no matter how many worlds they had to cross, how many battles they had to fight, they would find him.

Because he was their son.

And they were bringing him home.

Chapter Text

It had taken them a month to finalize the plan.

A month of relentless calculations, simulated scenarios, and sleepless nights haunted by a single face. For a mission that demanded perfection, a month wasn’t long. But for grieving men desperate to reclaim the heart of their broken family, it had felt like a lifetime.

They had scoured every possible approach, scrutinized every variable. Not one detail could be left to chance, not when Peter’s safety, his very existence, hung in the balance. The plan, once fully formed, seemed deceptively simple. At least, by their standards.

The real obstacle wasn’t the science. Not the portal’s stabilization, not the power draw or even the unpredictable nature of multiversal travel. No, the real challenge was far more human: they didn’t know where Peter was.

All they had was a name and a city: New York.

He was here, somewhere, living a quiet life untouched by them, blissfully unaware that across infinite realities, there were people who loved him fiercely. People who had lost him once and were willing to tear through the fabric of existence to bring him home.

But New York was vast, overflowing with noise and movement. They couldn’t afford to make waves, not in this universe. One wrong move could scare him, push him further away. The last thing they wanted was for Peter to see them as a threat.

So they chose subtlety. Precision. Influence.

They wouldn’t dominate or demand, they would infiltrate. Quietly. Carefully. Just enough to tap into the systems of power here. To gain access to information, to eyes on the ground, to the quiet whispers of surveillance networks and school records. Just enough to find him. And once they did, they would be gone. No damage, no disruption.

Just a missing boy returned home.

Now, standing on the glowing platform deep within their lab, their suits secured and everything in place, the final phase was ready to begin. An extra suit had been prepared, its black and blue polymer fibers woven with shielding and stabilizers, designed specifically to protect Peter’s small, unmodified body during the jump home.

Bruce stepped forward, cradling a slim, black case in his hands. His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed a familiar heaviness, the fear of hope.

"Here you go, Tony. This will keep everything stable once you’re back on this side," Bruce said softly.

Tony took it with a nod, fingers tightening around the case. “Thanks, Bruce. We’ll be back before you know it.”

The words hung heavy in the air. A promise spoken aloud but not fully believed.

Only Tony, Steve, and Bucky would go. The rest would remain, holding the world together in their absence, ensuring that nothing else slipped through the cracks.

Bruce lingered for a moment longer, as if trying to etch their faces into memory. Then, with a quiet breath, he activated the machine.

A pulse of blinding white energy exploded around them. The rift opened, alive, hungry, humming with raw power, and in an instant, the three men were gone.

The landing was rough.

The moment their boots hit the cracked concrete of a dim alleyway, the air shifted. The sky was the same color, the wind carried the same grit of city pollution, but everything felt... older. Dimmer. The buildings that surrounded them weren’t gleaming towers of polished glass but weathered stone and brick, patched with years of decay.

Compared to the sharp edges and blinding lights of their own world, this one felt like a faded photograph.

Tony took one look at the clunky wiring and outdated cars sputtering by and sneered under his breath. “Primitive,” he muttered. “We left a utopia and came back to the stone age.”

But even with the absence of tech, one thing was immediately clear: this universe had a version of Stark Tower. Smaller. Rougher. But still there.

“Looks like they tried to copy my design and gave up halfway,” Tony said, nodding toward the distant skyline. “That’s where we’ll start.”

Steve stepped beside him, quiet and steady. “Let’s hope someone there knows how to talk.”

“They’d better,” Bucky muttered, his voice low, eyes scanning the shadows around them like ghosts might be hiding in the alleys.

Tony squared his shoulders and turned to the others. “Come on. We find the tower, we find a contact, we get eyes on the city. Peter’s out there. And we’re not leaving without him.”

The three of them stepped into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of a world that didn’t know who they were, didn’t know what they had lost. But none of that mattered.

Their son was here.
And they would burn this city down if it meant holding him again

Ross leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the three men standing before him. His voice was laced with disbelief as he spoke. "Let me get this straight, you’re telling me you’re from another universe?"

Tony let out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his temples. "Yes, finally. I thought we were past this already." His tone dripped with impatience, but he didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat it.

Ross’s expression remained skeptical, but his curiosity won out. "Alright, let’s say I believe you. What do you want?"

Tony exchanged a glance with Steve before turning back to Ross, his posture casual despite the gravity of his words. "It’s simple. We’re looking for one boy , Peter Parker. He goes to a school here in New York." He shrugged as if it were the most mundane request in the world.

Ross stared at him, then barked out a sharp laugh, his disbelief morphing into outrage. "Are you insane? You seriously think I’m going to let you waltz in here and take an American child?!" His voice rose with each word, his hands slamming down on the desk in front of him.

Steve remained calm, his expression unreadable, but there was a storm brewing beneath the surface. They weren’t leaving without Peter, no matter what it took.

Tony leaned forward, his voice dropping into something cold, something dangerous. "Do you have any idea how much power we have?" His smirk was sharp, almost predatory. "We will take him, whether you like it or not. We are not here to ask for permission. Right now, I’m being polite. Play along, and you’ll get something in return. Try to stop us, and, well…" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease, his fingers tapping against the armrest. "I’ll leave a trail of destruction behind me. Your choice, really. But in the end, I will get what I want."

Ross stared at him, muscles tensing, his jaw clenching. For a long moment, silence hung between them, thick and suffocating. Then, finally, with a heavy sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who exactly are you looking for?"

This time, it was Bucky who stepped forward, his voice steady but laced with something darker. "Peter Parker. He should be living with his aunt somewhere in Queens." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn photograph, setting it on the desk in front of Ross. It was a picture of their Peter, the boy who had been their world, their reason for everything.

Ross picked up the photo, his expression unreadable as he studied it. "And what do you plan to do once you find him?"

Tony’s smirk returned, but this time, it was laced with something more, something almost desperate. "We’re taking him home."

Ross studied the picture for a long moment before finally looking up, his expression calculating. “And what exactly do I get out of this?”

Tony’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I know exactly what a man like you wants: power.” He let the word hang in the air, letting Ross chew on it before delivering the final blow. “I’m willing to give you access to some of the most advanced weaponry you’ve ever seen. Technology that makes everything you have look like toys.” He leaned forward, his voice smooth, confident. “Of course, that deal only stands if you give me what I want.”

Ross’s gaze flickered between Tony and the others before settling back on the photograph in his hand. He exhaled sharply, then without another word, turned on his heel and strode out of the room, the picture still clenched between his fingers.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the trio exchanged knowing smirks. Step one was complete,  and they knew after this it was only a matter of time before Peter was finally in their arms.

After what felt like an eternity, Ross finally re-entered the room, this time carrying a thick folder. He sat down at the table without ceremony, flipping it open as he spoke.

“We have everything you need,” he announced, scanning the documents. “Peter Benjamin Parker, sixteen years old. Attends Midtown High, top of his class. Lives with his aunt in a small apartment in Queens.” He listed the details efficiently before sliding the photograph back across the table, his sharp gaze lingering on the Avengers.

Tony barely spared the file a glance, already growing impatient. “Great. So, go get him.” His tone was clipped, as if this should have been obvious from the start.

Ross blinked. “You want us to retrieve him?”

Steve exhaled, his patience wearing thin. “Well, if you’d rather we storm into Queens ourselves, unannounced, in broad daylight, I’m sure the whole city would love to learn that their supposedly retired/ dead heroes are back.” He stood up slowly, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

Ross stiffened, understanding the threat. “That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll assemble a team and bring you the boy.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room once more.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Tony leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “That’s more like it.”

Ever since Peter had opened his eyes that morning, something had felt… off.

There was no thunderclap or nightmare to explain it, just an unsettling heaviness that clung to him like a fog. A gnawing sense in the pit of his stomach that made his heart race before he even sat up in bed. At first, he thought he might have forgotten to do an assignment, his mind scrambling through lists of due dates and deadlines. But then he remembered—school was almost over. Just one more week stood between him and summer break. Nothing left to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of.

So why couldn’t he breathe right?

“Peter, honey, come eat breakfast before you’re late!”

His aunt’s voice called out from the kitchen, slicing through his spiraling thoughts. Peter blinked himself back into motion, dragging his feet down the hall, his limbs sluggish like he’d spent the night running.

On the table, toast and a glass of orange juice waited for him—simple, comforting, familiar. But even that didn’t help. He looked at the food and felt… nothing. No hunger. No warmth. Just a coldness under his skin that refused to leave.

May stood by the door, slipping on her coat with practiced urgency. “Have a nice day at school, sweetie. I’ve got to take an extra shift tonight, so don’t wait up for me.” She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Peter said automatically, but his voice felt hollow in his throat.

He watched the door close behind her and stood there for a moment in the silence that followed. He stared at the toast. It stared back.

His appetite was gone.

The apartment, usually a source of comfort, felt too quiet, too still—like the air itself was holding its breath.

Peter forced himself to eat anyway. He chewed and swallowed without tasting, each bite mechanical. Just something to pass the time. Just something to get through.

By the time he stepped outside, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the strange feeling had only tightened its grip on him. The city was loud and bright as always, but Peter couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being watched. He kept looking over his shoulder, scanning rooftops, the other side of the street, every reflection in the windows he passed. Nothing. And yet… something.

At one point, he actually stopped walking. His feet planted to the sidewalk. He stared down the street in the direction of his school… and then glanced back toward the way home.

He could skip. Just this once. He could turn around, crawl back into bed, pretend today didn’t exist. But May trusted him. She’d left for work already, assumed he’d be fine. That faith tugged at something in him.

So Peter clenched his jaw, shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, and kept moving forward.

At school, the familiar buzz of teenage life dulled the unease just enough for him to pretend everything was normal. He met Ned at his locker, like always.

“Hey, Peter. You good?” Ned asked, squinting at him.

Peter hesitated. “Yeah. Just… I don’t know. Got this weird feeling.”

Ned gave a dramatic groan. “It’s the math test. Has to be. I totally bombed it. They’re gonna send a letter home. I can already feel the disappointment radiating off my mom from here.”

Peter laughed, grateful for the levity. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

But he didn’t believe it.

He knew it wasn’t just a test. It wasn’t nerves. It was something bigger. Something real. And it was getting closer.

Still, the hours slipped by like they always did. Lunch. Chemistry. History. Everything marched forward like the world didn’t know it was about to fall apart.

It wasn’t until science class, just as Peter was starting to relax, that the intercom crackled to life and confirmed everything he had been trying to ignore.

"Peter Parker, please report to the principal’s office. Immediately "

The room went quiet. Heads turned. Even the teacher paused, raising an eyebrow.

Peter froze.

For a second, his mind went blank, like a breath held too long.

The announcement made all his classmates turn to look at him, their curiosity evident. Peter felt a rush of anxiety but quickly grabbed his things and headed for the office, his mind racing with possibilities.

What could this be about? Did I do something wrong? Man, Aunt May is going to kill me.

And suddenly the dreadful feeling that had chased him all day came at full force.

When he reached the principal’s office, he took a deep breath to steady himself before knocking lightly on the door.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Peter pushed the door open, stepping in cautiously clutching tightly the straps of his bag, unsure of what awaited him.

Peter stepped into the office, expecting to see his principal waiting with the usual stern-but-fair look he wore whenever someone was in trouble. But instead, Peter froze in the doorway, his sneakers squeaking softly against the floor. His heart dropped like a stone.

Two men in sleek black suits stood beside the principal’s desk, their expressions unreadable. They looked out of place, too sharp, too serious, like they belonged in a spy movie rather than a high school office. One of them, tall and broad, stood silently with his hands clasped behind his back. The other, shorter and wirier, took a step forward and flashed a silver badge with practiced ease.

“Peter Parker, we’re from S.H.I.E.L.D. You must come with us immediately,” the shorter man said, his voice clipped and impersonal.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat, his stomach twisting painfully as that horrible feeling he’d had all morning surged back with a vengeance. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

His eyes flicked to his principal, hoping for some explanation, some hint of reassurance, but the man couldn’t even meet his gaze. Instead, he stared down at his desk with an uncertain look, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he had just allowed to happen. Like it was something out of his power that he couldn’t stop.

Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble? Did someone die? Is May okay? A dozen possibilities ricocheted through Peter’s head like bullets, each one worse than the last. He tried to open his mouth to ask, to say something—anything—but the words tangled in his throat.

“I-uh….what’s this about?” he finally managed, voice thin and shaking.

The taller agent didn’t speak. The shorter one simply repeated, “You need to come with us. Now.”

Peter's heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he almost didn’t hear the principal speak.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Peter,” the man said quickly, though his tone betrayed the nervousness beneath his forced calm. “They just want to talk to you.”

That only made it worse. It only made it fake

The two agents stepped forward, one placing a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder. Not harsh, but firm enough to remind him there was no room for argument. His instincts screamed run, but his legs refused to move, he couldn’t anyway. He was just Peter Parker. A sixteen-year-old kid in a Midtown High hoodie, being led out of school by strangers claiming to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. But why would S.H.I.E.L.D. even want to talk to him.

He caught the glances of students passing in the hall as he was ushered away, some curious, some amused, and a few worried. But nobody stopped it. Nobody questioned it.

And as the school doors closed behind him and he was guided toward a sleek black car parked at the curb, a sick, hollow dread settled in Peter’s chest. The kind that whispered: you’re not going home.

The drive wasn’t long, barely half an hour, but to Peter, it might as well have been a lifetime. Every second dragged by in agonizing silence. He sat stiffly between the two agents, eyes fixed on the digital clock on the dashboard, watching each red number flicker forward. He tried to calm his racing heart, tried to convince himself this was just a misunderstanding, that any moment now someone would explain what the hell was going on. But no one spoke. Not a word. The silence was worse than shouting.

His palms were clammy, gripping the edge of his hoodie, and he kept forcing himself to breathe evenly, trying not to let panic take over. The entire ride felt like being on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath him inch by inch.

When the car finally slowed, Peter glanced out the window, and his breath hitched painfully in his chest.

Stark Tower.

He blinked, thinking he must’ve misread the skyline, but there it was: tall, imposing, unmistakable. His chest tightened with a flood of emotion he didn’t know how to name. Confusion. Grief. Fear. The building shouldn’t even be standing. Stark Tower was a memory, a monument of the past, gone. Just like its owner.

What the hell is going on? he thought, panic bubbling just beneath the surface.

Before he could voice a single question, the doors opened and the agents were already pulling him out of the car. Their grips were firm, not painful, but controlling. Like they weren’t going to take any chances. Like he might try to run.

Peter stumbled slightly but caught himself, blinking against the bright sun as they led him across the plaza and into the building. The lobby was immaculate, polished floors, sleek designs, but eerily quiet. Lifeless. There were no people milling about, no tech on display like he'd seen in documentaries or in the news years ago. It was as if the building had been frozen in time.

No one offered him an explanation. No one told him why he was here.

The elevator ride was the worst part. The soft hum of the machine only emphasized the ringing in Peter’s ears. He tried not to fidget but couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing slightly, a nervous tremor he couldn’t suppress. His eyes darted between the two agents, searching for some kind of clue in their expressions, but their faces were stone. Cold. Detached.

When the elevator doors finally slid open with a soft chime, the agents stepped out first, guiding him forward into what looked like a lounge. It was... beautiful. Expansive windows let sunlight pour in, casting warm hues across expensive furniture and untouched bookshelves. It felt too nice, too perfect.

Like a gilded cage.

The space was completely empty. No voices. No footsteps. Just the quiet hum of machinery and the pounding of Peter’s heart in his ears.

One of the agents pointed at a plush couch in the center of the room. “Sit.”

Peter didn’t move at first. His feet felt like they were glued to the floor. But when the agent gave him a slightly firmer nod, he obeyed, moving with slow, cautious steps. He sat down, his spine rigid, his eyes scanning the room for exits, for anything familiar, for someone, anyone, he could trust.

But there was nothing. Just him and the lingering sense that something very wrong was about to happen.

He swallowed hard, fighting the rising dread.

“We will be back soon,” the agent said flatly before both men turned and exited the room, the door hissing softly shut behind them.

Silence fell like a weight over Peter.

He sat still for a long moment, the fabric of the couch stiff beneath him, his fingers tightening around the hem of his jeans. That creeping, coiling dread in his stomach, the one that had been hovering ever since those agents walked into his school, came crashing down in full force.

Something was wrong.

No, not just wrong. Terribly, horribly, irreversibly wrong.

His throat felt dry as he swallowed, and he looked around the room again, eyes darting from corner to corner. The space was too perfect, too polished, too quiet. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest.

What could this be about?

His first instinct was Aunt May. Had something happened to her? Was she hurt? But that didn’t make sense. If there had been an emergency, they would have called. A teacher would have pulled him aside gently, told him to prepare himself. Not... this. Not federal agents showing up like he was some kind of criminal.

Had he done something wrong?

He searched his memory in a panic, flipping through every recent moment like pages in a book. He had never broken a law. He had never so much as cheated on a test. He was Peter Parker. He followed rules. He did the right thing.

But then a different thought hit him.

The Stark Internship.

His stomach twisted.

Had they found out he had lied on his application? Not about the big stuff, just... his age. He wasn’t old enough for the higher-tier internship programs, but he had applied anyway. He had thought if he just showed how passionate he was, how much he cared about science, it wouldn’t matter. But what if it had?

What if he had wasted their time? What if they were about to blacklist him, ruin his chances at any kind of future in tech or science or anything he’d ever dreamed of?

His chest tightened, breath coming shorter and faster. His hands shook where they were clenched in his lap, knuckles white.

What if I ruined everything? What if I just destroyed my future with one stupid risk?

His mind kept spiraling, dragging him down into a storm of possibilities, each darker than the last. No one was here to tell him otherwise. No one to offer comfort. Just him, alone in a room that felt more like a trap than a meeting space.

Then the soft click of the door interrupted his thoughts.

Peter flinched, shoulders tensing, but didn’t turn around. He was too deep in panic to think straight, too lost in dread to remember that he should be afraid of who was walking through that door.

“Look, sir, I’m really sorry about the application,” he began immediately, his voice rushed, his words tumbling out in desperation. “I know it’s for college students, but I swear I only—”

A sharp pain pricked the side of his neck.

His words died in his throat as his hand flew up to the spot, his fingers brushing against something small, metallic. His vision swayed, the room spinning around him in dizzying waves.

The room spun violently around him, the floor tilting beneath his feet. Peter tried to turn, to see who had just done this to him, but his muscles weren’t obeying. His limbs were heavy, his body suddenly sluggish and weak. He staggered backward, landing in a clumsy heap on the couch.

His eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. Shapes blurred together. The world swam.

A shadow stood above him.

“Rest now, son. We’ll take you home,” a deep, unfamiliar voice murmured.

The voice was deep, almost familiar like he had heard it before, gentle in a way that made Peter’s skin crawl.

His brows drew together, a flicker of confusion flashing across his dazed face. Home?

That wasn’t right. Home was a cramped apartment in Queens, with May and the smell of burnt toast in the mornings. Home was the corner store on the way back from school. Home was... not this.

His thoughts became mud, slow and unsteady.

He tried to fight the heaviness pulling him under, tried to force his eyes to stay open, but the drug coursing through his veins was too strong. His limbs refused to move, his thoughts growing sluggish.

He tried to move again, to speak, but nothing came. Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision. His hands slipped from the couch. His breathing slowed.

Then, silence.

And Peter Parker was gone.

After finalizing the meeting, the trio wasted no time. Every detail had to be perfect. There was no room for error, no second chances. Once they had Peter, they needed to leave—immediately. The machine would only hold the portal stable for a limited window, and the longer they stayed, the higher the risk of exposure.

The room buzzed with low conversation and the hum of tech coming to life. Stark’s hands moved with practiced ease across the control panels, but his mind was elsewhere—racing, spinning, tethered to a single name: Peter.

A sharp knock at the door broke through his concentration. One of the agents stepped inside, his voice clipped and professional.

“Sir, we have the boy. He’s in the designated room, just as you requested.”

Tony didn’t even look up. His jaw tightened, his entire body going still for one heartbeat before he spoke.

“Good,” he said simply, but his voice trembled at the edges, despite the mask of control. “As promised, the bags are in the hall. Take them and go.”

The agent nodded and left, and for a moment, silence settled over the room.

Then Tony moved.

Without another word, he turned and headed for the room where Peter waited, each step heavy with the weight of years lost. He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. He could hardly feel anything beyond the wild thrum of his own heart pounding against his ribs.

Outside the door, Tony paused. His fingers dug into the fabric of his coat as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial filled with clear liquid, along with a syringe. The faint clink of glass and metal made Bucky glance over.

“You sure that’s necessary?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

Tony looked down at the syringe, his expression unreadable. “I hate it,” he confessed, each word rough like sandpaper. “But his body’s too young, too fragile. The trip back would be hell on his system if we didn’t. This is the kindest way to do it.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He just nodded slowly, the ghost of pain flickering behind his eyes. He remembered Peter’s quiet complaints about needles. About hospital smells. About white walls and bright lights and hands that weren’t always gentle. He remembered the kid flinching at the smallest things during his first few months with them.

He remembered how long it took to teach him he was safe.

And now here they were. Starting again.

Tony placed a hand on the door. For a moment, he didn’t move. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deliberate breath before he pushed it open.

The room was quiet except for the sound of Peter’s voice.

He was rambling—nervous, fidgety, pacing near the couch. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have sent in the application. I just—I thought if I showed how much I cared, maybe it wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t technically of age, but if you’re mad, I get it, just... please don’t blacklist me, I promise I’ll make it up—”

Tony froze in the doorway, the words hitting him like a knife to the chest.

This wasn’t just fear. This wasn’t just nerves.

Peter was scared. Really scared.

He still thought he was being punished. For being ambitious. For wanting to belong.

God, it wasn’t fair.

Peter hadn’t even turned around yet, too wrapped up in his anxiety to notice the man moving toward him until he felt the briefest, sharpest sting at his neck.

He let out a soft gasp, stumbling backward, reaching instinctively toward the spot, but already the world around him was tilting. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed against the cushions, his limbs too heavy to lift, his vision blurring into color and light.

Tony caught him before he could slide to the floor.

 “Rest now, son,” he murmured, voice cracking as he brushed a strand of hair from Peter’s forehead. “We’re taking you home.”

Peter’s eyelashes fluttered, his brow creasing in sleepy confusion.

Then his eyes closed, his body going still in Tony’s arms.

Tony didn’t speak for a long moment. He just looked down at the boy, his boy, feeling the soft exhale of Peter’s breath against his wrist, warm and even.

For a long, quiet moment, the three men simply stood there—frozen in place, hearts aching—as they stared at the sleeping boy on the couch.

Peter.

He looked so small, so heartbreakingly peaceful. As if he hadn’t been ripped from his world, as if he hadn’t been drugged and dragged into the unknown. His lashes rested gently on his cheeks, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, entirely unaware of the chaos that had built around the hole his absence left behind.

For the first time in years, there was stillness. A pause in the grief.

Tony’s eyes never left him. Every inch of Peter’s face was committed to memory—again. The slight curve of his lips. The smudge of freckles under one eye. His too-long lashes. The shadows under his eyes that made Tony wonder if this version of Peter, too, had trouble sleeping.

Beside him, Bucky’s breath caught. Tony looked over just in time to see him swipe quickly at his cheek, his fingers trembling.

“God,” Bucky whispered hoarsely, his voice barely holding together. “I missed him so damn much.”

He dropped into a crouch beside the boy and reached out with a tentative hand, brushing his fingers through Peter’s curls. The soldier’s movements were featherlight, as if afraid the boy might vanish again if he wasn’t gentle enough. He carded his hand through the soft hair once… then again. His jaw clenched.

Tony swallowed hard, forcing back the swell of emotion rising in his throat.

“He’s here now, Buck,” he murmured. “He’s really here.”

Steve, silent until now, stood a little apart from them. He hadn’t said a word since they entered the room, his eyes locked on Peter with an expression that was equal parts awe and pain. When Tony turned toward him, it took a moment for Steve to blink, to come back to the present.

“Do you have the suit?” Tony asked gently.

Steve nodded and stepped forward, holding out a folded black suit lined with sleek blue accents across the chest. It shimmered faintly in the overhead lights, high-tech, soft to the touch, and reinforced to handle the stress of multiversal travel. Tony had designed it himself. It was built to keep Peter safe, no matter what.

Together, the three of them dressed Peter. Every movement was deliberate, careful. Bucky held Peter upright while Steve and Tony guided his limbs through the sleeves and legs of the suit. It felt ritualistic, like preparing a soldier for a mission, or a child for his first day of school. Except this wasn’t school, and Peter wasn’t going home from an adventure. He was the adventure. And this time, they were bringing him back.

Tony secured the oxygen mask last, pressing it over Peter’s nose and mouth and checking the seals twice before stepping back.

“Everything’s good,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

Without needing to be told, Bucky leaned down and slid his arms under Peter’s knees and shoulders. He lifted him slowly, carefully, like he was made of glass. Peter’s head lolled slightly against his chest, his curls brushing against Bucky’s jacket. The boy didn’t stir.

Bucky held him like something sacred.

Like something irreplaceable.

Because he was.

Tony looked from Peter to his teammates, his family, and gave a single nod.

Steve reached for the controls. With a quiet whirr, the portal machine behind them powered up, glowing with a blinding white light that shimmered like liquid stars. Energy crackled softly around them, growing in strength.

“Let’s go,” Tony said, his voice firm now. Certain. Hopeful.

And in the next breath, the light surged forward, swallowing them whole.

They were gone.

The room, once filled with purpose and quiet reverence, now stood hollow. Only the faint hum of the portal machine remained, and then even that faded into silence.

An empty couch. A faint indentation where a boy once lay.

And nothing more.

Chapter Text

The moment they vanished from one universe, they reappeared in another.

The journey was fast, but it was far from merciful. The transition pulled at them, tearing at the edges of their existence as they slipped between realities, every molecule in their bodies vibrating with the violent energy of the jump. It drained them in a way that left a heavy ache in their bones, the kind of fatigue that settled deep, humming beneath their skin like a bruise.

They staggered when they landed, boots hitting the cold metal floor of their lab with a dull thud, breaths coming faster than usual as they fought to steady themselves. It wasn’t enough to break them. They had survived worse, lived through battles that should have killed them. They were built to endure, forged to withstand storms that would have crushed others.

But this wasn’t about them.

This was about the boy in Bucky’s arms.

Peter. Their Peter.

His small frame was cradled carefully against Bucky’s chest, his head resting against the older man’s shoulder, curls falling across the oxygen mask strapped securely to his face. He looked so small like this, wrapped in the black and blue suit they had made for him, the fabric loose around his thin arms, the lights of the lab reflecting off the visor that covered his closed eyes.

He was so still. Too still.

The only sign that he was alive was the faint rise and fall of his chest, each slow, careful breath fogging the inside of the mask. It was such a small thing, that fragile breath, but it was enough to keep them grounded. Enough to remind them why they had done this, why they had risked everything, torn open reality itself, to bring him home.

Tony’s eyes locked onto that subtle movement, watching each exhale like it was the most precious thing in the world. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until Peter’s chest lifted again, and only then did Tony release a quiet exhale, shoulders dropping as the tension bled out of him, if only a little.

Steve hovered close, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face, his gloved hands flexing at his sides as if itching to reach out, to reassure himself that Peter was truly here, truly safe. The quiet hum of the lab around them felt deafening, pressing in on the three of them as they stood in that moment, suspended between relief and fear.

Bucky adjusted his hold, one hand gently brushing over Peter’s hair, pushing a stray curl away from the boy’s forehead with a tenderness that contrasted the soldier’s usual precision. His thumb lingered, resting lightly against Peter’s temple, feeling the faint warmth of his skin.

“He’s breathing,” Bucky said softly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something far more fragile. “He’s okay.”

Tony swallowed hard, forcing down the ache in his throat. “Yeah. He’s okay.”

But they all knew this was just the beginning.

Peter was here, but he didn’t know them. He didn’t know what they had lost, what they had fought for, what they had become without him. And when he woke up, when he looked at them with those bright, terrified eyes, they would have to face the reality that the boy they had saved might not see them as family.

Not yet.

But for now, Peter was here, safe in their world, breathing in their air, alive in a place that had mourned him for far too long.

And that was enough. For now, it was enough.

Tony took a step forward, reaching out to touch Peter’s shoulder, feeling the steady warmth beneath his palm.

The group stepped off the platform, the residual hum of the machine still echoing through the room like a fading heartbeat. Bruce was already moving, his footsteps quick and uncertain as he approached them, no, as he approached Peter.

He stopped a few feet away, frozen in place.

His eyes locked onto the small boy in Bucky’s arms, staring as if Peter were some kind of fragile miracle, like one wrong movement might make him disappear. Bruce's breath hitched, the disbelief etched into every line of his face. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted a hand, as if drawn by some unseen force, but stopped short before making contact, his fingers trembling inches from Peter’s curls.

“We need to get him to the med bay,” Bruce said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Run some tests… examine him. Make sure he’s okay.”

But Bucky’s grip on Peter tightened, protective, almost instinctive. He shook his head, firm and immediate.

“No,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “He doesn’t like the med bay. I don’t want him waking up in there, surrounded by machines and strangers. He’ll panic.”

There was a pause, the weight of his words settling between them. Bruce blinked, the scientist warring with the friend, the logical mind hesitating against the reality of the boy in front of him.

It was true. They all remembered that first day, the day they had brought Peter here, tiny and trembling, eyes wide with terror as the cold, sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air. The med bay’s harsh lights had glared down at him, buzzing quietly as if mocking the fear that made his small body shake. Peter had cried so hard that day, hiccupping sobs tearing through the silence as he clung to Tony’s shirt, refusing to let go.

As he grew, Peter’s fear never quite faded. The med bay became a place of needles and cold metal, of beeping monitors and unfamiliar hands. Even when he fell and scraped his knees on the pavement outside, Bruce would end up treating him in the kitchen, a patient, tired smile on his face as Peter stubbornly refused to step across the med bay’s threshold.

Now, seeing the boy limp and unconscious in Bucky’s arms, Bruce felt that memory like a pang in his chest.

He let out a quiet breath, nodding in agreement, his hand lowering to his side.

“Take him to the living room,” Bruce said softly, glancing up to meet Bucky’s steady gaze. “I’ll take a look at him there.”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, holding Peter a little closer, protectively, as if to shield him from even the thought of the cold, sterile med bay. Tony, standing beside them, placed a gentle hand on Bucky’s arm, his eyes flickering to Peter’s sleeping face.

“Let’s get him comfortable,” Tony murmured, voice thick with the promise that here, Peter would be safe.

Together, they turned and began the slow walk down the hall, every step measured, every movement careful, as if they were afraid that if they moved too quickly, the moment would shatter, and Peter would slip away again.

Bucky carried Peter with painstaking care, each step deliberate, as if the smallest jolt might shatter the fragile boy in his arms. His grip was protective, almost possessive, his metal arm locked firmly around Peter’s small frame while his flesh hand rested gently against the back of Peter’s head, shielding him from the world. Bucky would not let go, could not let go. Peter was his, theirs, the family they had fought for, bled for, mourned for, and no one, nothing, would ever take him away again.

When they reached the living room, Bucky hesitated, tightening his hold, forcing himself to breathe through the fear that if he let go now, Peter might slip away like a wisp of smoke. Slowly, with a control that bordered on pain, Bucky lowered Peter onto the couch, his fingers unclenching one by one, trembling as they released the boy.

He made sure to place Peter exactly where he always loved to be, on the left corner of the couch, the spot Peter had once proudly declared his own during movie nights, his small voice chirping with delight, “This is my spot forever!” They all used to smile, rolling their eyes fondly, but no one ever dared sit there. It was Peter’s, and seeing him there again, even unconscious, made the house feel alive for the first time in years.

Bruce moved quietly, rolling forward the equipment he had prepared, a small collection of scanners and monitors designed for efficiency and comfort. In truth, it wasn’t necessary. The second they had crossed the portal, Tony’s AI had already evaluated Peter’s vitals with ruthless precision, logging every heartbeat, every breath, ensuring the boy was stable.

But Bruce needed this. They all needed this.

It wasn’t about the data, not really. It was about the reassurance of seeing with their own eyes that Peter was here, safe, alive. It was about the gentle beeping of monitors confirming the steady rhythm of Peter’s heart, the quiet hiss of his breathing beneath the mask, the tangible proof that this was not a dream that would fade when they blinked.

Tony stood nearby, his arms crossed, fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep, eyes glued to the soft rise and fall of Peter’s chest. Every breath the boy took was like air filling Tony’s own lungs, a promise that they hadn’t lost him again.

Bruce spent the next hour quietly working, sticking all sorts of monitors to Peter’s small body with steady, practiced hands. Electrodes were placed gently on his chest, a pulse oximeter clipped to one finger, a thin cuff wrapped around his arm, the machines humming softly as they came to life, numbers flickering across the screens.

He drew blood with careful precision, murmuring apologies even though Peter was unconscious, and when he finished, he smoothed a small bandage over the puncture site. It was a brightly colored one, blue with little cartoon robots, something they kept around for Peter, even now, out of habit. Because he hated the plain ones, always wrinkling his nose and asking for “the cool ones” instead.

For the longest time, Bruce was quiet, reading the data scrolling across his tablet, eyes moving back and forth in calm concentration. It wasn’t until he pressed the stethoscope to Peter’s chest, listening intently to the boy’s lungs, that his posture shifted. His shoulders tensed, his brows furrowed, and his lips tightened into a thin line before a soft curse slipped out under his breath.

“How could I forget…” Bruce muttered, more to himself than to the room.

“What is it?” Steve asked immediately, worry creeping into his voice, his arms folding tightly across his chest as he stepped closer.

Bruce sighed, pulling the stethoscope from his ears, rubbing a hand across his tired face. “Peter has asthma.”

The words fell heavy into the room. Of course he did. Of course he did.

Just like their Peter had before he got his powers.

The memory hit them all at once. That day, burned so deeply into their minds it might as well have been yesterday.

Little Peter, maybe seven, sprinting around the yard on a hot summer day, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed with excitement as he giggled, running laps around the garden. Then the laughter had turned into a harsh cough, the cough into wheezing, and suddenly, Peter was on the ground, clutching his tiny chest, his face turning red, panic flooding his wide eyes as he struggled to breathe.

Tony could still feel the weight of that small, shaking body in his arms as he scooped Peter up, shouting for Bruce, sprinting to the med bay, Peter’s desperate gasps echoing in his ears like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. The fear, the helplessness, the terror that they might lose him in that moment, it was tattooed onto their souls.

After that day, every single one of them had carried an inhaler. There were inhalers in drawers, in coat pockets, in the kitchen, in the cars, hidden in every corner of the house, just in case.

Just in case.

And then, after Peter got his powers, the illness had vanished. The inhalers had gathered dust, forgotten in the backs of drawers, replaced by the boy’s laughter and endless energy as he swung through the skies.

And now, in this world, Peter wasn’t Spider-Man.

Bruce looked at them, his expression calm but firm. “We need to monitor him closely. The multiversal jump could  have put stress on his lungs, it could trigger an attack.”

Bucky moved closer to Peter’s side, reaching down to brush a lock of hair from Peter’s forehead, his hand lingering there as he let out a slow breath, trying to steady the storm in his chest.

Bruce moved aside, gathering the stack of medical records the three had brought back with them, his eyes scanning the files rapidly. The pages crackled softly as he flipped through them, his jaw tightening with each line he read.

“Unbelievable,” Bruce muttered, his voice low, simmering with quiet anger.

He flipped another page, his eyes narrowing as he read the clinical notes, the cold, impersonal words that described Peter like a case file rather than a child. The boy’s asthma was noted, but there were no follow-ups, no treatment plan, no inhaler prescriptions, nothing.

“They didn’t even give him any sort of medication,” Bruce snapped, the words harsh in the quiet of the room. His hands tightened around the folder, the paper crinkling under his grip as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “No wonder his lungs are weak.”

It was a simple sentence, but the weight of it settled like a lead blanket over the room.

Tony’s eyes darkened, his hand unconsciously. His mind was already spiraling, imagining Peter alone during an attack, scared, with no rescue coming, no inhaler to ease the burning in his lungs. Just fear, and pain, and the loneliness of a world that didn’t know how to take care of him.

Steve exhaled sharply, his fists curling at his sides. “They just ignored it?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They all knew the truth.

Peter had been alone in that universe, living a life without the protection he deserved, without the care they would have given him without question. It made something burn in their chests, something close to rage, tangled tightly with the guilt of not having been there to protect him.

Bucky lowered himself back onto the edge of the couch, his hand finding Peter’s small one, curling around it protectively, grounding himself in the soft warmth of Peter’s skin. His thumb brushed over Peter’s knuckles as he let out a slow, controlled breath.

“It won’t happen again,” Bucky said quietly, his voice firm with promise.

Tony nodded, eyes still on Peter’s face, taking in every freckle, every soft curl of hair, the slight rise and fall of his chest. “Never again.”

Because Peter was theirs, and this time, they would make sure he never faced a single breathless moment alone.

Bruce finally seemed satisfied, checking the last monitor before shutting it down with a soft click. He began packing up the medical equipment with careful precision, though his mind was already elsewhere.

“I’ll have to study my notes to determine the best medicine for his condition,” Bruce said, his voice distracted as he gathered the vials, wires, and notes before heading toward the lab, the door sliding shut behind him with a quiet hiss.

Tony let out a tired sigh as he sank down onto the couch beside Peter’s head. His hand hovered for a moment before resting gently in Peter’s curls, brushing them back from his forehead. The exhaustion was heavy in Tony’s bones, heavier than it had been in a long time, pressing down on him now that the adrenaline was gone and the relief of having Peter here, alive, was finally sinking in.

“Go rest, Tony,” Steve’s voice was gentle as he stepped closer, noticing the deep shadows under Tony’s eyes, the slight tremor in his shoulders as he tried to keep himself steady. Of all of them, Tony was the most worn, the weight of countless sleepless nights etched into the lines around his eyes. He had spent every waking moment searching, calculating, tearing himself apart in the lab to find a way to bring Peter home.

Now, they finally had Peter back, his small body safe under their roof, breathing softly in the familiar quiet of their home.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Tony could rest.

Tony didn’t look up immediately, his eyes tracing Peter’s features, taking in every detail as if afraid they would vanish if he blinked. His hand moved to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing gently, grounding himself in the warmth of the boy’s presence.

“I will,” Tony murmured, his voice rough, but he didn’t move just yet.

Because Peter was here, home, and safe, but the worst part was yet to come and he needed all his strength for it.

Steve took tony’s place beside the couch, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the quiet room. He glanced over at Bucky, and with a simple exchange of looks, Bucky nodded before slipping away to follow Tony, leaving Steve to take the first watch.

He settled into the chair, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he looked at Peter.

Their son.

Steve would never get tired of looking at him, of the way Peter’s lashes brushed against his cheeks, of the way his nose crinkled slightly even in sleep. It was still hard to believe Peter was here, real and alive, his soft breathing filling the quiet, grounding Steve in a way nothing else could.

But as he watched, Steve noticed the travel suit Peter was still wearing. Tony had designed it with the softest fabric possible, but it was still lined with protective plating, too heavy and stiff for resting comfortably. Peter shouldn’t have to sleep in something like that, not now that he was home.

Carefully, Steve stood, his footsteps soft against the floor as he made his way to his room. He opened the closet, his eyes catching on the hoodie tucked away on the shelf, the familiar deep navy fabric calling to him.

It was two sizes too big on Peter, drowning him every time he wore it, but Peter had loved that hoodie. He would steal it whenever he could, tugging it on and curling up on the couch, the sleeves hanging over his hands as he watched movies or napped in the late afternoon sunlight. Even though it lived in Steve’s room, it was Peter’s, and they all knew it.

After Peter’s death, Steve couldn’t bear to look at it, the fabric holding memories too heavy to carry.

Now, with trembling hands, Steve pulled the hoodie down, pressing it to his chest for a moment as his eyes burned, the scent of home and faint traces of Peter’s old cologne clinging to it.

Swallowing, he returned to the living room, dropping to his knees beside the couch. Gently, he began unfastening the suit, taking his time so he wouldn’t wake Peter. The fabric peeled away, leaving behind the soft warmth of Peter’s skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest a constant reassurance that he was here.

Steve slipped the hoodie over Peter’s head, guiding his arms through the sleeves, adjusting the fabric so it settled around him comfortably. It swallowed Peter whole, the way it always had, and something in Steve’s chest loosened as he tucked the hoodie around him, letting Peter rest in the comfort of something that was truly his.

Brushing a hand through Peter’s hair, Steve let out a soft breath, sitting back in the couch, his eyes never leaving Peter.

He would keep watch. As long as Peter was here, breathing, safe, Steve could sit there forever.

Peter felt the feeling return to his body slowly, like a tide rolling back in after a long, quiet night. His limbs were heavy, but not in a frightening way. Instead, they were warm, cocooned in a softness that made him want to sink back into the darkness and drift for a little while longer.

He was warm. Comfortable. Safe.

Each breath was soft, steady, carrying the faintest scent of clean air and fabric that he didn’t recognize but didn’t mind either. It was warm here, and quiet, and he was wrapped in softness that he didn’t want to leave just yet.

There was no rush to wake up, not when everything felt calm for once, like the world wasn’t pressing down on his chest demanding he move, think, fight, run.

Peter curled up a little more, pressing his face into the soft fabric that draped over him. It was big, heavy, weighing down on him in a way that made him feel grounded instead of trapped. His fingers found the edges of the sleeves, clutching them, feeling the soft, worn cotton bunch under his hands.

Slowly, the fog in his mind began to clear, and with it came questions, cold and sharp against the fragile calm. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, the soft light of the room making him squint. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, but not in a way that made his heart race. Instead, there was a softness here, a gentleness that made him pause.

Panic pricked at his chest, urging him to move, to run, but his body was heavy, tired.

He turned his head, scanning the room. It was bright and open, filled with soft light filtering through tall windows. The furniture was comfortable-looking, the kind of living room you might see in a catalog, but nothing about it sparked recognition in him.

“Peter.”

A voice gasped beside him, raw and disbelieving. Peter flinched, turning sharply toward the sound, and found a man sitting in a chair near where his head had been resting. The man was leaning forward, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re awake,” the man breathed, like he was afraid to say it too loudly, as if the words themselves might shatter the moment.

Peter shot up from the couch so fast that the room tilted violently around him. His vision darkened at the edges, a sharp wave of dizziness crashing over him, but he fought to stay upright, one hand gripping the back of the couch to steady himself.

“Who are you?” Peter demanded, his voice shaking as his eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, searching for exits, for any sign of safety. “Where am I?”

He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs, each beat sharp and painful, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. The man’s expression shifted, a flicker of hurt passing across his face before settling into something softer, something Peter didn’t understand.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the man asked, and there was something almost desperate in his voice, something that made Peter’s stomach twist.

Peter narrowed his eyes, blinking rapidly as the room continued to sway, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stay still or spin around him. He forced himself to look at the man, really look at him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a square jaw that was far too familiar, far too impossible.

No. That couldn’t be right.

“You’re… Captain America?”

Peter’s voice cracked as the words left him, disbelief tightening his throat until it hurt. His mind scrambled to make sense of the man sitting in front of him, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise his ribs.

Steve nodded, a soft, careful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, kid. It’s me.”

“But… but you’re…” Peter’s words tangled together, his thoughts stumbling over each other, trying to keep up with the impossible reality in front of him. “You’re supposed to be… old.”

He remembered the reports, the pictures of Steve Rogers at the end of the war, hair gray, shoulders still strong but lined with age, stepping back from the world he had spent his life protecting. The world had let him go, had let him rest.

And yet here he was. Sitting in front of Peter. Young. Alive. Real.

Captain America opened his mouth to reply, lips parting around words that never came. Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway, cutting through the charged silence, and before Steve could say anything, the door swung wider as more figures stepped inside.

“Steve, is everything alright? I heard-”

Peter turned sharply toward the voices, his breath catching, mouth falling open as his eyes widened, unblinking, frozen.

Standing in the doorway, looking just as shocked, was Tony Stark.

Peter’s world tilted.

It was him. The same Tony Stark whose face had filled every screen in New York during the vigils, whose name had been whispered with reverence, grief, and gratitude. The same man Peter had seen on posters, on murals painted across brick walls, on the small bronze plaque at the memorial in Queens, where Peter had laid a single white flower, fingers trembling as he set it down.

Tony Stark was dead.

But here he was, alive, breathing, looking at Peter like he was seeing a ghost.

“Peter,” Tony whispered, like the word was being torn out of him, like he couldn’t believe it, like he couldn’t breathe.

Peter couldn’t breathe either.

Peter’s mouth moved but no sound came out. The color drained from his face, his vision swimming. His chest seized painfully as his breaths turned shallow, too quick, not enough air in the room-

No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be real.

His knees buckled before he could even feel them give out. The world narrowed to the desperate echo of his heartbeat and the rush of footsteps lunging forward.

Strong arms caught him before he could hit the ground, pressing him gently but firmly to a warm chest. Someone’s hand cradled the back of his head, someone whispered his name like a prayer torn from a throat raw with grief and relief all at once.

But Peter didn’t hear any of it. The world went dark, dragging him under before he could ask the only question that burned in his mind—

How could you be here?