Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The footage skips, as a timestamp flickers on the edge of the frame, all but unreadable.

A blonde thirty six year old leans close to the camera, before his face lights up. He drops his hands into his lap. He takes a breath, weighing his words briefly.

“Okay, so this is on now.” The thirty six year old man in the spider suit leans back into his office chair, dark brown eyes rove across the camera he’s staring into before blowing out a sigh. His surroundings are a cramped home office covered in various charts hung on the wall and family pictures. “And now I completely forgot everything I was going to say, great, okay-“

“Sugar, the day you aren’t talking is the day the world ends.” A man’s voice carries over from off camera earning a squint from the man in view of the camera. He turns in his office chair to more properly squint at the other man, earning a laugh in turn.

“Quentin, I’m trying to give an accurate summary here to other dimensional us who are going to be freaking out.” He waggles a finger disapprovingly. “Hush.”

“I’m properly hushed now, I suppose.”

The blonde man rolls his eyes fondly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Right, right- I’m Peter Parker, I think I’ve reached out to another dimensions’ Peter, if my and Quentin’s calculations were right. We’re kind of… guessing right now. Nothing is particularly stable right now to say the least.” He exhales a little, growing more somber, “Our dimension is going to end in a few days. Quentin and I’ve known about it for two months so far. We’ve been fighting a war against the Elementals for ten years with little success. We’ve held them back mostly, but things are growing worse and worse with time.“

“They’re forces of nature, kinda hard to kill.” Quentin offers before walking into frame himself, leaning a little against the chair Peter’s settled in. He’s dressed casually in contrast to Peter, jeans and a t-shirt. He looks just as tired as the man he’s standing next to. “I lost my original dimension to these bastards, came here to try and stop it from happening again. Couldn’t do shit apparently.”

“Quentin…” Peter smiles at the man, reaching out to hold his hand. He laces their fingers together. He shifts in his seat to drawn Quentin in for a quick kiss. The taller man more than readily melts into the attention, only breaking the kiss to press his forehead against Peter’s own. The two just hold onto each other, seemingly drawing strength from being close for a moment longer before Quentin reluctantly draws back. He stands up fully now, dusting himself off as he looks to Peter to continue.

Peter smiles thinly back at the camera, “We’re being… rather unfair to you right now, Peter. Most people… don’t really want a baby suddenly appearing on their doorstep, but we’re at the end of our time. If there is one thing we want to be sure of, it's that she lives, even if we don’t.”

“We’re sorry about this.” Quentin manages with a slow exhale, sinking into himself vaguely. Grief is sharp and clear on his face. “We want her, god we want to raise her, but we know what’s happening. By the time you get this, we’re probably gonna be fighting or gone.”

“Please take care of Mayday. The flash drive this video is on has more information about elementals as a just incase, along all of Mayday’s information. So you can at least forge paperwork a little easier. We included a few things about us, our home for when she’s older.” The blonde man offers with a gentle shrug, his smile just dropping away entirely. “Mayday Peyton Parker-Beck, meet Peter Parker of another dimension. I hope things go smoothly.”

Quentin gives a rough tired kind of laugh. “She’s a good baby, the best baby. Already turning into a little spider these days.” He mimes sticking to something then points at Peter for emphasis. The blonde man snorts and playfully shoves Quentin away. Quentin chuckles lowly easily reaching out to scoop his husband up into his arms. The video cuts as the two share a smile.

The video footage skips again, before it cuts to a very tired Peter Parker cradling a swaddled infant against his chest. He looks a little younger, but his smile is bright and easy. Peter looks amused and exhausted all at once.

“So, how is my beautiful wonderful fantastic husband and our fantastic brilliant wondrous-“

“You don’t need that many adjectives, Quentin.” Peter cuts him off with a laugh, nuzzling into the baby in his arms. “I wish you were filming yourself, because you have the most ridiculous look on your face right now.”

“No, no, no- the world has enough Quentin, but not enough of this.” He zooms in on the baby, making Peter snort. The camera jutters awkwardly getting a close up of Peter’s face before it zooms back out. “Let her sleep, you monster.”

“Quentin! Do I need to come in there?” A woman’s voice carries from the next room. Peter bursts into laughter.

“Uh-oh, May’s coming!” Peter teased easily before Quentin swears quietly, the camera snapping towards the doorway. The feed ends with a scuffle over the camera and the sound of Peter’s laughter.

Another bit of footage whirrs to life, with Quentin holding the camera out in front of him, waggling his eyebrows as he leans into Peter. The blonde man snorts loudly, “Don’t you dare wake her up!” Even with the warning, the blonde man doesn’t stop Quentin from walking over towards the crib to peer down at the bundle of baby.

“God, would you look at her!?” Quentin says a bit too loudly.

A baby crying cuts into Peter’s groan and the video ends.

Beck’s first thought staring at the computer screen is Fuck me, Guterman was right, which feels like something so miniscule to focus on in the grand scheme of things. Just the thought of Guterman’s little fairytale about Quentin Beck, fighter of monsters, being true somewhere-

It’s a strange sort of feeling that hits him, half enthralled and half unsettled. Not all of it can be attributed to the fact that there’s an actual goddamn kid in the same room as him, the same one he’d just seen a clip of in that video. Beck’s never even prodded at the thought of having a kid before, too focused on work before things went to shit, and now-

Now the multiverse is real, the elementals are real, and some version of himself somehow shacked up with Parker. The proof of that last part is babbling away right now, in her weird little… carrier thing.

What the absolute fuck.

He casts a glance towards the carrier, and the baby- Mayday, what a fucking mouthful- seems to light up noticing him. She babbles some more, letting go of her tiny baby death grip on her blanket to reach for him and it’s- It’s a bizarre thing, now that he’s actually looking at her head-on and paying close attention. Now that he’s got a reference point for this funhouse of fucking bullshit, he knows what to look for.

Beck can’t tell the kid’s age for shit, could be anywhere from a few months to an outright year for all he knows, but he can hazily recall a few old baby photos. The family curls his mom used to coo over, a similar nose. It’s too early to see if the kid’s got Parker’s froggy mouth, too dark to judge her eye color, but-

The wild thing is, he might be buying into this bullshit. Just a little bit, because the bit of hair she’s already got looks ridiculously close to Parker’s, based on what he’d seen up close in the bar last night.

Fuck.

Beck thunks his head against his personal workstation, and the sound manages to draw out a peal of laughter. The sharpness of it makes his shoulders shoot up to his ears, and he ends up almost lurching out of his chair towards the kid to- to do something. He wishes he’d had more of that champagne last night right now, because maybe then he would have slept through the kid showing up in the first place.

“Shh, hey, hey,” he says, tone lifting up into something wheedling as he kneels next to May’s carrier, “we have a thing about inside voices, please, honey-”

The one thing he absolutely loved about the Prague space was the fact it was an abandoned theater, with enough space for their choreography and a real sense of history to the place. The high ceilings were a goddamn dream. But jesus fuck, did sound carry in this place, and-

“Quentin?” Victoria says from the main doorway. “What’s going on-?”

May laughs, another sharp squeal of delight, and Beck hunches in on himself. Jig’s up. He didn’t even get until morning like he hoped he would, because in no reasonable world is 3 AM morning. “Hey, Vic!” He calls out, doing his best to sound disgustingly, sickeningly chipper like a retail worker cornered at Christmas. “You won’t believe it! Guterman’s right!”

He hears the slight protest of the wooden boards as Victoria moves across them, but can’t bring himself to look at her. He already knows what he might see. “And what does Guterman being right have to do with a baby? Where’d you even get a baby?” she asks, a hint of wariness to her tone, and he can’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that slips out.

Materialized right in front of me as I was tweaking a potential illusion for the kid is not an acceptable answer, no matter how desperately he wishes it was. God, how Beck fucking wishes it was.

“Guterman was right,” he repeats, because that’s a safe thing to focus on. The easiest thing for him to hold onto at the moment, because otherwise he feels a bit like screaming and never stopping because the elementals are real, and a Quentin Beck was out there who could jump between worlds, and-

And technically, he has a kid.

A fucking kid because some jackass version of himself saw Parker and apparently went ass over tits for the guy. Something sour is creeping up in the back of his throat, Victoria’s still asking him what the fuck he means, and May’s still fucking laughing-

If he happens to scream right then, muffling the sound in his palms, he won’t admit a goddamn thing.

He straightens himself up a moment later, grimacing as his knees pop. Runs a hand through his hair to smooth it back out of his face, taking a steadying breath before he turns to Victoria fully. “Vic, I am about five minutes past a breakdown,” he says as pleasantly as he can manage, his smile all teeth as he clasps his hands tightly together, “and am running on goddamn fumes. If I have to explain shit, I will eat my own fucking hands, and you can figure out how to replace me.”

Victoria just looks at him, a look that only makes Beck want to shrivel up further. “Let's back this up Mr. Manos Hands of Fate, because I would like some answers, and what do you mean replace you?!”

Beck laughs again, and he can’t help the sharpness of it. If this is the only way he can get out some of this sudden churning mess inside of him, he’s going to take it. “What I’m saying is, I am about to break, and this?” He gestures between her and May, who’s now burbling which is- mildly concerning. Why is her first reaction to screaming to comfort, as she makes a grabby hand at him. “This isn’t helping! I don’t need the fifth degree right now! Just-”

He flaps a hand in the gesture of his computer, the goddamn USB still sticking out of one of the ports. For such a damning little thing, the gray and black of it is horribly underwhelming. “That has your answers, I legitimately have no way to explain it without circling around right back to Guterman was fucking right, and it’s-” He makes a frustrated sound, barely keeping himself from screaming again as he runs a hand down his face.

“You’re making absolutely no sense, and it’s shocking given how little sense you usually make in the first place.” Victoria says just a little dryly with a sharp frown. Victoria’s attention drops to the baby in the carrier. She walks over to try and pick up the infant.

Mayday squalls like a particularly agitated bird, and gums at Victoria’s hands ferociously. The woman startles a little in surprise as Mayday burbles loudly, and smacks at the side of the carrier. Mayday tries to gum at Victoria again, with no real success.

“‘You’re making absolutely no sense,’” Beck mocks underneath his breath, lashing out in an effort to get a handle on things again even if he wants to keep it to himself. Any other time he’d appreciate her no-bullshit attitude, but he wants to bite through a goddamn brick right now. “There’s no way to make this make sense, Vic, this is beyond-” He cuts himself off, watching with a horrible kind of fascination and dread as Victoria reaches for Mayday.

Does she have fangs? Jesus fuck, I didn’t look, Beck thinks, and startles a little at the smack of a tiny hand against padding. The squalling makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he winces.

His mom always said he had a set of lungs on him, but christ. “Don’t drop her. If you want me to explain shit, I will definitely need her.” Quentin continues after a beat, gesturing to the kid as he watches Victoria carefully pick her up. “Because, again: this shit is beyond you and me.”

It was maybe even bigger than SHIELD, or anything the Avengers themselves had ever handled. The elementals, an honest to fucking god Avengers-level threat-

Where he’d once been enthralled with the idea, all he feels now is a kind of existential crisis looming over his head he hasn’t felt in years. The same kind of choking terror of ash on his tongue, and the sky going to fucking crash in again-

(There was no one to catch it back then, with the Avengers so far up their own asses that no one even came as the world fell apart in a breath-)

He runs a hand through his hair again, gripping tightly to try and get a hold on himself. Ground himself in the moment, nasty as the habit could get if he didn’t keep himself reeled in. Tries to breath slowly and deeply again, instead of losing his fucking mind more than he already has. He looks at Victoria head-on as steadily as he can manage, still feeling an inch from slipping. “I only want to go through this once, so you can get the team if you want answers. And you can leave the kid here.”

A tiny part of him is stuck on that other version of himself, and the way he called the baby brilliant, wondrous, the best. Call it selfishness, but Beck wants to keep her if only because of that alone. Wants to know why the fuck the guy thought that, if they had even a streak of sameness between them besides their face and name.

For a flash he wonders if he could have ever been anyone besides Quentin Beck, or if he was always locked into this path. All he can do is drown the damned thought, and keep his eyes trained on his ex-coworker. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’ll do if she drops May.

(He isn’t sure when she became his ex-coworker, but he isn’t going to dwell on it.)

Victoria gives him another sharp look, and he can’t help how his hackles raise with it. “What? Do I have something on my face? Do I look like I would hurt a kid?” Beck continues as he gestures at himself, layering his tone with the right amount of disbelief and an edge of derision.

Him, kidnapping a baby? He’d expect Victoria, of all people, to know he would definitely aim higher if it came to that sort of shit. Hostages were a last resort deal, and the whole gig with Mysterio was keeping as many outsiders as possible out of the mix behind-scenes. In what fucking world was stealing a baby a viable option in any way?

Victoria looks like she’s about to say something, before her jaw tenses up. She walks close enough to shove an armful of baby and blanket at him, and bluntly says “Fine. If you’re not here when I get back, though, you are entirely on your own.” Any other time, her seriousness would be grounding, a rock for him to lean on.

At the moment, it makes him want to rip his own face off.

Holding May means he can’t do that, though, as she squirms in his arms. Squeals again, because apparently this is the kind of night it’s shaping up to be. Loud babies, no fucking sleep, and a fire underneath his ass to try and explain this shit when the rest of the team comes back. Ugh.

Beck shifts the baby to rest partially against his chest, and lets out a frustrated little huff. Looks down at May absently, and her eyes are… light, like his, as she looks back. Wearing a goofy, baby grin as one of her small hands grips his shirt surprisingly tight. Something wells up in his throat at the sight, and he swallows past it.

“Looks like it’s you and me, kid.” he says, the words coming out quieter than he’d expected as he smooths some of her hair back. “Just… you and me.”

He has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do about this kid.

Chapter Text

“Sweetheart.” His tone is plaintive, almost desperate at this point. “Darling, my little May-May.” He reaches a hand outwards, trying to keep his tone neutral as possible. If he panics, he’s aware that will set his daughter off. Those weird spider genes mean she feels things worse than he does.

“Please, please, get down from the ceiling.” Desperation maybe leaks into his tone.

The toddler just stares down at him with large green eyes. She just smiles at him, a huge excited smile as she kicks her legs out eagerly to flop on the ceiling. She wiggles and kicks her legs with a laugh. At this rate, she’s going to start rolling across the ceiling like a demon in a horror movie. He feels like he should get an old priest and an young priest to christen this shit ass apartment.

Beck pinches the bridge of his nose trying to take a steadying breath.

“I’m going to kick my own ass for ever fucking a weird mutant, god damn it.” He swears under his breath as he watches May roll across the ceiling with ease. He stares for a moment longer before scurrying off to grab an ugly throw pillow the neighbors had given him, a few tacks, a broom, and a blanket.

He pulls the blanket taut as he can just under Mayday, pinning it into the wall (goodbye security deposit, not that he was ever going to get that back) as he listens to the toddler sing baby shark off-kilter overhead. He’s sure his upstairs neighbors are going to have a few questions at this rate.

“Mother fucking, spider-genes, I swear to fuck-” He breathes out under his breath. He glances up, just parroting the obnoxious song back at her to be sure May stays in place. He grabs the broom, raising it to poke at the toddler.

“C’mon you…”

He feels like he’s batting at an actual spider instead of his child at this rate. The feeling is bizarre. Was Parker born with freaky powers and did his relatives have to deal with this? Is there a playbook for this bullshit? Should he install bug zappers to deter her from climbing near windows? Would that be child abuse?

“Remember when you were doing big plans? Remember when you were going to make a name for Mysterio?” He grumbles to himself, his voice overpowered by the same reframe of baby shark being sung overhead. “Now I’m here!”

He should be bitter. He sometimes has a brief tinge of it. It’s all a ghost of a feeling that is fleeting when he has Mayday balanced on his hip or the girl chanting with him over stupid shit they see on TV. Some part of him wants to be bitter, but Mayday always manages to make it melt away.

His thoughts only briefly wander to his daughter chanting ‘Better Watch Out’ on repeat during Christmas. Not that the line of thought lasts as Mayday grabs onto the broom with a delighted squeal. “Daddy!” She starts to climb down it with more agility than a toddler should have.

“I’m gonna need some baby nets around here…” He breathes out to himself. He holds the broom a steady as he can as Mayday just climbs her way down and drops into his arms.

Mayday just grins, reaching out to wrap her arms around his neck, kissing his chin and jaw. “You caught me!”

“I did!” He says just as chipper tonally as she was. He was mostly just standing here, but he'll take it. “Don’t give Daddy a heart attack by doing that without a helmet, okay?”

Mayday considers it, with an expression that is an odd blend of his own and Parker’s. A thoughtful twist to her lips and furrow to her brow. “I’ll take it into consideration.” She mimics his tone perfectly when he gives a noncommittal answer. If anyone else had turned that back on him, he would blow his lid. Instead, it startles a laugh out of him as May beams. She got him good.

“Oh.” He says, unable to stop himself. “I’ve raised a little shit.” He should probably not say that, but, it's too late now.

Mayday just grins at him, leaning in to kiss the bridge of his nose again. She snuggles her head under his chin, just content in his arms.

Chapter Text

May ‘Mayday’ Peyton Beck.

He rolls the name around his mouth more than once, wondering if he should have used something else instead. Painted less of a target on their mutual backs by using some old last name or another from his family. He doesn’t know if he and that other Beck, the one in the video, share that much of a past though, or enough of a life.

Beck’s self-aware enough to admit that he was a bit of a magpie when it came to names, and fickle with keeping them. The one he’d kept the longest was Louis Burkhart because it saw him through college, and him being comfortably himself for the most part. Before that he used his father’s last name still, but played with James, Alexander, Oz-fucking-mandias in a fit of grandeur that many would claim he still hasn’t shaken.

In a fit of insomnia-fueled programming at 2 AM, he’d had only a single vague thought about what the aftermath of Mysterio would look like. Another name switch, either slipping back into his old skin or trying on a new one. How he’d always liked the way his grandmother’s maiden name was written on the back of old photos, the R and I slanting together, the ‘hart’ with it’s heavy-handed looping letters.

Maybe Marcus, after Marcus Aurelius. Marcus Rinehart, with a clean-shaven face, and darker hair. Maybe some glasses to change the shape of his face, some kind of tint to the hair dye for another subtle change. Easy things to upkeep.

And then there was May.

May who wouldn’t have anything of the world she belonged to, besides a USB drive and her name. Maybe the blanket she’d been wrapped in, and the carrier she came in, but besides that-

That was one of the few things Beck has ever genuinely believed in, however quietly. The power of a name, and knowing who you were, who you wanted to be. He’d known he wanted to make something of himself, be recognized, and- Well. Technically he had, even if Mysterio was mothballed. Louis Burkhart’s contributions to Stark Industries would be forever wrapped in red tape and NDAs.

Parker-Beck was a mouthful. Beck could stay.

With EDITH to cover his tracks? Maybe Quentin Beck could also stay. Quentin Beck with his daughter, May, or whatever kind of name caught her eye in the future. If she took after him more than Parker, he wouldn’t be surprised if something like that cropped up.

But that’s years down the line at this rate, Beck thinks, running his latest forgery through a document scanner. When he glances over at her, she’s exactly where he left her. Snoozing contentedly in her crib, a small hand curled up underneath her chin. Just a small slip of a thing, who would still sit nicely in the crook of his arm if it came down to it.

He’s held her enough times like that now to know it intimately. Knows the soft curl of her hair underneath his fingers, the curve of her head in his palm. The feeling of May, formula-sated and sleepy, inefficiently grabbing at him as he held her closer.

It’s the strangest goddamn thing, how quickly that gesture’s become second-nature. Scooping her up and letting her rest against his chest whenever she got fussy, throwing some rocking into the mix when he was trying to lull her back to sleep. Holding her just for the sake of holding her sometimes, because he was apparently one of those parents, christ.

He blows out a breath, and taps at the side of the glasses to activate EDITH. “Darling, slide this into a local hospital’s records, would you?” He says quietly, indicating the new file on his desktop. “Set it back in…” He does the math, and grimaces. “...the end of August, last year. Pick whichever hospital was still in operation at the time, and the busiest.”

The thought of bringing a baby into the fucking mess of the last five years grinds his gears in every way, but it might actually be a vague benefit in the long run. An overworked doctor at a hospital stretched thin, a misplaced piece of paperwork added to the system a little too late. An easy explanation for how the Becks slipped through the gaps, and why they kept to the fringes until things were supposedly back to normal.

(Normal his fucking ass, there were still cracks everywhere he looked, but it wasn’t like he could just say that.)

There’s a soft reply of “Of course, Quentin, is there anything else I can do for you?” in his ear, and he mulls the AI’s words over. It would be so easy to ask for a backdoor into SHIELD, or just a quick glance at Parker’s life, see what they were up to since he left everything in shambles-

But his eyes catch on the shattered projector sitting next to his computer, the only tangible reminder he’d kept besides EDITH and his ring, and he lets the thought go. Mysterio had to stay dead, maybe forever. Quentin Beck has to live as long as he can manage.

EDITH might be able to cover him, but it would always be human error that gave him away. Negligence. If he doesn’t look beyond making sure EDITH is doing her job in keeping his face and name off of SHIELD’s lips, or anywhere on the internet, then he’s golden.

Just let him be the one that got away, the conman taken into their confidence who pulled off the crime of the century. A flashpan hero, gone back to his own world or some crap because SHIELD was too proud to admit their faults just like some other certain people. It’s funny how much of an ego those hacks share.

“That’ll be all upload-wise, honey. Notify me of any SHIELD involvement in the area afterwards.” Beck replies evenly, watching EDITH’s code at work through the system screen that has popped up on the lenses. Monitoring for any fluctuations, or possible errors. “Alert me if the ghost subroutine goes offline, or is tampered with.” Just because he didn’t want to go digging on a whim didn’t mean he was going to be a fool and write them off as nothing to worry about.

He knew what they’d do to him if they caught him again. He doesn’t know what they’d do to May. Ergo, they can never be caught.

Simple.

Chapter Text

He settles a hand carefully against the smooth surface of the top of the desk as the teenager in front of him fidgets. Her costume is a little rough around the edges, but it is clear enough she’s sewn protective elements into it. He can pick them out easily enough to combat them, but the fact she did that in the first place was a big step up to some of the kids who find their way to him.

Her height and body language screamed teenager, unproven hero. She’s eager for something to do with likely newfound powers.

Peter knows that feeling well. If MJ was here, she’d probably tell him he was the reason every rule existed for these kids.

It wasn’t the first teenager he had taken under his wing. Kamala comes to mind almost immediately. At this point, his life had taken on the role of mentoring young heroes. A lot of heroes at this point.

“Well.” Peter starts out slowly, the lenses of his mask’s eyes narrowing in thought. “You’re new to New York, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Spider, sir. Man. Sir Spider-Man.” she replies, nodding vigorously. Definitely a teenager, with that kind of energy. Peter was hoping she’s going to college at least.

Clearly, some things never change.

“Well, first off, welcome to New York, the big apple!” He spreads his arms wide, idly spinning in a circle around his office. His spinning earns a brief laugh from the girl before he comes to a stop back behind his desk. “Hopefully you’ve been settling okay.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely a lot.” The girl agrees, reaching up as if to scratch the back of her head only for her arm to fall. “Is it usually this… messy, this time of year? I thought my hometown was a lot, but geeze.”

Peter agrees idly, “Messy is the nicest way you could put it.”

“I mean, if it’s like this all the time, oof. I hope it’s just the heat doing this.”

Peter chuckles at that, “The summer definitely sets off the crazy, but New York is always active. Never a dull moment around here. It’s why we have so many superheroes, mutants, gargoyles, and everything else running around.” He would have to get in touch with everyone to warn them there was a new kid in town working with the other kids. That was after everything was settled after all.

“So… uh- what about me helping you?” She tries to be smooth to get to the topic she wants to talk about, but that is about as smooth as a brick against his face.

Peter couldn’t exactly blame her, but he does laugh a little. “I’d be more than happy to have you helping out in New York, but, there are rules to all of this.”

The teenager groans a little, “Rules? Really?”

“Really.” Peter supplies casually, grinning briefly under his mask. The fact this girl hasn’t run off yet is sign enough that she's dedicated to the idea.

“Look, the first rule of being a superhero, is ‘Do It For The Right Reasons’.” Peter says smoothly, well aware this part of the conversation always went nowhere with some kids. Some kids were responsible, sure, but… all kids wanted to just be a cool superhero with no real obligations.

“The right reasons?” The girl questions back, shifting where she’s standing. Even with her full costume, Peter could tell she was confused by his line of thought. Peter wanted the lesson to stick, at least a little bit. He wanted to protect these kids. He wanted to make sure they weren’t throwing themselves into danger.

“Are you doing this to help people? Are you doing this for revenge? Are you doing this because it makes you feel powerful? Do you want people to talk about you online?” He rattles off the questions easily enough, “You want to be helping people because it's what you want to do, and it’s the right thing to do.”

The girl in full costume finally stills. “I’m doing this because I do want to help people. I was patrolling around my hometown before I came here.” There is a defensive edge to her tone, but she clearly isn’t leaving. She is interested enough to hear him out. “Why are you giving me the fifth degree here?” The more she talks, the more the Chicago edge comes into her words.

“You’re not the first person in high school or college to show up in New York and start patrolling the streets in full costume. A lot of kids, and hell a lot of adults too- mutants, people who’ve just gained powers, or even a kid with a gun will put on a mask trying to be something more.” Peter says simply back, carefully trying to weave around his point to help her understand. “New York is a big dangerous place, and I don’t want to just throw you out there without any help, or encourage you if you just want to be famous.”

“Okay… fair. I forgot about the clout chasers for Super Heroics.” She answers with a roll of her shoulders. She was still excited about being a hero, but wasn’t a fan of rules if anything. “New York especially probably gets a lot of that.”

“Birthplace of Ironman and the Avengers tends to.” Peter says with an amused hum. He inclines his head to the side somewhat. “Second Rule, ‘You Do Not Work Alone’.”

“How many rules are there?” The girl in costume questions.

“If you complain, I’ll invent more.” Peter bats back at her casually, proceeding with his point. “You are a vigilante, technically working outside of the bounds of the law, but you’re under my care. You aren’t alone. You’ll be working with two fellow supers. One close to your age, by my guess, and one older to take over if things get rough. If you’re uncomfortable with the people assigned to you, talk to me. I’m here for everyone. I won’t make you stick with a group that could consist of your school bully in a mask or estranged evil twin sister in a rabbit onesie.”

“That sounds really specific and I kind of hate it-“

Peter just pushes past her interjection, “We’re all working together here. I’m not going to force you to stick to one team. I can always shake things up for your sake and everyone else's.” He taps his knuckles against the desk between then, "I'm Spider-Man, the friendly neighborhood spider-man, I'm here to help. Kind of my gig, as much as you helping people is yours.”

The girl is quiet for a moment, mulling over his words. “So, I don’t work alone…. Ever?”

“Nope.” Peter says, popping the p in the word casually in the process. “No solo patrols, ever. If you get shot, stabbed or vaporized by an alien, you’ll need the help.”

“Okay, I kind of hate the vaporized by the alien thing!”

“We all do!” Peter says relatively cheerfully, “You should see the scar I have from that.” He continues anyway, resisting the urge to dig into the point to watch the girl squirm. She’s a little snarky, but that never hurts. “You can also retreat to the safe house if you ever need it. Even if a villain is hot on your tail, the safe house will repel them from going near it.”

Now that held her attention from the way her body language shifted, “How does-“

“I will not be taking questions about the safe house capabilities at this time!” Peter blusters easily, “The safe house has medical staff on hand and amenities if you need a place to hide for a while. My only clause is no hiding from your parents or relatives if you guys had a minor fight. Arguing over Jeopardy doesn’t mean you get to live in the safe house forever.”

“Who argues over that stuff-?” The teenager questions a little baffled.

“You would be surprised.” Peter answers with a snort, shaking his head a little. “Essentially, me casa, your casa, except when you’re trying to blow me up. Then I’ll ask for a monetary fee of ten ring pops in penance for your crimes.”

“This is definitely a conversation I’m having.” The girl muses, clearly still baffled.

“For that, thirteen ring pops.” Peter says as he points at her for dramatic effect before relaxing again. “Look, I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe. Communication is key here. I want to protect my fellow heroes from the likes of General Ross and any Accords. You won’t be arrested or detained; I’ll be taking the brunt of any anger for what you get up to. All I ask is that you act responsibly and stick close to your group.”

“Is this actually legal?”

“Eeeh.” Peter waggles his hand in a vague so-so gesture. “I’m protected by a bunch of stuff I won’t get into, so I’m protecting you. No one signs anything, no one pays for anything, so there will be no paper trail to follow back to your actual life. You’re putting a lot on the line here already, and I don’t want your life to be derailed or ruined by superhero dramatics.”

“This sounds incredibly under the table, but organized.” The girl in the red and brown costume muses, still trying to take it all in. “Are those the only rules?” Peter is starting to realize its very brick patterned in a way. He has to hand it to this kid, she’s much smarter than he was at that age.

“Nope!” Peter carries on with ease, “Third Rule ‘Don’t Hide Injuries!’ Which is a lot more self-explanatory. Even if you have super healing or impervious skin, if you’re hurt even a bit, tell your team, so we can make sure it’s nothing serious. This includes accidentally swallowing something radioactive or an alien. If you were dinged by a poisoned weapon or actively submerged in something suspicious tell us.”

“Again, this sounds like a really specific example. Like, suspiciously specific.”

“You don’t want to know!” Peter says brightly, still going forward. “Fourth Rule ‘Communicate!’, keep talking with your team, us, and your family about what you’re doing. Unless absolutely impossible, you need to tell your parents or friends what is going on with you. Keeping that a secret is a horrible idea and it will backfire. Make sure you have a support system to go with this.”

“Well, my dad and best friend know.”

Peter had to admit, he’s impressed with that much. “Honestly, you’re way ahead of the curve here, and I feel like I owe you thirteen ring pops.”

“Can I just have a check instead-?” The girl questions back. Peter has to admit he’s being a bit of a pain as he opens his desk drawer to pull out a plastic box of ring pops and slides them over towards the teenager. He grins under his mask, “Pick your poison.”

The teenager pauses before reaching out to pick out a variety of colored ring pops.

“Good choices, good choices.” Peter muses, “That green one is really sour though. Watch out for that.”

She shrugs, tucking the ring pops into- concealed pockets? Nice. It’d taken him a bit before he started doing that with his own suit. “I like sour now and then, it’s- it’s fine. It’s like a…” She gestures vaguely, grasping for a word. “A controlled sort of overload sometimes? Is that weird-?”

“Not weird at all.” Peter says easily, “Sometimes a little controlled overload or chaos is good for the soul.” He draws the box back to drop it into his desk drawer before moving to grab the printed out packet.

“And this, is for you and your dad to go over. No, it isn’t a contract at all. It’s just laying out basic stuff about how to reach out for help, protective gear standards and what being a superhero is like long term.”

The teenager blinks a little, reaching out to take the somewhat thick packet of paper. “Should I memorize this?”

“It would be a good idea to memorize the resources page, and have a good idea of where you can reach out.” He reaches out to tap the top page. “Keep that one pinned on your family’s fridge, or on your bedroom wall out of sight whatever works for you.”

“This sounds very controlled, but like you’re a cheerful youth pastor trying to sell me on the life of a superhero.” The teenager comments with a snort. She tries to fold the packet to tuck into her hidden suit pockets.

Peter has to laugh at that, “Hey, look, I’m old, what do you want out of me?”

The girl looks at him from under her goggles. “Actual talent?”

“Oof.” Peter presses a palm against his chest, mock wilting where he’s standing behind his desk. He shoved his chair back at some point and forgot about it entirely. “I’ve been slain!”

The melodrama does make the girl laugh, and Peter considers that a plus. He bounces back to his full height, smiling fully under his mask. Kamala is definitely going to like this girl. Now the question was who else could he pull to patrol with them? Someone maybe a bit more experienced with a bit more level head. Kamala was definitely responsible, but she could get carried away at times.

“After you’ve talked with your dad, call back, and I’ll set you up with some people to run with. I already have a few people in mind.”

The girl nods, “Thank you- thank you, Mr. Spider-man, sir-”

“Just Spidey is good, kiddo.” He offers easily back with a chuff of laughter. “Mr. Spider-Man was my father.” He waves a hand dramatically, “And now is your time to ask questions! Got any?”

“Many!” The girl says brightly back. "I hope you're ready."

Peter already knows this is going to become a longer conversation, but he’s fine with that. He’s got the time. Ned is with the kids right now, and MJ is working.

He always has time for these kids.

"Make me question my reality and sanity," Peter says brightly back, laughing a little as the girl whips out about ten different questions. Kitty would like this kid too. Kitty would probably be a good non-patrol mentor to have for her.

Chapter Text

Beck blows out a breath, and lets go of his suitcase’s handle to briefly scrub a hand down his face. May burbles happily, reaching out a small chubby hand to grab at his jacket sleeve, and the weight of her shifting in her baby sling is oddly comforting. “Honey, I need that arm,” he says, vaguely amused despite himself, “we gotta get inside, right?”

He’s learned that trying to reason with May the way he would with one of his crew gets him nowhere, but for him it's an old habit. Defending his choices for a change in choreography, or bargaining for what he wants like comfort over aesthetic for his quick-change suit. Arguing why they couldn’t go through with London anymore, laying it out as neatly as he could at the time.

Now, he bargains with May to sleep a few hours longer, to not kick off her shoes. Gentle coaxes her to finish her formula whenever she gets fussy. Maybe it should feel like a step down, a slap in the face, but it’s just… different. New.

May babbles at him again, and Beck smiles slightly. “I know, kid, you wanna see the world. But little monkeys need their rest.” He presses a kiss to her head as best as he can, and it’s enough to distract her into letting go of his sleeve. It’s something he’s learned after a ripped sleeve or two: if he wants her to let go, give her something else to focus on. “Let’s see if shit’s set up yet, yeah?”

It’s easy to grab his keys with the cheesy I <3 NY fob attached to it, rubbing his thumb over the raised heart. Hooks his fingers back around the handle of his suitcase, reassuring himself with a glance that May’s duffle bag is still resting on top of it. It’s a real hodgepodge of a mess, discounting the boxes that’ll probably be inside, but-

He presses another kiss to May’s head, and steadies himself with the smell of baby shampoo. Beck has reinvented himself more than once in his life, a trail of old names and photos burning behind him, and with May?

How hard could it be, he thinks, unlocking the door to their new apartment easily, shouldering the door open. Sure, Chicago’s way windier than New York, and that thing on the USB mentioned May might have trouble regulating her heat, but… Well-made coats and blankets existed. Keeping an eye on the heater? Fair enough. It’s still summer, and he has time before winter comes.

If things hold, he’ll have plenty of time with May.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a man. A lonely traveler, the poet-rogue, whose tongue was his strongest weapon. He flitted to and fro across the lands, twisting in the wind. Never quite settling, staying in one place, because the poet-rogue was a restless beast, my darling.

People began to trail after him, but he was half-feral after so long alone. Snapping and snarling because that’s what they liked, those people. They liked his sharpness, that meanness, because to them, that was what life was. Something cruel, and to be endured. The poet-rogue agreed with them, because he would have agreed with anyone who looked at him, followed him, the way they did.

Even with them, he was horribly alone. Standing apart, because all they could see was the face he showed them: something mean and cruel, with everything good long-since buried.

…Ten years before, he had traveled with a magician. A man with enchanted armor, who spoke to the wind and the wind answered back. The magician had a star in his chest, and the poet-rogue asked How did you do that? Why?

And the magician told him how he had removed his heart, and replaced it with a star to make himself… brighter. Better. That came with a cost, the magician warned, but the poet-rogue didn’t care.

He asked again, How did you do that? And when the magician remained silent, the poet-rogue pressed once more invoking an old law in the land by asking three times: How was it done, o magician of iron and stars?

And so the magician was compelled to tell him. The poet-rogue ignored all warnings, all caution against removing his heart, and placed it somewhere safe. Somewhere that no one could ever find or touch it, deep in the wilds of the mountains.

The poet-rogue had nothing to replace his heart with, though, so everything good in him was buried with his heart. Carefully wrapped and cradled in the earth, with all of its warmth slowly leeching into the ground.

Ten years is a very long time, my dear, to taste only dirt in your mouth. To always have to bandage and cover the wound, so no others would be privy to his secret. He was a proud man, my darling, but that pride had turned… sour. Turned from something that straightened his back, settled his shoulders, into something that twisted instead. Something lodged between his ribs and his lungs, unable to be breathed past. Everything clouded by it.

He was not brighter, nor better. Just hollow. Empty. Angry.

And then the rose knight appeared.

The rose knight was different. Half-magician, half-warrior knight, with sunlight smiles and a sword pulled from thin air. He wore no enchanted armor, but he spoke to the plants and they spoke back. The earth itself was wrapped around his finger. Wherever he walked, roses eventually grew. Anything he touched was everlasting, bolstered by his gift. Ever-blooming, ever-hopeful. He was something bright.

He was something better, just by existing.

The rose knight had left behind his old kingdom with a child at his hip, and the sword only a breath away. On the run, because…

Time wasn’t kind to him. That kingdom wasn’t either. They tried to strip him of his heart, because to them it was an easy choice. Nothing to hold the rose knight back, yet all of the same power. But he wouldn’t be the rose knight without his heart. He would just be something… hollow. A shell. No spark.

He would have turned out like the poet-rogue, distant and cutting. Rageful because only the heat of anger can warm somebody up when everything else has been stripped away. The rose knight was more… capable, though, than the poet-rogue. He wasn’t choked by the vines threatening to drag him back. He tilted his chin up- yes, just like that, sweetheart, very well done- and continued moving onwards. Searching and protecting and always, always taking care of the child who he had willingly shared his heart with.

For you see, it’s possible to share hearts. It’s not an all-or-nothing sitch, not when it came to someone as skilled as the rose knight, or the magician of iron and stars. To protect his child, forever and always, he took a sliver of his own heart, and nestled it right… here. In there. Yes, where your heart is. It’s a metaphor we’re taking literally, honey, that’s just how it shakes out sometimes, but anyways-

The rose knight gave part of his heart to his child, so he could always be with her. So she too could step into shadows and come out somewhere else. So she would always be protected by the same blade he pulled from the air, always have safety and surety at her fingertips.

She was already part of his heart. The rose knight didn’t hesitate with going through with it. She would always be loved, always be warm. If he had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t want for anything.

Eventually, though, the rose knight and poet-rogue crossed paths.

The poet-rogue and his… troupe, which is fancy word for a bunch of actors at a theater. A group of actors is called a troupe, like it’s a rook of ravens, a murder of crows, but- anyways. The poet-rogue and his troupe were a tidal wave, sweeping from place to place. Stirring up trouble and anger. Stoking the fires of rage, because that was the last thing keeping him warm in those days.

But none of them knew about the rose knight who’d come to the seaside town. None of them paid attention to the man with flowers braided into his hair, or the child with a crown of flowers on her head. The troupe were confident, and blinded by that confidence. Fools who thought highly of themselves.

The rose knight definitely changed that, when he stood in front of the poet-rogue and said “You are wrong.” He didn’t falter as the poet-rogue snarled at him with bared teeth. Just titled his chin up again, and said “This is wrong. What do you think your rage will do besides rot and fester, o poet-rogue? What power is in your words when it’s the same story all over again?”

And oh so carefully, the rose knight reached out his hand to the poet-rogue. Met the other man’s eyes without flinching, even though the poet-rogue’s eyes were hollow and empty.

No one liked looking at the poet-rogue that closely. No one had done similar in years. But the rose knight did, and that, my darling…

That truly made all the difference, because it changed something in the poet-rogue that day. Made him pay attention to the rose knight, and wonder what sort of person could look at him that way. Wonder what sort of person didn’t look at his meanness and sharpness, and find in it the truth of the world. He wondered about this man who sounded so sure, so settled, and…

For the first time in many years, the poet-rogue reached out to someone else, and said “Tell me a new story then. What kind of tale would you weave, o rose knight, from these very threads?”

The rose knight grinned at him then, and it was as if a sliver of the sun had been pulled down to the earth. A similar bright flash. “Walk with me, with us, poet-rogue, and I’ll tell you.” The rose knight said. And when the rose knight began to walk away, child once more at his hip, the poet-rogue followed like a living shadow.

Continued to follow them from town to town, listening to the stories that were spun. Watching the way that the two walked through the world, never faltering. Always hopeful. Always bright. To them, life wasn’t cruel or something to be endured. They came across problems, sure, but they took it in stride. Talked to each other. The rose knight and his child treated life as a journey, and the poet-rogue was simply a new companion of theirs in it. Someone to lean on, just as the poet-rogue could lean on them in times of need.

Life to them was something to be experienced. We only go through a day once, after all, and so each day was a gift, a present you could say. That’s why we got the past, present, and future, honey. Yes, if you looked it up, that’s why it’s called that. Neat, right?

But, back on topic, sweetheart, where was I-? Oh, right. The poet-rogue traveling with the rose knight and his child. The way he got to see how the rose knight used his own words as both sword and shield, could cut through an argument with a single word, a careful sentence in the right place. How the other man did have his moments of anger, being scared, being tired, and yet still got back up. The rose knight could have become worn by what he’d endured, and yet…

He was still so kind. So kind, just as he was teaching his child to be kind.

And it had been a long time since the poet-rogue was given any kindness that it was… it was different to him. Strange. He didn’t trust it at first, because it’s hard to trust without a heart. Hard to believe that others can care, without some kind of reason behind it. But the rose knight and his child did.

In return, the poet-rogue learned once again what it meant to care for others. Learned how to offer a hand to them until it became habit, something that became carved into his bones. His heart was still in the distant mountains, buried, but new things were beginning to grow inside of him. Like the flowers in the rose knight’s hair, or twined around the child’s wrist. He came to know laughter and happiness better than anger and bitterness.

By the time the poet-rogue came to share his secret with the rose knight and his child, he too wore flowers. Careful things painstakingly sewn into his clothes, woven into the bandages that helped hide the hole in his chest. Not something living, and yet- they still bloomed with the passing of time. Grew just as anything around the rose knight grew.

The poet-rogue confessed that he’d buried his heart, and long-since forgotten exactly where he’d buried it. He’d always remember the mountains, the rich darkness of the earth he cut into, but it wasn’t enough to regain what had been lost. “I can live like this, I know I can,” the poet-rogue said, “I’ve done it long enough.”

The rose knight shook his head though, and gently took the other man’s hand in his. Said “You shouldn’t have to, though. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

And something in the poet-rogue’s chest finally… eased. Like he could breath, fully and deeply, without the pang of a missing heart. Could taste jasmine on his tongue, like the tea he shared with this little family he’d become entangled with. The family he’d grown into, like flowering vines entwining.

The poet-rogue never regained his original heart. But…

But, my darling, he was given a sliver of the rose knight’s one day. And he carefully held it in his chest like a precious gift, tending to it as the rose knight tended to their garden. Watching it grow, turning into something shared between both of them. A promise.

Eventually, the poet-rogue’s heart filled out again. Never quite filled the gap, but remained steady and strong anyways. Strong enough for him to take a thread of it out, and carefully offer said sliver to the child. An assurance she would never walk alone, or need of anything, as long as he breathed. A guaranteed tether just as the rose knight was tied to her, ensuring she would get the chance to flourish because-

It wasn’t just the rose knight who stitched the poet-rogue back together. It was also a child with a crown of flowers, who…

Who never stopped believing, even when the poet-rogue couldn’t believe in himself.

No, ah- I’m- I’m fine, honey, just- dust in my eye. It’s fine. A fleck.

Some say the poet-rogue is still out there though, with the rose knight and their child. A family, living… living happily ever after, sweetheart. Yeah. Just like in the fairy tales, May-May.

S’time for bed now, muppet. Sweet dreams.

Chapter Text

“You’re different than he was.” The statement hangs between them as Beck blinks a little. The dark haired man’s attention shifts in Peter’s direction. The blonde man balances his elbow against the kitchen counter. Beck shifts on the stool he’s seated on to just gaze at the blonde man.

“Well, I’m going to assume that's good.” Quentin says after a moment, his expression pinched in a way Peter wants to smooth away. 

“It’s new.” The blonde man admits. “I’m so used to… the Quentin I knew.” 

“Yeah, the big hero.” The seated man breathes out, seemingly dejected. Peter gives into his impulse to lay a gentle hand against Beck’s shoulder giving it a squeeze. His touch is careful, decidedly gentle. 

He barely knew this man, this variation of his husband, he has to remind himself to be distant. Be polite. Don’t push it, Parker. 

There is so much they still have to figure out about each other. 

Peter sighs quietly back, “I don’t know a lot about you yet, but, I do know you’re a hero in your own way.” The blonde man feels like he’s just mangling his words right now. “You took on Mayday, you didn’t have to, but you did.”

There’s a huff of a laugh, but the edge to it is more bitter than Peter remembers as Beck scrubs a hand down his face. “That’s not heroic, it’s- it’s selfishness. She…” Beck slumps a little, leaning into the touch slightly. It feels just as careful as Peter’s touch was in the first place. “She reached for me. And I kept her. It’s- no. I’m not.”

The blonde man squeezes his shoulder again, trying to offer something comforting in turn. He feels useless. “Most people would have given her up, Quentin. Even if she reached for them. Not everyone is ready to have a baby or wants one.” He and his spouse had tried to find other people to take Mayday when they thought things were getting more dire, but every superhero was so spread thin no one could.

“It's heroic in a different way. You love her. That’s all I really wanted.” He laughs a little, the sound tired, reedy. “Let me give you that much. Let me please give you that much. I don’t know what else I can offer. I’m just a stranger in your home taking up space.”

“Stay.” Beck replies almost immediately, and for a moment the seriousness in his voice rings the same. Hits the right familiar note that wraps Peter’s heart in a vice. “Please. You’re not a stranger, at this point. It’s- I’ve seen the videos, and you’re real. You’re here.” Beck reaches up slowly, hand pressing against Peter’s tightly. 

The other man still hasn’t put his wedding ring back on, false as it may be.

“That makes all the difference.” Beck says, voice less firm now. Soft as if admitting something. “Unless you’re an absolute shithead, you’re good with me. And you wouldn’t do all of this if you were.”

The insistence on staying surprises Peter. His brows pinch together a little,  “I… a video is a lot different than an actual person, Quentin.” The lack of the ring was odd, jarring in a way. The familiarity of cool metal against his skin the few times they touched had been comforting.

He buried his Quentin with both of their rings. He buried what was left with one of the few stuffed animals of May’s they still had. He had taken on the mantle of Mysterio instead of Spider-Man. He had promised to seal away the Elementals. 

He did what he could. 

“I want to stay.” He admits quietly back, “I want to be in May’s life. In your life.” He’s honest with himself in that much. “I want to help where I can too.” 

His lips quirk into a brief smile, “You might have to help me there too. I’m a bit of a fish out of water. Or spider out of his own dimension.”

“Then stay, I mean it. I don’t…” Beck laughs a little, and at least the bitter edge is gone now. Just a familiar kind of tired that makes Peter want to reach out and comfort him in some way. He doesn’t. It’s so much effort not to. “I don’t have a lot of friends around these days. But you’re… here. Present. I know my way around computers enough to get you a life. It’d be easy.”

The other man is smiling, but it slants differently than Peter remembers. More wry and down-turned than light and amused. Seeing the overlaps and the differences can be so off-putting at times, and this is no different.

“You’re handy with a computer here, huh?” He teases lightly, trying to find something easier to hold onto. “My… Quentin- he could barely unlock his phone sometimes. I had to help him so often.” 

A part of him just wants to burrow into the other hand. Three years without Quentin Braven Beck, and here he was. Similar yet different. 

Not the same man, not the same life. 

Different mistakes, different dreams. 

Maybe they can be friends here. Good friends who co-parent well. That’s all Peter really wants. 

Quentin would never love him. He understands that, he knows he’s too broken. A broken blade unable to fit back into its sheath. 

He hesitates just for a moment before placing a hand against Quentin’s cheek, brushing his thumb across the man’s facial hair. “I’ll stay. I don’t want to lose her, or you again.” He makes it a promise.

Quentin leans into the touch again, careful and tentative. Like he’s expecting Peter to take his hand back at any second. Another one of those little differences. 

The Quentin he knew had been… settled. Comfortable with it. There’s a soft exhale, the other man’s breath shuddering a little before he speaks. The firmness and surety is back again, even if it’s not to offer up a change of attack.

“Constants and variables, then.” Quentin says, blinking slowly like a cat. The blue of his eyes is enough to remind Peter of how different things are now. How they’ll probably be for the rest of his life. Another laugh, small and fragile. “We can work with that. But I’m not going to be him. I’m just… an engineer these days. No heroics. Just a few tricks. I’ll have to use one to get you a life. Interested in seeing behind the curtain-?”

“Just be you. That will make me happy.” Peter says gently, encouragingly back. He knows he’ll be making the comparisons in his head for a long time, but he wants to be sure the other man doesn’t feel that in their interactions. Doesn’t feel judged. Peter doesn’t want his grief to overpower everything.

“I’d like to, if you don’t mind letting me see you work.” 

With reluctance he draws his hand back. Peter doesn’t want to crowd Quentin any.

It takes Quentin a moment to speak again, finally moving off of the stool as he scratches at his jaw. “It’s gonna be piecemeal for a bit. Things have started settling down so we’ll have to be a bit more careful, but-” He shrugs, a loose lazy thing. No wince as an old injury is pulled at. 

No old injury at all. Peter wonders if this Quentin has any scars at all, only to shove the thought down. It’s not something he’s allowed  to ask.

“Edith can doll things up and slide them in. We just have to make the base for them.”

“Edith-?” Peter questions with interest, tipping his head to the side slightly. “An AI?”

Beck nods slowly, his lips quirking briefly into a smile. “An AI I had a hand in making. It’s a long story.” He waves it off. “Better if we start now, before we lose any chance of getting you in the system.” 

“Did something happen-? Well, something world ending?” 

Quentin exhales a little, “The Blip, Snap, Vanishing, whatever the hell people call it. It’s- a whole thing.” He starts walking, and Peter falls into step behind him. Peter finds his eyes drawn to the familiar dips and curves of Beck’s body as the man walks. His mind mentally cataloguing the differences. The guilt of observing slams into him hard enough his gaze diverts back to their surroundings.  

The man slows at a doorway, popping it open with ease, walking into what Peter can guess is an office. Quentin’s office is small, barely big enough for the both of them. He hesitates at the door, heart in his throat before walking into the room as well. 

Even when Quentin sits down at his desk, there isn’t much room for either of them. Peter shifts to sit against the wall, sticking to it with ease. 

He watches Quentin work, listening to the man talk. 

The cadence of Quentin’s voice is soothing in a way Peter hadn’t realized he missed. How long had it been since he heard Quentin Beck talk about something like this? The lulls and rises of his voice, the inflection he had on certain words, the lilt as he went over something complex.

“You still with me?” The question startles Peter a little, he blinks and laughs self consciously as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Yeah, I am, sorry- I’m just- distractible.” He smiles at Beck teasingly. “You’re almost done right?”

Beck laughs a little, but the sound is easier. Lighter, as he rubs at the back of his neck. “I’ve got the basics down, at least. Birth certificate, credit record, bank account shit. We could do a ‘reversal of death’ certificate, but I already set May up to be born during the Snap to…” 

There’s the quiet click of his teeth against each other. “Take advantage of how muddy things were. So we’d have to work around that. There’s also your name. Peter Parker already exists, so-”

“Right, I’ll need to pick a new last name.” Peter muses with a brief scrunch of his nose. There are a lot of names he could take.

He nearly suggests the name Beck before catching himself, clicking his teeth together nervously. He can’t. He really can’t. 

He doesn’t want to make this Quentin uncomfortable.

 “O’Rilley. Peter May O’Rilley.” He says finally, managing a smile. 

“You’re going to have to spell O’Rilley for me, but besides that-” Quentin shrugs, fingers clacking away at the keyboard already as his focus turns back to the screen. “Want me to add a few years to your age, take a few off? I’d guess you’re… what, early forties? Same as me. New York feels like a given for where you were born.”

Peter spells out the name easily enough, finding his smile warming up further. He leans a little further back into the wall. “Keep it to 38 I guess. Seems safe enough. Born in New York, Enchanted Hills. May was born there too, well, what was left of it.” He rests his hand against his cheek. 

“I could show you the hospital, if you’d like.” Peter realizes how weird the sentiment is, “Sorry, that’s… stupid.”

“No, it’s- fine. A nice touch of realism, unless you want me to pick a place at random.” Quentin replies, sounding partially distracted. The light of the various windows and tabs play over his face as he switches between them, filling things in rapidly. “A bit of the truth to hold on to.”

For a split second, the focus on his face is- exactly the same. The same kind of sharpness in his gaze as he pulls apart a problem, the way his hands splay over the keyboard instead of an interactive map. It’s an unexpected kind of hurt, and Peter-

All he can do is breathe through it, even as his smile flickers.

Chapter Text

"Wait. Stop the video." Beck says, making a short, sharp gesture as if cutting something in midair. William pauses it, and the sight of himself alongside the other, blonder Peter Parker mid-word is still disorienting. Leaves him on far shakier ground emotionally than he wants to admit at the moment. "Zoom in on my- his? His face. I thought it was the lighting earlier, but he- he has green eyes. Why does he have green eyes?"

It seems like a small thing on the surface, a no shit, Sherlock level of observation, but the thing is-

That'd been in their plans once, too. An idle thought about how maybe Mysterio's eyes could change color while tapping into his powers or something, an easy shorthand as well as visually interesting.

Then they'd scrapped it because even if they wanted a bit of an edge, something remarkable and otherworldly about their hero, there were no quick-change contacts. No feasible way to have a drone constantly monitoring for that specific set of circumstances in order to make the switch happen. Just a small detail that would have bogged down an already hard to swallow story.

But the other Quentin has them. Has green eyes and a hint of gray in his beard close to the underside of his jaw, and-

It's Janice that notices it first. "That thing on his neck- is that a scar? The side furthest from Parker-” As she speaks William’s fingers clack on the keys, the image moving down, to the right. What Beck had written off as a shadow is mottled skin, pink-white-silver splashed messily around like an-

Oil splatter. A burn. 

Guterman swears, loudly. When his hands slap down on the tabletop, none of them jump. They’re all too tired for it. “We scrapped that. Didn’t even get far enough into planning for placement, and I-” The words pour out of Guterman’s mouth quickly, a flood of them where usually he took his time, made sure everything clicked together as neatly as puzzle pieces. “I wanted the neck. The jaw. Statement pieces.”

Statement pieces, like it’s some avant-garde collar around the other Quentin’s throat. Something crafted of silk and jewels and twining silver wire, instead of skin and muscle. 

“Well, there’s your statement piece,” Beck says, feeling mildly dazed. Like he’s standing outside of himself, eyes still glued to the projection. “There’s your fucking statement in technicolor.” Even Guterman’s flinch isn’t as satisfying as it was last night, but at this point he’s running on three hours of sleep and wants to scream.

This was supposed to be their puppet. Their story . And now it’s running off of its strings, is moving in front of them like a goddamn zombie-

Even, steady breaths.The cut of his own fingernails into the side of his arm as he closes in on himself, crosses his arms and hunches in a little which- no. Loosen up. Maintain the image. He’s in control here, he can work this, he’s the puppet master-

Shoulders back, arms back at his sides. Tilt the chin up just enough to inspire thoughts of confidence rather than cockiness. “William, get EDITH on analyzing this, frame by frame. See if she can find anything from the background. Book titles, sticky notes, whatever she can clean up out of the background, we’re taking it. I’ll comb through the rest of the drive personally.” Carefully meet each gaze, a commander to his men. An executioner standing next to the guillotine, awaiting any eager volunteers. “Any objections?”

No one disagrees. He doesn’t let the kid out of his sight the entire time.

(He’ll blame Berlin going to shit on this exhaustion later, the tidbits he’s gleaned on why he hesitates when Parker is mere inches from the train. It’s weakness, plain and simple. Shreds of sentimentality knee-capping him at the worst moment because-

It’ll never happen. It is never going to happen. He isn’t some goddamn freak who pants over teenagers, he has some fucking standards-

But Mayday already has those goddamn ears, his head hurts, his eyes ache from staring at screens all night and all fucking morning, and-

He hesitates, and it’s mere seconds before his comms light up.)