Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

Peter opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. The cold fluorescent light burns even behind the protection of his closed eyelids. He shifts slightly on the uncomfortable linen of the hospital bedspread and winces as a spark of pain shoots through his ribs.

“Mr. Parker, I’m glad you’re awake. Look into the light, please,” says a woman’s curt voice.

Peter reluctantly cracks open one eye. Someone shines a light into his face, nearly blinding him.

“Pupils seem normal and responsive, Mr. Stark,” The woman says. Peter feels a rush of relief at that name. Great, his adoptive parent is here.

Peter blinks past the giant blob in his vision and sees the dark-haired man standing a few feet from his bed. Tony Stark is dressed in a sharp three-piece charcoal grey suit, his black dress shirt casually opened at the collar.

“Dad?!” He blurts out, “What’s going on? Why’m I in the hospital?”

Tony shoots him a funny look, and now that Peter’s got a better look at the man, he notices the fading remnant of a massive bruise along his cheek and faint purple smudges under his eyes. Strangely, Peter doesn’t recall him getting hurt recently.

“Did you hit your head, Parker?” He asks, folding his arms across his chest impatiently. “Look kid, how much do you remember?”

“I was at the house with Wade and the others, you were there, too. Last thing I remember was going to bed..." Peter peers up at Tony, puzzled. “How did I get here?”

“Right, I’ll tell the doctor to check you again for that concussion,” Tony lets out a loud exhale and starts making his way toward the door.

“I’m not concussed, Tony,” He insists, sitting up with a wince.

“Tony, huh? We're on a first-name basis now?” The goateed man pauses, raising an eyebrow in Peter’s direction as a slow smirk appears on his face. “What happened to all that blushing and stammering and calling me ‘Mr. Stark’, Parker?”

Peter gapes wordlessly as the door slams shut behind his adoptive parent.

What on Earth is going on?

He reaches over and yanks out the IV drip, kicks away the thin scratchy blanket over his knees and slips off the hospital bed. Peter spots a backpack on a nearby chair and crosses over to it, fishing around in the thing until he finds his StarkPhone. He keys in his password without thinking.

The phone buzzes angrily in his hand, red flashing over the screen.

Wrong passcode.

He stares down at the screen for a long moment before choosing the Touch ID instead. He unlocks the phone successfully this time. There’s a picture of Gwen Stacy as the background. Peter’s mind files away that piece of information as he dials Wade Wilson’s cell phone number by memory.

Someone picks up on the third ring, a rough “Hello” echoing down the line.

“Oh, thank God, Wade. It’s me, Peter. I don’t know what’s going on. Why am I in the hospital? What happened? Where’re you guys? And why is my dad channeling his creepy pervert vibe again? I mean I thought he was past that phase-”

“Who the fuck is this?” Wade’s familiar gravelly voice interrupts Peter mid-rant. He hears the click of what sounds like someone taking the safety of a gun in the background, “How’d you get this number?”

“Wade?” Peter’s heart pounds in his ears.

He hears a click and the line goes dead. Peter stares down at the phone in his hand.

The door behind him opens and his body moves without thinking. One moment he’s standing by the backpack and the next, Tony Stark’s startled face is suddenly flipped upside-down. The surprise fades from Tony’s face as soon as it had surfaced, quickly replaced with a faint edge of annoyance.

“Get down here, Parker,” He hisses, snapping his fingers. “Your hot aunt is coming in any minute, so unless you want to explain to her why you’re crawling all over the ceiling like a possessed little girl, you’d better get down.”

His aunt? What aunt?

Peter looks down slowly.

The ceiling light is a few inches left of his elbow.

Holy cow, he really is on the ceiling.

Without Venom’s help.

Peter pulls at his hand. It remains firmly planted on the ceiling. Panic swells in his chest.

“Get down,” Tony repeats, eyeing the door behind him, “now!”

“Pete? Peter, are you alright?” A woman’s distressed voice shouts from the corridor. The door gets yanked open the at the same time the ceiling panels comes crashing down.

Aunt May, alive and well, stands breathlessly at the door. Peter stares back, heart thumping painfully against his ribcage, the ceiling light and chunks of the plaster overhead dangling behind him as he quickly folds his hands behind his back. There’s still a sizable piece of the ceiling attached to his fingers.

“It's alright, nobody's hurt. I’ll pay for the damage,” Tony calls out behind him when a few of the nurses come running at the loud crash.

May rushes over and wraps Peter up in a tight warm hug, but he's frozen to the spot because his Aunt May had died a few months after Uncle Ben. Peter's aunt had been dead for over a decade. He had no relatives left, so Tony Stark had adopted him. This woman-

“Oh Peter, I was so worried,” May pulls back to press a kiss to his forehead. She smells just like the rosy perfume Peter remembers from his childhood. “Mr. Stark called me in the middle of my shift and said that you’d collapsed in the lab. It was only your second day into the Stark Industries internship and-”

“Internship?” Peter asks blankly. “What internship?”

“He may have hit his head,” Tony says quickly behind them. He scowls at Peter over May’s shoulder and presses a finger warningly against his lips.

“Oh, that internship,” Peter echoes flatly. Tony folds his arms over his chest.

“Mr. Stark, can I take him home?” May turns to ask the man who is obviously not Peter’s father.

He catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the glossy plastic cover of the dangling ceiling light.

It’s that same face, mousy hair, brown eyes and a sprinkle of light freckles over the bridge of his nose.

But-

Peter would recognize that constipated expression anywhere. After all, it had been permanently engraved in the 45th page of his high school yearbook. Voted most likely to die a virgin.

Wait, high school?

Across from Peter, his 16-year-old reflection’s jaw drops open.

What the hell is going on?

Chapter Text

Villain!verse

There is someone in Peter's bed when he wakes up.

A thick, muscular arm is wrapped possessively around his bare midriff, the skin heavily marred by numerous scars and burn marks. For a long moment, Peter just stares down at the limb with detached interest. He feels an equally naked chest (scarily absent of boobs) pressed snuggly against his shoulder blades, gentle puffs of warm air tickling the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

Peter’s backside aches.

His sleep-addled brain finally puts two and two together, and the screech of blind panic claws its way up his lungs, past his convulsing throat and out his mouth when Peter realizes he’s plastered against a naked man.

He kicks out blindly, left heel meeting soft squishy parts that his brain tries adamantly not to linger on, and the man spooning him from behind topples off his side of the bed with a yelp of pain. A loud string of crude curses follows in his wake.

Peter scuttles across the giant king-size bed like a crab and bunches the sheets around his waist. Discomfort shoots up his spine when he puts pressure on his ass, and goosebumps break out all over Peter’s skin.

There's no freaking way he'd slept with a dude last night because he would know. Even if he’d gone out to do some illegal bar hopping with Ned and his fake ID and got completely wasted, alcohol tends not to stay in his system for more than an hour or two. Point is, Peter would’ve known if he’d taken a cock up his ass. And pretty hard, judging by the flare of pain in his lower back.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby boy. What was that for?”

Peter tenses when he hears the man groan from the floor. Then an equally scarred head pops up from the other side of the bed, quickly followed by broad shoulders and a lean well-muscled torso, and-

Peter can’t help but sneak a brief glance between the man’s legs.

Ah, that’s why he feels like he’d taken a horizontal baseball bat coated liberally in sand and glass shards up the ass.

Peter’s stomach churns with nausea.

The disfigured man makes a confused sound and reaches out a hand. Peter flinches back off the bed and makes a mad dash for the door.

“Jesus, we won’t do the ‘wheel barrel’ anymore if you hate it so much!” The stranger yells after him, “you were the one who suggested it in the first place, sweet-puff.”

Peter is so busy trying to untangle himself from the sheets that he doesn’t see the person until he runs head-first into a solid chest and loses his footing. Large hands wrap around his elbows, steadying him.

“Where are your clothes, kid?” A soft confused voice asks. He looks up and see the Winter Soldier of all people, staring down at him with puzzled concern on his face, long brown hair dripping from a recent shower and wearing only a pair of loose black sweatpants. His metal arm glows like liquid silver in the bright morning light.

Strangely, Peter calms at the sight of the former Hydra assassin. He knows for sure that the real Winter Soldier is thousands of miles away with Captain America because Mr. Stark had just told him about the letter he’d received from Steve Rogers yesterday.

“Do you have a fever?” To his fascinated horror, the dream-version of the Winter Soldier presses his flesh hand to Peter’s forehead, looking past the teenager’s shoulder with a heavy scowl. “I told you not to exert him after the battle, Wilson.”

“Exert him? Me exerting him, Barnes?” The heavily scarred man steps out into the hall, completely comfortable being naked in their presence as he huffs indignantly. “He snuck into my room in the middle of the night and rode me like a fucking show pony.”

The man folds his arms over his chest and arches a nonexistent brow at the disgusted noise the Winter Soldier makes.

“Put on some pants before I rip it off and feed it to you.” The Hydra assassin grits out between clenched teeth.

“I’ll just grow another one in a couple of hours,” The man sticks out his tongue in a childish gesture of retaliation.

Peter's contemplating the possibility of having had an unwilling threesome with the Winter Soldier and the naked stranger when a third half-dressed man pokes his bald head out of a doorway down the hall.

“What’s all the screaming for? It’s barely eight in the morning.” He scowls, muscles flexing as he shrugs on a long-sleeve shirt.

Okay, not a threesome. An orgy, more like.

He’s a 16-year-old virgin, and he's in love with Gwen. Peter doesn’t dream about orgies with men. But it HAS to be a dream. Any other alternatives are too horrifying to even contemplate.

Peter decides he’s had enough.

“Ok, none of this is real. You guys aren’t real. Any minute now, my alarm’s gonna go off and I’ll wake up and it’ll be time for school,” He untangles himself from the Winter Soldier’s arms and takes a step back. Under their bewildered gaze, he heaves himself onto the 2nd floor banister. “I’m out of here.”

“Kid, wait-" Realization dawns in the bald man’s eyes, followed, much to Peter’s confusion, by panic.

He ignores the man and launches himself off the railing. Peter realizes a second too late that he doesn’t have his web shooters and he’s not going to land on his feet. There is a terrible moment where he is suspended over thin air. Then, Peter’s body hits the carpeted floor and his hope of everything being a dream shatters along with the bone in his leg.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?” the scarred man yells as he flies down the stairs. He almost pokes one of Peter’s watering eyes out with his swinging genitals when he squats down hurriedly and leans over to inspect his leg.

“Don't worry, looks like a clean break. What were you thinking? You don’t do the wall-crawling, jumping and swinging without Venom, kid,” The bald man is saying in a low voice, and past the loud ringing in his ears, Peter hears incoming footsteps and more voices he doesn’t recognize. He twists around to see two other men staring down at him in apparent shock. One of them is wearing a frilly baby blue apron and holding an oily spatula in one hand.

The situation feels too real. The pain is too real, and he still hasn’t woken up. Overwhelming, choking panic engulfs Peter.

“I TOLD YOU TO PUT SOME GODDAMN PANTS ON, WILSON!” are the last angry words Peter hears when he finally passes out from the combined pain and shock.

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

“Are you sure you’re alright, Peter? You haven’t touched your food at all,” May’s worried voice pulls Peter from his thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” He mumbles, quickly jamming the last pieces of steamed broccoli into his mouth and forcing himself to swallow, "thanks for picking me up today, May.”

Peter tries to avoid her eyes in fear of spilling everything. He can’t become invested in this illusion. Nothing is real, or if they are, they do not belong to him. Peter’s aunt is long dead and he cannot get attached to this woman.

“Oh honey, you don’t have to,” May says when Peter gets up to clean his dirty dishes by the sink. There is a tentative smile on her face when she follows him over and eases the plates from his tense fingers. “Peter, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” He whispers at the ground. May’s hands are dry and warm, lined with light callouses when she cups his cheeks and peers into his eyes.

“You sure, Pete?” There is a teasing glimmer in her honey brown gaze, “you offering to do your dishes makes me nervous, sweetie. Did you rifle through the dumpsters again? Fight another homeless person for an old computer part, hmm?”

“What?” He frowns at her in confusion.

May laughs and shakes her head, “Peter, you had to get a tetanus shot when the old man scraped you with a rusty pipe three months ago, remember?”

So this version of him has a habit of digging spare parts out of trash bins and fighting hobos over useless junk. Great.

May must’ve seen the clear disappointment on his face, because she sighs and releases him. “You should get some rest. I’m going to call Mr. Stark and tell him to let you have the next weekend off. Lord knows we can’t have you failing your classes by taking on too much in this internship.”

“Classes?” He asks blankly. “what classes?”

“High school, Peter,” May crosses her arms over her chest. “You still have three weeks left before finals.”

Shit, he hasn’t had finals since forever.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it sucks, but it’s also part of being a snot-nosed kid. So, go and get some rest, ok?” She pats him on the arm and makes her way back to the dinner table. Peter thinks things over quickly. He needs to find a way back to his own universe as soon as possible, or send a message to his dad, and the best way to do that would be getting access to Stark Industry tech.

“Aunt May?”

“Yes?”

“There’s no need to call Mr. Stark. I feel fine,” Peter tries to reassure her with a smile as he lies, “And besides, I don’t want to leave my new team hanging.”

To his surprise, her smile fades at his words as she murmurs, “you know, you sound just like him, Peter.”

Baffled, Peter asks, “Who?”

“Your father,” She says sadly. He’d told himself not to get invested, but Peter still finds himself pulling May into a hug.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” He whispers against her shoulder, “I won’t end up like him.”

He does not call the man ‘dad’ because to Peter, the word ‘dad’ meant the self-deprecating alcoholic genius back home.

-

His counterpart’s bedroom is a mess of books, old computer parts connected via thick tangled wires, and half-empty takeout containers. There’s a whole bunch of Albert Einstein meme posters on the door leading to the bathroom and various little action figures strewn haphazardly across the bookshelf by the window. That Peter seems to be fiddling with something that looks like a web-shooter contraption, judging by all the chicken scratch drawing strewn in the left side drawer. The setup is so different that for a second, blind panic takes over and Peter feels his lungs constrict as cold sweat prickles along his spine. Staggering to the bed, he forces himself to sit down and take slow deep breaths until the loud ringing sound fades from his ears and his heart no longer feels like punching its way through his ribcage.

The sudden noise from the other boy's phone startles Peter out of his misery, and he pulls it out to see the words Mr. Stark flashing over the screen. Clearing his throat roughly, Peter answers the call.

“You forgot about our meeting, didn’t you?” Tony’s dry voice echoes across the line. Peter swallows and asks quickly, “what?”

“Your suit, Parker. You told me you were going to come pick it up tonight.”

Head racing, Peter jumps from the bed, “ah, suit. Right, um, do you want me to head over to the tower now? I can-”

He has no idea what Tony Stark is on about, but his gut tells him playing the part might be the safest option at the moment. There’s a loud burst of static on the other end before Stark says, “no need, kid. Look out your window.”

Peter pauses in the middle of pulling his hoodie over his head, adjusts the phone against his ear and rushes over to the window. He pokes his head out into the night and hears a sharp whistle from down below. Tony Stark, standing beside a sleek black Bentley, waves up at him.

“Well? Get down here, kid. I don’t have all day.” Stark snaps his fingers and points down at the ground. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching from the neighboring buildings, Peter grabs the web-shooter and pushes the window screen aside before slipping through and dropping down onto the fire escape. There’s a solid 20 feet beneath him. Stark jerks his wrist in a parody of him shooting a glob of web, his expression impatient behind the dark aviators on his face. Who even wears shades this late, Peter wonders hysterically as he throws out an arm and jumps, hoping against hope that this body will react on its own. It kind of does, except for the part where Peter comes to a jarring stop against the side of Stark's car, and a second later, a grim-faced Happy Hogan steps out with his gun raised.

"Hey," Stark yells, putting up a placating hand, "everything's fine, Trigger-Happy. Get back in the car. Kid's just disoriented from the concussion." He rolls his eyes when his bodyguard steps forward, "no, you do not need to pat him down or do a strip search, he's one of my new interns, remember?"

Happy glares, looking highly unconvinced, but he does back down after a few awkward seconds. Stark directs his attention back to Peter, who's massaging the side of his face with a wince, and jerks his chin toward the open car door.

“Come for a ride with me, kid.”

-

The night lights paint a glowing mosaic of patterns across Tony’s Stark’s face, but it’s not enough to hide the ugly bruises dotted across his cheekbones when he takes the aviators off. They sit in silence for a while as Happy drives. After a few minutes, Stark sighs and pulls out a black case, passing it over to Peter.

"Here's the prototype I promised," the billionaire finally says, “but I want you to swear to me that you won't bite off more than you can chew."

"What?" Peter is still distracted by the deep smudges of purple around Stark’s left eye.

"Stick to robbers and purse snatchers, kid. Just like we agreed," Stark emphasizes. Peter blinks, "but-"

"Not buts," Stark interrupts, "I asked you to help out with the Cap situation, which I know, was a dick move getting an infant involved in adult business, but I was desperate. It's not going to happen again."

"I'm not an infant," he can't help but argue. Predictably, Stark rolls his eyes skyward, “you’re barely out of your diapers.”

“Can you believe this kid, Happy?” He asks his driver. Happy glances at them briefly in the rearview mirror and grunts noncommittally.

“As for your question the other day, the answer is no. I’m not going to put in a good word for you to join the Avengers, or what's left of it. Trust me kid, you don't want to get involved in that shit." There's a moment of depressingly heavy silence before Stark clears his throat and gestures to the case in Peter's arms, “anyway, I've gotta head back, Rhodey's scheduled to go into another surgery in two hours. I added a lining of that new bulletproof nanotech material in the suit, but don't get any funny ideas, kid."

Why was Rhodey going into surgery? Peter wants to ask, but the impatient twist of Stark's mouth stops him before the words can tumble out. He bites his lip and watches the man so similar yet so different from his dad gesture for Happy to pull the car to a curb-side stop.

"Why bulletproof?" Peter blurts out as he’s tossed unceremoniously out of the black Bentley. Stark pauses, and Peter sees his shoulders slump as he says, "because I don't want another kid shot dead on my watch."

He sounds defeated. Peter swallows thickly and says without thinking, "Ton- Mr. Stark, I'll be safe. I promise."

Stark's lips curl upward for a second and he finally looks Peter fully in the eyes. His brown eyes look like that of a broken man, exhausted to the bone.

"Ok, kid," Stark says and slams the door shut.

Peter watches with a heavy heart as the Bentley slips slowly back into the gleaming sea of traffic and disappears from sight. Then, he looks up and realizes that he’s in an unrecognizable part of New York City.

“Are you freaking kidding me?!” Peter grabs a handful of his hair and curses, "Mr. Stark, WAIT! Mr. Stark, don't leave me here!”

A few feet away, seated in the entrance of an alleyway, a man dressed in a filthy tattered overcoat looks up at the outburst.

“You!” He growls, recognition dawning on his grimy face. Peter stares back, his brain struggling to understand the situation.

“You stole my fucking DVD player, kid! That was my dumpster you were digging in the other day!” The homeless man bellows, grabbing a rusty pipe from the ground, jumping to his feet and shouting, “get him, boys!”

“This has got to be a joke,” Peter breathes, dread settling in his stomach. A banana peel sails past, narrowly missing Peter’s left ear, bringing with it the unique fermenting stench of rotting fruit on greasy New York City pavement. Three more aggressive-looking men appear behind the dumpsters, one of them holding a crowbar.

“Come on, man,” He groans in an undertone, "What is wrong with you, Parker?" 

Taking a deep breath and tightening his grip on Stark’s briefcase, Peter breaks into a run in the opposite direction.

-

Peter smells like he'd humped a garbage truck when he finally crawls back up the fire escape and into his room. It’s three in the morning and there’s gum stuck in Peter’s hair, but he’d managed to shake the vicious hobos off four blocks away. Peter puts the briefcase in a corner of the closet and shakes loose a piece of cold rubbery hotdog from his hoodie. Shuddering, Peter kicks it away from him and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

He pauses when the other boy’s phone screen lights up with a text message. It’s from someone named “Ned” asking him why he hadn’t been online for the Halo battle tonight. Peter doesn’t feel like replying. He exits the messenger app and stares down at Gwen’s smiling face in the background pic. He decides to switch it to something else, anything else.

Biting his lip, Peter quickly keys in Wade’s phone number again. His thumb hovers over the call button. Even though he knows it’s not his boyfriend on the other end, he just wants to hear that familiar voice one more time. Peter can’t help it.

But there's a voice in his head whispering that things could get ugly if Deadpool becomes suspicious of the call attempts. Peter could potentially put May in danger if the mercenary starts digging into the mystery caller’s ID, and he can’t bear the idea of causing her any harm. Besides, getting out of this place is his paramount objective. So Peter forces himself to delete the string of numbers. Rubbing a hand roughly over his face, Peter tosses the phone back onto the desk, refusing to look at it again. He pushes his way into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

Chapter Text

Villain!verse

“You know, a couple of months ago, if you’d told me we’d be having breakfast while your insane sibling is on a playdate with Stark literally feet away, I would’ve punched you in the face,” Clint says conversationally.

“Then my face would have broken your hand, friend Barton,” Thor replies in a level tone, taking a great gulp from his giant latte and leaving a foamy milk mustache over his upper lip.

“I mean, think about it,” Clint continues, undeterred by the lack of interest from his sleepy audience, "Loki tried to enslave the world, brainwashed me into doing horrible things, oh, and in case you guys forgot, he also grab Stark by the throat and tossed him out of a window on the sixty-first floor.”

“Can't really argue with Barton's logic there,” Putting down the tiny wrench he’d been working with, Tony says and turns to the dark haired Asgardian prince next to him, “you were an asshole, still is, but-”

“I thought you didn’t mind a bit of foreplay, Stark,” Loki drawls, crossing his long legs gracefully at the ankles and not taking his eyes off the glowing 4D schematics laid out on the glass workbench, “after all, you were the one who offered me the drink first.”

“You call that foreplay? I can’t imagine what the actual sex would be like,” Tony returns drily, scratching at the side of his face and smearing bright blue coolant into his goatee. Clint groans and forks a huge chunk of eggs off of Steve’s plate when Cap joins them fresh from a morning run and quick shower. Thor frowns, but seems to be struggling with any form of cohesive thought at the moment.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out, mortal,” Loki leans close and purrs.

"Bring it, Magic Mike," Tony snorts and stands his ground, unimpressed at the blatant peacocking. Clint tosses the nearest couch cushion at Thor’s younger sibling. It bounces uselessly off his shoulder. Loki doesn't even glance away from his weirdly intense staring match against Tony Stark.

“Stop creepy-flirting with each other, no one wants to see that,” He snaps at both of them.

“Call your mom and stay the night, I need a second opinion on a teleportation device I’m working on,” Tony says to Loki, getting up and making a beeline for the coffee machine before Steve can get to it.

“You mean call your son?” Loki shoots back, trailing after him, barefoot and wearing one of Tony’s old AC/DC t-shirts.

“Am I the only one who is concerned with this relationship?” Clint wonders aloud.

“What relationship?” Steve asks as his newly upgraded StarkPhone buzzes angrily on the steel counter. His face breaks into an excited smile when he spots the caller-ID, “hey Buck, what’s up?”

“Is Stark there?” Barnes immediately cuts to the chase, “I need to speak to him.”

Steve frowns, “Tony, Bucky wants to talk to-”

“Yeah, I heard, you have him on speaker, Grandma,” Stark plucks the phone out of Steve’s hand, “hey, Barnes, I’m here.”

“Can you come over to the house?” There’s a short pause and some frantic background whispering before he says in a reluctant voice, “there’s something...uh...wrong with Peter.”

-

The first thing Peter sees when he wakes is Tony Stark’s face, magnified up close and frowning in concern. Relief courses through his body and Peter almost bursts into tears at the familiar sight of his idol/mentor.

“Mr. Stark, thank God you’re here,” He latches on desperately when Mr. Stark makes to stand and to Peter’s surprise, instead of pushing him away with a sarcastic remark, Stark’s arms wrap around his shoulders and the man settles on the couch next to him, careful not to jostle Peter’s leg, which-

He wiggles the limb cautiously and is rewarded with a lack of eye-watering pain.

“How-”

“Are you high, son?” Mr. Stark interrupts, brows furrowed, “because Barnes told me you tried to make a run for it this morning and jumped off of the second floor without Venom.”

“What? No, of course not!” Peter sputters, “I just, wait, who told you?”

“Barnes, or whatever cutesy little nickname he goes by nowadays,” Mr. Stark is saying when Peter sees the Winter Soldier appear at his shoulder, accompanied by a concerned-looking Captain America.

“He’s a fugitive on the run!” Peter yells, jerking a startled Tony by the arm and pointing a shaking finger at Steve Rogers then the Winter Soldier, “and him, he’s supposed to be locked up in Wakanda or something, you told me!”

“Ok, yeah, kid’s definitely on something,” an unfamiliar voice says from behind and Peter twists around on the couch with some difficulty to see Clint Barton seated crosslegged on the coffee table.

“Did Deadpool give you unidentified drugs, Pete?” Mr. Stark asks, apparently choosing to ignore Peter’s flailing.

“Who?” He wracks his brain and recalls the naked heavily scarred man he’d woken up next to that morning, “I don’t know what’s going on, Mr. Stark, I-”

“What are you calling me that?” Tony asks, agitated, “what are you playing at here, kid? If this is some kind of weird joke, it’s not funny anymore because you’ve got everyone worried.”

Everyone? What does he mean by everyone?

“Tis fortunate that my brother was here to heal your wound, Peter,” a booming voice says from the doorway and Peter looks up to see a beaming broad-shouldered blond man walk into the living room, a jar of cookies in one hand and his thick muscular arm wrapped around the thin mousy-haired man Peter had seen in the kitchen wearing an apron earlier.

“Your pastries are absolutely divine, Bob, son of unknown origins,” The God of Thunder says, spraying crumbs everywhere as he squeezes the small man to his side with an affectionate smile.

“Someone get the overgrown infant a bib,” a much silkier voice mutters from behind and Peter catches sight of the familiar face of the Trickster God he’d seen flashing on the red alert screens at Avengers Tower. Cold sweat breaks out over Peter’s palms at the sheer impossibility of the situation at the moment.

“Oh man, this isn’t real, it’s all in my head, I’m going to wake up to Aunt May and my alarm in just a few minutes and it’s gonna be another normal day at school and-”

“What did you say?” Mr. Stark suddenly asks, twisting around to stare at him.

“I’m going to wake up? Or you know, Aunt May always wakes me up if I sleep through the alarm.”

“Did he just say Aunt May?” The bald man Peter had seen semi-naked that morning pipes up from somewhere in the room. “I thought his aunt was dead or some shit, ain’t that why Stark adopted ‘im in the first place?”

Silence.

“Uh, WHAT?” Peter flinches away when Mr. Stark tries to grab his arm and scrambles off the end of the couch, his heart pounding and ears ringing, “no, no, no, I just saw her last night, she was fine, we had chicken pot pie for dinner! And you,” he points a finger at Tony, “you’re not my adopted parent, ok? You’re just the guy I’m doing an internship with. I would like to go home to my aunt now.”

“What on Earth are you talking about, Peter?” Stunned hurt flashes over Mr. Stark's face before being replaced by anger.

“You don’t know who we are, do you?” Peter backs up into something firm and warm. He whirls around to see the scarred man from earlier peering down at him under the shadow of a hoodie, the lower part of his jaw covered with a mask. Despite the man’s mutilated skin, his eyes are a warm shade of amber brown, now that he's paused long enough to actually look. 

Ignoring the dull ache in his chest, Peter swallows thickly and whispers, “no, I don’t.”

-

Charles is in the middle of grading mid-term exams when his office door is nearly blasted off its hinges and the neatly stacked pile of marked papers goes spilling onto the thick carpet as the child snatches up the paperweight his father had given Charles as a present last Christmas.

“Pietro.” He injects as much disproval into that one word as one physically can, but the silver-haired teen merely smirks cheekily and tosses the metallic weight from hand to hand as he saunters closer to Charles’s desk.

“Is everything alright?” Giving up on finishing his remaining papers, Professor X takes off his reading specs and looks up at him.

“Lehnsherr’s here,” Pietro says, parking his butt onto the arm of Charles’s wheelchair, “thought you should know.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” Charles smiles up at the child, “I hope you did not push your father into the pond on your way up this time.”

“I didn’t,” Pietro rolls his eyes, “but I’ll have you know, it was extremely hard to refrain from doing so.”

“Of course,” Charles chuckles, “I am well aware of that sentiment.”

Almost out of reflex, he reaches out and tries to touch the other man’s mind. To his surprise, Erik seems to have been waiting for him, because he pushes a flood of information and images into Charles’s head, and underneath it all, he's radiating agitated concern.

“Oh dear,” the professor murmurs just as his office doors open once more to reveal Erik, dressed in a leather jacket and looking extremely windswept. The reason for his ruffled appearance, Kurt Wagner, gives Charles an apologetic wave and smile, his barbed blue tail disappearing behind him as Wade Wilson steps into the room behind Erik.

“This is about Peter, I assume?” Professor X asks.

“Yeah, we need you to work your mind magic on him, McAvoy,” Wade says briskly.

Erik scowls when his gaze settles on his kid, and the next second, the handcrafted paperweight gets wrenched from Pietro’s fingers to land on top of the tallest bookshelf in Professor X’s office, well out of his and anyone else's reach.

“Right then,” Charles maneuvers the wheelchair from behind the desk, interrupting the mulish glaring contest between father and son, “lead the way, Wade.”

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

He had forgotten how much high school really sucked.

“What’s up, Penis Parker?” Peter flinches at the stinging slap to the back of his head. When he turns around, bewildered, there’s a smirking kid he doesn’t recognize standing there, “What? Cat got your tongue? You know, you oughta just quit now while you still haven’t embarrassed yourself too much.”

Quit what? He wants to ask, but Peter thinks better of it and turns back to his supposed locker. After all, the main task was to keep a low profile while finding a way back home. He had already wasted a ridiculous amount of time finding his locker that morning.

“See you later, loser,” Seeing he couldn’t get a rise out of Peter, the kid abruptly changes tactics and with another annoying swat, saunters smugly down the hall.

Peter groans internally when he realizes he has no idea what the combination to his locker is. Pressing his forehead against the ugly scratched metal, he screws his eyes shut and breathes in slowly before exhaling.

“Bad morning, Pete?”

He pries his eyes open in time to see a teacher walk past, an amused and almost sympathetic smile on her face.

“Yeah, something like that, Ms…” He trails off and stares after her for a second before sighing and straightening his spine, muttering under his breath, “whatever your name is.”

Glancing around to make sure no one is watching him, Peter tugs hard on the combination lock, and to his surprise, the thing easily snaps off in his hand—

— along with the latch of his locker door.

Shit. He’d forgotten how strong this little twerp’s body actually was.

He barely has time to react before the avalanche of books and loose notepaper start pouring out of the broken door. Peter spots a glimpse of a drawing of a spider suit similar to the one Tony Stark had given him float past on its way down, and instead of web shooters, there’s a pillar of flame shooting out of the figure’s arm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tossing the books aside, he quickly bends down to pick up the incriminating sketches before anyone can see them.

“Where were you, Peter?” He’s two pages short when a sneakered foot lands on the piece of paper he’s reaching for. Freezing in his tracks, Peter looks up to see a stocky teenager frowning down at him. “We got crushed in the first campaign, man. Not cool. Also, why didn’t you answer my texts over the weekend?”

Ned Leeds, his counterpart’s best friend.

He’d seen the kid’s face in the blurry selfies stored in the other Peter Parker’s phone, along with a few hastly-taken photos of Gwen and another dark-skinned girl he didn’t recognize. Apparently, the him in this universe was developing quite the crush.

“Sorry, Ned, I had some things to take care of over the weekend,” Peter decides to play it safe.

“Dude, what happened to your locker? Did Flash do this?” Ned asks, pointing to the busted door behind Peter.

“Flash?” He asks blankly.

“Yeah, the guy that always bullies us around? That Flash, Pete.” Ned rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” Peter recovers quickly, “uh, no, I guess they’re just really old,” Ned’s still looking at him with that dubious expression on his face, so he blurts out what he hopes is teenager-appropriate language, “…dude…?”

“That sucks, man,” To his relief, Ned drops the subject, but instead, decides to look down, and spots the schematic drawing pinned under his shoe. Peter tries to yank the page out, but ends up tearing the notepaper, leaving the piece with the head portion of the suit still pinned under Ned’s foot.

“What’s this?” The other boy bends down and picks up the piece of paper.

“Ah…listen Ned, it’s—”

“Is this Spider-Man? I didn’t know you could draw, Peter,” Ned says.

“What?” Peter stutters, “uh, yeah, I guess so?”

“It actually looks pretty decent, are you like a secret comic book artist or something?” Ned asks eagerly.

“Trying to be, so don’t tell anyone, ok?” Peter sends a brief prayer of gratitude to the heavens above and with Ned’s help, manages to shove all of his books back into the locker before the bell to first period rings overhead, making them both jump.

“I’ll see you in Physics later,” Ned pats him on the shoulder good-naturedly and shoulders his backpack and leaves Peter standing helplessly alone in the hallway in a matter of seconds. He’s still reeling with shock at the sheer speed of disappearing high schoolers when a door down the hall opens and a balding man with wire-rim glasses pokes his head out and snaps his fingers impatiently.

“Mr. Parker, any time now.”

“So-sorry, sir!” Grabbing his backpack, Peter bolts down the hall to…

…first period Advanced Calculus, as it turns out.

Great.

-

Lunch is another great mess. He has no idea where to sit and ends up holding his plastic tray and standing there like an idiot until someone shoves him hard from behind and he almost spills his lunch over the girl walking past.

“Hey, watch it!” She steps out of the way just in time to avoid being splashed by the runny apple sauce on Peter’s platter.

“Sorry!” He apologizes hurriedly and grabs the plastic fork teetering at the edge before looking up and freezing in his tracks.

“Gwen?” Peter breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from the pretty blonde girl standing in front of him. “Gwen Stacy, is it really you?”

“Uh, yeah,” She brushes a loose curl behind her ear and gives him an exasperated smile, “you sit in front of me in Physics, remember?”

“Oh, umm, right,” He tries to smile back, but it must look more like a grimace because she backs away a few steps, her expression becoming uncertain at his odd behavior. Peter’s still struggling to find something to say when Ned appears at his elbow, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Am I, like, interrupting something?” He asks, glancing between the duo.

“No,” Gwen blinks and clears her throat before saying, “anyway, good luck with the decathlon, Peter. I’m going to go sit with my friends.”

He stares after her until Ned elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Dude, you’re kinda drooling and everybody’s staring, it’s embarrassing and it needs to stop,” he says, sighing and leading Peter off to their usual table.

“Wait, what did she mean by the decathlon? I thought track season was over,” Peter instantly regrets the words because Ned pauses in mid-bite of his turkey sandwich and looks at him like he’d spouted an extra head.

“Are you kidding me?” Crumbs spraying every which way, Ned takes a few vicious gulps from his juice box and whisper-yells, “you’ve been preparing for it for months! And no, it’s not track, it’s the academic decathlon, knuckle-head. Liz is going to kill you if she hears you say that, Peter.”

“Liz?” He asks weakly.

“Yeah, Liz Toomes, our president and the other girl you constantly drool after. Dude, isn’t that why you signed us up in the first place, so you’d have an excuse to stare at her without raising suspicion?” Ned rolls his eyes and takes another big bite, “Are you like high right now or something?”

“No,” Peter groans and digs his palms into his eyes, already feeling a headache coming, “but I wish I was.”

-

“Peter,” The hard poke in his back brings Peter abruptly back to the present and he glances up to find the twenty-or-so highs school students in his afternoon Physics class staring at him, along with Ms. Warren, their teacher.

“What?” He asks, having spent the last twenty minutes reading a Reddit thread on the whole aftermath of the Civil War situation with the superheroes that had apparently just happened in this universe. Honestly, Captain America a traitor of the State? He can’t even imagine it.

“I asked you to answer the question on the board, Mr. Parker,” Ms. Warren, who turns out to be the woman who’d spoken to him in passing that morning, says patiently.

“Oh, ok,” Standing reluctantly, Peter eases his laptop shut and under everyone’s eyes, makes his way up to the front. Maybe he’d shot up too fast or something, because Peter feels suddenly dizzy, his vision tunneling and breath going short. It recedes in a matter of seconds, so he steadies himself and walks up to the front, where Ms. Warren hands him a marker.

Peter quickly looks the question over. After a year of higher-level Physics in college, it’s not that hard even though he’s in the advanced high school class, so he uncaps the marker, pushes the lingering discomfort to the back of his mind, and gets to work jotting down the answer.

“Correct,” The physics teacher smiles, “however, we have not yet learned these college-level quantum theorems you’re using, Mr. Parker. Thank you very much, you may go back to your seat. Anyone else?”

Peter stumbles on his way back when the kid named Flash sticks his leg out, his face alight with vindictive pleasure.

“Mr. Thompson,” Ms. Warren warns, but Peter can barely hear her voice past the increasingly loud ringing in his ears. His hand misses the edge of the desk when his legs give out, a shockingly red drop of something landing on the white tiled floor. It takes a few moments for him to realize it’s blood, his blood. Peter wipes at his nose and his hand comes back an alarming shade of red.

“Oh my God, Peter, are you ok?” He can hear Gwen’s distressed voice, and the loud sound of chair legs scraping against the floor as his classmates rush to his aid. Flash is shouting “it wasn’t me! I swear!” at the top of his lungs somewhere in the room.

"Somebody call an ambulance! I think he’s dyingggg!” Ned moans.

In all the chaos, something flickers into focus in Peter’s blurred vision, a pale handsome face, dark hair, green eyes narrowed in concentration.

Peter, the God of Lies mouthes silently.

Loki, he tries to scream back, help me!

But the vision fades as quickly as it had come and Peter sinks helplessly into the ensuing darkness.

-

Peter wakes up in the emergency room, his tearful aunt gripping his hand tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Peter!” May gasps, wiping at her eyes and pulling him into a careful hug. “The p-principal called m-me and said you had suddenly collapsed was taken to the h-h-hospital! I came as soon as I c-could,” she hiccuped unsteadily, speaking her runny mascara everywhere with the heels of her hands, “I was so worried!”

“May, I have to get back to school,” Peter bolts upright from the bed when he remembers seeing Loki’s face. What if Loki was trying to contact him from the other side? He needs to—

“Stephen,” A woman’s quiet voice says from beyond the white curtains separating Peter’s hospital bed from the rest of the occupants in the ER, sounding extremely exasperated. “You’re on ER duty today, which mean you have to take a look at the minor injuries that come in as emergencies as well.”

“The boy fainted in class, Christine, he’s most likely faking it,” A man says impatiently, his words followed by the sound of flipping pages, “see? BP is normal, responsive pupils, no signs of trauma. I don’t see why we can’t just discharge him and get back to the important stuff.”

“You forgot the gushing nosebleed and him collapsing three days previously,” the woman named Christine reminds patiently, “and what important stuff? You don’t have any surgeries scheduled till Thursday.”

“Exactly. Which leaves plenty of time for us to-”

The curtains are jerked aside and Peter, jeans halfway tugged up his hip and an extremely worried Aunt May clutching at his arm, freezes in his steps.

“What are you doing out of bed, Mr. Parker?” Christine admonishes sharply, rushing forward to help May manhandle a protesting Peter back onto the hospital bed. He doesn’t put up too much of a fight because Peter’s attention had landed on the bored-looking dark-haired man lingering behind Dr. Palmer (her name tag had nearly jabbed him in the eye).

“Dr. Strange!” Peter exclaims, jaw dropping.

“I see he can read,” Rolling his eyes skyward, the man known to Peter as the Sorcerer Supreme pulls the curtain back into place and frowns contemplatively down at the teenager, “I suppose we could do an MRI just to be safe.”

“Why would we need an MRI?” May asks tensely.

“Could be a tumor,” Strange shrugs, “if that’s the case, I might actually be interested.”

“Stephen!” Christine snaps, staring at him in disbelief along with Peter’s aunt. She turns back to May, “I am so so sorry, he’s usually not like this.”

“Like what? An asshole?” May asks, furious.

“I think I’ll leave this in your capable hands, Dr. Palmer,” Strange says sardonically, placing the clipboard in the slot at the foot of Peter’s bed. Then, without another backward glance, he turns and departs down the hall.

"I'm sorry, but is it really necessary for Peter to do an MRI?" May shoots him a worried look, her fingers fluttering nervously toward the gleaming silver chain against her collarbone, where Peter knows she still keeps her wedding ring.

"As much as it pains me to say this," Dr. Palmer sighs, "Dr. Strange is the best neurosurgeon in the state, if not the country. It might be a good idea to rule out any probable causes, not that I think it's a tumor," she adds hastily when Aunt May sinks down onto the bedside chair and buries her face in her hands.

"May," Peter tries to say, "I'm fine, it's not something serious, I-"

"Ok, ok," she interrupts him and takes a deep breath before turning back to Dr. Palmer, "can I leave him here for an hour? I need to go back and grab some insurance documents."

"Of course," Dr. Palmer says, "Mr. Parker should stay the night so we can keep him under observation and I'll schedule an MRI for him in the morning."

They leave him sitting alone on the hospital bed, his pants halfway up his legs and still reeling from the events that had just happened.

Had Peter really seen what he thought he’d seen in the classroom? Had Loki in fact tried to reach him somehow? If so, was there a way to recreate the link? How would he go about doing that exactly? It wasn’t as if he’d been pals with the Loki in this place beforehand, not that the Loki back home was likely to listen to him 100%, but—

Groaning under his breath, Peter hops off the bed and grabs the clipboard from the foot of the bed. Back to square one, with no means of initiating contact from his end, unless he can somehow locate the Trickster God. Peter refuse to believe the dozen or so news articles about Loki’s alleged death and the three tearful interviews with the God of Thunder on CNN. If he knows one thing for sure, it’s that Loki always has something up his sleeve.

And even if he does somehow manage to find Loki, what then?

It’s not as if he can just magically beam Peter out of this kid’s meat suit and—

Wait a minute.

Peter’s eyes settle on the messy scrawled signature at the bottom of the page, his finger unconsciously tracing the big looping S.

Dr. Strange could push Peter's celestial form out of his body, he’d accidentally done it the first time they’d crossed paths a few months after the Thanos incident, after which Wade promptly freaked out and nearly blew up a public library. It had taken many ice cream cones and multiple Strange’s signature "acid trips" to get him back in Deadpool’s good graces. But if Peter somehow could explain the situation to the Dr. Strange in this universe, then maybe, just maybe, there would be a way to get back to his own world.

Chapter Text

Villain!verse

When Peter bolts from the couch and out the door, they do not attempt to stop him. He doesn’t know where he wants to go, but Peter just needs to get away from the strangers in the room and go somewhere he can actually calm down and think things through.

There is a small treehouse perched high up on the branches of a sturdy oak at the edge of the property. The rough rope burns Peter’s palms when he quickly scales up the rickety ladder and barricades himself inside. He doesn’t see the point of trying to run really. The combination of skills inside that house guarantees that he won't make it far before they catch up to him.

It is a little easier to breath without so many pairs of disappointed eyes trained on him, and slowly, the panic recedes. He shuffles around in the small space and sees that the four walls are lined with whiteboards. His counterpart seems to be in the middle of creating some sort of web-shooter design. There are a couple of thick physics books lying around a bean bag and a bag of half-eaten chocolate pretzels. In an attempt to distract himself, Peter scoots closer to examine the handwriting. Just like him, the Peter Parker in this world writes the letter ‘y’ with the same weird little squiggle. His eyes skim over the equations, and a small inconspicuous line at the edge of one whiteboard catches his attention. The handwriting there, in dark pink marker, is round and child-like.

Wade ♥ Petey

Beneath the words, someone had drawn a giant penis barfing out a river of ejaculate.

Despite his situation, Peter lets out a short surprised bark of laughter. It is shockingly loud in the silence and he feels his face heat up. The thing is, Peter can almost see the scene unfolding in his mind’s eye, the mischievous grin on the disfigured man’s face as he doodles the obscene picture and his own counterpart’s indignant sputter when he finally sees it, and the space suddenly feels too personal. It feels like he is intruding upon something intimate, a memory he does not have the right to witness.

The soft knock on the door of the treehouse startles him out of his thoughts and Peter whirls around to see the Winter Soldier slip inside, both hands raised in a gesture of peace. He looks different in this world, and not just because he’s not sporting an untamed beard and swinging a metal fist the size of a baby’s head at Peter’s face. It is something more than that. He no longer has the air of a broken shell, and there’s life behind those blue-grey eyes, which are currently trained on Peter with a mixture of trepidation and worry.

“I drew the short straw,” He murmurs quietly, settling into a more comfortable crouch when Peter doesn’t immediately try to scratch his eyes out or attempt to escape again. For a long moment, they stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. Then, the Winter Soldier clears his throat and pulls something from the knapsack on his back, “I have cookies. If you want some.”

“Are you trying to bribe me with food? I thought that only works with dogs and children under six,” Peter lifts his eyebrow and the former Soviet killing machine bites down on his lower lip, looking sheepish and a little embarrassed. He sighs and reaches out to take the ziplock bag of chocolate chip cookies, “oh well, I’ll take food over a metal fist in the face any day.”

“What?” The Soldier looks confused now, and a little wounded that he would even suggest such an atrocity, “I would never hurt you, Peter.”

“That’s not something the big guy I know would say,” Peter replies, shoving a whole cookie into his face. “Wow, this is really good,” he adds, spraying little bits of crumbs everywhere.

“Did I,” The Winter Soldier pauses, his expression darkening “did that man in your world attempt to harm you?”

“It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” Peter wedges another cookie into his mouth and answers in a muffled voice, “I mean, Cap was definitely much worse. I had a huge bruise all down my torso for two whole weeks. It hurt like hell during gym.”

“Steve hurt you?” He asks disbelievingly.

“He was trying to protect you,” Peter swallows his mouthful of cookies and lifts the bag, “do you want one?”

The Soldier shakes his head absently, “What do you mean he was trying to protect me?”

“It’s a long story,” Peter says, eyeing the man’s knapsack. The Winter Soldier’s lips twitch a little as he hands it over. Peter fishes around inside and finds a bottle of cold water. “I can tell you what I know, but in exchange, I want you to tell me what is going on here.”

“Deal,” The Soldier smiles, and Peter is suddenly blindsided by just how handsome the man beneath really is. He hadn't noticed back then.

“So, there was this thing called the Sokvia Accords,” Peter begins, settling down in the bean bag. He tells the Winter Soldier all about the Sokovia incident, the UN sanctions, and the violent airport confrontation between Iron Man and Captain America.

“Cap’s been labeled an enemy of the State. He’s still on the run with the scarier version of you, I think,” Peter takes a sip from his bottle of water, “and the last thing I remember was working in Mr. Stark’s lab. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in bed with, ah, the other guy.”

“Wade Wilson,” The Soldier answers automatically, looking distracted, “he’s your boyfriend.”

“No kidding,” Peter says weakly, feeling his face reddening again. He clears his throat and musters up the courage to ask, “so what’s with that? I mean how did-”

“How did you end up with him?” The brunet man finishes for him, sounding somewhat amused. “I don’t really know,” He reaches out and taps Peter gently over the heart, “you’re going to have to ask him that yourself.”

Before Peter can come up with a reply, a sharp whistle sounds from somewhere down below. The Soldier heaves a deeply exasperated sigh and sticks his head out to yell, “I swear to God, Rogers, if you whistle at me like I'm a dog again, I will shove your face through a brick wall.”

Peter hears Captain America laughing unashamedly outside the treehouse.

“Two brick walls, you little punk,” The Winter Soldier mutters, frowning critically down at the blond man. Then, eyeing Peter and his empty knapsack, he says slowly, “you know, Bob has more cookies in the house.”

-

“Ever think of going into counseling, Barnes? You’d make a kickass psychiatrist,” Tony Stark says the moment he sees Peter walk back inside, closely accompanied by the Winter Soldier and Captain America.

“Why get a real job when I can just live off of your money?” The Soldier replies with a smirk, his hand settling firmly between Peter’s shoulder blades when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of the stranger in the wheelchair next to the scowling brunet man Peter had seen earlier. He leans down and whispers in Peter’s ear, “It’s ok, they're here to help, I promise.”

The man is in his mid-thirties and very well-dressed in a sharp grey suit and black tie. He introduces himself as Charles Xavier in a pleasantly mellow British accent and when he holds out his hand, Peter instinctively reaches out and shakes it. As illogical as it is, his gut tells him Charles is a man he can trust.

“I am a telepath, Peter, which means I can read minds. If you are comfortable with this, I would like to learn more about your world through your memories,” Charles is saying, but Peter’s attention keeps drifting to the hooded man sitting a few feet away, and the pair of long-barreled guns lying on the coffee table before him. Their eyes meet for a second and to Peter’s surprise, Wade snatches the weapons off the table and kicks them under the couch.

Peter looks away quickly, heart pounding. Someone clears their throat loudly and his eyes snap back to the impatient man standing beside Charles’ wheelchair.

“Erik, stop it, you are frightening him,” Charles admonishes gently, giving the man a small shove with the palm of one hand. It lingers a moment too long for the gesture to be one of platonic friendship. Charles Xavier sighs and lifts his finger to his left temple, “concentrate for me, Peter, and no, please do not let your mind go there. Erik and I are not like that.”

Peter’s face heats with embarrassment, and averting his eyes from Erik’s deepening scowl, he thinks of Aunt May, the laugh lines on her beautiful face; his vague memories of his parent; the terrifying yet exhilarating moment he discovered his superpowers; the first time Mr. Stark had patted him on the back and told him he’d done a good job; facing off Captain America and the Winter Soldier at that airport; Ned, Gwen, Michelle, M.J., Ms. Warren…

Charles draws in a sharp breath and looks at him, truly looks at Peter.

“My dear boy,” he whispers, blue eyes wide.

-

They hadn’t come to any definitive conclusions despite the combined efforts of science and magic. To keep Peter’s mind off of things, Cap had offered to take him out to dinner (Peter’s pick), and they’d ended up in a tiny diner thirty minutes away. The Winter Soldier and Captain America had sat across from him in the booth while Peter scarfed down as much as he could handle. He had timidly asked whether he could call the Winter Soldier by his first name, and something akin to disappointment had flashed over his face before James told Peter he could call him whatever he wanted.

By the time they arrive back at the house, Peter can hardly keep his eyes open. He’s stumbling up the stairs to his bedroom when he notices that the door is ajar. There’s someone standing by the desk, silhouetted against the moonlight spilling from the open window.

“I’m sorry,” Peter clears his throat and says quietly.

The man turns a fraction toward him, and Peter sees the smooth outline of a mask over Wade Wilson’s face. He sets the thing he had been looking at gently face-down on the desk.

“For what?” He asks. He doesn’t sound mad or offended that Peter had been intentionally avoiding him the whole afternoon.

“I don’t know,” Peter digs his fingers nervously into the hem of his shirt, “everything, I guess.”

He’s taken aback when Wade lets out a low laugh and picks up the dark duffle bag at his feet, “you don’t ever have to apologize to me, Petey.”

That nickname makes Peter’s heart do a funny little fluttery flop within his ribcage. The man vaults easily out the open window.

“Wait, where are you going?” Alarmed, Peter rushes after him.

Wade pauses with one leg thrown over the edge of the balcony, “Thought I’d go do some digging myself. There’s a certain someone, a time-traveling princess named Priscilla, that I’m gonna track down and shake some answers out of. You just stay put, kiddo. I’ll be back soon.”

Peter bites his lip and blurts out before he can stop himself, “be careful, Wade.”

“Always,” Wade promises, thumping a fist into his own chest. Then, to Peter’s horror, he lets go abruptly. He hears a loud yelp of shock from somewhere below and then a string of colorful curses as Wade hollers up at him, “I’m ok!”

"I'm fucking not!" Lester snarls, "Get your heavy ass off of me, Wilson." 

Not knowing whether to call and ambulance or laugh, Peter hobbles over to the chair and sinks down onto it. The thing Wade had been looking at is still lying face-down on his writing desk. Peter flips the picture frame over and peers down at the photo. His counterpart is laughing as he sits atop Wade’s shoulders. They’re wearing matching swim trunks with banana prints and there's a pair of pink star-shaped sunglasses perched jauntily on Wade’s bald head. Peter studies their smiling faces and wonders if he already knows the answer to that question he had asked in the treehouse earlier.

Then, he carefully sets the picture frame back onto the desk and goes to bed.

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

There is ringing silence after Peter finishes his story. The sound of the humming AC is ridiculously loud in Peter’s enhanced ears. Stephen Strange slowly steeples his finger after a pause, his expression completely unreadable.

“What do you need me to do for you, Mr. Parker?” He asks slowly.

“Oh, thank god,” Peter breaths a sigh of relief and sags into his seat opposite the Sorcerer Supreme. “I need to get back to my own world. There has to be a way to trace some sort of link, I’m sure the books in your vaults can help.”

“Ok,” Strange nods, scribbling something down on the back of a card with a silver fountain pen. Then, standing, he rounds the huge mahogany desk and approaches Peter. “Look up for me, Mr. Parker.”

Peter does not expect Strange to quickly shine a small light into both of his eyes, long cool fingers pinning Peter’s chin firmly in place.

“Not high off of drugs or concussed,” He tuts, sounding almost disappointed as he pockets the flashlight, “so you really do believe what you’re saying.”

“What?” Peter stares after the man when he walks over to the coat rack, eyes glued to something on his phone.

“No worries, Mr. Parker, we’ll help you get everything sorted out,” Dr. Strange mutters distractedly under his breath. He sheds his white doctor's coat and shrugs on a suit jacket. The man walks back to his desk and snatches up the small slip of paper. “Here’s the contact info for the best psychiatrist I know. Mention my name, Leonard might give you a discount, or he might charge more. It all depends on his mood I suppose."

“You think I’m crazy?” Peter asks as the realization slowly sinks in and the hope fluttering in his chest turns to something cold and heavy that settles in the pit of his stomach.

Was Doctor Strange not the Sorcerer Supreme in this world?

The one in his universe had mentioned to Peter about having worked as a doctor once, but that had been decades ago, according to Strange.

Dr. Strange’s pale lips lift in an artificial smile, “no, of course not, you’re just…special.”

He gestures for Peter to stand and follow him out of his office. Heart heavy with defeat, Peter does as he’s told and trails after the neurosurgeon.

“Listen, kid, I have to go to an award event tonight,” Strange round on him and presses the card into the breast pocket of Peter’s flannel shirt, “Seriously, get yourself some medical help.”

It had taken him two whole days to convince Aunt May to let him go out alone again, and just when Peter had finally managed to track Dr. Strange down by stubbornly camping out in front of his office, the man had casually dismissed him as a nutcase. The sky, mirroring his dark mood, is pouring torrential rain by the time Peter shuffles out of the hospital lobby and onto the wet sidewalk.

Around Peter, pedestrians hurry past with their heads bent low and arms tucked tightly at their sides. A kid dressed in a red and black rain jacket bumps into him and mutters a quick sorry without even glancing up from his phone. Peter stares after him, his tired brain struggling and failing to connect the dots as to why that particular pattern looks faintly familiar.

The short toot of a taxi horn startles Peter out of his thoughts. He glances up and meets the eyes of a cheerful young man peering at him through the open passenger window of a yellow cab.

“Need a ride?” The man chirps.

Peter paws at his jeans and produces a few crumpled dollar bills. Looking up at the iron-black clouds and occasional flashes of lightning within their depth, he sighs and pulls the door to the cab open.

“Thanks, dude,” He’s frustrated to the core, but Peter still remembers his manners when he says, “I’m Peter by the way.”

“Dopinder,” Peter’s cabbie returns with a bright smile, “where to, Peter?”

-

“Kale smoothie, kid?”

“No thanks, Dad,” Waist-deep in advanced textbooks, Peter replies without thinking.

All the interns at Stark Industries were allowed free access to the first ten floors of the tower. With a few weeks left before finals, Peter had opted to set aside his futile quest for escape to hunker down and cram. He figured he should at least make an effort to keep up his counterpart’s stellar grades. The other kid’s future shouldn’t be ruined if they ever did swap back. So he had packed all the heavy texts in his backpack and holed himself up in one of the quiet study spaces on the fifth floor of Stark Tower to do some intense prepping.

Needless to say, Peter had not expected Tony Stark of all people to show up and offer him a freaking kale smoothie.

“Smart choice, stuff tastes like the Jolly Green Giant took a dump in a Whole Foods store. I don’t get why Pepper’s so into this stuff, to be honest,” Tony Stark confesses as he wanders over to Peter, who had seized up with blind panic. Stark parks his butt over one of Peter’s high school chemistry books and peers down at him with piercing brown eyes. Peter stares back, a pencil still dangling limply between his lips. He notices that the ugly bruise from a week ago has faded from the man's face and he seems somewhat more relaxed and well-rested this time.

Stark clears his throat and says slowly, “So, I think we need to talk about this whole ‘dad’ thing. I didn’t think much of it when you did it the first time, what with the fainting and concussion. But now I have to ask, do you see me as a father-figure, Peter?”

“…No!” He squeaked, face flaming hot with mortification and unconsciously curling in on himself to avoid Tony’s assessing gaze.

“So you call every middle-aged man ‘dad’ then,” Stark concludes with a frown.

“I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t have daddy issues, Mr. Stark, it just slipped out, I swear,” Peter babbles with a low groan, “can we please not talk about this anymore? Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be at some fundraiser or in the middle of getting drunk?”

“Ouch, kid, didn’t know you thought so highly of your dad,” Stark rolls his eyes and sets the glass of something at Peter’s elbow. It is not green, but a warm orange-yellow.

“Let it go, Mr. Stark, please,” Peter begs, “it was an accident. I promise I won’t call you dad again.”

“Ok, son,” Stark laughs as he breezes away, “Good luck with finals.”

Peter flops down onto the desk with a tortured moan. “You’re not gonna let this go are you, Mr. Stark?”

“Nope,” Tony says before the doors slide shut after him.

Peter keeps his flushed cheek pressed against the cool table top until his heart calms down and stops trying to escape his chest. Then, curiously, he takes a small sip of whatever is inside the tall glass Stark had left behind.

It’s a mango and pineapple smoothie, which just so happens to be Peter’s favorite flavor. He can’t help but whisper the words when he drops his forehead back onto the table

“Thanks, dad.”

-

“You’re Spider-Man.”

Peter drops the books he’s holding. The sarcastic curly-haired girl from his biochemistry class is leaning against Peter’s adjacent locker, her arms crossed over her chest. He can’t really recall her name, but he’s seen her around enough times to realize that she’s in most of his advanced science classes.

“Very funny,” He tries to laugh it off as he bends down to pick up his books.

“Trying to deny it, Parker?” She lifts an eyebrow as the bell rings overhead and students start shuffling down the hall a little faster. “Wanna know how I found out? Meet me in the Biochem lab after school. If you don’t show up, I’ll assume you’re fine with me letting the news out.”

Then, without another word, she slams his locker shut and walks off. Peter stares after the odd girl until a hand on his shoulder makes him drop his books a second time that morning.

“You ok, Pete? We’re gonna be late for CS,” Ned says, giving him a weird look. “Did you hit your head again? Why are you gawking after MJ?”

“MJ…” He murmurs with a frown. Then, clearing his throat, Peter says, “right, sorry. Let’s get it over with, bud.”

He breezes through the computer programing course and finishes writing his codes early. The unsettling feeling in the back of his mind grows as the clock hands slowly travel toward 2:45 PM. Peter turns in his work and rushes out of the room before anyone else. The biochem lab is empty when he gets there, and it takes another excruciating fifteen minutes before MJ saunters in like a stray cat.

“What do you want?” Peter demands.

“So, you are Spider-Man,” She drops her bag down on the lecture bench and walks over to Peter. He glares at her while MJ circles him with a calculating glimmer in her eyes. “I knew it. You are. The lab drawer is just further proof.”

“What lab drawer?” Peter asks.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” MJ says, going back to her backpack and pulling out a slim laptop. “I was bored one day, so I came up with a software that analyzes athlete performance and potential via motion tracking. Coach Wilson wanted to use it to pick out candidates for next year’s track team, so he had me use it on folks during PE.”

“So?”

“So I did. Interestingly, you were one of the highest scorers,” MJ pulled something up on her screen and clicked another file, “see, I made the connection by random chance. I was on YouTube looking at videos of babies sucking on lemon and this thing on the trending list popped up, clear footage of the Spider in action. I thought ‘hey, wouldn’t it be interesting to analyze his motion patterns and physique?’ Guess what I saw?”

“What?” Peter whispers, dread sinking in.

“Fifty-seven matching markers out of sixty when compared with the saved files of one ‘Peter Parker’ who just happens to go to my school, have the same height, and randomly disappear during school field trips minutes before Spider-Man shows up.”

Peter gapes at her, “How…”

“I watch you, Parker, a lot.” MJ says solemnly. She blinks, “wait, that came out wrong.”

“And the lab drawer?” Peter asks, already reaching for the spider shooter in the side of his backpack.

“You forgot to clear out your shit, so Cobbwell made me, your lab partner, clean it out,” She pulls something else out of her backpack. It’s a clear plastic baggie with a beaker full of something thick, white, and viscous. “Looks familiar? Pretty strong stuff. I ran it in the NMR machine downstairs and compared it with some of the goop I got from one of your ‘crime scenes’. It was a perfect match. I also tested the tensile strength and, if my calculations are correct, it is theoretically capable of withstanding over ten metric tons before fracture. So, these are your webs I’m guessing?”

“What are you?” Peter splutters, completely mind-blown.

“What are you?” She shoots back, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t know, but I do know you’re holding a bag of my jizz in your hand,” He says, and as Peter expects, MJ reacts like every other teenage girl when confronted with the unexpected topic of semen.

“Eww!!! What the hell, Parker?!” She drops the bag and Peter uses the distraction to jump over the lab bench, aiming a glob of web at MJ’s unprotected computer and tugging it toward himself as he bolts for the door.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going with that?” MJ yells after him. Peter’s instinct tells him to keep running or better yet, turn around and threaten the girl into silence, because the decision to reveal his identity is not up to him. This is his counterpart’s life, Peter has no right to alter it in such a monumental way, but against his better judgment, he comes to a stop at the end of the hall and heaves a huge breath.

“Seriously? You know I got a dozen copies of the data right?” She pants when she catches up to him.

“I know,” Peter says, turning to face MJ, “you’re right, I am Spider-Man.”

-

“I freakin’ knew it, Parker, I’m never wrong,” MJ takes a victorious bite out of her Cuban sandwich and punches the air in front of her. Peter rolls his eyes silently and takes a sip of ice tea. They’re sitting on the roof of the astronomy building and watching the remaining cars trickle out of the staff parking lot of their school. The air is a soft sticky thing, cloying with the scent of summer blossoms and shrill cries of cicadas nearby. It is nearly seven and the sun is still bright in the sky overhead.

He had tried his best to answer the slew of questions from MJ, who had not seemed to harbor any ill intentions toward him after Peter confirmed her discovery. She’s still chattering animatedly about how all the little clues seem to fit so perfectly now that she knows, and he is suddenly hit with a bone-deep sense of loneliness and isolation. Peter has no one on his side in this foreign world. No one knows his real secret. No one knows he does not belong in this 16-year-old’s body.

Someone could…

“Hey MJ,” He opens his mouth to catch her attention. MJ turns to him, her light golden brown eyes still shining with triumph. They remind Peter a little bit of Wade’s eyes. He smiles at her and says, “There’s something else I want to tell you. Can you keep a secret?”

Peter does not expect her to ask, “are you gay?”

The question startles a deep bubble of laughter from deep within his chest and loosens the ball of anxiety lodged in his chest, “Ah, that’s a complicated question, but not what I was going to share with you, no.”

“Ok, sure I can keep a secret,” She picks up the other half of her sandwich, grilled chicken, because Peter had swapped half of his own for half of her Cuban.

“I’m not Peter Parker,” He says, struggling to find the right words, “I mean, I am Peter Parker, but just not yours. I’m from another dimension,” He clarifies and watches as her eyes widen. “I’m actually twenty, and yeah, I’m currently in a steady relationship with another man, but I’ve dated girls before him, so you understand why I said your previous question was complicated…”

MJ laughs so hard she chokes on her Oreo milkshake. She sees his serious expression after her cough subsides and the smile slowly fades as MJ asks, “whoa, you’re not joking, are you?”

“Unfortunately not,” He grimaces, “I’ve been trying my best to fit in, but I think Ned suspects.”

“Does he know about the vigilante thing?” She demands.

“No, only you and Mr. Stark, but this secret that I’m telling you now, nobody else knows, so you can’t tell anyone, MJ.”

“I won’t,” She beams and promises, making a little X in front of her chest with a finger that leaves a streak of mayonnaise on her shirt. Peter laughs and hands her a napkin.

“Thank you,” He sighs, flopping onto his back and peering up at the fluffy white clouds overhead. It feels good, sharing the weight of his secret with another person, even though he knows little next to nothing about the girl sitting next to him. But Peter has a good feeling about her, just like he’d had with his tenants, and he trusts his instincts.

“I guess it all makes sense,” MJ says, sounding to Peter’s surprise, a little dejected as she says, “I mean the weird out-of-character stuff you’ve been doing. You haven’t been drooling after Liz or Gwen recently, and you didn’t show up for the Decathlon practices. Harrington was super disappointed. And the gushing nosebleed in Physics.”

“You heard about that?” Peter asks, twisting to look at her.

MJ rolls her eyes “I’m in your Physics class, Parker. I sit behind Flash.”

“Oh, sorry,” He says.

“Never mind, tell me more about this world of yours,” MJ prompts.

So Peter does.

-

same rooftop 2night?

Peter sends the text. Two seconds later, his phone vibrates with a reply.

yup see you at 9. bring your onesie bug boy

He shakes his head with a grin at MJ’s message and sends: only if u bring food :/

“Who’re you texting?” Ned’s voice startles Peter and he hurriedly pockets his phone.

“No one,” Peter lies.

MJ has been helping him with training recently. He’s not exactly up to this world’s Peter Parker when it comes to swinging from building to building. As it turns out, it’s a lot harder to coordinate all the muscles in your body without a parasitic symbiote doing all the backseat driving. The kid’s ingrained muscle memory helps, but Peter wants to do better, so MJ has been using her software to run tests while he does what she tells him to do.

“So, who are you thinking of asking out for the Senior Dance?” Ned asks.

“What dance?” Peter blinks and Ned lifts an eyebrow.

“The school dance next week, Peter, the glittery poster your wet dream Liz made for it is literally hanging over my head right now,” His friend says sarcastically.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know?” Peter shrugs, “MJ?”

“You’re joking,” Ned says flatly.

“No, not really, she’s actually pretty cool,” He pats Ned on the shoulder, “see you tomorrow, Ned.”

-

“So what are you going to do about the whole wife-swap situation?” MJ asks one night after the finish another two hours of arduous training and go over the answers to the Physics problem set.

“My last plan blew up in my face. There’s this guy who goes by Doctor Strange in my world, he’s got this necklace thing that he uses to bend space and time, I was hoping the version here could help me, but…”

“What?”

“Well, as it turns out, he’s a real doctor here and he thinks I’m a nut job.”

“Oh, that sucks dude,” MJ says sympathetically.

“I was thinking about maybe tracking down Loki, but the Avengers are disbanded and I don’t think anybody knows where Thor is,” He sighs.

“Loki’s bad news here, he ruined New York a couple of years back,” MJ tells him.

“Yeah, same thing in my world, but he can change, I know it,” Peter says before frowning down at the flickering lights of a street corner bank. “MJ, we need to postpone the brainstorming, I think a group’s gonna rob those ATMs down there.”

“Really?” She skips over to join him at the edge of the building, “we should go kick their asses.”

“No, I’ll go, and you stay here,” Peter orders, pulling the Spider-Man mask over his face and handing his backpack to MJ. He blinks at the ungodly sight of the wool cap pulled over her face and the pair of eyes peering impatiently back at him.

“You just had that…makeshift bank robber mask on you?” He asks skeptically.

“Come on! I wanna help!” She says, eagerly pulling out a retractable baton from her bag.

“We’re going to have a chat about this love for violence of yours, MJ,” Peter groans, grabbing onto her waist, “put your arms around my neck and take a deep breath. It can get a little hard to breath on the way down.”

-

“Look, it’s the Avengers,” Peter says drily when he slips into the establishment without the robbers noticing.

“This place’s taken, go find another ATM,” The one wearing the plastic Thor mask says gruffly when he catches sight of MJ’s similar burglar getup.

“We’re not here to rob the place,” Peter sighs, “I told my associate the wool cap was a bit much.”

They charge at him and MJ when they realize who Peter is, and the ensuing struggle is easily taken care of by copious amounts of webbing. MJ manages to land a few good blows on Iron Man and the Hulk. Things get a little out of control when one of them pulls out something that looks like a prop out of the MIB movies and Peter is suddenly floating upside down in midair, suspended by blue tendrils of energy. Then, MJ karate kicks the man between the legs and he goes down screaming in agony.

“What was that?” She yells at him after Peter webs the gun to the wall and adds the guy to the pile of unconscious goons webbed to the ground.

“No idea, but looks like there might be another budding villain in New York City,” He replies, “call the police and lets get out of here.”

“I just did,” She tells him. Then, to Peter’s bewilderment, MJ wanders over to one of the silent screens on the wall in the waiting area. It is showing footage of a CNN reporter. She points at the rolling subtitles. “Dude, isn’t this the doctor you were telling me about earlier?”

“What?” Peter walks over to join her, his eyes scanning over the line of text beneath the talking woman.

Esteemed neurosurgeon Dr. Stephen Strange in coma after surviving brutal car crash.

“No, it can’t be,” Peter stares at the words, unable to comprehend their meaning.

“What now?” MJ asks tensely.

“I don’t know…” Peter replies numbly.

“We should drop by the hospital,” She decides, grabbing Peter by the arm and dragging him out of the destroyed bank, “see if there’s anything anyone can do about it. You said he was your best lead, didn’t you? Don’t give up just yet, Pete.”

“Ok, let’s grab some flowers so we don’t stand out,” He sighs, offering her a small smile, “also, toss that DIY mask of yours.”

“You don’t like it?” She smirks.

He shakes his head, “not really, no.”

-

“So, you say you are Strange's niece?” The doctor, his name tag reads ‘Dr. West’, asks dubiously. MJ sniffs and wipes at the tears trailing down her cheeks.

“I heard from my mom,” She lies smoothly.

“And you? Who are you?” Dr. West asks Peter.

“Her boyfriend?” He says.

“You asking me that, son?” Dr. West raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t get to call out Peter’s obvious lie because MJ lets out a loud fake sob and tries to sidestep him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where do you think you’re going?” He grabs her arm. “Who did you say your mom was again?”

“I didn’t,” MJ shrugs.

“Who are you really?”

“His niece, I promise I’m not lying,” MJ whines.

“Stephen’s only sibling Donna died when she was seventeen,” Dr. West says cooly, “I’m going to give you two a chance to walk away before I call security.”

“What is going on here?” Peter hears a familiar voice from behind, and when he whirls around, Dr. Christine Palmer is standing there. She looks tired but stands straight nonetheless. Her eyes light up when she sees Peter. “Mr. Parker, how are doing?”

“A lot better, thank you,” Peter replies.

“These kids yours, Chris?” Dr. West asks. “They were trying to get info on Strange.”

“Oh, I see,” A brief flicker of pain crosses over Dr. Palmer face as she bites her lip, “I can take it from here, Dr. West. Peter’s a former patient of his.”

“Ok, take care of yourself, Chris,” He nods curtly at her before departing down the hall.

-

“So he might not wake up ever?” Peter asks after Dr. Palmer explains the situation.

“Or he might wake up tomorrow,” She smiles sadly, “the brain is a strange and wonderful thing. I like to think Stephen is too stubborn to fade away like this.”

“Right,” Peter fidgets distractedly with a stray thread on his shirt sleeve.

“Why did you come here, Peter?” Christine asks.

“I—” He starts, but the sharp bang of something that sounds chillingly like a muffled gunshot goes off and all the hairs on the back of Peter’s arm stand up. He gets to his feet quickly and makes his way to the door.

“What’s wrong, Peter?” MJ asks.

“I think I heard a gunshot,” He says, easing open the door a fraction of an inch. The corridor outside of Dr. Palmer’s office is clear. Three seconds later, Peter flinches back just in time to avoid the spray of metal shards that had come ricocheting from the floor after piercing through one foot of solid concrete.

“What was that?” Dr. Palmer gets quickly to her feet, alarm written all over her face as Peter grabs a nearby chair and wedges it under the door knob. With the puncture holes in the ground outside, he can hear the screams emanating from one floor down.

“The window, MJ, get Dr. Palmer out of here. NOW!” Peter yells, going for his backpack for the Spider-man mask. The door blasts off its hinges just as MJ and Dr. Palmer manage to crawl onto the terrace outside her office.

Peter grabs the paper weight off of the doctor’s desk and turns to face the gunman. He spots a familiar gleaming silver prosthetic arm that sets his heart alight as he whispers, “Nicolai?”

The figure steps past the smoke in the doorway and Peter finally gets a full view of the man, along with the inhuman orange glow of his left eye and the short white grey hair. It is definitely not the Winter Soldier he’s looking at. The stranger lifts the massive gun, aims it at Peter’s face and growls.

“I’ve been looking for you, Peter Parker.”

Chapter Text

 Villain!verse

When Peter next opens his eyes, there is a plump chicken sitting on his chest. It clucks inquisitively down at him and pecks the tip of Peter’s nose in greeting. There’s the muffled sound of voices and bustling coming from downstairs when he carefully scoops up the very well-behaved hen and bends down to peer at his shoes.

“Did you do this?” Peter asks the chicken, pointing to the single egg lying in his left sneaker. The chicken cocks its head to the side and moves to nibble his ear. Laughing a little, Peter plucks out the egg, puts on his shoes, and tucking the hen against his chest, heads downstairs where the delicious aroma of food is wafting from.

“So…a chicken laid an egg in my shoe,” Peter clears his throat and says to the kitchen at large when he appears in the doorway. The Winter Soldier, clad in a pair of dark workout pants and white tank, opens his hand to Peter without lifting his gaze from the frying pan. After giving it a thorough wash in the sink, Peter drops the egg in his palm and dutifully shields the chicken’s eyes from the horrifying sight of the Soldier fluidly cracking the egg in one metal hand and adding it to the pan.

“Good morning,” Bob beams as he sweeps in through the back door leading to the garden. The hen in Peter’s arms lets out a happy cluck at the sight of the mousy-haired man.

“You found Dolly,” Bob grins.

“Dolly?” Peter asks, peering down at the cream-colored hen.

“As in Dolly Parton,” Bucky grunts, partitioning the eggs onto empty plates. He gestures vaguely at his own chest as he turns back to the stove, “on account of the massive…you know.”

“Oh,” Peter laughs.

“Bob’s got a few other celebrities out back,” The Soldier explains, “he can show you if you’re interested, kid.”

“That actually sounds really awesome,” Peter grins, setting Dolly carefully down on the ground and moving to wash his hands, “want some help with the pancakes? Also, where’s the rest of the household?”

“They still have a few more hours before they’ll even consider waking up,” Bucky says, handing him a spatula, “Bob and I are headed to the farmers market, so we gotta get up early to do some prep work.”

“Farmers market?” Peter asks as he flips a pancake. They quickly establish a comfortable rhythm working together by the stove, “Are you guys sellers?”

“Yeah, Bob’s pretty popular,” Bucky adds some more batter to the hot pan, “Steve and I started a tiny honey bee farm out back a few months ago. The brood's been producing more than we can eat and give away to the neighbors, so he’s set up a modest side business under Bob’s baked goods empire.”

“Captain America selling home-harvested honey at a farmers market?” Peter asks and laughs out loud in disbelief.

“Thor also helps from time to time, but he’s mostly there because there are free food samples and fawning women,” Bucky adds with a low chuckle, “pretty different from your side of the pond?”

“Understatement of the century,” Peter murmurs just as said God of Thunder pushes his way into the kitchen with Steve Rogers and Bob in tow. Thor, his long golden hair tied loosely back from his face, is busy cramming the remains of a scone into his mouth. His face lights up at the sight of more breakfast. Bucky tosses him a clean fork from the counter, smirking a little when Thor winks and blows him an exaggerated kiss.

“How are you doing, Peter?” Steve asks, sidestepping the god and making his way over to them with a bright smile.

“Not bad, all things considered,” Peter smiles back. In the few days that he’s been staying with them, he’s gotten pretty fond of the group of bizarre individuals his counterpart had gathered under his roof. With the exception of Loki and Magneto, most of them had warmed up to him.

“We finished packing everything into the van,” Steve says to the Winter Soldier who reaches out and gives his thick bicep an affectionate squeeze.

“Thanks, bud,” Bucky says, “Peter and I are pretty much finished. Let’s grab a quick bite and head out.”

“Want to come with us, Peter?” Steve asks kindly.

“Sure,” He replies easily as he sets the giant stack of pancakes next to Thor who had somehow already inhaled all his eggs. Bucky forks a section of his own onto the god's plate and stuffs a few hurried bites into his mouth before dumping the remains onto Steve's.

“Buck, sit down and eat like an adult,” Steve says disapprovingly. He passes Bob the maple syrup.

“Make me, Rogers,” The Winter Soldier smacks him on the back of the head as he runs out into the hall after chucking his dirty plate in the sink, “I’m gonna feed the dogs and get dressed.”

“Almost a hundred years old and still acting like a toddler on too much sugar,” Steve sighs down at his eggs and shakes his head.

“Loki is over a thousand years old and still throws terrible tantrums,” Thor offers brightly, his mouth overflowing with food as he pats Captain America comfortingly on the shoulder.

“Yeah, right…Loki’s the child,” Steve meets Peter’s amused gaze across the table and presses a napkin over the god’s mouth. They are finished with breakfast and sipping cups of fresh coffee when Bucky reemerges, dressed in a form-fitting black shirt and faded jeans. His brown hair is pulled up into a small messy bun atop his head.

“One more bite, Bucky, that all I’m asking,” Steve taps his fork pointedly on his plate where he’d left a small pile of neatly cut pancake. The Winter Soldier sighs, crosses over to him and obediently opens his mouth. Steve somehow manages to screwer all of the remaining pancake squares onto his fork and shove them into his best friend’s mouth in a single go. Bucky, cheeks bulging, lifts the middle finger of his metal hand.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” Steve scolds sharply, grabbing the offensive finger.

Peter laughs as he dries his plate and puts it on the rack. Thor had scooped up Dolly and was already heading toward the stocked van. Steve sends the Soldier outside with a warning smack to the backside and moves to put his plate into the sink.

“Ready to head out, young man?” Cap turns to smile at Peter.

He grins back, “Yeah.”

-

The farmers market is a thirty-minute drive from their house. Thor and Bob spend the entire car ride singing along to Taylor Swift with occasional screaming clucks from Dolly, their backup. They even get Peter to join in at the end. Steve grabs Bucky’s metal wrist and keeps a tight grip on it during the entire ride. Peter’s pretty sure otherwise Thor would find it wrapped around his throat thirty seconds into his extremely off-keyed rendition of Blank Space.

Thor helps them carry their goods to Bob’s usual spot and set up the white tarp tent before disappearing into the numerous other vendor tents with Dolly perched on his left shoulder like a fat parrot. He comes back with a whole bunch of little samples, including a spicy bratwurst that makes Peter’s eyes water and his nose run. He refuses Thor’s offer of random food items after that.

Bob’s fresh scones sell out within the first half-hour, and they are well onto emptying their stock of honey, veggies, and eggs when a cheerful voice says, “Bobbers, your dijon mustard is literally the same color and consistency as my bleached asshole!”

The little old lady standing in front of Bob’s display quickly set the glass jar down and shuffles off to reveal a very familiar looking masked man dressed in black and red.

“Mister Wilson!” Bob chirps, completely overlooking the fact that Wade had perhaps just permanently scared off a potential customer. He rounds the little table and throws his arms around Wade’s broad shoulders.

“Yeah, that was definitely not a green light for bodily contact, little guy,” Wade says, but he does give Bob’s ass a few hearty claps before turning to a scowling Winter Soldier, “Hey Jolly Ol’ Nick, guess what?”

The Winter Soldier folds his arms over his chest and says slowly, “that’s not dijon mustard, it’s strawberry butter jam, you demented fuckwad.”

“Bucky, language!” Steve says, twisting to glare at them from where he’s getting spare change for a scandalized elderly couple. He smiles kindly at the old man and gives them a free jar of the strawberry jam as an apology before hurriedly sending them on their way.

“Aww, I missed you too, my angry Russian science experiment,” Deadpool cackles and pulls a very, very reluctant figure over to him, “I found you a replacement to have hot athletic man-sex with Captain Dream Buns over there! Think he’ll notice the difference?”

The man that Wade is referring to easily stands a head taller than the ex-merc himself. He’s got white cropped hair fashioned in a military buzz cut and is wearing a heavy utility belt filled with what Peter can only guess to be weapons under a beige cloak. Oh, he’s also got a huge shiny metal left arm. Peter stares.

“Of course Steven will notice,” Thor points out in the ensuing silence, “they look nothing alike.”

Dolly clucks her agreement from his shoulder.

“Next time Loki wants to stab him, I’m passing him my knives,” Bucky growls.

Steve sighs.

-

“So Priscilla, meet Petey, only this Petey is not my Petey, my Petey switched—” The rest of Wade’s irritatingly loud words are cut off by the heavy gloved hand over his mouth. The tall man whose left eye had glowed an inhuman orange when he’d arrived back on the farm with Wade in tow, turns to Peter and says in a low rumble, “The name is Nathan Summers, or Cable if you want to call me that. I know exactly who you are, Peter Parker.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Stark asks with a frown.

Steve had been the one to call Tony Stark, and now everyone was assembled in his counterpart’s living room once more. He had been working on an alternate solution with Loki after their first failed attempt at contact.

“When dimensions collide, they make massive ripples in the space-time continuum. I felt your presence immediately when the switch had been completed. Why did you think I let Wade find me so easily?” Nathan Summers explains, calmly ignoring Wade’s muffled indignant “I thought that was because you’re secretly in love with me, Priscilla!" from where he’s still got the other man in a tight headlock.

“So, you can help us get my son back?” Tony asks tensely.

“I don’t know,” Nathan frowns, “We would need to understand the true nature of the switch and pinpoint the exact event that both Peter Parkers went through to make this happen.” He pauses thoughtfully for a moment before turning his piercing gaze to Peter, “One thing I do know is that your continued presence here, and no doubt your counterpart’s in that other world, is causing tears in both timelines. The domino effect from this will be catastrophic.”

Wade, who had been steadily wriggling out of Cable’s death grip, suddenly goes still, “hold the fuck up, mutant Jesus, does that mean the you in the other dimension has also caught wind of my baby boy?”

“Yes,” Nathan nods grimly, “which is why we must hurry. I’m afraid he may not be as friendly as I am when it comes to dimension-hopping intruders.”

MCU!verse

The first burst of energy from the gun catches Peter squarely in the chest and sends him flying backward. He smashes through the window and rolls head over heels past MJ and Dr. Palmer who lets out a startled scream. Peter’s wearing Mr. Stark's upgraded Spider-Man suit under his hoodie, so there’s not much damage beyond a few sore ribs. His hoodie which had said ‘I Like Turtles’ now reads 'I les’ with the smoldering hole burnt through the front. Peter tears off the ruined hoodie, shucks his jeans and yanks the Spider-Man mask over his face just as his assailant leaps through the destroyed window and reloads his futuristic-looking weapon.

“No!” Dr. Palmer, her face chalky white with fear and hair a wild messy around her shoulders, charges out of nowhere and throws herself in front of Peter.

“Please don’t do this,” She chokes out, “take me, let them go. They are just children.”

The blazing orange light in the gunman’s left eye dims, and for a fraction of a second, it almost looks like he is going to lower his weapon, but then the man grits his teeth, stubbornly sets his jaw and growls, “stand aside, woman. I only want the boy.”

“Then you’re gonna have to go through the two of us first,” MJ yells and throws her baton at his head. Peter’s assailant doesn’t even attempt to dodge the projectile. It hits the side of his face with a pathetic thwack and clatters to the ground. MJ’s shoulders slump as the gunman kicks it aside and advances, “damn it, I should have asked my old man for the version that could taser people.”

The man’s lips twitch in what almost seems like amusement before he calls out to Peter, “you gonna let those two girls get hurt protecting your pathetic ass, kid?”

Peter ignores the deliberate jab and bounds forward. He webs the man’s gun and tears it from his fingers. The weapon flies over the edge of the building, and using the momentum, Peter manages to kick the guy in the chest. He stumbles back a few steps, eyes narrowing as he dodges Peter’s next assault.

“You a mutant, Parker?” He asks, throwing a punch with the metal arm that looks so similar to Nicolai’s. Peter reckons if he can survive a ruthless sparring session with the Winter Soldier without superpowers back home, this kid’s enhanced body sure can too. The man’s eyes widen when Peter singlehandedly catches the punch.

“No, I’m Batman,” He says and socks the man in the nose. The gunman grunts and stumbles back, clutching at his face. Below them, Peter can hear the sound of police sirens. There is also the deafening noise of a chopper rapidly approaching from the south side. His mysterious attacker lowers his hand and Peter is pleased to see the thin trickle of blood above his lip.

“You’re a starting to be a real pain in the ass, kid,” He growls and throws out a hand. The massive gun Peter had thrown over the edge of the building comes flying back into the man’s waiting arms.

“Shit!” Peter yells, throwing himself between the gunman and the two defenseless women behind him. But the man does not get the chance to fire his weapon again because a flurry of bullets come pelting at him from the ruined window of the hospital and a blindingly bright searchlight falls upon them from above. The man throws his metal arm up just in time to erect a bright orange energy shield that reflects most of the bullets, but Peter hears him grunt in pain when a stray bullet clips his flesh shoulder. He stumbles.

“Surrender your weapon or we will shoot!” The SWAT team yells from the helicopter. Taking advantage of all the commotion and chaos, Peter nabs MJ and Dr. Palmer and leaps off the edge of the building before the police or the gunman can stop him.

-

“What the hell was that?!” MJ yells when he sets them down again.

“Oh my God, Peter, you’re Spider-Man,” Dr. Palmer whimpers. She looks on the verge of fainting.

“Guys, please calm down,” Peter pleads, hoping against hope that their freakout session in the secluded alleyway will not draw any unwanted attention.

“I think I’m going to go throw up behind that dumpster now,” Dr. Palmer says suddenly, “excuse me, children.”

“Dr. Palmer, oh jeez,” Peter looks away from the loud retching, "MJ can you help her out, please?”

He can still hear the faint sirens but they are far enough away that the police has lost interest in tracking down the two unnamed women that Spider-Man had saved from the mad gunman that had just shot up a hospital.

“What now?” MJ asks when Dr. Palmer finally calms down enough to stop dry-heaving every couple of seconds. She hands the doctor a half-full bottle of water from her backpack to rinse out her mouth.

“I don’t know,” Peter replies miserably. He doesn’t notice that his own hands are shaking like crazy until Dr. Palmer gathers him into a chokingly tight hug and Peter has to blink to stop the tears from coming. He melts against her and a second later, MJ joins in on the hugging. They are still piled together in a group embrace when her left pant pocket buzzes angrily and Baby Got Back rips through the silence like a knife.

“It’s my old man. I gotta take this, or else he’ll send Officer Jenkins after me again,” MJ groans. She extracts herself from the group hug and walks off to answer her phone.

“Peter, how long have you been doing this?” Dr. Palmer whispers quietly, her hazel eyes huge as she peers worriedly down at him.

“A while,” Peter says vaguely before adding in a much more pleading tone, “Dr. P, you can’t tell anyone about—”

“Yeah, o-of course not, I promise,” She nods emphatically, “i-it’s just you’re so young, Peter.”

“I can take care of myself out there,” He smiles, and Dr. Palmer smiles back.

“I bet,” She murmurs. Then, a worried frown creases her brows, “Stephen doesn’t know, does he?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter sighs, and her shoulders slump in relief as she says, “good, good. He’s not the kind of guy who would keep quiet about something like this.”

“You mean he would want to cut me open and see what makes me tick the way I do, right?” He prompts, and they both giggle a little at that.

“That does sound like something our Stephen would do,” Dr. Palmer gives Peter a watery smile that finally dissolves into open tears. His heart clenches as he squeezes her hand sympathetically, “he’s gonna pull through. I know he will. Dr. Strange is a stubborn bastard.”

She sniffs and squeezes back gently.

“Bad news, gang,” are the first words out of MJ’s mouth when she ends the call with her dad.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Palmer asks, wiping hurriedly at her wet eyes and smearing runny mascara all over her cheeks.

Biting her lower lip, MJ says, “my dad just told me that the gunman escaped. He’s still on the loose.”

“Oh God,” Peter says faintly as he slumps back against the dirty brick wall.

“Don’t give up just yet, Parker,” MJ squares her jaw, dark eyes flashing stubbornly. “I have an idea.”

-

“MJ, I really don’t think this idea of yours is gonna work,” Peter says as he stares at the worn plaque on the side of the grimy metal door overflowing with graffiti. There’s a bright orange penis with Donald Trump’s face where the doorknob is. “I think Sister Margaret has given up on her wayward children and has taken on a life of crime and possibly drugs...”

“Well, Vanessa told me to meet her here,” MJ replies, frowning as she sidesteps Peter and kicks the heavy metal door three times, “also, might I remind you that you’re being hunted by freaking pissed off Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alike. Don’t you want to get this shit over with before your aunt comes back from her college reunion in Cali?”

“Thank God May’s away for a few more days,” Peter sighs, “I suppose we can ask your guy to track him down and hand him over to the police. But remind me again how you and your shady friend met?”

“You are such a snowflake, Parker. I told you, Vanessa and I volunteer at the same soup kitchen in Manhattan,” MJ rolls her eyes and huffs, “she said her boyfriend can make anyone disappear for a fee, but since you have the bleeding heart of Jesus Christ himself, we can ask him to leave out the killing part. Might even be cheaper come to think of it...”

Peter puts his hands on his hips and demands, “and why, if I may ask, did you not immediately burn the business card, stop volunteering at said soup kitchen, and change your name?”

MJ shrugs and kicks at the door again, “It wasn’t a business card. She wrote her number down on a condom wrapper. I thought it might come in handy someday, so I held onto it.” 

“The number or the condom?” Peter frowns. 

“The number, smartass.” 

“Your dad’s the captain of a police precinct, MJ!” Peter exclaims. He pauses before asking tentatively, “was it an unopened condom?”

Silence.

“So, there’s still time to back out of this, Dr. P,” Deciding to end that particular line of conversation, Peter turns to Dr. Palmer. She had insisted on coming with the two underage kids on the extremely morally-dubious trip in the middle of the night. Christine shakes her head stubbornly and pulls out a tiny bottle of mace from her purse.

“Fair enough,” Peter exhales as the door creaks open.

A fat bearded man pokes his head out and grunts, “whaddya want?”

“We’re here to see Vanessa Carlysle,” MJ calls out.

“We ain’t got no Tessa Carmichael,” The man mutters after a loud alcohol-saturated belch. He scratches his beard and says, “get out of here, boy.”

“Look, asshole,” MJ starts, but Dr. Palmer pushes past her and holds up two green bills.

“Two hundred dollars,” She says, voice trembling only slightly, “it’s yours if you let us in.”

He stares at her for a second before snatching up the money with a roaring laugh, “I woulda let ya in for twenty, sweetheart.”

The man shuffles aside to allow the three of them into the seedy joint. He tries to cop a feel when Dr. Palmer strides past, but Peter catches the man’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip before it even has a chance to graze the back of Dr. Palmer’s medical scrubs. The night’s events have steadily been chipping away at Peter’s patience, and he can no longer hold his temper when he growls at the man, “try that again and I break it off, fat Gandalf.”

“Alright, alright, kid, Jesus,” He winces and backs off with a frown, muttering under his breath, “is it the beard? Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

“She’s over by the bar, Pete,” MJ grabs his hand and drags Peter forward. The place is disgusting. There’s no other word that comes to mind when Peter slips on something that feels distinctly like old vomit beneath his left shoe. The combined stink of sweaty unwashed bodies, dried blood, and stale cigarettes is almost too much on his hypersensitive senses. Peter finds himself fighting his gag reflex as he finally comes to an unsteady stop by the bar. He puts out a hand to steady himself and cringes internally when his palm skids a few centimeters on the strangely sticky countertop.

“Hey Vanessa,” MJ calls out.

“Hey yourself, sweetie,” A sultry voice answers, and Peter looks up to find a stunningly beautiful woman seated in one of the two remaining stools with four legs by the bar. She tosses her long wavy hair over a pale shoulder and winks at them. Dr. Palmer smiles back awkwardly and quickly shuffles aside when a tottering man barfs, missing her shoes by inches.

“Dopinder, my man, puker at table six. Grab your mop!” the man behind the bar yells without turning to look.

“So this is the kid I mentioned over the phone,” MJ continues, pointing at Peter, “there’s a weird guy trying to kill him. Can your boyfriend take care of it?”

“You poor thing,” Vanessa’s smile fades, “do you know what this mystery guy looks like, sweetie?”

“You’re looking at him,” MJ points to the crooked TV mounted in the corner where a CNN reporter is talking rapidly, a picture of the gunman’s blurry form next to her face. His left arm is shining like molten silver in the searchlights.

“The Winter Soldier?” Vanessa asks, “I thought he eloped with his boyfriend, you know, the Avenger that looks like a male pornstar, what’s his name...”

“Captain America,” Peter supplies. He laughs despite himself, “his is like the only name you should be able to remember out of all the Avengers. And no, that’s not the Winter Soldier, I don’t actually know who he is and why he wants me dead.”

“Sorry, kiddo, my bad,” She smiles sweetly at him and slides gracefully off the bar stool, “Anywho, my hubby’s out back, so why don’t you follow me?”

“Umm,” Peter swallows thickly, “can we stay where there are people?”

“Oh, you sweet thing, we’re not going to kill you or drug you and steal all your kidneys. Although six kidneys in one night would be an insanely lucrative deal,” Vanessa laughs as she links her arm through Peter’s and pulls him along.

“Hey Ness, are those two kids underage?” The bartender yells at them, but Vanessa has already dragged Peter past the old plastic door curtains to the dingy hall out back. Judging from the stains on the wall, the curtains hadn’t been enough to protect the space from being contaminated by urine or vomit.

“So, there’s a prepayment and the rest of the fee is paid after the job’s done,” Vanessa explains as she leads them down the hall.

“I still have four hundred and twenty-six dollars and forty cents. Well six hundred if you can get the two hundred back from the bald guy who let us in,” Dr. Palmer is saying as she digs in her purse, “oh, I also have a fifty-dollar Starbucks gift card and a Barnes and Noble gift card. That one was supposed to be for my niece’s fifth birthday, but I can go buy another one if you accept it as part of the prepayment…”

Vanessa opens a bullet-riddled door that leads to another cluttered room and beckons for them to follow. There’s a massive stuffed unicorn in one corner and a peeling Wonder Woman poster behind a shelf of random nicknacks. Someone’s lounging on a sagging leather office chair with their back turned and humming along to Cardi B.

“All I got is twenty bucks,” MJ says, “I can cover your soup kitchen shift for a whole month if that counts toward anything, Vanessa.”

Peter quickly pats down the rumpled clothes he had liberated from MJ’s back trunk and comes up with a single green Jolly Rancher. Face heating with embarrassment, he says quietly, “umm, I have a Jolly Rancher…”

The music stops.

“If there’s an ATM somewhere nearby, I can go get some more money,” Dr. Palmer says weakly into the silence.

“What flavor,” A voice asks from the chair.

“What?” Peter blinks, completely taken aback by the question. Vanessa bites her lip with a smile.

“Uh, g-green apple,” He stammers, heart suddenly pounding. The voice sounds strangely…familiar.

“My favorite!” The man lets out a high-pitched gasp and bounces to his feet.

Wade Wilson, all six-foot-two of him, vaults over the desk, spilling used napkins and disrupting the small mountain of old Chinese takeout containers, and skips over to Peter. He plucks the hard candy out of Peter’s lax fingers, peels the wrapper, lifts his mask and pops it into his mouth. Scarred lips move but Peter can’t hear a single word past the loud ringing in his ears. He stares up at Wade Wilson with wide, wide eyes.

“Peter, it's rude to stare,” MJ hisses, elbowing him in the ribs.

He flinches, “s-sorry.”

“Funny how I get that reaction all the time. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was love at first sight,” Deadpool laughs low in his throat, “yeah, it’s like Freddy Kruger hate-fucked Sponge-Bob and chucked the baby into a dumpster fire. Then, a homeless old dog with mange and three legs came by, decided to eat the corpse, puked it back up, ate the vomit ‘cause he’s determined as fuck and shat it out the back end.”

“You done, Robert Frost?” MJ asks, closing her eyes against the nauseating imagery.

Wade rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I know, right? Where's my fucking Pulitzer?” 

“Excuse me for asking, but are those burn scars?” Dr. Palmer inquires, the doctor in her no longer able to contain her curiosity.

“Nice guess, Allie from The Notebook,” Wade says as he pirouettes over to a smiling Vanessa, “but this beauty pageant from hell started with good old cancer.”

“So, a single Jolly Rancher this time?” Vanessa asks him.

“Ness, it’s green apple,” Wade emphasizes and pecks her on the lips. Peter looks away, heart clenching at the sight. By the time they part, the half-dissolved candy is in Vanessa’s mouth.

“A single Jolly Rancher it is,” She agrees with a laugh and takes a seat on the overflowing desk.

Turning to them, the masked man spreads his arms magnanimously and asks, “So, what can I do you ladies for?”

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

“Pete, you okay?” MJ asks the moment the backdoor to Sister Margaret’s swings shut behind them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is it Vanessa’s boyfriend’s face? I mean it is kinda freaky, but you have seriously gotta stop staring at it like it’s the eclipse. You’ll get over it, think of your crush Liz or something.”

“It’s not his face,” Peter answers distracted and looks down at his wrist. It’s nearly four in the morning. “We should go home. It’s almost dawn.”

He reaches into his jeans for his wallet and closes his fingers around the sticky candy wrapper instead.

“Oh shit,” Peter breathes, heart sinking as he pats down his borrowed clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Palmer asks.

“I dropped my wallet,” He says, mind racing, “it’s probably still on that hospital rooftop. I had to take off my pants since it always gets in the way of the Spider-Man suit.”

“I can check when I go into work,” Dr. Palmer offers, but Peter shakes his head and starts pulling off MJ’s dad’s baggy NYPD hoodie. “No, I need to grab it now, before the sun comes up. My driver’s license and keys to the apartment are in there. That’ll be hard to explain if it gets bagged as evidence.”

He steps out of the massive jeans and hands them over to MJ. “You guys go home. It’ll be quicker if I do this alone. I’ll text you when I get back.”

MJ looks like she wants to object when Peter activates his suit and takes a few steps back. Biting her lip, she nods and says instead, “be careful.”

“I will,” He smiles at both of them and pulls the mask over his face.

-

His jeans are lying in a crumpled heap amidst the remnants of the shattered window when Peter arrives. The rooftop is sectioned off from the rest of the buildings with yellow police tape but thankfully no one is present when Peter slips past the tape and grabs his pants. There’s a smear of dried blood on the waistband, and when Peter reaches into the pockets, he already instinctively knows they are empty. A few feet away, he spots the second drop of blood. Peter follows the sparse trail to the edge of the building and peers down at the dark alley beneath.

There’s more blood behind one of the dumpsters, but otherwise the alley is empty. When he turns to leave, the kid’s weird sixth sense goes haywire again and as Peter twists back for one last cursory glance, he spots the old teddybear. It's lying facedown in the dirt, some of the yellowing stuffing poking out the back as if it had been—

Peter picks it up and sees the round hole in the bear’s tummy.

— as if it had been shot.

The fake fur over the bear’s left ear is soaked through with still-wet blood. Sighing, Peter secures it to his hip and shoot a glob of webbing at the neighboring building.

-

The sun is a budding smudge of bruised purple in the distant New York skyline when he climbs in through his bedroom window, not bothering to be quiet about it. Sure enough, the silver-haired stranger is waiting for him.

“You dropped this,” Peter says, ignoring the soft whirring of the charging gun and carefully pulling the stuffed bear off his belt. He holds it up to the man. The gun does not waver from where it is pointed straight at Peter’s chest.

“You’re kind of bleeding on my physics homework,” He says, breaking the tense silence.

“I have to do this,” The man growls, fingers flexing restlessly around the massive gun in his arms. His mismatched eyes dart lightning-quick over to the two simple picture frames on Peter’s desk — one of a grinning, five-year-old Peter in his parents arms and the other of a slightly older him standing with May and Ben. The stranger swallows and says insistently, “It’s my job.”

“To kill me?” Peter asks. “Why?”

“You don’t belong, Parker. Your presence is disrupting the fabric of time and space,” He snaps, glaring at Peter, “it’s like dropping a fucking nuclear bomb into a still pond.”

“You know about me,” Peter’s jaw drops, “how do you know that I’m not from here?”

“Like I said, it’s my goddamn job,” He says, irritated.

“Sounds stressful,” Peter murmurs before adding, “uh, not to ruin the mood or anything, but you’re like losing a lot of blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” The stranger dismisses. Peter sighs and deactivates his suit.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?” The man asks when Peter steps out of the Spider-Man uniform in nothing but his boxer briefs.

“I’m putting some normal clothes on,” Peter points out, scratching at a red patch on his abdomen and crossing the room to his dresser. “The suit kinda gets itchy after a while. I don’t like the ventilation setting because it makes me feel super naked for some reason. It’s probably the tiny air currents all over my skin. Anyhow, a few hours in the summer weather without the vents on and I can literally taste the sweat off of my balls. Yeah, it’s pretty gross. I miss Venom.”

His would-be killer makes a disgusted noise, the cybernetic eye flashing bright orange. Peter yanks a t-shirt over his head and turns to him, “look, how about you let me patch up those two gunshot wounds. Then, you can decide whether you still want to kill me or not.”

-

“You’re good at this,” The stranger remarks when Peter puts the finishing touches on the second bullet wound. He presses a clean bandage over the bruised skin and smiles a little, “My boyfriend gets shot at a lot. I mean, he technically doesn’t need my help with anything, but he heals a lot faster when you pull the slugs out first.”

“This boyfriend of yours also a mutant?” The man grunts, pulling the collar of his weird bodysuit back up.

“He doesn’t like that word,” Peter says distractedly as he washed his hands clean in the kitchen sink. The sun is out and his phone pings with a text from May, asking if he’s still doing ok on his own. Peter glances at the man seated at the dinner table, “hey, you want a beer?”

“Name’s Cable,” The stranger says reluctantly after he guzzles two cans of beer. Peter’s got breakfast heating on the stove and his own ice-cold beverage in one hand. The kid’s technically still a minor, but Peter reckons they both deserves some alcohol after all that he’s put the other boy’s body through last night.

“What is it?” Cable asks suspiciously when Peter offers him a warm Pop-Tart.

“Sugar and other assorted junk that’ll shave a few years off your life,” He answers honestly, “tastes pretty good though.”

Cable’s eyes widen when he takes a curious bite.

“It’s sweet,” He says, sounding a little awestruck.

“Yup,” Peter nods, spooning some eggs and veggies onto a plate. “I take it you’re not from around here, either?”

“No, time-travelled here from the future,” Cable grunts, still chewing. He lifts a hand to show Peter the clunky watch around his wrist. “Still got one charge left to take me back.”

Peter sets the two plates of hot food in front of Cable and sits down, “so, no Pop-Tarts back home?”

“Nah, everything tastes like sawdust,” Cable says, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “We eat to survive, not for taste or enjoyment.”

“Sounds awful,” Wincing in sympathy, Peter hands him the rest of the Pop-Tarts. They’re both studiously clearing off their plates when something suddenly occurs to Peter. “Umm, this might be an odd question, but you wouldn’t happen to have gone by the name ‘Priscilla’ at some point in your life, have you?”

Cable freezes with his fork halfway lifted to his mouth.

Peter flushes. “Sorry, that was out of line. I— ”

“Where did you hear that?” He demands sharply, staring at Peter like he’d just farted in a church or something. “Only my wife’s ever called me that.”

“Oh, wow,” Peter blinks, taken aback, “so you are Nate. But Wade said you were a lot taller than him and built like a french door refrigerator...”

“Who the hell’s Wade?” Cable frowns.

“My boyfriend,” Peter explains hurriedly, “from my side of the world. You guys are friends, I think. He’s always complaining about how long Priscilla’s name is. I kinda got suspicious when you said you were from the future.” He looks at the streaks of metal in Cable’s neck and asks, “that’s TO, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Cable admits thoughtfully.

“So,” Peter asks nervously when they finish breakfast, “still feeling particularly murdery?”

-

“Ta da!” Peter grins, showing the man his handiwork. There’s now a tiny jean jacket smartly concealing the gunshot wound in the stuffed teddy. It looks pretty darn amazing if he’s to be honest. The corners of Nate’s mouth curl up softly as he takes the bear.

“You’re a good kid,” Cable says quietly, “reminds me of my daughter Hope.”

“Was this hers?” Peter asks, “you must miss her a lot.”

“She’s dead, Peter,” He says, securing the bear carefully to his belt and standing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peter swallows, “I didn’t know.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Cable says before adding, “you didn’t kill her. Stop looking at me like that. It was bound to happen one of these days. He wanted to hurt me in the worst way possible, so I should’ve known he’d go after Aliya and Hope. I just didn’t expect him to attack so soon.”

“Who?” Peter asks. Cable’s left eye glows bright for a second, “He goes by Russell at the moment.”

“What are you planning on doing?” Peter asks cautiously.

“I’m going to kill him, before he gets a chance to kill my family,” Cable replies, “then, I’m going to help you get back to that boyfriend of yours.”

-

“You know, you could talk to him instead of killing him,” Peter says for the fifth time since they got on the subway.

“I’m killing him,” Cable answers patiently. He’s dressed in some of Uncle Ben’s old clothes that Peter had managed to convince him into. He’d also gotten Cable to wear the aviators and baseball cap low over his head to conceal most of his face. The composite drawing of his face is plastered on every monitor they pass along the way, and Peter feels like he’s lost half of the fluids inside his body from all the nervous sweating, but somehow no one has tried to stop them.

“Relax, kid,” Cable mutters, annoyed when Peter takes a big shuddery breath and squirms. The woman seated next to them is watching a CNN news report on her phone.

“How? You are the most wanted man in New York City, hell, probably the entire United States right now,” Peter whispers into Cable’s ear. He’s even got his gun, dismantled into smaller manageable pieces in one of Aunt May’s ginormous shell-pink JCPenney totes. It’s currently lying innocently between his spread legs. Peter stares at the tiny chihuahua in the handbag of the woman seated across from them. The dog stares back with its black beady eyes. A drop of sweat slides torturously down Peter’s spine beneath the double layer of his Spider-Man suit and hoodie.

“I’m telepathic,” Nate grunts, popping a handful of peanut M&Ms into his mouth. Peter kind of regrets buying him so much candy along the way. “None of these people will even remember seeing us.”

“Thank God for small mercies, I guess,” Peter sighs, relaxing a little as he side-eyes the hideous grey fanny pack Cable had oddly fixated on when they’d been getting ready to leave the house. It usually holds May’s laundry quarters but right now it’s stuffed full of the rest of Nate’s candy stash, cherry-flavored lip balm, and a tiny bottle of water. Peter’s pretty sure Cable had had a mini-orgasm when he’d seen the endless displays of food in the grocery store two blocks from Peter’s apartment.

“I did tell you that not even ninety-year-old grandmas uses fanny packs anymore, right?” Peter checks again just to make sure.

“It’s a utility belt,” Cable bullshits with a straight face.

“Ok,” Peter decides to give up.

-

“Are you sure he’s at the mutant rehab house?” Peter asks when they make their way out of the subway and into open air again. The streets of New York still smell like hot garbage in the sun, but at least the chihuahua isn’t giving him the judgmental evil eye of doom anymore.

“My AI went through the data from the satellite above the New York area,” Cable answers as they turn a corner into an empty alley. He drops his girly tote and starts pulling out pieces of the gun, “he’s here.”

“Nate, I really can’t let you do this,” Peter starts, but the kid's weird sixth sense suddenly pings and he glances up without thinking.

“Aww, come on!” The masked man standing atop the neighboring building yells, waving his gun-free hand around angrily. “You totally ruined it for me, Strawberry Shortcake. I had a whole dramatic entrance planned.”

“Shit,” Peter yelps, eyes wide. He’d forgotten entirely about the contract with Deadpool last night.

“You know this guy?” Nate asks, straightening with his assembled weapon cradled in his TO arm to squint up at the mercenary.

“Uh, I kinda asked him to get rid of you,” Twisting his hands into his hoodie, Peter confesses guiltily. He had not expected Wade to track Cable down so fast. 

“What?” Nate hisses, furious.

“You showed up out of nowhere and shot me in the chest with that thing, what was I supposed to do?” Peter whispers hurriedly as Wade hops neatly off the edge of the building. Cable tightens his grip around the gun, “guess I’ll just have to kill him too then.”

Deadpool turns to face them, his expression unreadable beneath the black and red mask.

Peter gulps. “Yeah, you’re going to find that really difficult.”

Villain!verse 

“The reciprocal nature of the switch creates pockets of energy that greatly upset the balance between the worlds,” Cable explains grimly, “our own timeline can fold in on itself and the past may merge with the present.”

“Wait, does that mean there’s a possibility of me hooking up with my younger self?” Wade pipes up, “that’s so meta.”

“Forget about fucking yourself,” Loki narrows his eyes, “it could mean Thanos reappearing in the middle of New York City.”

“Oh, right,” Wade’s shoulders sag, “forgot about him for a second there. Real mood killer, that one.”

“Thanos?” Peter asks from his spot next to a frowning Tony Stark.

“Scary purple dude from space,” Mr. Stark explains distractedly. He’s staring at a blinking data pad. “So, if we can stabilize the energy balance, will it buy us a bit more time?”

“I don’t know,” Cable admits, “we have never encountered anything like this before.”

“Uh, I think we have, actually,” Bucky suddenly says. Everyone turns to look at him. “Venom.”

“Holy shit, you glorious human being,” Stark’s eyes light up, "Barnes' right. Venom’s not from our dimension.” He turns to Peter, “is he upstairs in your room?”

“Uh, what?” Peter asks.

“Ultron, want to do the honors?” Loki prompts.

“I’m on it,” The voice in the ceiling says, and seconds later, a familiar sheet of black mesh slithers down the side of the banister and creeps silently into the living room. It rears its head hopefully in Peter’s direction.

“Oh my God,” Peter squeaks, horrified as he pulls his bare toes up onto the seat cushion and shrinks into Wade’s side of the couch, “I thought that thing was a deflated beanbag. It’s alive? I took my pants off in front of it!”

Wade covers his snort of laughter with a loud cough. Peter blushes and turns to glare at him. Venom sags back into a sad shapeless blob when it realizes Peter’s not the right one.

“He’s been super depressed ever since the swap,” Lester mutters, kicking at the lump. Venom swats at his ankle without much heat. The bald marksman glances at Peter, “kid, if that’s your reaction to seeing him, you’re not going to like the next bit.”

“What next bit?” Peter asks, heart pounding in his throat.

“You gotta merge with him, kiddo,” Wade says, close enough that his warm breath brushes the back of Peter’s neck.

Cheeks warming, Peter asks timidly, “Is it like a sexual thing or more of a Vulcan mind meld?”

“What?” The Winter Soldier and Loki both ask blankly. Lester groans.

Wade’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when Tony sighs and says, “Vulcan mind meld, it’s more like the Vulcan thing, you nerd.”

“Oh,” Peter nods, “I guess that’s better.”

“Great, you guys do that. I’ll give Pym an update on the situation. He might be able to help if Venom’s involved,” Tony claps Peter on the back as he stands, “I like you kid, but I also really want my son back. No hard feelings, but chop chop.”

Peter watches as the billionaire slips out of the house and shuts the door quietly behind him. He turns back to the others and clears his throat, “For what it’s worth, I am really sorry this happened.”

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky assures him with a gentle smile. Loki harrumphs but does not say anything this time. Wade ruffles his hair with a warm hand, “what did I tell you before?”

“Not to apologize,” Peter mumbles.

“So don’t,” He says simply.

“Ok,” Shooting him a grateful smile, Peter takes a deep breath and says, “let’s do it then.”

Venom slithers closer and a strand of the strange black goo tentatively touches his ankle. Peter fights not to shiver at the strange sensation.

“Wait,” Cable suddenly says, “something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Wade asks, “I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s because you lack basic brain functions, Wade,” Nate snaps and stands in a flurry of leather and metal. His cybernetic eye flashes, “there’s been another breach. Something just happened on the other side I believe, a massive explosion of energy enough to alter the entire universe.”

“That sounds bad,” Lester says tensely as the dogs outside of the house suddenly start barking like mad. Bucky jumps to his feet, his blue eyes wide as he meets Wade’s gaze.

“Do you think Peter— ” He begins, but Wade is already out the door.

“Baby boy, is that you? I’m coming!” He yells at the top of his lungs as he runs after the dogs, the Winter Soldier tight on his heels. Peter stares after them, feeling a little lost as he stands on the porch. Loki, much calmer than the two, slips out of the house after him and makes his way over to the porch swing. He bends down and picks up a familiar-looking rectangular device.

Loki presses something on the screen and Peter hears an old man’s voice ask, “Stark, you still there? I can send Hope and Scott over to the farm in half an hour with the communication device. Would that work? Stark?”

“What the fuck?” Lester mutters, staring at the phone in Loki’s hand. “Where did he go?”

Up ahead, a figure stumbles out of the trees clutching his midriff. Peter almost does not recognize the man underneath all that hair and beard. The thing is, Peter specifically recalls Bucky telling him that Steve would be spending the day speaking at a veterans support meeting in Brooklyn with Sam Wilson. He’d also been clean-shaven the last time Peter had seen him.

“Is that who I think it is?” Lester squints out at the three men.

“The captain, yes,” Loki says slowly, “so you are seeing him, too.”

Chapter Text

Villain!verse

Steve wakes to the loud barking cries of dogs.

For a moment before the gravity of his memories descend, there is empty bliss. Then, the sharp pains and aches from the battle flare up like hot flames alongside his body and Steve bolts upright, Bucky’s name ripping from his throat.

He had called out to Steve before the end, and he had been powerless to help. There had been no time to think, to process the sudden events and all-consuming grief. Thanos had not even given Steve a chance to get to his feet before the darkness swallowed him whole and spat him back out in this strange new place.

He wonders if he is dead.

If so, where is Bucky?

As if in answer to his silent question, Steve spots the familiar figure of his best friend beyond the thicket of scraggly trees and sweet relief fills him. It does not register to Steve that Bucky’s clothes are all wrong and the strange presence of dogs running around them when he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around the other man’s startled shoulders. He is warm and alive against Steve and in that moment, it is all that matters.

“Steve?” Bucky is more tentative in returning the embrace, but he still feels Bucky’s hand settle against his spine.

That last image of him crumbling into dust must have been a hallucination brought on by that hard blow to the head. It has to be, because Bucky is safe and sound here in his arms.

“It’s just Cap? God dang it, Barnes,” An irritated voice pipes up from behind Bucky, “shoot me in the head before I die of bitter disappointment.”

Confused, Steve glances up to find a horribly disfigured stranger standing there with an enormous scowl on his scarred face. The man knows Bucky’s name, but Steve can’t seem to recall ever meeting the guy. He should remember, what with all the scars.

“Where’s Thanos?” Steve clears his throat and asks instead. Introducing himself to Bucky’s friend can wait. There are more pressing matters to take care of.

“Uh, dead,” The man says bluntly before Bucky can open his mouth. He lifts an eyebrow at them and puts his hands on his hips, “is Cap having a stroke or something? What the hell’s going on here? I know I haven’t seen your boyfriend in like a week, Barnes, but this is concerning, even to me.”

“He's at the VA meeting in Brooklyn, remember?” Bucky tries to mumble the words, but Steve hears it loud and clear anyway.

“Wait, what boyfriend?” He asks just as another voice drawls, “Stark’s gone.”

It’s Loki, dressed in normal clothes instead his over-the-top Asgardian armor and horned helmet. He’s wearing the same irritated scowl on his pale face, but Steve has not seen Thor’s younger brother in years.

So it is a dream after all. The fantasy of a dying man.

“Steve, what’s wrong?” Bucky alarmed voice sounds so far away. He’s crying, the hot tears pouring out unhindered and blurring the strange world around him. Shaky fingers cup Steve's dirt-streaked face and he muffles the silent body-wracking sob against the flesh of Bucky’s palm.

“You’re not real,” Steve manages to whisper before the darkness takes him again.

-

He’s lying on a bed wrapped in bandages the next time Steve stirs awake. There’s a heart beating in close proximity so he keeps his eyes closed and waits for an opportunity to act. Fingers brush against the hair over his forehead.

“I know you’re awake, Steve,” Bucky says, fond and a little resigned. So Steve opens his eyes and meets the familiar yet strange eyes of the man sitting within touching distance.

Now that he’s calmed down enough to really scrutinize him, there are clear signs that this Bucky is not the one he had grown up with. His hair is shorter, the laugh lines around his eyes a little more defined, and his arm glows like liquid silver in the afternoon light spilling in from the open window.

“Water?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods and accepts the cold glass gratefully. He manages to chase away the taste of stale blood with a few deep gulps, and after a pause, opens his mouth to ask, “how did you know I was awake?”

“Your nose twitched, like my Steve's used to when we were children and he'd fake a faint so we’d get the afternoon free,” Bucky confesses with a flash of teeth, “I’ve had years of experience spotting your tell, Rogers, no matter which universe.”

“Yeah?” It’s difficult not to smile at the shared memories Bucky’s words drag up.

“Yeah, bud,” Bucky’s hand is warm when it lands gently on his bandaged forearm, “do you know where you are?”

He shakes his head wordlessly.

“What's the last thing you remember?” Bucky presses on.

“Thanos,” Steve murmurs down at the thick white bandages around his torso. “He had a gauntlet with all the Infinity Stones assembled, and we failed. Me, Thor, Wanda, none of us could keep him at bay,” He swallows thickly and feels the panic constrict around his lungs once more, its cold claws ripping into his chest, “Then he snapped his fingers and Buck, he—”

The words choke to a jarring stop. Bucky takes his hand and squeezes tightly. Eyes stinging, Steve takes a few short sharp inhales and soldiers on, “Bucky, the one in my world, he turned into dust in front of me. Shortly after that, I woke up here.”

“It’s not your fault, you know that right?” Bucky says quietly.

“It’s kind of hard not to see it as that at the moment,” Steve mutters bitterly. He sniffs, “We shouldn’t have brought the battle to Wakanda. I shouldn’t have asked him to fight,” A mirthless little laugh bubbles out of his mouth, “god, my Bucky, he had a flock of sheep, and he’d let the children in the neighboring villages braid his hair. We’d Skype each other every night and he’d show me all these trinkets he picked up during the day. He was finally happy and safe, and I took it all away again.”

“Wakanda, huh? You know, I’ve always wanted goats, but I somehow ended up with a pack of dogs instead,” The Bucky seated next to him admits with a soft chuckle, “But I think I can speak for your guy when I say that we’d both drop everything in a heartbeat if you ever needed us, Steve.”

“That does not make me feel any better,” He sighs.

Bucky claps him smartly on the shoulder, “Well, too bad, it’s the end of the line, pal, so no take backs.”

Steve groans and flops back onto the bed. “So what now?”

-

There are roughly a dozen people engaged in various shouting matches in the living room when Bucky finally manages to coax Steve into the hallway.

“How could you just let Sir disappear under your watch, Ultron?” What sounds like JARVIS’ voice echos furiously from somewhere within the ceiling.

“How the hell was I supposed to know he was going to get sucked into an alternate dimension like toilet paper down a drainpipe?” The other voice mutters grumpily. “It’s not like I could’ve popped out and grabbed him since none of you pathetic people trusts me with a physical body after the mannequin incident.”

Steve turns to Bucky with wide eyes, “Is that really Jarvis and—”

“Yeah, it’s a long story,” He says before clearing his throat and calling out to the room at large, “guys, Steve’s awake.”

“A beard, huh? It’s not a bad look on him,” Natasha, her short hair dyed black at the moment, murmurs from her spot on the couch next to Clint.

“So Stark swapped places with Malibu Ken,” The elderly gentlemen standing by the TV mutters with a scowl, “that’s a tremendous loss of much-needed intellect.”

“He doesn’t mean it in a negative way,” The brunet woman next to him explains with a sigh, “Hank, seriously? Can’t you see the guy’s just been through hell? Keep the scathing comments to yourself please.”

“You must be Dr. Pym. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Steve says politely before asking, “what do you mean ‘swapped places?’”

“There’s a tear between our world and yours. It’s causing all sorts of trouble,” Hank explains, “but you’re not the first to come through.”

At his words, the young man sitting by the kitchen island lifts a hand and waves tentatively in Steve’s direction, “Hi Cap, remember me from that airport fight in Germany?”

It takes a few seconds for Steve to comprehend the words, but realization sets in along with growing confusion. “Spider-Man?”

“Bingo,” He laughs nervously, “except only a part of me got here.”

“You were a lot younger the last time we met,” Steve frowns, but the sound of the doorbell interrupts further explanation. Clint hops off the couch and quickly walks out of sight. The front door opens with a soft click.

“Is everything ok?” A man’s voice, cheerful and bright, asks, “Hank called in the middle of Cap’s veterans speech and said he needed us here asap. I was helping Sam set up the hotdog—” Scott Lang comes to a screeching stop when he spots Steve. He’s wearing matching grey VA support t-shirts with Sam Wilson whose jaw also drops at the sight of him.

“Holy shit, Steve, you gotta come see this,” Sam yells without tearing his eyes off of the bearded man standing next to Bucky, “I think Barnes’ blowup sex-doll version of you came to life and became a homeless person...”

“Is your Sam Wilson just as annoying?” Bucky growls softly, the tendons on his forearms straining as his fingers creep toward the small tactical knife tucked in his belt.

“You mean if there is constant trash talk between them?” Steve bites his lip, “Oh, yeah.”

MCU!verse

“Nice fanny pack, Arnold Short-zenegger,” Wade whistles.

“It’s a utility belt,” Cable corrects stubbornly. Peter’s face spasms at the words despite the seriousness of the whole situation. Unfortunately, it does not go unnoticed. Deadpool turns to Peter and jerks his masked chin at the scowling time-traveler, “can you believe this guy, kid?”

Then he lunges for Nate, lightning quick and without warning. A stray bullet whizzes past Peter, the displaced air tickling the side of his face as Cable activates the bright orange energy shield.

Go wait for me at your aunt’s place. I’ll deal with him and Russell. The foreign words echo through Peter’s head when he ducks behind the nearest dumpster. For a brief moment, he thinks he imagines it, but Nate pauses in the middle of his scuffle with Wade and turns to glare in his direction.

GO!!!!

The masked mercenary takes advantage of Cable’s little distraction to bodily slam him into the side of the brick building. The impact sends up a cloud of dirt and dislodges the gun from his grip. Peter’s head is reeling with the residual effect of the mental projection when he stumbles to his feet and takes a few staggering steps out of the alley.

Nate wants him to go home and wait while he gets rid of the child who will one day kill his wife and daughter. Then, he’s going to help Peter get back to his own world, to his Wade whose eyes light up like its Christmas morning every time Peter so much as glances at him. God, he misses Wade Wilson so much it hurts. But if Peter doesn’t go home like Nate instructs, if he intervenes, there’s a good chance that the one and only guy capable of getting him back will be too pissed to uphold the second half of their deal.

But it’s not as if Peter has a choice. There is no chance in hell that he is just going to stand by and let a child take the punishment for a crime he has yet to commit.

Gritting his teeth, Peter shrugs out of his sweater and activates the spider suit.

-

Across the dirt road and half hidden behind a thicket of trees, the orphanage, Essex House for Mutant Rehabilitation, as the black letters spell out over the wrought iron gate, looms like a waiting predator, its drab grey walls the color of bleached bones.

Peter slips over the barb-wired fence of the orphanage without much difficulty. There is an empty playground with rusty swings creaking eerily in the wind. The warm golden light of the sun almost seem reluctant to touch the place. Peter manages to avoid the scattering of surveillance cameras throughout the compound and is pressed flat against the west side of the main building when it occurs to him that he doesn’t even know what Russell looks like, or what the kid’s last name is. Cable hadn’t been too keen to share much on the subway ride.

Peter’s debating the merits of stealth vs. speed when a massive explosion rocks the wall under his fingertips. Beneath the mushroom cloud of dust, he manages to make out a pair of familiar-looking legs sticking out of the hole. Seconds later, the wet sound of bone cracking into place is replaced with loud vulgar curses. Wade snarls and tears the ruined mask off his still smoking face. Then he turns and spots Peter, who is still awkwardly sticking to the intact side of the building. Brown eyes widen in delight as Wade gasps, “holy shit, Spider-Man?!”

Beneath all the background screaming, Peter hears the the familiar hum of Cable’s charging weapon. He yanks the startled mercenary over to him with a thick glob of webbing to the chest just as the crumbling mess Wade had been lying in explodes, showering them with small pieces of hot brick.

“Damn,” Wade laughs low in Peter’s left ear. He’s too close, the warmth of his breath pressed against Peter’s cheek, “soooo strong, my knight in shining spandex.”

Heart pounding, Peter tightens his grip around Wade’s waist, and with a few clumsy swings, manages to take them to ground level.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Cable snarls when the dust clears and he spots the two of them standing together. “I thought I told you to—”

“I can’t let you kill Russell,” Peter yells, shooting another glob of webbing at the guard sneaking up on Nate from behind.

“Oooh, the Jolly Rancher kid’s name is Russell?” Wade speaks up eagerly from beside Peter. He elbows the teenager, “did he also reach out to you about this maniac with the fake eye, Spidey?”

Peter and Nate both turn to him, “What?”

Wade blinks. “What what?”

“Look, we don’t have time for this,” Peter interrupts before Wade can take them further off topic, “the cops are going to get here soon, can we take this somewhere else?”

“You know I don’t have a choice, kid,” Cable growls. He’s already pulling up his AI search engine. “Russell dies today, along with anyone who tries to stand in my way.”

“Who’s Russell?” Wade groans, “what about the Jolly Rancher kid?”

“Target located,” The female AI voice says just as the boy steps foot out of the side door. Russell, as it turns out, looks like a slightly smaller version of Ned Leeds. Nate’s eyes narrow as they lock onto the startled child with frightening intensity.

“Oh shit,” Peter groans when the time-traveler promptly abandons their conversation and breaks into a quick run.

“That’s Russell?” Deadpool pipes up beside Peter, "Is it me, or does that kid look scarily like a tiny boy version of Rebel Wilson."

“Yes, whatever! Just go tackle Nate or something while I grab him!” He yells at the mercenary.

“Holy bananas, are we doing a team-up thing, Spidey-boy?” Wade cackles in delight and snaps off a sharp salute, “sir yes sir, I will tackle the shit out of One-Eyed Willy.”

He shoots a strand of webbing at Russell, pulling the kid off his feet just as Wade sends Nate flying with a football tackle. The gun flies out of his hands again.

“Spider-Man, you’re here to save me!” The boy shouts at him excitedly when Peter grabs him around the waist with some difficulty and hoists him upright.

“Yeah, buddy,” Peter flashes him a thumbs-up of encouragement, “come on, let’s get inside where it’s safe.”

To his surprise, doubt crosses over Russell’s pinched features. Deadpool and Cable are tussling noisily on the steps of the orphanage, Nate’s silvery head tucked under Wade’s left armpit, spitting curses.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks.

Russell clenches his teeth, “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“What do you mean?” Even as he asks the question, the answer becomes evidently clear in the small crescent scars on Russell’s wrists and the blotted purple bruise forming on his right cheek. He hurriedly pulls the sleeves over his hands and lowers his gaze.

“Please,” The boy says softly.

“Ok, we’ll think of something,” Peter promises, “we won’t go back, come on.”

“Stop right there, Spider-Man. That child has been placed under our care by his parents,” It’s an older man, clammy and wearing wire-rim spectacles. “If you attempt to remove dear Russell from our establishment, we will be forced to take this to the police.”

“Fuck you!” Russell jerks his arm out of Peter’s grip, the skin of his clenched fists starting to glow an inhuman orange in his rage. The air around them crackles with sudden heat and before Peter can stop him, Russell throws two thick pillars of flame at the headmaster.

“Holy fucking shit!” Deadpool yells from his spot a few feet off, Nate still in a tight headlock in his arms. “Wait, just out of curiosity, is the whole arm or does it just go up to the elbow?”

“A little help here?!” Peter coughs, shielding his eyes from the bright fire. He can hear the distant hum of approaching helicopters and heavy armored vehicles.

“Russell!” The old man screams, “stop or you will be punished! Do you understand, young man?”

“No! No more torture! I won’t let you lock me up again, or taser me like livestock for your sadistic entertainment!” The boy is close to hyperventilating, “I am going to walk out of here with Spider-Man and—”

Without any warning whatsoever, the old man’s head suddenly explodes in a shower of bone and brain matter. For a split second, the lifeless body is perfectly balanced on its feet. Then, with a sickening splat, it keels over and rolls down the steps. Horrified, Peter twists to find an expressionless Wade with his left arm raised, the end of the gun barrel still smoking gently. Nate has gone stock-still next to him, his eyes wide.

“I don’t tolerate scumbags who fuck with kids,” He says flatly as the thick bright beam of light suddenly descends from the chopper above.

“Drop your weapon or we will shoot!”

It’s the second time in two days that Peter hears the words. Russell reacts to the threat against his savior as well as a rabid dog forced into a corner.

“Russell, don’t do it!” Peter’s words are lost in the chaos when the teenage boy screams “fear me, Firefist!” at the SWAT men and throws a few more pillars of fire at them.

“Jesus, that’s an even worse name than Negasonic Teenage Warhead,” Deadpool snorts. He’s made his way over to Peter in the span of a few seconds. Nate’s steadily creeping toward his abandoned weapon. “But I’m glad we saved a child on our first joint mission,” He wipes dramatically at an imaginary tear, “I’m so proud of us, Spidey.”

If they weren't rapidly heading down shit creek without a paddle, he would have smiled at Wade’s familiar antics.

Instead, Peter grabs him roughly around the arm and yells, “This is getting way out of control, Wade. We need to deescalate the situation fast! Get Russell to calm down. He trusts you!”

“No, he trusts us,” Wade points out, “it’s like we’re a little family, you’re the mom and I’m the— Wait a second, how do you know my name is Wade? I never told you that, Arachnid-boy.”

Peter doesn’t get to answer the question because out of the corner of his eye, he spots the man sneaking up on Cable and reacts without thinking. It’s a harmless glob of webbing to the face, but in the eyes of the small army assembled on the steps of the Essex House for Mutant Rehabilitation, it’s the spark that finally ignites the short fuse.

Wade, the self-sacrificing idiot immediately tries to shield them both with his own body. Peter wants to tell him that Mr. Stark made his suit bullet-proof, but he fails to get the words out when the stun device the nearest government agent fires at Peter latches onto his chest and digs in deep, the sharp little prongs delivering voltages high enough to instantly stop his heart.

Peter loses consciousness before his head even touches the ground.

-

One minute he’s talking to Hank on Peter’s porch and the next, Tony’s standing in the living room of an extremely agile granny who lobs a cup of steaming hot tea at his face with an ungodly scream. Tony dodges the projectile weapon but ends up getting a walking stick to the crotch instead.

He does manage to calm her down eventually, and for the price of his diamond cuff links, acquires the keys to the rusty old pickup truck out back. There’s an old fedora in the passenger seat that Tony pulls over his head just in case his face attracts any unwanted attention. It’s not difficult to figure out what has just happened, but if Tony is really currently in another dimension, there is a good chance his son is also here. Well, not exactly here here. Where Peter's villain harem used to exist now stands a tiny little cottage house where the super aggressive old lady and her nine cats reside. 

The truck takes him halfway to Manhattan before breaking down in the most spectacular fashion. There’s smoke and probably a decade’s worth of dirt in the engine. Not even Tony Stark can breath life back into the old thing, so he abandons it on the side of the road and starts walking.

He’s probably covered a mile of distance before an eighteen-wheeler rumbles to a stop next to him and a bald head pokes out of the driver-side window.

“Need a ride?” The bearded man asks.

It’s between walking himself to death or the possibility of death by trucker. Tony decides to push his luck and take the second option. It’s only when he gets into the passenger seat that he spots the Ironman tattoo on the big dude’s right bicep. Tony’s suddenly grateful for the ugly fedora covering the top half of his face.

“Where to, my man?” The driver asks cheerfully.

“Manhattan,” Tony answers, “but I’ll be able to get to where I need to go if you just drop me outside of the city.”

“Cool, I’m headed that way anyway,” The man grins.

Tony smiles back, “Fan of Stark I take it?”

“Yeah, I know it’s super cheesy, but hey, everyone needs a hero to look up to,” He shrugs, “I figured Stark’s managed to quit drinking and turn his life around, then so should I. Getting my six month sobriety chip next week thanks to him.”

He’s never really considered it before, but it is a humbling thought, the idea that the actions of Tony Stark could motivated someone to change for the better. They spend the rest of the two-hour trip talking about recent events, and Tony learns of the massive fallout between the superheroes and the disastrous confrontation in that airport in Germany. Steve Rogers has been labeled an enemy of the State and has gone off the grid to protect Barnes. Tony’s not surprised. He’s always been willing to put his life on the line for the Winter Soldier.

“Well, this is as far as I can take you, brother,” Tim tells him once they come within city bounds.

“Thank you,” Tony doesn’t have anything on him to give as a parting gift, so he pulls off the fedora and places it on the dash. He smiles at the shocked realization on the man’s face and pats him amicably on the shoulder, “I would appreciate it if you could keep this little trip a secret between the two of us.”

“O-of course, Mr. Stark,” He stammers. “Holy shit, it really is you.”

“Well, not the one and only, but yeah, I'm a Stark,” Tony smiles and hops out of the truck, “congrats on the sobriety, Tim. Keep up the good work.”

-

It’s 2 o’clock in the morning when Tony finally gets to the heart of Manhattan. With the hard part out of the way, he manages to get his hands on a StarkPad and hack into the Stark Tower security system all in less than an hour. The Tony Stark in this world is still running a beta version of Friday that Tony has long scrapped, so it is easy to bypass all the known traps and disable Friday’s automatic emergency-response system. With the warning system off, she can only respond to direct verbal requests.

The dark-skinned girl sitting in the lobby winks at him on Tony's way in, but no one else looks twice when he takes the private elevator up to the penthouse. Security is not exactly lax, but they are identical down to the last cell, so it’s hard not to let Tony in. He’s starving, so Tony grabs an apple from the kitchen on the way to the other man’s surveillance room.

It looks almost exactly the same as his own, complete with the little "JARVIS is my copilot” stickers in random places. There’s over a dozen screens all set to the same CNN channel, no, upon closer inspection, they’re showing different channels reporting the same footage.

“Christ, how do you manage to hook up with him in every universe, Peter?” Tony mutters, frowning at the sight of Wade Wilson jumping in front of the diminutive figure in the red and blue spider suit. If he’s not mistaken, it is Tony’s kid stuffed inside that ridiculous onesy. His eyes flicker down to the headlines at the bottom of the MSN news report.

Spider-Man taken into custody alongside infamous mercenary Deadpool and boy mutant.

Custody where?

“Friday, turn up the volume,” He commands.

“—police are still looking for the third assailant, the mysterious stranger that shot up New York General just yesterday. The aforementioned trio are to be escorted to the Ice Box super-max prison in Canada—”

Tony screws his eyes shut and fights the urge to break something expensive. He takes a deep breath and says, “Friday, get me all the information you can about the Ice Box.”

There’s a small pause before the AI answers in a reluctant monotone, “Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“Who the hell are you?” A sharp familiar voice demands from behind him.

Tony twists to find his pale-faced counterpart standing in the doorway, his hair a complete mess and dark rings under his eyes. With the pillow creases still imprinted on his left cheek, he kind of looks like regurgitated shit, not that Tony himself feels any better.

“Boss, he disabled my alarm system,” Friday explains apologetically.

“Honestly,” Tony sighs, rolling his eyes, “you really should have stayed asleep, other me.”

Chapter Text

MCU!verse

Without the Iron-Man suit, Tony’s impromptu scuffle with himself kind of resembles a brawl between two girls at a Catholic school — no one really gets hurt and there’s just a lot of attempted hair-pulling, pinching, scratching, and the occasional biting. He elbows Stark in the stomach and earns a split lip from a lucky uppercut. Since they are virtually identical and Tony had disabled her emergency-response system, Friday can’t really do much to intervene.

The fight, as it turns out, ends with them thoroughly doused in coolant and lying spread-eagled on the floor across from one another in Stark’s R&D lab, Dum-E’s fire-extinguisher nozzle pointed resolutely at the wrong Tony Stark.

“Dum-E, can you not live up to your name every single time? I’m your real dad, you idiot,” Stark bats at the robot irritably and mirrors Tony by crawling slowly to his feet. He holds up a finger and manages to wheeze out, “give me a second...”

Tony’s also panting hard, his own lungs struggling to keep up with the sudden increased oxygen demand from his muscles. They’re both on the wrong side of forty with years of alcohol abuse stacked against them. The CCTV recording of their little catfight is probably not going to resemble all that fancy gymnastics shit Steve Rogers & Co are into. If he’s to be honest with himself, Tony doesn’t think he’s got it in him to go a second round with his scantily-clad mirror self.

“Hey,” He grabs the other guy’s attention by lobbing a wrench at his head. Stark ducks just in time for it to go spinning over the top of his head and shatter the display of artsy glass figurines behind him.

“What the fuck was that for, asshole? You could’ve just said my name!” Stark yells, clutching at the stitch in his side and perspiring like skewered hog in a roasting pit, not that Tony’s any better off himself. He feels like he’s about to have a heart attack.

“Time out, loser-version of me,” Tony dabs at the bleeding cut on his lower lip with a grimace and glances around the lab. “You got any alcohol around here?”

-

Peter wakes up in a glass prison.

The cold, hard thing crushing his windpipe shifts when he rolls onto his side and the thick metal collar lifting enough to allow him an unhindered breath. He opens his eyes and sees, with mounting horror, that his mask, along with the Spider-Man suit is gone. Peter can see his naked face, pale and disoriented, reflected in the steel floor beneath him.

“Welcome to Hufflepuff, Jolly Rancher, or should I say, Spider-Man,” Wade’s familiar voice cuts through the fog panic, and Peter looks up sharply to see Deadpool, also bare-faced, sitting crosslegged on a thin cot within arm’s reach. They are both dressed in yellow jumpsuits and white slip-on shoes. Wade whistles, "This is some straight up M. Night Shyamalan shit, 'cause I did not see that secret identity plot twist coming. Great fucking job, author.”

“Who are you talking to?” Peter groans, slitting his eyes in an attempt to dim the glare of fluorescent lights around their little cell. His chest throbs in protest when he tries to push himself upright.

“You a mutant, Spidey? ‘Cause you failed to mention that when you asked me to un-alive the asshole with the metal arm,” Waded slides off the cot to lend a helping hand. He’s not exactly gentle, and the pressure of Deadpool’s fingers around his bruised arm causes more pain than comfort, but at least Peter is not lying on the floor like an invalid anymore.

“I didn’t ask you to kill him,” Peter snaps through gritted teeth. The cold radiating from the glass wall feels nice against his feverish skin.

“Right, right, right,” Deadpool rolls his eyes. “So, how old are you exactly, kid?”

“Old enough,” Peter bristles. He hates questions about his age. Honestly, why does everyone keep thinking he’s just a—

“—baby. Wow, you look like a freakin’ fetus,” Wade is saying, his expression a mixture of polite pity and doubt. “Like you should be sucking on a pacifier or playing with toy blocks— OWWW!”

Peter’s fist catches him squarely on the nose and sends Wade careening backwards.

“The fuck was that for?” Wade yells, cradling his nose with both hands. “Spider-Man’s not supposed to punch people in their faces!”

“Says who?” Peter advances, scowling.

“Says me, the captain of your fan club,” Wade sniffs. “Seriously, how old are you, man?”

“Twenty,” Peter says before his brain can catch the slip.

“Liar,” Wade says bluntly, his scar-ridden brows ascending to his nonexistent hairline, “I’d guess fourteen at max, with a possible minimum of nine. You can never tell with kids these days. Last week, I saw a six-year-old with a full handlebar mustache. It’s the processed food, I tell you.”

“Fine, I’m sixteen,” He sighs, “Swear to God.”

Wade stares at him for a long hard moment. Then, he shrugs and flops back down onto the steel floor, “Welp, guess I’m going to Hell.”

“What?”

“Father, I have sinned?”

“You’re gross,” Peter says, fighting down his blush.

“To be fair, I didn’t know you were a minor. And you’re not helping things with that perky ass on full glorious display every time you fight crime.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the least of our problems now,” He clears his throat and looks around for the first time. There are other containment cells scattered around them. Peter can vaguely make out two men pacing in the adjacent one, their teeth bared and shoulders tense. Everyone is wearing a lumpy, yellow uniform and a thick metal collar around their necks.

“It cancels out our mutant abilities,” Wade explains when he sees Peter fiddling with the collar around his own neck. “So, I’m basically back to being a giant pulsating sack of cancer with legs. Goodbye world, it’s been a nice run.”

“You’re not going to die in here, Wade,” Peter says. It doesn’t sound reassuring even to his own ears. He had forgotten about Wade’s cancer. Without his rapid healing, how much time does Wade have before his body starts to shut down? Will Peter be able to get him out of here before then?

“Where’s Nate and Russell?” He asks.

“Who?”

How had Wade referred to them?

“Uh, One-Eyed Willy and…Rebel Wilson?”

“Oh, the fat kid was arrested with us. I didn’t see your would-be-killer.”

“So Nate escaped. That’s good. He’s probably going to come and break us out,” Peter reasons excitedly. “It shouldn’t be long.”

“Break us out so he can resume murdering you?” Wade asks slowly. He’s staring at Peter like he’s a crazy person.

“No, we’re sort of friends now,” Peter says distractedly. He’s already trying to map out a rough timeline of the future. If he can get Russell to change his mind about becoming a career arsonist, Nate won’t have to kill the kid, and if Nate doesn’t have to kill Russell, he can help Peter get back to his own world as soon as possible.

“How?! You said he shot at you just the day before,” Wade exclaims.

“I gave him some pop-tarts and fixed his teddy,” Peter says, “we’re cool now.”

Wade’s eyes narrow, “is that code for a blowjob? You teenagers and your internet slang. I’m so fucking confused right now.”

“No, I really bribed him with candy and sugar,” Peter sighs and peers out of their little cubicle again. The inmates in the neighboring cells are starting to gravitate toward their doors. He can hear the distant piercing shriek of an alarm. Then, the doors to the row of glass prisons on their level hiss open in unison and people slowly begin to trickle out of their boxes.

Peter turns to Wade, who gets slowly to his feet, “guess it’s time for your first meal in prison, kiddo.”

-

“So you really expect me to believe that you are a version of me from an alternate universe who is here to retrieve your adopted son, Peter Parker, who is somehow trapped inside the body of my intern right now, a younger version of Peter Parker,” Stark recites. Tony has to admit, the guy’s logic is spot on, but the ‘you’re-a-figment-of-my-imagination-and-I’m-clearly-having-a-mental-meltdown-right-now’ expression on Stark’s face is kind of annoying.

Tony takes a swig straight from the bottle of whiskey and shrugs, “well, if you put it like that it sounds unbelievable.”

“You’re insane, or maybe I’m insane and you’re not real,” Stark reasons. Tony rolls his eyes, “seriously? You were roommates with a Norse God from space and you think I’m the craziest thing you’ve ever seen? Get woke, son.”

“Don’t call me son!” Stark snaps, his hand inching toward the vodka on the table between them. Tony kicks him in the knee before his fingers can touch the glass. “You’re supposed to be sober, other me. You’re not allowed to drink. Believe it or not, people actually look up to you as a role model.”

He scowls. “You expect me to accept all this sober?”

“I expect you to lend me one of your primitive suits to go bust my kid out of a Canadian prison. We’re running out of precious time,” Tony points out. It’s a reasonable request. He’s not even asking Stark to help him. But somehow, the words darken Stark’s face, and all of a sudden, the light dims in his eyes.

“I can’t. It’ll break the law,” he says mutely.

“What?” Tony can hardly believe his ears. He’s a hundred precent sure this guy sitting across from him is the real imposter, because no Stark has ever been a law-abiding citizen. “Since when did you start listening to what the government has to say?”

“Since I signed the Accords,” Stark says coldly. His face has hardened into a cold mask of indifference. “Since Steve Rogers decided he would betray his country and save the terrorist who killed my mother.”

“You’re talking about Barnes, aren’t you?” Tony sighs. He doesn’t know what the ‘Accords’ are per se, but there is only one man in all the multiverses who can make Captain America abandon everything he stands for. “Look man, I wanted the same thing you did, revenge, and trust me, it’s not that simple. It was Hydra, not him, who ordered the car accident. You can’t change the past, you can only make peace with it. Forgiveness is easier than you think. Hell, Barnes and I are even friends of sorts now.”

“The answer is still no,” Stark says stubbornly, his eyes trained his clenched fists, “You have my face, so I can’t give you a suit. The Secretary of State is going to be on me in a heartbeat. I can have my lawyers contact the Canadian government first thing in the morning. We can do this the right way.”

“You’re really naive enough to think that the Canadian government is going to admit their involvement with the Ice Box prison?” Tony demands angrily, “My son is trapped in a hellhole with the world’s worst convicts, and you think I’m just going to sit back and trust the system?”

“You think I don’t care about Peter?” Stark is suddenly on his feet, his eyes red-rimmed and rough-shaven face flushed, “you think I don’t want to put on the Iron Man suit and bust him out of there right now? Our actions have repercussions, asshole, my actions have repercussions. People will get hurt, and when you leave my world, guess who’s left to pick up all the pieces? Whose name will they curse for the lives lost?”

And just like that, every drop of anger drains from Tony’s body. He’s left staring at the man before him, his mirror self, and all he sees is a broken thing, injured and alone, left to lick his wounds by himself.

“Alright,” He exhales, “I’ll find some other way to get Peter out of there myself.” He pats Stark gently on the arm. “You should go back to bed and get some sleep. I’ll let myself out.”

“I’ll contact my lawyers anyway,” Stark says, but his voice is hollow and tired. He grabs a small dark rectangle off the counter and hands it to Tony, “Friday’s AI system is uploaded onto this phone if you need anything.”

“Right,” Tony nods and holds up his hand, “thanks for the booze.”

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Stark says quietly.

Tony leaves the penthouse apartment in a thick navy scarf, aviator sunglasses, and new clothes. The sun is starting to peek over over the horizon, turning the dark panes of window glass on the skyscrapers around him a molten orange. He’s standing on the sidewalk outside of Stark Tower when the phone buzzes in his pocket.

The caller-ID reads “Pepper,” and Tony answers it without hesitation. The familiar face of his girlfriend pops up on the display. She’s rocking the long straight hairstyle in this world instead of the short wavy bob his Pepper is currently into. They are equally beautiful though.

“Hey honey,” Tony greets her with a smile.

“Don’t honey me, Tony! I know we’re not on speaking terms right now, but what are you going to do about Spider-Man’s arrest? I told you not to let a fifteen-year-old boy into the Avengers, but no, you don’t listen, you keep making him suits, and now he’s being locked up? I didn’t even know Canada had prisons—“

Great, just when Tony had thought this guy’s life couldn’t be any more pathetic, he finds out about their breakup.

“Pepper, I’m going to deal with it, ok? I have to go,” He tells her calmly, “I’ll update you later, I promise.”

Some of the tension bleeds from her face as she says, “just…be careful, Tony.”

“Cross my heart,” He swears before adding, “umm, I love you?”

“Goodbye, Tony,” She frowns and hangs up the call.

“God, you poor lonely bastard,” Tony mutters and pockets his phone. Right now, he needs to find a mode of transportation.

“Hey you!” A female voice yells from the curb. Tony looks up and blinks.

It’s the girl from the lobby who had winked at him on his way up the elevator last night. Evidently, she’s scrubbed the foundation off of her face, because he can see what looks to be a birthmark, or maybe vitiligo over her left eye. It had not been there last night.

“Need a ride?” She asks cheerfully. The windows to her car are tinted, but he swears he sees something move inside the car. Tony approaches on weary feet. “Uh, it’s nice of you to offer, but—”

There’s definitely someone else inside her vehicle. Tony can make out what appears to be a silhouette in the passenger seat. Then, the darkened window rolls down a fraction to reveal a very familiar face. In fact, Tony had just met the guy hours ago at Peter’s little farm for the demented. Nathan Summers, the time-traveling mutant Peter’s boyfriend had dragged in. Deadpool had insisted that he’d be able to help get Tony’s son back. For some reason, he looks a lot more pissed-off in this sorry excuse for a universe.

“Get in the fucking car, dimension-hopper,” Cable growls, his cybernetic eye glowing like a goddamn flashlight. Tony obliges.

-

“Keep your mouth shut, don’t make eye contact, eat as fast as you can, and get back to our cell when you’re done, understand Spidey?” Wade whispers the instructions on their slow trek to the mess hall.

“Yeah,” Peter swallows thickly and nods, “but don’t call me that when we’re out there, ok?”

“Right, sorry,” Wade winces, “uh, I forgot your name, Jolly Rancher.”

“It’s Peter, Peter Parker.” Peter reminds him.

He stumbles when the guard shoves him roughly, but Wade grabs his wrist before he loses his footing. “Alright, Peter, don’t show any fear. These guys are drawn to it like sharks to blood.”

Peter’s attempts to keep a low profile succeeds up until the inmates from Russell’s block come trickling in and the young boy spots the two of them seated by themselves at a corner table. Wade is molding the weird beige paste passing as oatmeal in his breakfast tray into a lumpy dick while Peter attempts to nibble on the rock-hard muffin he’d been given when Russell’s loud elated cry of “Spider-Man!” rocks the cafeteria. Every convict within earshot turn as one to stare at Peter, who promptly drops his muffin in surprise. He recovers quickly though and bends down to retrieve the dropped item.

“That stupid little shit,” Wade mutters under his breath. His whole body is tense and ready for a fight. Peter hooks his leg over Wade’s under the table to stop him from rising, “pretend you didn’t hear him and keep eating.”

“Fat kid says you’re Spider-Man,” A hairy fist the size of Peter’s head lands on the table, rattling his plastic fork right off the edge. Wade decapitates his oatmeal penis by accident. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees the relieved smile on Russell’s face disappear. God, he feels so sorry for the kid. He’d just gotten out of one abusive environment and found himself in an even worse one.

Peter looks up calmly into the eyes of the man standing over him, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Black Tom Cassidy,” He purrs, reeling Russell over to them with a fist around the kid’s jumpsuit. “This little dude’s my new celly,” He leers unpleasantly down at Peter and adds, “you’re much prettier though.”

“Hi, White Wade Wilson,” Deadpool cuts in before Peter can respond. He’s gotten to his feet, the angle of his body strategically blocking most of Peter out of the man’s line of sight. His fake smile is all teeth, “Great name. It’s always good to have a racially diverse population, but we’re done here, so you can have the table.”

He gestures for Peter to grab his tray and follow him out, but Black Tom’s fingers around his left wrist pin him to the spot.

“What if I don’t want the table?” He smirks down at Peter. He glances at Wade, “hey, aren’t you supposed to be the toughest son-of-a-bitch in here? How about you hand over this little thing and we won’t fuck you up, Wilson?”

Before Wade can even reply, the nearest man, built like a snowman on steroids, knees him in the stomach. Without his healing powers and riddled with cancer, he can’t exactly put up much of a fight, especially when three more muscle-heads start kicking the shit of out him. Russell’s shoving at the one with the Swastika tattoos hellbent on breaking Wade’s spine with his foot, “stop hurting him! You promised you’d help me and friends!”

He gets a fist to the face for his trouble. Peter is really starting to dislike prison, especially when the rest of the inmates start banging on their tables with a loud repetitive chant of “kill, kill, kill!”

“What do ya say, sweetheart?” Cassidy croons in his ear, his other hand stroking the side of Peter’s cheek.

“I think you should have settled for the table, Tom,” Peter tells him.

-

“Where are we?” Tony asks as soon as Neena, or as she prefers to be called, Domino, bolts the rusty doors behind her shut, leaving them in utter darkness.

“An abandoned lard factory in Brooklyn,” She answers cheerfully, flipping a switch somewhere that turns on a single dingy bulb in the middle of the empty room. There’s a very horror-movie-appropriate metal sink against the back wall. Tony takes a tiny step toward the door and nearly runs face-first into Nathan Summers.

“We’re not going to dismember you, Tony Stark from another dimension,” Domino says, rolling her eyes, “at least I won’t. He might, though. He’s got anger issues.” She gestures at the scowling man with the shiny metal arm, “come on, my workshop is in the back.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, but what exactly is your role in all this?” Tony asks, trailing after the girl down an even creepier hallway.

“I found him passed out in my garbage earlier,” She says breezily, “my instincts told me to help him out. It’s never led me wrong before, so, here I am.”

“And you just so happened to work at Stark Tower?” Tony asks. She shrugs lightly, “got the job offer a week ago. I’m pretty lucky.”

That seems to be somewhat of an understatement. Every traffic light on the way here had been green. There had been a massive pileup on an adjacent road that had cut off most of the cars headed their way, leaving them to cruise smoothly on out of the heart of Manhattan. AND, she’d found a crumpled fifty dollar bill on the sidewalk outside the abandoned lard factory just now.

“We need to get Peter out of there first,” Summers growls when Domino clears her whiteboard for them to use, “I kill the kid, and then, help you two get back to where you belong, Stark. My AI has a built-in memory of the blueprints to construct a multiverse traveling device. I’ve never used it before, but at least we’ll have a place to start.”

“Back up,” Tony frowns in confusion, “kill what kid?”

“Leave that bit to me, just focus on rescuing your own,” The time-traveller snaps, waving aside the question.

“Roger that, you can work on locating the prison while I tinker around a bit,” Tony sighs. He turns to Neena, who’s bobbing along to the loud upbeat music coming out of her stereo. “Umm, do you have any welding tools or scrap metal?”

“I got both, and more,” She winks. “I went through a scrapping phase last year.”

Tony can’t help returning the wink. He’s starting to really like her personality. “Show me?”

“What are you going to do with the junk?” Domino asks as she leads him to yet another back room. There’s a chain on the door, but she unlocks it with ease and kicks it open to reveal more than enough material for Tony to implement his plans. Tony rubs his hands together, his mind already churning out possible blueprints at hyper speed.

“I'm going to build something to break my son out of prison.”

-

“Fuck, this is the last time I follow in your altruistic footsteps and try to be a good samaritan, Spidey,” Wade groans when he finally pulls his head out of their toilet. After the guards intervened, they had been escorted back to their little glass box and Deadpool had yet to stop puking. Peter has a feeling that it is the combined result of both the cancer and the severe beating he’d just taken trying to shield Peter from Cassidy.

“I got all the cancers, man. You name one, and I got it. It’s fucking Cancer Bingo up in here,” Wade continues drunkenly after wiping haphazardly at his chin with a sleeve, “I got it in my brain, my lungs, my fucking pancreas, whatever that is, and my liver.” He drops his forehead against the metal rim of the toilet bowl and chuckles wetly, “everywhere except my fucking prostate. Kinda makes you think I was destined for the prison life, doesn't it?.”

“It’s going to be ok, Wade,” Peter repeats. He’s carefully running his hand over the other man’s back in an attempt to sooth his rioting stomach, “we’re getting out of here.”

“If the cancer doesn’t kill me, the internal bleeding will,” Wade says grimly. “Not trying to freak you out or anything, kiddo, but sticking with me is like clinging to a sinking ship. It’s not gonna get you anything pleasant.”

“Like Leo in Titanic?” Peter asks, trying to get him to smile a little. Wade shakes his head with a wheezing laugh, “shit, Spider-Man, I think I really would’ve liked hanging out with you.” His voice cracks.

“We will,” Peter promises solemnly, “I’ll bring you all the Mexican food you can possibly eat.”

“How did you know I liked Mexican food?” Wade turns to him and asks. Peter has to think quickly to come up with an acceptable answer, “I watch you. All the time.”

Wade’s eyebrows lift, “no fucking way. Get out of here. You’re just lying to make me feel better, aren’t you, Petey? Like them movie stars showing up to the cancer ward and pretending to make friends with the bald, terminally-ill kids there.”

“No, I mean it,” Peter answers quietly.

“But why?” He frowns, “I’m just some ugly-ass stranger with no hair to you.”

“You’re not ugly, Wade,” Peter sighs.

“Oh man, don’t tell me you’re one of those characters,” Wade grimaces, “you know, the kind that dotes on everything that breathes, fucking Mother Theresa pieces of shi—”

His bitter rambling is cut off by another round of loud retching. Peter bites his lip and says quietly, “I know you don’t mean that.”

“Of course I fucking do, kid,” Wade snaps angrily when he regains his breath. He staggers upright and spits into the sink. It’s more blood than saliva. “You don’t know me, I don’t give a fuck about you, so why don’t you just go pretend to be someone else’s prison wife, Peter Parker, and leave me the hell alone?”

To the average person, it would seem that Wade’s just being an asshole, but Peter knows him too well, even if it’s a different version of him, because every Wade Wilson is hiding a heart of gold underneath all the scars and vulgar language. He knows Wade is just trying to protect him, but it still hurts to hear the words.

Peter doesn’t notice that he’s clenching his fists until one of the thick metal bars bolting the toilet to the floor creaks beneath his fingers. He lets go hurriedly and is amazed to see the deep grooves left behind.

“You said the collar neutralizes powers, correct?” He asks the question out loud.

“Yeah, if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be this miserable,” Wade mutters darkly.

Peter eyes the thick metal loop around Wade’s neck. If the collar is somehow not affecting his super-strength, then he could possibly break Wade’s collar with his bare hands. If so, they can figure out a way to escape without having to wait for Cable to come to their rescue. Better yet, if he breaks more than one collar, it could cause a possible fight/diversion and give them extra time. Peter’s only got one chance at this. If it doesn’t work, and they get caught, he’s pretty sure the row of lead-lined boxes at the end of the row house the inmates who’d entertained similar grand delusions of escape. He’d heard their roars of anguish and fury on his way to the mess hall that morning.

“Why are you asking about the collars?” Wade frowns down at him. He has clearly not discovered the handprint in the metal toilet pipe yet.

“I think I have a plan to get us out of here,” Peter admits after a hesitant pause. “Next time we come across Cassidy, I'll swap with Russell.”

Wade stares at him for a long time before shuffling over and seating himself gingerly on the cot next to Peter. He puts his face in his hands and breathes in deeply. The rattling wheeze of his lungs struggling to expand sounds painfully loud in the heavy silence.

“I’m sorry,” Wade says.

Peter turns, “What for?”

“About the crap I said earlier. I’m fucked up, kid. I just didn’t want you to—”

“I know,” Peter interrupts, laying a gentle hand on Wade’s shoulder, “and you’re not fucked up.”

“Then you know I can’t let you do it, give up your ass for the greater good or some shit, Peter,” He insists, eyes shining with something akin to desperation. “I’d rather they kick me to death.”

“It’s not going to come to that, Wade,” Peter says calmly. “I’ve dealt with people a thousand times worse than a racially-ambiguous mutant in prison.”

Wade’s snort of laughter turns into body-wracking coughs. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow, but Peter still sees the specks of blood against the tacky yellow of his jumpsuit.

“You don’t have a lot time,” He pats Wade soothingly on the back, “we can’t afford to wait for Nate.”

“What are you going to do? Because I know what Black Tom wants to do to you, and it’s not going to be pretty,” Wade groans, his scarred head lolling onto Peter’s shoulder. He’s really having a hard time breathing.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Peter says simply.

Wade screws his eyes shut. “We’re so fucked.”

Chapter Text

Villain!verse

“Are you sure you guys don’t need me to come along?” Steve asks for the umpteenth time as he watches them load Sam's car. Bucky gently nudges aside the four dogs circling the vehicle and walks over to where the rest of his pack and a frowning Steve are standing.

“I think taking two of you into a populated suburban neighborhood would create more problems than we can deal with,” He smiles gently and says. Steve smiles back, but the worry lingers, “do you really think it’s a good idea to take my alternate self to see Peggy?”

“Wasn’t that the first thing you wanted when you woke up from the ice?” Bucky points out, “She passed away in his dimension. I just feel like this was the decent thing to do.”

“Of course,” Steve says, relaxing a little. He sighs before adding, “just don’t take too long, ok?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Last I checked, we don’t actually need to be constantly attached at the hip to survive, Steve.”

“I do,” Steve mutters, reeling him into a hug, “with what happened to Tony, I worry is all.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Bucky reassures with a quiet laugh, patting him on the back, “help Dr. Pym and Scott with their crazy science project and we’ll be back before you know it.”

He bends to address his dogs, “take care of the giant baby for me, gang.”

As one, they bark an affirmation.

“I’m not a giant baby,” Steve yells at him when Bucky catches the set of key Sam throws at him from the front porch and smirks.

“You totally are,” He shouts back when they’ve backed out of the driveway and retreated out of Steve’s immediate range of pursuit, so he lifts both hands and eloquently flips him off. Bucky laughs, returns the rude gesture, and guns the engine. The one in his passenger seat clicks his tongue in disapproval.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at the man, “Don’t pretend you’re not secretly an asshole like him.”

Rogers sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “just drive please, Bucky.”

-

“You know, I get that you’re up there in terms of age, but I recall specifically telling you to stay, Steve.” He’s leaning against the driver side door when the Harley pulls up along the empty street. Steve pulls the helmet off his head and smiles guiltily at Bucky’s raised eyebrow.

“I was never really good at following orders,” Steve shrugs and wanders over to join him. “Where’s the less handsome version of me?” He laughs when Bucky elbows him in the ribs. “What? You know it’s true.”

“He’s inside with Peg,” He tells Steve, “I didn’t go in. Figured they need a little privacy. I mean, the way he looked at her when we pulled up, Steve, I—”

“I’m not him,” Steve interrupts.

“What?” He’s caught off guard at the steel in Steve’s voice, and when Bucky turns to stare at him, his eyes are blazing with anger. Steve’s expression softens at his evident shock and he heaves a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I feel like you think we’re the same person, Buck.”

“You mean Rogers in there?” Bucky asks, voice bone-dry. “Trust me, I know the difference. He’s the all-American dream, and you’re an asshole.”

“Wrong,” Steve rolls his eyes skyward and reaching over to tangle their fingers together, "I’m your asshole.”

“Lord, I’m starting to regret kissing you,” Bucky admits with a smirk. Steve squeezes his hand in retaliation and they stand in silence for a while, shoulders touching and peering at the canary yellow house across the street.

“They’re dancing, aren’t they?”

“Well, I did owe her a dance.”

“He waited seventy years for this,” Bucky murmurs, almost in awe, “can you believe that?”

“I’d wait for you, Bucky, I’d wait till the end of the world if I had to,” Steve said, quiet and solemn.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” He frowns at the words, “I would want you to move on and be happy, marry a nice gal like Peggy and maybe name one of the boys after me. That’d be good enough for me, Steve.”

“Yeah, well you’re an idiot,” Steve mutters darkly, “a stupid selfless idiot. Also, what if we only had daughters?”

“You kiss babies with that mouth, punk?” Bucky snaps, swatting at him irritatedly. 

“No, I only kiss you with this mouth, jerk.”

Bucky snorts. “Wow, I wish your friends and colleagues could hear you now, Stevie. Bet Fanboy Lang and Baby Parker would totally shit their pants in shock.”

“I have an image to uphold in their eyes, Buck.”

“Not with me?”

“Nope. You love me to death no matter how I act.”

“I have created a monster,” Bucky sighs.

Steve’s smile is just a tad bit too smug. “Not a monster, your mon—”

Bucky grabs him by the collar and smashes their mouths together. It’s mostly to shut Steve up, but he gets lost in the kiss (like always) when Steve wraps those stupidly big arms around him and threads his fingers into the hairs at the nape of Bucky’s neck. Steve has him pinned to Sam’s poor car and is busy sucking a long line of hot kisses down the column of Bucky’s neck when he hears a screen door squeak open. Bucky’s eyes fly open to find Peggy standing on her doorstep smirking at them. He flinches so hard he knees Steve in the crotch. Steve grunts and doubles over in pain.

“Everything ok out here?” His face heats when the bearded version of his lover/best friend follows Peggy outside and sets eyes on them.

“Yup,” Steve manages to force out. He takes a few short sharp breathes and straightens with some difficulty. Peggy bites her lip, dark eyes glimmering in amusement.

“Hello, Steve,” She greets. He nods stiffly back at her, “Miss Carter.”

Rogers’ eyes flick between the two of them as he lifts an eyebrow. Bucky clears his throat and pulls his rumpled collar up to hide how red his neck is. “So, uh, should we be getting back to figuring out how to return you to your own world?”

“Yes, I suppose,” He nods before turning to Peggy again. Bucky looks away and busies himself with the process of getting the car started. Steve elbows him and hisses, “can I ride with you guys?”

“Why?”

He points silently at his crotch.

“Right, sorry,” Bucky winces, “tell Peggy you’ll come pick up the motorcycle next week.”

“I call shotgun,” Steve yells at his alternate self on the way to grab the Harley.

-

“Thank you for today,” Rogers says the moment they are alone. Bucky throws the tennis ball in his right hand and watches it arch through the sky, four of his beloved fur babies bounding after the yellow dot, tails wagging.

“No problem, it’s the least I could do,” He smiles at the other man, so similar yet so different from his own Steve, "Peggy’s had a good life, you know. Handsome husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, smart children, and lots of grand-babies.”

“Yes, I saw the pictures,” Rogers nods, accepting the soggy tennis ball when Bucky wrestles it from Lance’s mouth. He throws it farther than Bucky, the showoff. They watch it disappear into the bushes at the end of the property. One of the pups let out a dismayed whine, ears sagging at the loss of their beloved toy. Bucky sighs, “see, this is why I don’t let you and your superhuman strength play fetch with them.”

“Sorry,” Rogers winces.

“Don’t be,” Bucky says, patting him on the shoulder, “you’re getting their favorite ball back, Captain America.”

“But—”

Lance growls.

“Getting right on it,” He sighs, standing up from the porch steps.

“Want a flashlight?” Bucky prompts, grinning.

Rogers shakes his head ruefully, “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Buck?”

Bucky gasps, affronted, “how dare you say that, Steven Grant Rogers!”

“Jerk,” Steve’s double says, breaking into a run with the pups close in pursuit.

“He lost their favorite ball?” A voice asks from behind, and Bucky turns to find Steve standing there with a spot of engine grease on his cheek. He’s been helping Hank set up the new batch of equipment. Steve leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head, “Rookie mistake.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bucky laughs.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Yeah yeah, I should probably go help him before Loki’s magic hedges swallow him whole. Then we’ll never find the guy again.”

He watches from the porch steps as Steve walks off after them, shoulders loose and hands tucked into the pocket of his navy-colored VA hoodie, and for a split second, Bucky's back in 1943, sitting at the bar of that dingy pub, staring as the love of his life walks off to dance with his girl, his fierce lady in red, and feeling the cold bitter taste of alcohol spread in his mouth.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky yells. He’s suddenly overcome with the need to say it. “I love you, you know that?”

The smile that Steve gives him shines brighter than the sun.

Chapter Text

MCU!Verse

“No, absolutely not,” Tony says firmly.

“Come on, Stark.”

“There’s gotta be an alternative solution,” Tony argues desperately, “I could wear a scarf or a hat—”

Domino rolls her eyes, “has that worked for you?”

“So far yes!” He exclaims.

“Really?” She lifts an eyebrow at him, “you have the galls to say that after Cable had to mind-fuck the dog-walking guy who recognized you the moment you stepped outside of the lard factory?”

“I erased his memory,” Nathan Summers corrects with a scowl. Neena waves his protests aside and levels Tony with her most piercing look, “pick one, the beard or your hair. The other has to go. You want to rescue your son or not?”

“You know what, I might actually reconsider—”

Cable growls, biceps flexing as his hand inches to his gun. Tony screws his eyes shut and grits out, “hair, ok? I pick my hair.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard was it?” Neena grins wolfishly and advances on him with the old-fashioned razor blade in her hand. Tony snatches it from her and glares, “I hate the both of you. Do you have any idea how valuable this beard is, hmm? It’s an icon, Neena, an icon. I have it insured in my world.”

“Hurry up, Stark,” Cable mutters darkly, "every minute we waste here increases the likelihood of your kid getting a shiv in the kidney.”

“Fine, but this plan of yours had better fucking work,” Tony takes a sharp breath to settle his nerves and turns to the cracked mirror. He drinks in his magnificent reflection for the last time.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

-

“You look like a fourteen-year-old girl, kid. There is no way in hell you’re going to be able to convince him to listen to you.”

“I’m sixteen,” The rosy-cheeked baby seated across from Wade corrects before adding, “but I’m twenty. On the inside.”

Wade rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah, so you keep saying. And I’m Jasmine from Aladdin according to that Buzzfeed quiz I took last week. Those things aren’t real, Parker. They’re gonna take one look at you and decide to stick their—”

“Just shut up and eat your oatmeal, Wade,” Peter orders. He’s staring intently at the south entrance to the mess hall.

“I can’t,” Wade whines. His heart is beating so fast it’s making him lightheaded. Being sick sucks. “It tastes like cold jizz, or maybe that's just the cancer taking over my tastebuds.”

“You’ll feel a little better if you eat something, trust me.” Peter sighs and reaches over to squeeze his hand. He does that a lot, mostly subconscious gestures like patting Wade on the back or squeezing his forearm. Someone else might mistake it for affection, but Wade’s pretty sure the kid’s just scared stupid by his disgusting face and multitude of cancers. And pus, there’s pus now.

“Type 2 diabetes, multiple cancers, and pretty twink with a clean bill of health,” Wade mutters under his breath, “somehow you’ve still got the worst hand out of the three of us.”

“Wade, I’m going to be fine,” Peter groans. “Just make sure Russell’s ok. Can you do that?”

“But he’s gonna fuc—” Wade starts to protest, but Peter jams a spoonful of disgusting oatmeal into his mouth and he chokes.

“He’s not going to fuck me,” Spidey says patiently, dropping the spoon back into Wade’s tray, “only my boyfriend gets to do that.”

“Wait, what?”

Wade gapes stupidly after him as the kid stands. The little whispers in his head are purring their approval for Spidey’s ass, visible even through the lumpy yellow potato sack he’s stuffed inside. Then, their sightline is unceremoniously blocked by an actual potato inside a sack as Russell trudges over to Wade with his head bowed and lower lip quivering. The voices groan and Wade averts his gaze, eyes falling to the haphazardly thrown spoon in his tray. It’s bent like a wavy French fry. His cancer-riddled mind struggles with that particular image. Had it been that way before Peter touched it?

The alarm goes off before Wade can come up with an answer. After their scuffle yesterday, the warden had issued a schedule change that would keep their sections from eating at the same time.

“Back to you cells, convicts!” The nearest guard yells at their group.

Standing with a pained groan, Wade turns to the sullen obese kid loitering by his table and says, “guess you’re bunking with me tonight.”

He doesn’t get to rest much, what with the constant puking and death rattle in his dying lungs. Wade kind of wants to just die and get it over with, especially after Russell showed him all the “weapons” he has hidden in his prison wallet.

“We’re going to escape, Wade,” He says, all determined and shiny-eyed. “Spider-Man promised we would.”

“Yeah well, Spider-Man is a kid your age,” Wade mutters back darkly. He’s curled in the fetal position on the thin cot, “best not to have hope.”

Russell frowns. “What’s wrong with kids my age?”

“Too fucking optimistic about this shithole world we live in,” Wade says, muffling a deep cough in his hand. He doesn’t need to look to know there’s blood. He breathes out carefully, “did Cassidy touch you?”

“What?” Russell blinks, “ew, no. He just…kicked me around and complained about how much space I took up.”

“He’d be lucky to get the same treatment,” Wade croaks, scowling at his own distorted reflection on the glass wall of their cell.

“You think...” Russell gulps. “Oh no.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Wade sighs and closes his eyes.

-

“Oh wow,” Neena says once he finishes maiming the gorgeous work of art that is his facial hair. Her brown eyes are comically round, "You weren’t kidding when you said the beard defined Tony Stark.”

“Shut up,” He shoves past her and towels his now bare face dry. Summers’ mouth twitches as if he’s trying his best to suppress a smirk. Tony flips him off with his free hand and turns to glare at Domino, “I did my part, now do yours.”

“Alright, walk with me, boys,” Domino says cheerfully and flounces out of the abandoned warehouse. They only clear two blocks when Tony trips over a plastic bag containing two dark navy uniforms in front of a surprisingly clean dumpster. There’s no half-dried vomit in sight. He’s pretty sure it’s Neena’s weird powers at play because there is no chance in hell that a dumpster can look as immaculate as that in New York City.

“Put it on over your clothes,” She instructs, dropping one of the caps over her hair and unzipping one of the jackets. After a bit of blind fumbling, Tony manages to shrug on the pairs of pants. It fits perfectly, of course. He also finds an old ID card in the breast pocket. The man in the photo has brunet hair and no beard.

“How?” He asks, pointing to the small block letters reading ICE BOX LEVEL 4 SECURITY CLEARANCE on the card. Even Cable looks subtly impressed. She shrugs smugly, “Maybe somebody accidentally lost their dry-cleaning, Stark. Or, José, as your new ID suggests.”

Tony exchanges a glance with Nathan Summers and shrugs. “José it is then.”

“What about me?” Cable asks.

“You’re going to chase us into the street,” Domino says, bending to retie the laces of her Jordans.

“What?”

“Activate your gun and start shooting, big guy,” Neena says, patting him on a thick bicep.

“Why?” Tony demands.

“My instincts have never led me wrong, José,” She says confidently, “now run and don’t forget to look scared. Feel free to scream a bit. Oh, before I forget. Sorry in advance, Cable.”

There are no words that even come close to describing the series of bizarre domino effects that unfold next. It starts with the armored vehicle that appears around the corner. Tony’s jaw drops as the madwoman racing in front of him lets out a fake scream and waves both arms at the driver. She’s running into a street full of on-coming traffic, but Cable’s purposefully wild shot misses Domino by a mile and flips the small Honda seconds away from running her over. Civilian cries fill the air. People dressed in similar navy uniforms spill like angry ants from the armored truck that screeches to a stop in the middle of the street.

“Get inside and start driving!” Neena yells at him before wrestling a stun gun from one of the men and turning to face Summers.

Tony manages to scramble into the vehicle on his hands and knees after throwing his makeshift weapon inside. He’s sweating in the heavy uniform, but the other guards aren’t paying him any attention. The interior of the cargo area is lined with clear empty cells. The only occupied cubicle is in the front. Tony catches a brief glimpse of a gaunt-looking man with silver hair and a thick metal collar around his throat.

“I’ll take the wheel, you go help in the back,” He shouts at the guy in the driver’s seat. It’s shocking how bizarrely smoothly Neena’s plan unfolds, Tony thinks as he flops into the warm seat with a grimace and fiddles for the key to the ignition. The armored vehicle rumbles to life beneath him.

“You shot me!” Cable’s furious voice echos from the back. He glances into the rearview mirror and sees the half dozen or so uniformed bodies lying in the street behind them.

“I had to at least pretend I was one of them first,” Domino points out mildly, “come on, it barely stung.”

“In the neck, woman. You tasered me in the fucking neck.”

“But I went for the TO side.”

“That side is worse!”

“Oops, my B.”

The row of lights ahead all turn green.

“Son of a bitch,” Tony laughs and steps down hard on the acceleration.

“Told you I’m lucky,” Domino says, dropping into the passenger seat next to him. “Now drive us to Canada, José.”

“You’re kidding, right? That would take weeks!”

“Yeah, actually take a right up there. I’m pretty sure they have a jet waiting somewhere to escort the prisoner to Canada. We’ll release this guy in lockup, substitute in Cable, and get a free ride to our destination.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Thank god.”

“No, thank me,” Neena corrects, magicking a lollipop from her uniform’s breast pocket, “Next stop, Icebox Prison.”

-

Neither of them get any sleep that night, and by the time the breakfast alarm sounds, Wade is vibrating out of his skin with nerves. Russell pulls out his makeshift shiv and gives him a resolute nod.

“No, kid. Just no,” Wade groans, “unless your tactic is to rub your ass-knife all over their mouths and give them an E. coli infection and hope the ensuing diarrhea and dehydration eventually kills someone. Don’t touch me until you wash your hands, ok? I don’t need to add bowel discomfort to this cancer-fest.”

“Just trying to help,” Russell scowls, slipping the makeshift blade back into whatever inter-dimensional portal he has hidden up his butt. Wade pinches the bridge of his nose in despair and—

—jumps when a pair of massive hands land on his shoulders. He twists to find one of the olive-colored boulders masquerading as Cassidy's henchman glaring down at him.

“The boss wants to see you,” It growls, grabbing him round the neck like a newborn kitten.

Fuck, Wade thinks hysterically, the kid’s probably dead.

Then the boulder guy deposits him in front of Cassidy’s table and Wade sees Peter sitting in the center of the group, totally unharmed. It’s Cassidy who’s sporting a black eye and bruised jaw.

“What—”

“We came to an agreement,” Peter tells him, gesturing to Black Tom and the rest of his gang. Cassidy throws a massive arm over Peter’s shoulder and admits grudgingly, “what can I say, little man is a badass.”

“—the fuck is happening?” Wade finishes. Spidey leans forward and whispers, “we’re getting out of here, Wade, that’s what.”

Before Wade can ask how, Peter grabs his tray and crumples it into a tiny metal ball like it’s made of paper.

“Huh.” So he hadn’t imagined the spoon from earlier.

“Cellblock E, two more minutes to finish up,” The artificial voice in the overhead speakers announced.

“When it’s time, I’ll break your collars, but first we need to make sure we have a working plan. Tom says the place goes into lockdown the moment any one of these things malfunction. Guards are going to rush in through all the entrances and exits, so I need to get to the inmates with the most destructive powers first.”

“Diversion tactics to buy us more time,” Cassidy nods.

“Then, I’m gonna need one of the guards’ ID card and access chip. ID is on their uniform and access chip is in a bracelet around their wrist. We only move after we get both the—”

Their delightful little chat is suddenly interrupted when one of Cassidy’s men grabs a nearby guard around the neck and head-butts him so hard in the face Wade hears the crunch of the man’s nose breaking. The alarms go off a moment later, the harsh white light of the mess hall dimming to the sinister blue of a lockdown.

“I thought you had your men under control, Tom!” Peter yells as the guards start pouring in. He drags the man over the table by his dreads and snaps his collar with both hands.

“You try! It’s like herding rabid possums on LSD!” Cassidy shouts back, dodging a bullet and jumping into the fray. Wade’s still busy standing there and gawking when Peter fists the front of his ugly prison gown.

“Holy shit, I’m the prison wife,” He breathes when Peter effortlessly pulls his collar off and sweet sweet relief spreads through Wade’s body as his mutant powers kick back in.

“Get the ID card and the access chip!” Spidey shoves him at a guard and turns to Russell.

Wade gets tasered a few times but nothing hurts for longer than a second and he’s high off the adrenaline. He grabs one of the prison guards, snaps the man's neck, and is digging around the dude’s uniform (there’s just about a million pockets) when the entire Ice Box shakes violently.

“Abort!” Wade hears one of the uniformed guards shout, his voice tight with fear. Wade pauses to look as the men abruptly start streaming out of the cafeteria. It only takes a handful of seconds before only the bewildered prisoners are left standing in the room.

“We won!” Russell shouts in the silence that follows.

“No, butter ball,” Cassidy growls, “we didn’t. Someone’s gone and released the monster they have locked away underground.”

“Monster?” Peter asks as the steel wall to their left bursts open like tin foil and a hulking figure comes barreling in with fists the size of manhole covers.

“Oh my god,” Wade cups a hand over his mouth and screams like an excited five-year-old girl, “it’s the fucking Juggernaut!”

“Not the time, Wade!” Peter yells at him across the room.