Chapter Text
(4) Peter 1
Peter 2 and 3 have been visiting him a lot. It’s flippin’ awesome.
But Peter can feel the itch under his skin to try something new. Something big. In hindsight, getting used to fighting with the Avengers and all their weird missions and tech was a terrible mistake. Because now, devoid of their connections, things are…slower. Boring.
Well, crime-fighting is never boring. But it’s a dull in a different way. Petty crime really doesn’t cut it once you’ve fallen through the Earth’s atmosphere with no guarantee of survival. So, universe-hopping will have to fill that hole for now. The equations were hard, but luckily Peter 2 was willing to help, in part because Peter is not above pulling the desperate starving student route to get some hints. He’s smart enough to figure it out, but he’s also burning the candle at both ends these days and math advanced enough to hop universes is…a lot.
He’s also pretty sure Peter 2 would have given him the numbers without the puppy dog eyes, but it doesn’t hurt to butter him up every once in a while. And he knows Peter 2 takes it easy on him because he sees him as a kid. Peter 2 and 3 both do. Peter doesn’t blame them, in all honesty. He is a kid.
But being a kid in a room full of grownups is a feeling he’s getting tired of these days. Nobody knows who he is now, knows the things he’s done and is willing to do for the people of this planet, this city. Nobody knows that he can kill, has killed, and regrets every moment where he has to hold himself back from killing again. Because he does feel the urge, an anger bubbling up inside of him, too large for his body. An anger that he doesn’t understand and can’t quite control, the kind that makes blood collect under his fingernails and spread across his palms, clinging to his skin in a metallic stain.
He can’t wash it out, no matter how hard he tries. He can’t tell anyone about it, no matter how hard he tries. Peter Parker is a lonely 18-year-old with blood on his hands in a world where nobody knows or cares. It sucks.
If things were up to him, Peter would combat things by taking the night off to go out to dinner with May and just bask in her company. Or he’d game with Ned, taking his anger out on nameless characters on-screen while laughing his head off. Or maybe he’d sit with MJ and let her card her fingers through his hair while she’d read true crime Wikipedia articles aloud to him. But he can’t do any of that now.
The sink cracks under his grip.
Fuck.
A memory flickers in Peter’s mind. The fight before Doctor Strange’s spell, when Peter 2 tried to calm him down but got stabbed in the back for his troubles. He remembers Peter 3 calling his name, tossing him the serum. It was scary; the split second before he caught it, Peter wasn’t sure whether he’d been tossed the serum or a knife to plunge into Green Goblin’s side. It’s even scarier that he’s not so sure he would have minded if it were a knife.
In that way, it feels like Peter 3 knows him better. There’s a thread connecting them, loss and anger and loathing coalescing into a bitter mass they have to swallow back more and more as time goes on. Not that Peter 2 doesn’t experience that kind of loss too, but…it feels different with Peter 3. It feels like a taboo kinship, unspoken but recognized.
That’s what makes him travel to Peter 3’s dimension, catching him on patrol.
“Peter!” he calls out, landing nimbly on a rooftop. Peter 3 clutches his chest as he swings by before letting out a surprised laugh.
“Hey Peter 1,” he says with a wiggle of his fingers as he doubles back and lands next to him. “Come here often?”
Peter gives him a shrug, mouth opening as his mind scrambles for a quip to throw back. But in the second where he pauses, Peter 3’s stance shifts, head tilting warily.
“That kind of night, huh?”
Damn. Caught already.
“Yeah.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry I’m not good company right now, I can leave the way I came, no need to see me out—”
Peter 3 drops his hand on his shoulder, pulling off his mask as he gives him a long look. Peter holds back a wince, preparing himself to hear useless platitudes of “It’s alright” or “Wanna talk about it?” or “It’ll get better”. But Peter 3 doesn’t say any of those things.
“Wanna go kick some ass?” is what he says instead.
Peter’s head whips up, brow furrowing as he takes in Peter 3’s wry grin. It’s all boyish charm on the surface, but he can see understanding hiding in the corner of Peter’s mouth and weary acceptance tucked behind his teeth. It’s the smile of someone who’s been in the same boat as him, time and time again.
“It’ll be good,” Peter 3 says in the face of his silence. Don’t overthink it, Peter can almost hear him add.
“Can you—” Peter winces at the crack in his voice. “Can you, y’know, hold me back if I…if I can’t…”
“I know,” Peter 3 says gently, tugging his mask over his face. “C’mon, let’s go let it out, yeah?”
He swings away without a backwards glance, trusting Peter will follow close behind. So he does, cool New York night air whipping over his uniform as he flicks his wrist out over and over again in a soothing rhythm.
Let’s go let it out.
Things must be weighing on Peter 3’s mind too. Though, there isn’t much time to inquire; a scream echoes in his ears, senses pulling the sound in from far away. Without a word between them, their paths both veer right towards the cry for help, motions as easy as breathing.
That’s the nice thing about all of this. Being Peter Parker is hard. But being Spiderman is the easiest thing in the world.
Peter throws a web down, yanking the assailant back before easily plucking the knife out of his hands. The two punches to the man’s stomach are wholly unnecessary and very much not his usual style, but Peter 3 doesn’t say a word about it, and the lack of admonishment on his actions makes Peter gather up the opportunity greedily in his hands, tucking it into his fists as he fights his way through the evening. The world doesn’t give him many favors these days; he’ll take what he’s given.
Though, the urge to beat crime back with his fists lessens and the night winds on. Having Peter 3 there is helpful in its own way, something loosening in his chest knowing that someone has his back. The support is easy enough for Peter to tether himself to, like web spooling from his fingertips into a guiding thread that he clings to. It’s been months since he’s felt this grounded, this safe, and it holds him together through the night, through the streets of this familiar unfamiliar city, all the way to a little bubble tea shop that’s somehow still open despite it being…damn, almost 4 am. He needs get home soon.
Except the thought of standing in his empty apartment once again is almost too much for Peter to bear. So he sits on a rooftop next to Peter 3, legs swinging idly over the ledge as he chews the pearls into halves and then quarters and then little indistinguishable bits that don’t stop up his throat when he swallows.
“Thanks for this,” he mumbles through a mouthful of sugar, bracing himself for questions or advice or disappointed looks. But Peter 3 does none of that; he merely ruffles Peter’s hair before slinging an arm over his shoulder.
“Anytime. Love you, man.”
“Love you too,” Peter mumbles back, leaning into him. Once upon a time he might have hesitated or laughed nervously or kept chattering on about something or other. But it’s been a long night, a long year, whatever. And whatever little filter he had is gone, leaving only the truth behind.
And the truth is that the “I love you” comes out easily, despite how long it’s been since he’s said it. Love is like riding a bike, Peter supposes. You can’t forget how to do it, no matter what life’s thrown at you. That’s the beauty of it all.
“Thank you,” he whispers as an afterthought, feeling Peter 3’s knee bump gently against his.
The sun’s rising now, sky soft with smudges of pink and orange that pave the way for a new day. And they sit together, watching it all unfold.