𝑬𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖

The world around Peter dissolved in a rush of colors and sounds, the dizzying whirlwind pulling him into a space beyond time and logic. He floated—or perhaps fell—through a vast, star-speckled void. Colors bled into one another, flashes of light streaking by like shooting stars, close enough to touch. For a moment, he felt weightless, almost like he was untethered from reality itself, his body stretching and folding in ways that made his mind spin. A strange mix of exhilaration and fear stirred inside him.

This is insane, he thought, the genius of it hitting him full force. Dad actually did this. The thrill of pride was cut short by a pang of anxiety that lurked just beneath the surface. If something goes wrong, who’ll even know where to find me?

Tony Stark, his father, had somehow mastered the flow of time, twisting and reshaping it at will. Peter’s pulse quickened, a swell of awe and a twinge of doubt merging within him. Could he ever live up to Tony’s genius? Sure, he was known as a prodigy at MIT, a “genius” in his own right, but Tony? Tony was in a league of his own. A feat like this? It was almost unreal.

Peter’s mission had sounded simple enough: make a small correction in the timeline five years in the past, then get back. The error, Tony explained, was a glitch caused by the Infinity Stones’ misuse, something that, if left unchecked, could ripple into disastrous consequences. The stakes were high; Stark Industries’ early AI patents were involved, and they needed to be set back on track. His dad had tried to explain the logic behind it all, but here and now, Peter just hoped he’d understood enough.

He’d been given 40 minutes. Nothing more. And yet, as he drifted through the void, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure, like a shadow, watching him. What the…? He squinted, trying to focus, but the shadow flitted out of sight as quickly as it appeared. His heart skipped, a familiar tingle of Spider-sense prickling down his spine. The feeling was unsettling, lingering even as he tried to shake it off.

Keep it together, Parker, he told himself, forcing his breath steady. It’s just time travel weirdness…right?

The sensation of being observed lingered as his surroundings began to settle. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the whirlwind faded, and he snapped back to reality.

The air hit him first, hot and thick, carrying a cocktail of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. It clung to his skin, a humid wall pressing down on him and making his nose wrinkle. The bass was so heavy it felt like it thrummed through his bones, vibrating up his legs and buzzing through his ribcage. Peter’s fingers twitched nervously at his sides as he tried to blend in with the crowd, his eyes darting from face to face, searching for anything familiar in this sea of strangers. Neon lights flashed in dizzying patterns, bouncing off dark walls and glinting off countless surfaces, and he felt a prickling tension along his spine, like the club itself was pressing in on him.

This is definitely not where I’m supposed to be.

The music pulsed. Bodies moved in sync. He felt out of place, his mind racing to make sense of his unexpected journey through time. This was not where he was supposed to be.

“What the hell?” he muttered, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Karen,” he whispered, hoping for the calm, familiar hum of his AI. “What year is it?”

Nothing. No response. The silence, without her voice in his ear, left an uncomfortable hollow feeling, like he was more alone than ever. No Karen, he realized, feeling his pulse quicken. No tech, nothing. It’s just me. The crowd pressed in around him, faces and bodies melding together in a blur as he moved through them, trying to keep calm. His fingers twitched again, and he forced his breathing steady.

The energy here was wild, nearly overwhelming. Couples clung to each other, hips pressed together, moving in rhythms that felt almost too intimate. It was so intense it was practically clothes-on fucking. Bodies pulsed and undulated, and the bassline thudded through the room, heavy and thick with an intensity that made his own pulse race. Gasolina, he recognized, the Daddy Yankee anthem blasting from the speakers, fueling the crowd’s raw, electrified energy.

A sliver of hope surfaced. Maybe it’s just a retro-themed night? But as he glanced around, noting the massive CD tower by the DJ booth and the gritty authenticity of it all, the hope evaporated. Oh, hell. This isn’t some theme night. I really am… stuck here.

He scanned the crowded room, catching snippets of conversation in Spanish, a language he barely understood. Why here? Why now? he wondered, feeling another wave of unease. His mission was supposed to be quick and simple, an easy fix to set the timeline right again. But instead, he was here, somewhere completely unfamiliar. What went wrong?

I really should have picked up Spanish, he thought with a pang of frustration. But it wasn’t entirely his fault. Despite being half-Latino, Tony had never taught him Spanish, almost like it was a part of himself he’d kept hidden. Peter had always wondered why Tony never shared that side of himself. He’d sometimes catch Tony humming a soft, familiar tune in Spanish, only for him to stop abruptly, as if remembering something private. It felt like an entire world Peter hadn’t been given the chance to know, a shadow of culture left in the background—and he felt its absence now, more than ever, as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

A worn-out restroom sign caught his eye at the back of the club. Finally. He slipped through the crowd, bolting the door behind him as he ducked inside. It was cramped and dim, the fluorescent lights above casting a harsh glare over the cracked mirror and peeling walls. The bass still pulsed through the walls, but here, at least, he could hear himself think.

In the mirror, he peeled off his mask and took in his reflection. Wide-eyed, hair sticking up from the static in his mask, brown eyes bright against the dim light and a faint dusting of freckles. He let out a long breath, trying to ground himself in reality. He couldn’t exactly walk around in his Spider-Man suit here. He needed something to blend in. Anything to keep his identity hidden.

His eyes fell on a slumped backpack beside the sink, half-open with a flyer spilling out that read Summer 1997 Latin Beats and had a blurry image of a DJ on it. The bag looked worn and well-loved, decorated with faded patches of music bands and political slogans. Someone had probably left it behind in the chaos of the night, and he hesitated, feeling a pang of guilt. Sorry, whoever you are, he muttered, rifling through the bag.

Inside, he found a faded gray crop top that cut off at his biceps and a pair of acid-wash jeans that looked about his size. Shrugging on the crop top, he noticed the fabric hung a little loose around his waist, but it was long enough to cover him while blending in. The jeans, however, were snug, hugging him a bit more than he was used to, clinging to his thighs and backside. He tugged at the waistband, shifting uncomfortably but resigning himself to make do. He stuffed his Spidey suit into the bag and slung it over his shoulder—no way he’d leave it behind. The suit, with all its tech, was his only connection to home.

One last glance in the mirror, and he almost didn’t recognize himself. The outfit was a far cry from his usual, but he looked… well, he looked like he belonged here. His lips quirked in a wry smile. At least Tony was right—I didn’t turn into soup.

Reentering the chaos of the club, he let the music and movement pull him in. Someone in the crowd gave him an amused smirk, muttering, “Gringo.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed, both from embarrassment and surprise, but he shrugged it off. Great, he thought, rolling his eyes. I’ve time-traveled and become a walking stereotype. Dad’s never going to let me live this down.

He had maybe 40 minutes left to get back—if Tony even noticed the deviation in his signal. His mission was to fix the timeline error and, if not, to gather intel so they could regroup and try again. For now, he’d just have to keep calm and blend in.

Moving cautiously, Peter kept his ears open, listening for anything that might give him a clue about where or when he was. He caught snatches of conversations—people talking about favorite reggaeton songs, old family gatherings, or recent local events. Finally, near a small bar counter, he spotted a stack of newspapers. He glanced over at the bartender, who was busy pouring drinks, and quickly grabbed one from the top of the pile.

July 1997. New York City. He inhaled deeply, the date cementing his sense of how misplaced he truly was. Okay. At least I know the when and where. But how the hell did I end up here?

As he turned back into the crowd, that same prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. He scanned the dance floor and, near the DJ booth under the swirl of neon lights, his eyes fell on a young man whose gaze was locked directly on him.

It was Tony Stark. Only, not quite the Tony he knew. This Tony was 19, maybe 20 at most, his face smooth and free of any stubble or goatee. His hair was styled in a loose, casual cut, catching the dim lights in a way that gave him an almost unreal glow. He wore a simple white tank top, snug enough to reveal the faint lines of muscle along his chest and shoulders, and a pair of low-slung jeans that hung at his hips. But it was the gold glint of a small lip ring and studs in his ears that caught Peter off guard, a look he’d never seen on his dad. He had a lip ring?

Tony’s attention was fixed on Peter, his gaze bold and unwavering. He had a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, teeth barely visible as he bit his bottom lip, then ran his tongue slowly across his teeth, eyes tracing Peter’s torso and lingering at the V-line just above his waistband. His sun-kissed skin seemed to glow under the club lights, making the gold of his lip ring and studs pop, adding an edge Peter had never associated with his dad before. A part of him thought, almost hysterically, What the fuck is happening?

And, as if by some trained reflex, he could almost hear Cap’s voice in his head: Language! Peter nearly snorted, biting back a smile. I’m 21, Steve, come on.

But that thought quickly faded as Tony’s gaze remained, intense and a little too appreciative. A jolt of confusion shot through Peter as his mind raced, searching for any explanation. Wait, since when does Dad even like… guys? He’d only ever seen his dad date women. It had always been one woman after another—brief relationships that started hot but fizzled fast, then finally Pepper, steady for a few years now. Before her, there had been Mary—Peter’s mom—the only woman who’d brought Tony real stability. How did I not know about this?

Peter shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Tony’s gaze moved over him, lingering in all the wrong places. No way, he thought, feeling a prickling unease, almost as if his mind were playing tricks on him. He’d seen that look before—a kind of curiosity laced with a spark of interest that was anything but innocent. Is he actually…? He forced himself to look behind him, trying to pretend Tony’s gaze was actually meant for someone else, anyone else. But no, when he turned back, Tony’s eyes were still on him, that half-smirk playing on his lips, too direct and too intentional.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He’d had people check him out before—more times than he could count, in fact. He was used to catching lingering stares, being on the receiving end of interested glances, playful smiles, more than one admirer trailing their gaze down his torso. Ever since he’d hit a growth spurt at sixteen, packing on muscle that added definition to his frame, he’d noticed the effect he had on others. He’d learned to handle it, had even come to enjoy it, carrying himself with an ease and confidence that only grew with time. But this wasn’t some stranger in a bar or someone he could laugh off later.

This was Tony. This was his dad, for goodness’ sake.

Is this the same guy who used to tuck me in? he wondered, a wild, unsettled feeling fluttering in his chest. The guy who practically had a heart attack whenever I came home late, or who stayed up helping me with science projects?

This can’t be real, he told himself, heart thudding a little too fast. He kept trying to convince himself that maybe Tony was just curious—yeah, probably just intrigued by the stranger in the crop top. Just… curious. Sure. There was no way Tony could know that, years from now, they’d be family, that he’d be the man Peter looked up to and sometimes even struggled to live up to. But in this moment, Tony’s look was a little too fixed, that grin a little too inviting, to just brush off as “casual interest.”

Peter felt a thrill of panic as he realized how unprepared he was for this encounter. This isn’t happening, he thought, trying to steady himself. He looked away, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings, grounding himself in the thumping beat, the flashes of neon, and the faint scent of smoke that lingered in the air.

But as he drifted back into the crowd, he couldn’t shake the feeling that things had gone very wrong. That shadow he’d glimpsed while time traveling, the glitch that had sent him here instead of five years back—it all felt like pieces of a larger puzzle. He had a job to do, a mission to fix the timeline, but something—someone—had shifted the plan, and as much as he wanted to ignore it, he knew he couldn’t.

The only way forward was to find a way back. And, judging by the intensity of Tony’s gaze, he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to stay unnoticed for long.

Back in the present-day lab, Tony let out a long breath, watching the spot where his son had stood moments before disappearing into the time stream. Kid’s really grown up, he thought, a flicker of pride—and maybe something else—settling in his chest. It seemed like just yesterday Peter was a wide-eyed kid, scrambling around the lab, more fascinated with his Iron Man suits than with whatever project they were supposed to be working on.

He shook his head with a smile. That wide-eyed kid had transformed into a hero. Not just because of the spider bite that had thrown him into a world of capes and suits, either. Ah, that bite. It had worried him, especially after Aunt May had insisted on Peter going to a public school instead of the high-security private academies Tony had pushed for. “Let him be a kid,” she’d told him, almost chiding him with that tone he could never argue against. “He deserves that.”

Of course, there’d been moments he’d questioned it. But looking back, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not with how Peter had grown. He was brave, selfless, everything Tony had wanted for him and more.

A small, wistful smile tugged at his lips. It hadn’t always been like this—hell, it had been rocky, especially when Peter was young. After Mary died, he’d buried himself in work, dividing his time between Stark Industries and what would eventually become Iron Man. He’d been determined to keep things running, to give Peter everything he needed, or so he thought. He was there, but… Ben and May had been the true constants for Peter back then. It wasn’t until the mugging, that tragic night that had taken Ben’s life, that Tony realized how far he’d drifted from his son. And Peter, blaming himself, had carried a weight he never should have had to bear alone.

Tony swore then that he wouldn’t let Peter feel alone again. He wouldn’t become a ghostly presence the way his own dad had been for him. Not that he’d been absent, exactly, but after that, he doubled down. He was there for everything: science fairs, birthdays, every Spider-Man milestone. And now, looking back, he was proud. Proud that he’d been there to see Peter grow, to watch him become something incredible.

And during the Snap… Losing Peter had shattered him. He’d poured everything he had into building the time machine, a feat that sounded insane even to him. But he hadn’t cared how ridiculous it seemed. If it meant seeing Peter again, he’d do it a thousand times over.

A vibration cut through his thoughts, his phone screen lighting up with Pepper’s name.

“Pep,” he answered, pressing her on speaker as he turned back to the console.

“Hey, so we have a bit of a situation over here,” she said, voice steady but carrying a note of urgency.

“Define ‘situation,’” he said, quirking a brow as he adjusted some settings on the console, clearing the coordinates.

“Some supply chain mix-up; the new AI enhancements were accidentally routed to Zurich. And,” she added, voice lightening as she teased him, “a few board members are apparently curious if you’re still, you know, an active member of Stark Industries.”

Tony snorted, a grin stretching across his face. “Tell them my hologram hasn’t been programmed for polite corporate answers, so unless they want some real honesty, they might want to let me work in peace.” He chuckled, grabbing a toolkit from a nearby workbench. “Anything else?”

“Nothing you can’t handle. Oh, and Tony—don’t get lost in another project for the whole night?”

“I’ll try,” he said, an edge of fondness slipping into his voice.

“Good. Love you.”

“Love you too, Pep,” he said, then ended the call.

He looked back at the console, smiling to himself as he watched the time counter ticking down to zero. You’re really something, kid, he thought. He’d lost track of the nights he’d spent perfecting Peter’s suit, adding more upgrades than strictly necessary just so he’d have an excuse to check in on him. But he’d do it forever if it meant keeping Peter safe.

Time machines, he thought with a small shake of his head. It was madness—but if it meant he could protect Peter, he’d take that madness any day.