A kid in space and a deal
Peter watches Mantis go up and down on the web trampoline he had rigged together from leftover web fluid and the shell of an old gravity stabilizer. It floats midair in the ship’s observation bay, gently shimmering under the soft blue glow of the nearby control panels. The lack of gravity lets her bounce higher than she would on Earth, her legs folding awkwardly mid-jump, her arms flailing as she whoops with glee. Each bounce sends her drifting closer to the ceiling before she drops again in slow motion, like time itself is caught off guard by how light everything feels up here.
Peter should be laughing. Or at least smiling more. This is the kind of moment he used to dream about: space travel, alien tech, the stars right outside the window. But all he feels is this strange, low hum inside his chest, like an invisible string pulling tighter and tighter around his ribcage.
He thinks.
This is kind of his first time in space. Kind of. The last time he was here—properly here—was during that whole Titan incident, and that... well. That didn’t go so great.
He’s trying not to freak out. He tells himself that over and over again. It’s fine. He’s fine. But his fingers twitch unconsciously where they grip a support beam, and his eyes flick too quickly around the bay, mapping exits, calculating distances. He’s used to danger. He’s used to fight-or-flight. But space is different. It’s too quiet. Too empty. The stars outside the window don’t twinkle like they do back home—they just sit there, cold and still, a thousand burning eyes that never blink.
Part of him—the rational, logical part that still does algebra in his head when he's nervous—wants to walk straight to Mr. Doctor Strange and ask, flat-out, to be sent back. Not even in a dramatic way. Just a “Hey, this was fun, thanks for the ride, but I think I’m good now.” Maybe he could pretend he left something back in Queens. Like homework. Or a soul.
But he doesn’t.
Because the other part of him—the reckless, loud, heroic part—is louder. The part that made him leap into battle on a school bus. The part that idolized Tony Stark and still, in quiet moments, tries to live up to him. The part that says: People need you, Peter. You don’t get to be scared.
Still, his spider-sense has been going nuts since they broke through the upper layers of the asteroid belt. It’s not a buzz anymore—it’s a scream. An internal siren wailing in his bones, warning him that something bad is coming. Not just danger—loss. Real, permanent, world-breaking loss. A deep, aching certainty that failure is waiting just around the corner, and it’s bringing pain and isolation with it.
And yet he stays.
Because even though the fear is overwhelming—like drowning in silence—he can’t turn his back. Not on this. Not on them. Not when people like Mantis can still laugh like this. Not when he might be the only one who can make a difference.
So he pushes the fear down. Packs it into a box and seals it tight. He turns his attention back to Mantis, watches her spin in midair and giggle like a little kid. Watches her float like she’s the only gravity-bound being in the whole universe who decided not to care. She doesn’t know what’s coming. None of them really do.
He pretends he’s just watching a friend have fun.
He pretends he’s not shaking.
He pretends he doesn’t hear the conversation happening behind him.
“Absolutely not.”
Stephen Strange’s voice is sharp, edged with authority and the weariness of someone who has already looked too far ahead. His cape shifts slightly around his shoulders like it’s sensing the tension before it’s even fully bloomed.
“But—” Tony’s voice starts, tight with frustration.
“Stark,” Strange cuts him off again, “I will not cast an interdimensional failsafe because you have a bad feeling.”
He’s standing rigid, arms crossed, eyes cold. Around them, the rest of the ship is quiet, humming with low-frequency power. The lights flicker softly against the walls, casting long shadows that seem to stretch as the tension in the room thickens.
Tony doesn’t move at first. He just stares, jaw clenched, like he's trying to decide whether to shout or breathe. Then he lifts his hand and jerks a thumb toward the other side of the bay.
“It’s not for me,” he says flatly.
Stephen doesn’t follow right away. His eyes flick toward the direction Tony pointed, but the meaning doesn’t click.
Tony sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, man,” he mutters. He gestures again, more pointedly this time. “It’s for the kid.”
Stephen’s brows furrow.
Tony looks away.
“If—” he starts, then stops. He tries again. “If something goes wrong. If we don’t make it out. If he—” Another pause. His voice is hoarse now. “He’s just a kid. And I dragged him into this. I put the suit in his hands. I put the idea in his head that he could keep up with gods and monsters. And he believed me.”
Stephen’s expression shifts.
He watches Tony more closely now. The sarcastic, arrogant armor Stark usually wears has crumbled away. What’s left underneath is thinner, quieter. Raw.
Tony’s shoulders slump slightly as he keeps talking.
“He used to fall asleep in my lab, you know? Right on the floor, curled up next to a half-built arc reactor and a box of granola bars. One time I found him with a soldering iron in one hand and apple juice in the other.” He laughs quietly, the sound brittle. “Kid never even blinked when I lectured him about safety goggles.”
Stephen stays quiet.
Tony presses his palms against the table in front of him, his head bowed.
“If we lose,” he says finally, “I need to know he has a way out. Or a way back. Or a second chance. Because I couldn’t save him last time. And I cannot watch him disappear again.”
The silence stretches.
Stephen closes his eyes, the weight of the request sinking in. This isn’t about a spell. This is about redemption. About grief. About a man trying to protect a version of himself he sees in a teenage boy with too much heart and not enough armor.
He opens his eyes again. Nods once.
“For the kid,” he says quietly.
And the air shifts.
Magic begins to form between his fingers, golden threads spiraling into the space between them, pulsing with quiet power.
Tony watches, eyes rimmed in shadow, hands curled into fists.
And on the other side of the ship, Peter watches Mantis float, unaware that somewhere behind him, someone is building a failsafe just in case the universe asks too much of him again.