I could be your sacrifice
It was raining on his first day off in weeks and Peter was understandably irritated about it. He needed to stop at the laundromat, and he needed groceries, and all he really wanted was a shitty cup of coffee with enough caffeine to get him through the next ten hours. He cursed under his breath as he shook out his umbrella in the entryway to Peter Pan’s, grimacing as he shuffled into the air conditioning, his jacket sticking to him with humidity and splatters of dampness from the wind.
He had his mostly empty laundry bag slung over one shoulder, the bottom bulked out from his trip to the convenience store and detergent. There were a few people sitting in the booths with donuts and drinks, joggers and insomniacs braving the storm for a bit of early morning routine. Peter liked the atmosphere, and the coffee was cheap, though he no longer had much of a reason to keep stopping by since Ned and Michelle…well, he didn’t have much of a reason to come, anymore. So there he was, in the middle of September, wiping his shoes off and dripping dry on the welcome mat.
“Good morning, I’ll be right with you–oh,” The girl behind the counter, Sasha, began her spiel but cut herself off when she recognized him. “Hey, Peter. You look like a wet rat.”
“Thank you,” He replied, pushing his hair back a little on his forehead. It was getting long, but he didn’t have it in his bank account to splurge for a haircut. Maybe he would ask his neighbor to take some scissors to it, though he wasn’t sure he trusted the shaky hands of an elderly woman near his ears and neck.
He walked in, eventually, and his shoes made an awful squeaking noise against the floor. Sasha began to pour him a cup, and he took out his cash, and they almost silently completed the transaction. He wouldn’t exactly refer to himself as a regular, but he wasn’t sure what other term would describe the frequency and familiarity he had with the cafe. Thunder rumbled overhead, so he settled down at the counter, and he checked the timer on his phone for his laundry.
“You want anything else?” Sasha asked, idly, as she went back to cleaning the espresso machine.
He looked at his cup, then at the crumbled change in his hand, and figured it would be better suited as bus fare if he needed to get around at all later that day. He would swing, but his suit needed to be patched together, and he was recovering from a brutal fight with some wacko dressed up like a scorpion the day before. His ribs ached, and he was sure if he lifted his arms too high above his head he’d rip the shoddy attempt at stitches he’d slapped on before passing out. So he’d been taking the bus, or the subway, or trudging through the rain with a bent umbrella as he’d sunk back into being a normal, functioning human being.
He shook his head. “No, thanks,” She shrugged, and he glanced around, people-watching as his drink cooled.
Everyone seemed to be glued to their phones, whispering over news articles and watching videos at quiet volumes. He looked to his left, where a few college students were hunched over the same computer, looking apprehensive. Then he swiveled to his right, where an older man with his kids were all watching with rapt attention what sounded like the same broadcast on his phone.
He shifted, staring around for a moment before turning back to face forward, raising an eyebrow at the only barista. “Did I miss the superbowl?” He joked, and sat up a little straighter when Sasha whipped around to face him, her face tight. “What?”
“You haven’t seen?” She breathed, and he titled his head.
“No?” He felt himself frowning as he added, “Seen what?”
“It’s all over the news,” She said, looking at him with mild concern. “Like, if you’ve gone outside today you’ve probably seen it on fucking buses already.”
Peter decided not to mention that he hadn’t exactly been outside that day, or much of the night before, curled up in his bed trying to sleep off a stab wound. Sprinting through the rain with his head down also probably wasn’t the best way to learn anything of importance. “Right,” He nodded along like he knew what was happening. “My phone was dead.”
Immediate understanding overtook her features, and she gestured him over, typing away at her phone. “Look, there was this huge announcement,” She leaned over the counter, holding her screen towards him. YouTube was open on her phone, and it at first looked like an official conference, one where you’d see the mayor or senator make a statement. People and reporters crowded a stage, and Peter squinted as the camera adjusted, and he saw the logo on the podium.
“The Avengers?” He muttered, furrowing his brows and leaning in. His chest felt tight, and his skin itched and flared, just at the corners of his elbows and the tips of his fingers. Something felt wrong.
Pepper Potts-Stark strode across the stage, her posture perfect and her hair pinned tight back on her head. A few security personnel escorted her, then stood a few steps away from the center. He spotted Happy as the one closest to her right. She began speaking, and Sasha hurriedly turned the volume up, ripping the screen away in her fumble for the buttons. Peter tried not to physically flinch away, sitting on his hands and waiting for the video to be returned in front of him.
She greeted the crowd, apologizing for the short notice, composed and direct with her delivery. He watched as she scanned the sea of reporters, as if she were looking at every one of them, making eye contact with the current camera filming and then focusing her gaze somewhere on the cards in her hands. She was making an announcement, she told them, something impossible had happened and there would be a long period of adjustment. Peter sipped his coffee, feeling the need to keep his hands busy, and resisted the urge to fast-forward in the video to when she actually shared the news. Flowery language, political mumbo-jumbo, the works. He glanced up at Sasha, about to ask for a general summary, when he froze.
Pepper spoke clearly, her face somber and her head held high. “As of a month ago, August 14th, 2026, my husband, Anthony Edward Stark, has been brought back to life.” He choked, spitting onto the counter and feeling the sting of liquid in his nose. Sasha jumped back, dropping her phone and letting out a small, startled noise. He coughed, and she offered him napkins, already cleaning up his mess of saliva and coffee. The video continued to play, unassuming, and he heard Pepper’s voice through the burn in his throat. “Stephen Strange and the Sorcerer’s of the Sanctum Sanctorum continue to this very moment investigating the cause of this event, and the permanence of such a phenomenon.”
Tony Stark was alive. Peter grasped at his throat, wheezing and accepting the paper towels shoved at him, pressing one to his eyes and mouth. Tony Stark was alive.
Sasha began talking, nervously, as he scrubbed at his cheeks. “Everything just keeps getting crazier, I swear to god. I mean, it’s weird, but kind of just as weird as the Blip or aliens or whatever, but it seems a little far-fetched. There have been sightings, apparently, and a ton of people are wondering just how long he’s been, like, around. People have been fighting online on whether or not it's real. Like, maybe he’s a clone or it was all an illusion,” She wiggled her fingers, grinning, but Peter couldn’t return it.
He sat there, and his stomach churned, and he was pretty sure he had lost the ability to inhale. He felt like everything was moving in slow motion, and his ears were ringing. He clenched his fist, balling up the napkin, and he forced himself to exhale.
“Woah,” He said, very intelligently, and his voice came out hoarse.
“I know,” Sasha agreed, still looking a little concerned. “Someone got a video on TikTok of someone who looks a lot like him talking to Sam Wilson, and there’s that audio going around about why he’s back—”
“Why is he back?” Peter interrupted, and she pressed her lips together, playing with her phone case. He felt a little bad for his tone, but he felt like his lungs were going to implode.
“Well, apparently,” She leaned against the counter, looking around almost conspiratorially. “He’s looking for someone.”
Peter’s face felt numb and tingly, and he wet his lips. “Who?”
She met his gaze, her face serious. “Spider-Man,” She told him, slowly. “He’s looking for Spider-Man.”
He was out of his seat before he realized what he was doing, his drink forgotten and his hand still white knuckling the stained paper towel. If his bag wasn’t slung over his shoulder, he would’ve left it behind, too. Sasha called after him, asking if he was okay, but he barely heard it, opening the door and braving the wind and rain.
He forgot to open his umbrella as he stumbled through puddles and crosswalks. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know what exactly he was intending to do. All he knew was that Tony Stark was alive and looking for Spider-Man, and Peter was so scared of being found.