Won't You Spare Me Over Til Another Year
It was cold.
Peter couldn’t hold onto many thoughts in this place, but this one was sharp and clear. Never before had he experienced a sensation quite like this—his blood felt as if it were crystallizing into ice, his skin felt brittle and painful, his hair hurt, his eyes cracked as if they would shatter if he blinked too hard.
He heard nothing and everything all at once. A high-pitched wailing pierced his ears every thirty seconds. His senses were thrown into overdrive—he felt high and on edge and anxiety dripped off of him as if he had been doused in it. His brain was sluggish—he knew he was somewhere he shouldn’t be but he didn’t know how he got there or how to leave.
Rain fell on him steadily and slowly, almost as if it were designed to torture him. He couldn’t move without stumbling, and images of Pepper and May and Ben and his parents flashed in front of him chaotically and in vivid color.
Red.
They were all coated in red. As if developed in blood.
There were spiders crawling all over him, maybe, at least that’s what it felt like. Shivers rocked his body, unable to repress them due to the weightiness in his limbs. Best he could tell, he seemed to be on a small cliffy island, surrounded by angry water and sharp rocks. The sky was dark. He had tried throwing himself off the nearby ledge a few times, just to stop the input, no other reason, but something seemed to be preventing it. Most likely his own karma, that would rather him be in some sort of eternal hell, than anywhere quieter. He kind of wished he were in hell though.
He was just so cold.
When Quentin Beck finally revealed his master plan, Peter had already gone three rounds with BARF, drones, and a parade of nightmares that made Thanos look like something out of Morgan’s Barbie Dreamhouse. (Before Morgan turned it into Barbie’s Executive Suite, complete with a working Friday to put the president on hold because “girl’s run the world, Peter, MJ said so, and I don’t have time for any man’s nonsense getting in the way of world peace.”) And there were many things Peter regretted in his life, but giving Beck Tony’s glasses—believing Beck was Tony in the first place—really ranked at the top of that list. Then came the fallout. And the breaking. Or the final breaking. After eleven months of being forgotten, of trying to die, of looking for just one ounce of redemption for his fucked up’ness, Peter was no stranger to grief or pain or soul-crushing apathy. But this? This island? This bone chilling rain and the blood-soaked memories playing on repeat? This was…well, he guessed it was deserved, honestly.
Ben. May. Parents. Pepper. Repeat.
Ben. May. Parents. Pepper. Repeat
Ben. May. Parents. Pepper. Repeat.
Ben. May. Parents. Pepper. Tony. Repeat.
Ben. Tony. May. Parents. Tony. Pepper. Repeat.
Tony. Ben. May. Tony. Parents. Tony. Pepper. Repeat.
Ben. Tony. Tony. Tony.
Tony.
“…eter. Peter!”
Hands were gripping his arms hard. If Peter had not been so numb from the cold, he would have felt the instant bruising that appeared at being pulled into a frantic hug. Peter’s mind was moving so slowly, and it took him a minute to connect that the water falling against the back of his neck wasn’t rain, but thick tears. He was shaking, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the trembling man who had appeared before him like a ghost, disheveled and looking absolutely wrecked.
Everything in the background dulled to a quiet roar as they stared at each other.
This Tony was not Beck. Peter knew that for sure. While his reality since appearing here had been very skewed, the Tony Beck impersonated never had this type of raw vulnerability radiating from him. Fake Tony was confident—this Tony looked unsure and devastated and inexplicably guilty.
But this Tony also didn’t seem like the man he saw at the dinner table in Malibu either. California Tony—with calculating eyes and a vague distrust and confusion and misplaced affection. This Tony wasn’t looking at Peter as if he were Fitz, but as if he were Peter. When he was Peter. This was the Tony from Before but looking a hundred times more desperate and anguished than he had ever seen him.
Tony pushed Peter away gently to look him up and down. What he was looking for, Peter couldn’t tell, but anxiety rolled off of him in waves.
“Pete.” Tony sobbed and Peter flinched, unsure if this hellscape was showing him something from his own deepest longings or if Tony was real. “Kid…look at me, please.” He leaned in to wipe the rain off of Peter’s face, trying to catch his eye.
“I…I…” Peter knew he looked wild as he started backing up. Tony’s breath hitched as Peter’s foot caught a rock, sending several more careening down the side of the cliff.
“Peter. Calm down. You’re making it worse.”
The sky had turned purple and thunder rumbled overhead. Peter closed his eyes and tried to get a hold of his breathing, but he felt as if Thor himself were sitting on top of his chest. “I don’t understand. Wha…how…?” The questions came out weak—Peter wasn’t even sure Tony could hear him over the escalating storm. He stepped backwards again, and Tony lunged forward. They were close to the ledge, and Peter could see a small boat below.
“I…Did you take that here?”
“Yes. No. It’s a long story.” Tony looked around, and put a steady hand on Peter’s arm. “Listen, bud. We need to go.”
“I don’t understand.”
Tony rubbed a hand over his face and Peter noticed it was shaking. “I don’t have time to explain, I don’t think, Pete. We can talk about it when we go back home. C’mon.”
“No. I can’t. I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Do you remember me?”
Tony’s eyes looked impossibly sad and entirely too soft for Peter’s comfort. Tony breathed out a stilted yesand leaned towards him again, as if to surgically attach himself—he held eye contact as if Peter would disappear the moment he blinked.
Peter’s head was hurting and he. just. couldn’t. understand.
“What happened? How?” What exactly had Tony remembered? Surely he wouldn’t lie about that. And if he were being honest, why did he seem so concerned about Peter? Peter murdered his wife. Peter was nothing but poison for his entire family. For his friends. For sweet Morgan.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Tony.” His breath got shallower and his heart felt as if it had found a permanent place in his throat. “Oh my God Tony. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. God. Mr. Stark. Please.” He backed up again, horrified. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. Please just go. Please leave me here.”
Tony looked alarmed—“No, Pete, I don’t think…tesoro, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but we need to go, like, yesterday.”
The world was spinning. Or Peter was spinning. He wasn’t sure. He shook his head quickly. Tony grabbed his hands and, oh, how Peter wanted so badly to deny how much that one gesture grounded him. “Peter, we need to go, please.” He was begging in a way that Peter had never seen him beg before. Peter watched him stagger back, holding his head. Peter could feel the ground shaking as Tony stumbled again, feet slipping on the crumbling rocks. The wind picked up and Peter could hardly see through the rain that had turned into a torrential storm.
Tony slipped.
And fell.
And Peter screamed.
And everything went black.
It was cold.
Peter couldn’t hold onto many thoughts in this place, but this one was sharp and clear. Never before had he experienced a sensation quite like this—his blood felt as if it were crystallizing into ice, his skin felt brittle and painful, his hair hurt, his eyes cracked as if they would shatter if he blinked too hard.
It took a moment (or maybe a lifetime) for him to come back to himself. The absence of crashing waves was the first thing he noticed. After being on that island cliff for the duration of his time in this weird, dark world, it was jarring to find himself anywhere else. Consciousness flowed over him, as he realized he was laying on what felt like a couch. “Tony!” He shot up, looking around frantically. The lights were dimmed and he seemed to be in some kind of lab. It looked like a cross between the one at Oscorp and Tony’s at the Compound.
A few feet away, Tony was laying on the concrete floor, face pale and body terribly still. Peter could hear his heartbeat, but it was erratic and his breath was shallow. A repetitive clicking sound was coming from the center of the lab and Peter looked away from Tony to locate it.
He was startled to see himself staring back. Several of himself? Two kids were building Legos while a young teenager supervised.
“You know he likes us better, right?” The teenager was mild, almost apologetic. He shrugged and looked back at the younger kids he was watching. Peter was still and wary.
“What?”
The eight-year-old looked up. “Mr. Stark, silly. We’re un…un…”
“Unproblematic.” The teenager offered.
“Yes! That’s it! Unproblematic.” The eight-year-old smiled as Peter watched him click in a piece of the Tardis they were building.
The four-year-old looked up. Peter could see blood in his hair and he was hugging a stuffed Dalmatian. “You’re killing them.”
“Petey!” The teenager scolded. “You can’t just say something like that.”
Peter felt like he had been slapped. “Wha…what do you mean?”
The fifteen-year-old rolled his eyes. “What he means is that,” the teen paused, looking stumped, “well, I guess that is the way to say it. You’re killing them. Mr. Stark. Stephen. Ned. They’re dying because of you.” He was nonchalant, either unaware or uncaring that his words cut Peter like knives. He went on. “It’s happening right now. As we speak, even. Hmm.” The teen locked eyes with Peter, and his voice seemed colder. “All three of them continuing to give their life to perpetual fuckup Peter.” His eyes flashed as he smirked. “Puny Penis Parker, a modern-day plague on society—murdering everything good since 2001.”
The two kids snickered as Peter turned around quickly, falling to his knees at Tony’s body. He touched his cold face and began shaking him gently. “Tony. Tony, wake up.”
“Jesus. Calm down, Parker. Fitz.” The kids laughed harder as the fifteen-year-old mocked him. “Grab a drink or something. It’s not like you can do anything about it.”
“Well, I mean you could e..elimi…eliminate the problem.” The eight-year-old walked over to him.
“What?” The temperature in the room dropped even further. Peter shivered.
“I mean, that’s what you wanted to do in the first place.” A gun appeared on the floor beside him.
Tony was still unmoving. Peter thought he saw him twitch a hand but it was most likely a trick of the light. Peter’s head pounded and the clicking from the Legos stopped. It was oppressively silent, as if his counterparts were holding their breaths, waiting for his decision. He reached towards the gun and picked it up.
Pete.
It felt heavy in his hand. It was clean—it looked new.
Peter.
He wondered about the rules of this place. He had no reason to believe the kids were lying to him. Hell, he knew he was poison.
Petey, wake up.
Could this be the answer? He had been trying for a while, but this felt different. Like he would succeed if it happened here.
Kid, you have to come back.
It would be quick. Easy.
Your name is Peter Parker.
His finger felt for the trigger.
C’mon, loser. You have to wake up.
The kids looked at him expectantly.
Come back, Pete. Please.
He felt someone kneel next to him. Her hand was on his back.
Tesoro, I need you.
Pepper’s eyes filled with tears as she cupped his face. Another figure blocked his view of his counterpart.
Peter, wake up.
May kneeled and put her hand over his. He’s grip on the gun slipped.
We’re here for you, kid. Don’t leave me to deal with Boss alone.
Peter felt Ben’s hand rubbing his back. It was heavy with love, support, forgiveness.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Peter.”
He started at his voice. His father was standing next to his mother—both looking at him fondly.
Pete, please.
Orange light bathed their faces as Peter watched the other versions of himself disappear. May and Pepper both helped him to his feet.
“Sometimes, the greatest responsibility is to ourselves.” May’s voice was soft.
We love you, Peter.
“And sometimes, being a hero means letting someone else save you.” Pepper kissed his forehead.
Peter Parker. Come home.
The colors swirled. The ground shifted.
And Peter woke up.