Chapter Text
Peter Parker remembers what it feels like to die.
The first time was on Titan. He’d been surrounded by strangers — a wizard, a talking raccoon, a man with anger issues — and Tony Stark, who wasn’t a stranger anymore but still felt impossibly far away.
They’d just lost the stone. The air itself seemed heavier, thick with failure. Peter had carried it like it was his alone.
Then his spider-sense whispered — not a warning, not panic, just a low, resigned hum. As if it knew Spider-Man couldn’t stop what came next.
He remembers the tearing sensation, his body unraveling piece by piece while his healing factor fought uselessly, only stretching the agony.
He remembers clinging to existence. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave May. Or Ned. Or the girl he hadn’t even figured out how to talk to yet.
He remembers thinking he should’ve stayed on that bus. Let the real Avengers handle it.
Most of all, he remembers looking at Tony — and realizing Iron Man couldn’t save him. Not this time.
He’d tried to say sorry, but the words had been too small, too late. He’d wanted to say so much more.
And under it all, guilt.
That he wasn’t strong enough.
That he couldn’t hold the gauntlet tighter.
That he couldn’t stop the giant.
That he couldn’t make a difference.
Spider-Man should have—
Should have—
What should Spider-Man have done?
The second time, Spider-Man dies in space.
(What are the odds, right? Both times. Space. He’d have started to think the universe had it out for him if he didn’t already think so.)
The gauntlet ended up in his hands during that insane game of keep-away. And when he slides it on for a better grip, the pain is immediate — raw, unfiltered fire racing up his arm, then detonating through his whole body. His vision floods with black spots. Staying conscious feels like climbing a mountain he can’t see the top of.
He fights his own body. Numb fingers that won’t listen. Lips mumbling, begging his hand to move, to snap. His spider-sense screams, every nerve blazing, his healing factor scrambling to knit him together while the stones tear him apart faster.
And through the haze, he catches Tony’s face. The devastation in his eyes.
Anger hits harder than the pain. He hates himself for being weak. For not being stronger. If he’d had the strength, the power… maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.
But Peter Parker thinks differently.
He thinks someone always had to snap.
If not him, then Tony. Or Steve. Or Thor. Or Carol. Someone.
Maybe in another universe, it wasn’t him. Maybe in another universe, he lived.
But here, in this one—Peter’s glad it was him.
Because your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man (even lightyears from his neighborhood) isn’t as important as the legends fighting beside him.
So, if it had to be someone, let it be the kid.
Even if the pain is so all-consuming he can barely hold a thought.
Even if every cell in his body begs him to stop.
Even if a part of Spider-Man wishes it didn’t come to this.
Peter Parker is glad to take it.
Glad he had the power to shield everyone else.
Glad the choice was his.
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Peter Parker remembers dying twice.
So why are his eyes opening again?
For a moment, he thinks the pain is still killing him. His chest burns — a steady, grinding ache right behind his sternum, like his ribs are trying to collapse inward. Every breath feels too shallow, too tight.
But he’s breathing. Alive.
The world barrels in all at once: gunfire in the distance, horns blaring, voices shouting, dogs barking, rats skittering in some dumpster nearby. Too much. Too loud. Normally he can mute it, dial it back, but right now it’s raw, jabbing at his nerves with every sound.
And through it all—silence. His spider-sense. Not a hum, not a whisper. Nothing.
Peter pushes up to his feet. The motion sends a bolt of pain across his chest, but he clamps down on it. No time. No use focusing on something he can’t fix.
That’s when he notices it.
Everything looks taller. The counters. The doorframe. Even the sterile lab tables loom over him.
It’s wrong. Off. But he doesn’t let himself think about it. Doesn’t let himself think about any of it.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Cold tile presses against the soles of his shoes. The lab is empty, too quiet, the only company is his own ragged breathing and the electric hum of machines asleep in the corners.
He doesn’t stay still. He can’t. His body is already moving, spider-sense tugging him forward, guiding his legs while his brain lags behind. He lets it happen. Let’s autopilot take over, while he ignores the fire in his chest and the way the world suddenly feels too big.
It was weird being alive.
Right?
Like, seriously — the Snap was supposed to be the last thing he ever did.
So how was he here?
Maybe he didn’t survive. Maybe he got revived again. That was… possible.
But then why didn’t he wake up in space? Shouldn’t he have blinked back in right where he dusted? And speaking of dust—did he even turn to dust this time? Or did he leave a body? Something they could’ve buried next to his parents and next to uncle ben. It was kinda sad to think the Parker family had ended with him in that world.
…
Wait. That world?
Why did he just think that?
Why would he assume he wasn’t still in the same one?
Sure, the multiverse existed. He knew that much. But knowing it’s out there and actually traveling to one? Two completely different things. He couldn’t even wrap his head around the theory of it.
Theoretically it—
Enough. Eat.
The words sliced through his head like static.
Peter froze.
What? Eat what?
And was that… his spider-sense? Talking?
That was—okay, not gonna lie—that was kind of awesome. It had never spoken before. Usually it was just a tingle, a hum, not… words.
Eat. No think.
Peter blinked and suddenly realized he was standing somewhere else entirely. A different section of the lab.
This room was cluttered with gear that looked advanced and outdated at the same time — half-futuristic, half Frankenstein’d together. Not Stark-level tech, obviously. No one touched Stark. Except maybe Wakanda.
Still… It was impressive.
Eat. Later, think.
The voice again. Stronger. Hungry.
Slight problem with what it was demanding though. He was holding a rock. A weird, glowing, green rock. It didn’t even smell like anything. No sugar, no grease, not even a whiff of chemical. Just… stone. So why the hell did his spider-sense think he could eat it?
Eat. Now.
“Okay, okay!” he muttered. “But only to prove how insane this is.”
He wiped the rock against his sleeve, eyed it suspiciously, and bit down on one end.
Crunch
And—what the actual hell—it tasted like candy. Like a sour green apple Jolly Rancher. His favorite. The kind he hadn’t had in… forever. Even stranger, the gnawing ache in his chest dulled instantly, fading to a background hum.
Told you.
Peter groaned. “No need to rub it in.”
But he kept eating. Of course he did. Finished it faster than he wanted to, the last shard dissolving too quickly on his tongue. He sat there, disappointed like a kid who scarfed Halloween candy before realizing there’s no refill.
“Aww, man.” He sighed, looking around hopefully. “Should’ve saved that one.”
We find more. No worry.
“How’d you even find that one?”
Accident. Seeking exit.
Peter rubbed his face. Great. So, no stash. No guaranteed source. Just a cosmic vending machine that dropped one green miracle candy in his lap.
Best to focus on leaving.
…
Except he didn’t.
Nine hundred and forty-five seconds later (yes, he counted), Peter admitted he’d wasted all that time scouring the lab for another glowing rock before finally stumbling on an exit.
The lab had been empty, sterile, humming with fluorescent lights. Cold tile against his hands, the faint sting of chemicals in the air, machines asleep in the corners. Shadows clung to the walls and pooled beneath the tables. He hadn’t liked it, exactly, but it had felt manageable. Contained.
Then he stepped outside and the world slammed into him.
Light reflected off glass towers and steel beams, sharp enough to sting his eyes. Colors were too bright. Every building seemed polished, alive, like the city itself had been scrubbed clean.
And the noise—God, the noise. Car horns layering over pedestrian chatter, dogs barking, a dozen conversations colliding at once, music leaking from storefronts, the sizzle of food from street vendors, even the hum of neon signs overhead.
It was life. Constant, relentless life.
And it was too much.
Normally, he could filter it—tone it down, let the static fade into the background. But his nerves were raw, his senses frayed, and every sound jabbed into him like pins.
The ache in his chest, dulled inside the lab, came roaring back the moment he hit the street. Every breath caught against that invisible knife in his sternum, every step made it worse.
He kept his head down. Couldn’t bring himself to meet the eyes of strangers walking past with easy smiles and steady strides. They looked like they had everything, and he felt like he’d lost it all.
After walking for a while, Peter realized he wasn’t in New York anymore.
Hasn’t been, for a while actually.
The city around him was… brighter. Buildings gleamed. Signs flashed cheerfully. Even the sidewalks felt polished. People passed by with shoulders relaxed, smiles easy, walking like they had everything instead of nothing.
Normally that kind of hope would’ve made him smile. Now it just made his skin crawl.
It was too open. Too exposed. No alleys to vanish into, no shadows to melt inside. His spider-sense twitched, restless, like it didn’t know where to hide. And the people—none of them felt familiar. No scraps of that New York rhythm he’d grown up with. Just strangers who seemed to know, somehow, that he didn’t belong.
It felt like the world had kept moving while he was gone. It had before—five years dusted, gone in an instant. But this? How much time had passed this time? Another five? Longer? He didn’t want to know.
His chest throbbed with every step, the dull burn behind his sternum growing sharper until it was almost unbearable. He pressed a hand there once, quick, then shoved it back in his pocket like he could pretend it wasn’t happening.
He counted the seconds as he walked. One. Ten. A hundred. Fourteen thousand, four hundred.
By then, the lights and cheer of the city had thinned, giving way to quieter streets, peeling paint, the smell of rust and oil. That’s when he saw it: a warehouse.
Inconspicuous. Maybe newly abandoned.
By the time he stumbled into the warehouse, his legs were on fire and his chest felt like it was being pried open with every breath. Each step sent a dull spike of pain radiating up through his sternum, and he half-wondered if he’d just collapse right there on the cracked concrete floor.
A place like this—dark, quiet, full of crates stacked to the ceiling—felt like a gift. Maybe he could hide here. Sleep here. Just… rest, until he figured out what the hell to do next. Because like it or not, he couldn’t ignore the city forever. Not if he wanted answers. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old wood. Crates, boxes, pallets—heaps of them. It didn’t feel abandoned, not really. But he told himself it was. Easier that way.
…Open…
He froze. “What?”
Open.
Peter eyed the crates. “A crate? No way. This stuff could be… I dunno. Important. Belong to someone.”
Open. Trust.
He swallowed hard. The voice was steadier now, heavy, certain. Too certain.
“Nope,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No way.”
It took four hundred and eighty seconds of aching legs, burning chest, and his spider-sense gnawing at him like teeth before he gave up.
He’d open just one.
He found a big crate in the back—bigger than him, or maybe he just felt smaller than usual—and cracked it open. Light spilled out. Green. Glowing. Familiar. Peter’s breath hitched.
“Score!” he whisper-yelled, already scrambling inside.
The rocks were piled in abundance. More than enough for him. Maybe too much for him. But right then, staring at them, all he felt was relief. He grabbed one, bit down, and the pain in his chest dulled like someone had pressed mute on his suffering. A sob caught in his throat, and he almost laughed, almost cried at the same time.
For the first time since waking, the fire behind his sternum wasn’t clawing him apart.
So, Peter ate. And ate. And kept eating until his heart stopped hammering and his legs didn’t feel like lead. He ate until the ache was nothing but a memory. And he wanted to cry with how good it felt just to breathe again.
So he ate another. And another. And another. Each one tasted the same—sour green apple, sharp and sweet—and each one smothered the ache a little more. The knot in his chest loosened. His legs stopped trembling. His hands steadied. For the first time since waking, he could breathe without pain.
And still, he kept going.
He, ate and ate and ate
He knew he didn’t need more—could feel the edge where hunger ended and something else began—but his body didn’t care. His hands kept reaching, mouth kept chewing, until he realized he’d lost count. It was addictive. Terrifyingly addictive. But right now? It was also the only thing keeping him alive.
Peter didn’t even notice when his body gave out. One minute he was chewing, the next his head was nodding, eyelids dragging down. His chest was quiet, his limbs heavy in that perfect, sugar-drugged way. Before he could think twice, he slid the crate’s lid shut above him. Safer that way. Darker. Like a spider curling up in its web. He told himself he’d open it later, no problem. Just a nap.
Except naps weren’t supposed to end like this.
The sound of gunfire jolted him awake, sharp and metallic, ricocheting in his skull. He gasped, heart pounding, chest screaming all over again. For a split second he forgot where he was—then he felt the wood pressed around him, smelled the dust and stone sugar on his breath.
The crate. Still closed.
But something was different. The air felt heavier, thicker, humid in a way it hadn’t been. The hum of the city—the laughter, the chatter, the background hope that city seemed to breathe—was gone. In its place came chaos: yelling, car horns blaring too long, tires screeching as someone floored it. The buzz of hope that city carried was gone, replaced by shouting, screeching tires, the unmistakable chaos of people running for their lives. And underneath it all, a stench he couldn’t ignore: oil, smoke, rot.
…Wake. Danger.
No kidding. Wherever he was now, definitely wasn’t the city he’d fallen asleep in. It was somewhere darker. Meaner.
He pressed his palms against the lid, but didn’t push. Not yet. His spider-sense hummed faint and low, the same uneasy vibration that had been with him since he woke in the lab, only sharper now. The message was clear: not safe. Not yet. Not fully.
His throat was dry. He licked his lips, the ghost of green-apple candy still there, sour-sweet and cloying. He wanted more. “You ate yourself into a food coma, Parker,” he muttered, head thunking back against the wall. “Real smooth. Ten out of ten survival skills.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out thin, tired. His chest hurt too much for real laughter. Another gunshot cracked outside. Closer. He flinched again, heartbeat spiking.
This was a new city. He didn’t need to see the skyline to know it. That other one was all shine and polish and second chances. This place—the heaviness in the air, the way even the silence between gunshots felt hostile—this place was different.
It reminded him of New York on its worst nights. When the alleys reeked of smoke and garbage, when the shadows were too deep to tell who was lurking inside them. But even then, New York had something. An undercurrent of resilience. A pulse that said, We’re still here. We’re not done yet. Here, all he felt was decay. And fear.
And here he was. Delivered in a box, like bad cargo.
Another round of gunfire rattled the crate. Something clattered nearby—metal dropping on concrete. He bit down on his lip, trying to keep from making a sound. His chest flared again, a dull throb radiating up into his throat. He pressed a hand over his sternum, as if that would keep the pieces of him from coming apart.
“Just… stay quiet,” he muttered to himself. “Wait it out. Figure it out. You’re good at that, right?”