The world went white. Peter was aware of himself moving in space while remaining totally still. For a split second, he was conscious of his entire body shaking to the point he felt he might disintegrate, before his senses shut down.

Then, abruptly, he had legs again and they were buckling under his weight, bearing him to the ground. Instinctively, Peter caught himself on his arms before he smacked face first into the frozen dirt. No sooner had he stopped falling than sensory overload slammed into him like a tidal wave moving at mach 5.

There's no good way to describe the sensation of losing and regaining six senses in quick succession. Imagine a record scratch over every nerve ending, or the universe blinking. Everything turns off and then back on again in a horrible cacophony, from nothingness to everything all at once.

Peter heaved the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Measly as they were, the next few moments were spent choking wetly on nothing, until his throat felt raw.

As his breathing steadied, chest rattling with his last heave, Peter eased himself back onto his feet. He was unsteady at first, knees quivering, and he swayed once he was upright. A stumble forward brought strength back into his limbs and he took a few, blind steps in the direction he was facing.

Blinking his vision into focus, Peter found himself on the wooded edge of a desolate park. It was still winter, ice clinging to the few playground structures he could see and a teeth-chattering chill in the air. Peter crossed his arms over his chest, the cold seeping in past his flimsy long-sleeved shirt. He made a mental note to keep a jacket on when possible, from now on.

A light dusting of snow fell as Peter shuffled his way further from the trees. The fluffy flakes disappeared as soon as they touched the ground, adding to the eerie night time atmosphere. Peter turned slowly as he walked, trying to find something by which to get his bearings. There wasn't much. Dead earth, an abandoned baseball pitch, and a few high powered lights casting sickly white over patches of the park.

Jumping backwards five months had been more painful, but less jarring, than this blip. Every other blip had been much smaller, both in increments of time and distance, which made him certain that wherever he was now it was far from Dr. Pym's lab. That was nothing to panic over, though. He'd only stayed in London for ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most. It was just a matter of time until he blipped back to the present.

All he had to do was wait.

Peter tipped his head back and watched the sky, tracing snowflakes as they descended leisurely from the darkness overhead. His breath clouded before him. The night was quiet.

There was really no telling how long he'd been disoriented this time. Sensory overload tended to linger with him, so it was possible that he'd already been in this time for quite a while. Or maybe it had only been a minute or two of that agonizing overstimulation, he couldn't be sure.

Either way, he was cold and getting colder. The tips of his ears were growing numb and he shook with a persistent shiver. It couldn't be long now.

Glancing around the frozen park offered no indication of the time, either presently or when he'd first arrived. Based solely on the subtle chattering of his teeth, Peter was sure that he'd been standing there for at least ten minutes.

He would blip soon, he was sure of it. An invisible force would tear him through the fabric of space-time back to Dr. Pym's lab. At least it would be warm on the other side, and his food would probably have arrived at that point.

Peter waited. Nothing happened.

His pulse quickened and his breathing grew short. Snow continued to gently fall and catch on his eyelashes. Wide eyes frantically scanned his surroundings, as if he might see the blip coming.

But nothing was there. No disturbance in the air or shift in atmosphere. Peter wasn't moving, either from the spot where he stood or the time he existed in.

Anxiety became dread, and dread became panic.

Why wasn't he blipping back? Peter was absolutely certain that he'd been standing in this park longer than he'd been in London. Was it because he'd moved? No, that wasn't possible. The force moving him through time seemed to care nothing for where he was when it moved him.

Peter's breathing was labored, ragged. His shivering had become a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cold.

This was all wrong. London had been the farthest he'd ever gone, but he'd been there before. Peter was certain he'd never seen this park and had absolutely no idea where he was, let alone when. Why was he here? Why on Earth would his quantum frequency drag him through time and deposit him here, in this random, empty field in the middle of... of... he didn't even know where!

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! Peter's eyes stung as hot, angry tears blurred his vision and began to cascade down his cheeks. Why was this happening to him? Hadn't he been through enough?!

Every breath he tried to drag into his chest felt like swallowing nails.

Was it asking too much for life to give him a break? He'd failed to save Mr. Stark, failed to suss out Mysterio's lies before it was almost too late, lost his chance to have a normal vacation with his friends. And now! Now he was blipping through time, when all he really wanted to do was go home and spend Christmas with May.

Was it really too much for him to ask for one fucking holiday?!

Peter collapsed in on himself. He crouched, hands buried in his hair, choking out broken sobs. The more he cried the less he could breathe, and the less he breathed the more panicked he felt.

What if he never went back? What if he was just stuck here? Peter's head pounded, his thoughts a senseless, frenzied cluster. There was no way to contact anyone, no way for him to make his way back on his own. He was stranded until the whims of the universe took him home and the longer he stayed, the less likely that seemed.

Just as Peter was beginning to feel like he was falling apart at the seams, a voice cut through the empty night.

"Hey... Are you- Are you okay?"

Peter lifted his head. He could just make out a figure through his tears, much closer than he had expected them to be. How had he missed their approach?

With a hiccup, he scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes. Though it did nothing to hide the evidence of his meltdown, it did help to clear his vision. When he looked back up, the stranger was still there.

It was a young man wearing a navy blue parka, a plastic bag hanging from one elbow. The fur trimmed hood was pushed back and a knit cap had been pulled down over his ears. His cheeks and nose were rosy, bitten by the cold. He didn't look much older than Peter himself, though he was certainly taller.

"I'm..." Peter faltered. He was so obviously a mess that lying seemed pointless, but affirming his distress felt worse.

That one word seemed like enough to convey exactly how he was doing though, because the young man stepped forward. He wasn't imposing, seemed almost hesitant, but once he'd taken one step he took another with more confidence.

"I'm Quin." he introduced.

Peter lowered his head and rubbed at his face again. There were still tears rolling down his cheeks and he didn't know how to make them stop.

"Peter."

"Peter." Quin repeated, as if to be sure he'd heard it right. "You live around here?"

Peter shook his head.

"Anyone you can call? To pick you up, or something?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Hey."

This time, Quin's voice came from much closer. Peter peeked over his arms and found him crouched down beside him, at eye level. Quin had blue eyes, Peter couldn't help noting. Startling, vibrant blue eyes and a mole above his lip. Like an old timey movie star.

"It's supposed to get down below freezing tonight. You really don't have anywhere to go?"

Peter sniffed and shook his head a third time.

"No." he said thickly, voice raw.

Quin frowned. He bit the inside of his cheek, deliberating for a moment before nodding to himself.

"Alright." Quin stood up, extracting a hand from his coat pocket, only to jut it out at Peter. "Come on, kid. You're comin' with me."

Peter stated blankly at his hand, then up at Quin. The older boy cocked a brow at him.

"What? You wanna stay out here?"

No, he didn't. His episode had drained whatever warmth was left in his body, leaving Peter achingly numb. The blip had yet to reclaim him and with no idea when, or if it would, his options were limited. Stay here in the snow, or follow Quin.

Peter took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"I don't live too far." Quin promised. "Park's a shortcut."

He didn't let go of Peter's hand as he started walking. Peter trailed after him, focus split between how warm his palm was and making sure he didn't kick Quin's heels.

They crossed the park, through the playground and then over a small hill Peter hadn't noticed in the dark. On the other side, a slope led down to a tattered sidewalk with more cracks than pavestones, meandering along beside a two-lane road with a faded divide.

As they headed west down the sidewalk, headlights crested the horizon, moving toward them. A truck rolled past in the opposite direction, the faint sound of Christmas carols echoing from inside.

"Is this really okay?" Peter asked, after the silence between them had stretched over two hills and a break in the sidewalk.

Quin shot a sidelong glance over his shoulder, frowning faintly, and flexed his fingers against Peter's palm.

"Is what?"

Fearing that he was about to let go, Peter squeezed his hand tightly. Quin relaxed, the furrow in his brow smoothing out. Peter wasn't entirely sure what they'd just communicated to one another, but he was glad for the hand still wrapped around his.

"Taking me home with you. I mean, I could be a criminal or something."

Quin turned back to look at him again. His eyes swept over him, from his chattering teeth to red ears.

"Nah, you're not." he dismissed flippantly. "And if you were, I could take you."

A startled laugh escaped Peter and bounced in the air between them. Quin blinked, then grinned wide, mischievous and far too pleased with himself. Something about the amused glitter in his crystal blue eyes made Peter laugh again, then dissolve into giggles.

It felt good to laugh after crying so much. Scientifically, he knew it was the result of endorphins being released in his brain, but he felt like Quin's presence was more to thank. Peter was so distracted that he didn't notice how Quin had pulled him up next to him until their shoulders bumped.

The giggles died and Quin's grin became a slight smile, but they stayed in matchstep. Between them, their hands swung lightly.

They turned off the main road and onto a wider sidewalk leading into a quiet neighborhood. Mismatched buildings crowded tiny lawns, dotted with holiday decorations. There was a gaudy blowup menorah taking up most of one yard, while the plot beside it held a metal cutout of Santa's sleigh, garnished with tinsel.

Quin lived in a narrow house with a slip thin porch. The outside was in need of new paint and the roof looked one storm away from needing repairs, but the yard was tidy and warm light pooled behind the curtains. Someone had carefully strung Christmas lights up, simple white ones that glowed like tiny stars.

"Shoes off," Quin ordered as they stepped inside.

Peter hastened to comply and toed off his sneakers, suddenly glad he was wearing socks without any holes in them. He hurried down the hall after Quin, following him into the kitchen. It was small, but clean, with walls painted robin egg blue, matched with white cabinets.

Unsure what to do with himself now he was actually standing in a stranger's home, Peter let his eyes drift around the room. They settled, inevitably, on Quin.

The plastic bag had been set on the counter while Quin removed his cap and coat, leaving both hanging over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. Under his parka, Quin had a thin, sharp build. He reminded Peter of the house; tall and a little cramped, like his body hadn't quite figured out how to grow outward while also growing up.

"Your house is nice." Peter said.

"It's alright." Quin shrugged as he put away the few groceries he'd been carrying. "It's home."

Peter watched curiously as Quin retrieved a jug of milk from the fridge; an actual glass jug with a top he had to work to pop open. The milk went into a pot Quin set on the stove, then back into the fridge. After clicking the burner to medium heat, he took a round tin from the top of the fridge.

"Here," he said, pushing the open tin across the counter towards Peter. There were Christmas cookies inside, the kind with colored sugar for sprinkles. "Have as many as you want."

Peter, who had forgotten he was hungry, shuffled over to the counter and took a cookie. They were buttery and sweet. Quin nudged the tin at him when he finished, encouraging him to take another. So he did.

He stood at the kitchen counter, watching Quin break a bar of chocolate into smaller pieces between his hands. Quin had big hands. Knuckles with scabs on them and long, dextrous fingers. He dropped the chocolate chunks into the pot of steaming milk and stirred.

Quin served them hot chocolate in two big, ceramic mugs. They took them to the table with the tin of cookies and sat there, waiting for them to cool between daring sips.

It felt painfully normal. The kind of simplicity that Peter hadn't had in years. Sacrificing his ordinary life to be a hero was a noble thought, one he'd bought into fully when Spiderman had first been born. Now, though... Peter yearned for uncomplicated things, like drinking cocoa with friends and not worrying about the next threat to come bearing down on New York.

Which felt selfish of him. He shouldn't be sitting here, enjoying sweets with a stranger, he should be looking for a way to get back to his own time. No matter how nice this was, it wasn't where he belonged. Just talking to Quin changed the course of events at some point in history and being in his home, eating his food and sipping hot chocolate he made, was definitely worse. If Peter was smart, he'd get up and leave.

But he couldn't bring himself to. No matter how immature, he felt that the universe owed him this. A few moments of respite, where he could just exist without dire consequences. No one to save, no world on the verge of collapse. If only he could turn off his thoughts and stop thinking about how much he shouldn't be here, enjoying this moment.

"Hey." Quin said, breaking him out of his own cyclic thoughts for the second time that night. "Stop that."

Peter was about to ask what he meant, but stilled as Quin reached out and cupped one side of his face. The palm of his hand was hot, and big, and fit perfectly against Peter's cheek. His thumb rubbed the tear tracks still visible on his skin, wearing them away with a touch.

"Stop... what?"

"Thinking so much. You're making yourself sad again."

"I'm not sad." Peter protested.

"Yeah you are." Quin countered. "And whatever it is, it's probably worth being upset over, but quit it anyway, okay? You're fine. You're here, you're okay, and whatever you're thinking about can't get you."

The way he said it, Peter wondered what Quin thought was going on. Did he give the impression of a person running away? Maybe he was, in some respects. Always trying to avoid something new, be it Mr. Stark's death or Mysterio's betrayal. Just another shadow trailing after him Peter couldn't acknowledge.

And Quin was right. They couldn't reach him here.

"Thanks, Quin."

He smiled shyly and Quin stared, his pretty blue eyes wide. It may have been Peter's imagination, but he thought he saw a soft dusting of pink on his cheekbones.

"Yeah." Quin cleared his throat, moving his hand back to his mug. "No problem, kid."

"You know you're also a kid, right?"

"Shaddup, I'm legal."

Peter laughed and like that, everything was fine again.

Between them the tin of cookies dwindled to almost nothing. They chose to burn their tongues rather than wait for the hot chocolate to cool, which was worth it for the rich sweetness and warmth it spilled through their chests. Under the table, their knees knocked together, first by accident and then on purpose.

Not much talking was done, but that was okay. Peter enjoyed Quin's presence. He liked sitting beside him, watching the way he slouched and held his mug, refusing to use the handle. There were more beauty marks on his face, Peter could pick them out now they were close.

Distantly, the lock on the front door clicked. Quin was up and out of his seat even before a woman's voice called; "Quin, I'm home!"

"Welcome back, mom!"

Peter tensed, hesitant to follow Quin out into the hall. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that someone else might be coming home that night. Sitting at the kitchen table as they had been felt like being in a bubble where the rest of the world didn't exist.

Dr. Pym would probably tell him to avoid further interaction where possible, but what was Peter meant to do? There was a small kitchen window he could shimmy out of, but that seemed excessive. He'd already spent so much time with Quin, meeting his mother wasn't likely to change very much. He hoped.

At the other end of the hall, Quin was helping his mother out of her coat. Her scarf was already slung over his arm, along with her purse, even though there was a small table right by the door where she could have put them. Peter stood by the doorway to the kitchen, considering how quickly he could slip out the window after all.

The woman was smaller than her son by almost a head, so he had to look down to smile at her. She was pretty, in a tired sort of way, with thick brown hair and the same bright blue eyes as her son. Weariness lined her face and sagged on her shoulders, but she carried herself with straight-backed dignity despite it. The dress she wore was simple, but fit her well, and matched her necklace.

She reminded Peter of someone who had probably been exceptionally beautiful in high school, though the years since hadn't been especially kind to her. Her simple prettiness and gentle smile made him fond of her even at a distance. Quin said something and smiled like he'd won the lottery when she laughed.

She glanced past her son and noticed Peter standing at the end of the hall. He tensed, expecting her to react with suspicion, but all she did was smack her son lightly on the chest.

"Quin! You should have told me you brought a friend over." she scolded.

This time, Peter was sure he wasn't imagining the tinge of red on Quin's cheeks.

"He's not a friend," he scoffed, making a show of turning away to hang up his mother's coat. "He's a vagabond I rescued from freezing to death."

But he winked at Peter, just to show he was kidding.

His mother rolled her eyes fondly, patting his back as she stepped around him. Peter shifted his weight nervously as she approached, only to be greeted with a sunny smile and an outstretched hand.

"Well, vagabond or not, it's nice to meet you, hun." she said. There was a faint southern lilt in her voice, like she had tried to kick her accent, but couldn't quite manage. "I'm Henrietta, but you can call me Hen."

"Oh, no," Peter fumbled. "I-I couldn't-"

Only it was very hard to say no to Henrietta's gentle face, so he ended up caving anyway. He shook her hand, which was small and delicate and made him far too aware of his own strength.

"I'm Peter. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Henrietta."

Henrietta's smile was kind, if a little exasperated. The smile morphed into a small frown as she looked Peter over.

"How long were you out in that snow?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"Uh," Peter said, eloquently. "I don't know? Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour?"

"And you let him sit here in those wet clothes?" Quin ducked his head sheepishly. "Oh, you."

Henrietta shooed her son into the kitchen, instructing him to get a pot of water going for pasta. Peter, already being herded towards the stairs, tried to protest.

"I'd hate to impose-"

"Nonsense. You'll stay for dinner." Henrietta interjected. "We'll find you something of Quin's to borrow and you can get cleaned up."

And that was that.

There were four doors on the second floor and a window at the end of the hall. Almost immediately across from the stairs was Quin's room.

Movie posters hung on the walls, along with pages and covers from National Geographic magazines. There was a desk scattered with textbooks and a worktable beside it, covered in half-finished miniatures. Peter recognized a space shuttle, a diorama of an old Western town, and the framework for an intricate model of the Millennium Falcon.

Henrietta scavenged a pair of dark sweatpants and a pull-over hoodie from Quin's closet, along with thick woolen socks.

"MIT?" Peter couldn't help but ask, when he caught sight of the logo on the front of the hoodie.

"Mmhm!" Henrietta beamed with obvious pride. "Acceptance letters haven't gone out yet, but we're expecting one any day now."

She ushered him back out into the hall.

Their bathroom was a square with little room between its various fixtures. Henrietta had kitted it out with a pale yellow shower curtain, fluffy white towels, and a dark blue bath mat between the tub and the sink. A small hamper sat half full by the door, which she told him to use for his clothes and put outside.

"I'll put them in the dryer for you, hun. Now, the shower's a bit finicky..."

Peter was left alone to strip down with the shower running. It wasn't until steam began to pour from behind the curtain that he realized how cold he still was. He hopped under the hot spray and almost leapt back out again, the contrast between it and his skin was so intense.

After a minute, the water became bearable. Peter ducked beneath the steaming jets and allowed the constant drone of water on his skin to numb his senses. White noise blotted the world around him, encasing him in silence.

With Quin and his mother, Peter felt like a person again. How simple would it be to live the lie and be a hapless runaway, depending on the kindness of strangers to get him through the night? Just a young man who needed help as much as the next person. No powers, no villains, no apocalypse on the horizon.

But it wasn't real. As much as Peter yearned to ignore his responsibilities and give in to this wonderful, welcoming pocket of reality, he couldn't. If a blip wasn't coming for him, he had to find a way to contact whatever scattered Avengers existed in this time. Or at least, not stick around here and risk dragging this family into his world.

He'd stay for dinner. Once his clothes were dry, he'd change back and make some excuse to leave. That was the right thing to do, and it was what he would do, he decided.

That was an easier decision to make before he was wearing Quin's clothes and standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Mother and son were cooking dinner together, as they likely had many, many times before. To Peter, it was such a remarkably domestic sight that he wasn't sure it was right to insert himself into it, and hovered on the edges instead.

"Oh, Peter! There you are, hun." Henrietta smiled when she caught sight of him. "Feeling a little better?"

Peter nodded and returned her smile.

"Good. Would you mind helping Quin with the veggies?"

"I can make a salad." Quin grumbled.

"Not when you're still fussing with those onions you can't. Those were supposed to be in the sauce already, young man."

Peter slunk into the space on Quin's left, watching the taller boy sniff and rub at his eyes. They were teary and faintly irritated, but still so pretty and blue.

"Want me to do the onions?" he offered quietly.

"No, you can do the-" Quin glanced at him, then away, then looked back at him more directly. His eyes trailed down to the MIT hoodie, the sleeves bunched up to Peter's elbows so they wouldn't cover his hands. "-the... Yeah, you can finish the onions."

He pushed the cutting board over and handed Peter the knife, then busied himself with the ingredients for the salad. The onions proved particularly vindictive and soon they were both teary eyed and laughing. Their shoulders bumped as they tore iceberg lettuce, chopped tomatoes and cucumber, and pelted each other with cast-off pieces of apple.

Henrietta chided them gently and made them clean up, but it was worth it for the cheeky grin on Quin's face.

They sat down to a dinner of pasta bolognese and salad, like this was something they'd done before. Henrietta passed out thick slices of crusty garlic bread and encouraged both boys to take seconds when they wolfed down their first helpings. She pressed thirds on Peter, who didn't complain, and laughed when Quin stole the crust from her bread.

Conversation was cheery and directionless, touching on nothing more meaningful than the approaching holidays. Peter lapsed in and out of silence, growing more confident with his witty interjections as they earned the laughter of his hosts. They ate and chatted and that was all.

After dinner, both boys herded Henrietta out so they could do the washing up without her help. Between the two of them, the counters were cleaned and stove scrubbed in record time. It was as they were starting the dishes that Peter said;

"I should go."

And Quin said; "Don't. Stay the night."

Peter said okay.

Once the dishes were clean and dry, they retreated up to Quin's room. He had a lava lamp Peter hadn't noticed earlier, one that faded slowly through the colors of the rainbow. There was an old model of the solar system hanging above them too, and glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

They sat at the worktable, chairs pushed closely together and legs tangled, both hunched over the model of the Millenium Falcon. Peter mostly watched, though he itched to get his hands on the tiny pieces and begin assembling them. It was clear that this was not an activity Quin was used to sharing with others, which made even the chance to watch him feel like more than enough for Peter.

Some time later, Henrietta peeked around the door. Peter's clothes were washed and dried, folded into a neat little pile in her arms. He thanked her for them and she ruffled his hair, which had dried into an unruly mess of curls.

"Goodnight boys," she smiled. "Sleep tight."

"Night, mom."

"Goodnight, Miss Henrietta. And thank you for letting me stay."

"Don't thank me, hun, it's what any decent person would do."

She blew them a kiss and shut the door gently when she left, her footsteps fading back down the hall to her room.

Another hour passed of bickering over parts and puzzling together pieces before they decided to call it a night. While Quin went to find the fold-up palette in the hall closet, Peter slipped away to the bathroom. When he came back in his own clothes, shoes in hand, Quin didn't comment on it.

Lights were turned off, but not the lava lamp, leaving them in relative darkness. Peter shuffled under the comforter on his makeshift bed and tried to put his shoes on as quietly as possible. It was hard to tell if Quin noticed, because the next thing he did was toss a pillow at his head.

Peter caught it just before it hit his face.

"Thank you." he said. "For everything, Quin. You didn't have to do any of this."

"Didn't do much, really."

"Yeah you did! I would probably still be out there right now if you hadn't found me."

Quin scoffed as Peter settled into his makeshift bed, the tossed pillow beneath his head.

"Seriously? It's been hours. You would've found somewhere to go."

"Probably not. I can be pretty stupid sometimes."

"You're not stupid."

Even in the scant light, Quin's eyes were visible, peering down at Peter from the bed. He had spoken with such clear sincerity that for a moment, Peter felt his heart leap into his throat.

"And stop saying thank you. You're not a burden. We're letting you crash here because we wanted you to stay, so quit acting like you're forcing yourself on us, alright?"

Peter swallowed, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

"Alright." he said faintly, tugging the comforter up to his chin.

"Alright." Quin echoed.

He rolled over and reached down, mussing a hand through Peter's hair. The gesture was so plainly affectionate that it was staggering. Had he really only known this young man for a few hours? Why did he feel like he'd spent whole summers laying in this pallet beside his bed?

"Goodnight, Quin." he said softly.

"Night, Peter."

Peter fell asleep with the knowledge that the next morning, all the problems he'd refused to deal with tonight would be there to torment him. He told himself it would be fine and he would find a way to make everything work out, if only so that he could keep this feeling of security that being with Quin and Henrietta gave him.