Peter blinked and the world was different. A blip came and went in less time than it took to inhale and with just as little fanfare. He exhaled vapour into the frosty midmorning air.
Maybe this was how the universe chose to apologize for killing him twice. In the scheme of things, a painless disintegration into non-existence wasn't so bad.
Without pain and discomfort to judge by, there was no frame of reference for how far he'd traveled. This could have been anywhere, in any time period. But it wasn't.
It was New York City, circa 2023. A year and a lifetime ago.
This was the city Peter remembered, the one waiting just outside Dr. Pym's lab. Since he'd seen it last the streets had been cleared and sidewalks cleaned. Fresh flowers and new trees filled once-empty plots. Shops stood open, people walked with their eyes forward, and in the distance a Christmas jingle played.
The city breathed. Unsteadily, the air still rattling in its lungs like pennies in a beggar's cup, but it breathed again. When last he'd walked these streets, the stillness had been suffocating. New York wasn't meant to come to a screeching halt and linger in a monochromatic limbo, strangled by the sorrow of its occupants. In its own way, it was alive, resurrected from the ashes just like the rest of them.
Or it would be, soon.
They all would be.
No one knew it was coming.
The inevitability nipped at the back of Peter's neck. He could feel the future in his periphery like a physical thing his spider-senses could warn against. The battlefield beckoned like a yawning abyss, promising one last cataclysm before the end.
The people weaving their way around him were none the wiser. They had all moved on already, piecing their lives back together from the debris. If they hadn't yet, they were trying to.
Peter stood, burdened by knowledge, as alone in a crowd in this time as he was in his own.
Scott and Hope crossed his mind. Peter hadn't known them before the Snap, but in the aftermath he came to consider them... Well, friends. And he knew that right now Scott was trapped in the Quantum Realm, away from his daughter and holding the key to the future. Stuck, helpless, and completely unaware of the passage of time.
And then he thought of Thor, reduced to a melancholy shadow of himself in some far off corner of the world. Captain Rogers, too, running on steam and scraps of hope until the fire inside him finally burned out. Hawkeye, who coped with loss through violence and isolation, unaware that he was soon to lose his closest friend.
Here Peter was with the power to prevent all of it with a single step forward. So what did he have to lose? Did it even matter, with so much to gain? Only his imminent erasure from the passage of time awaited him, and he'd already accepted that. He might as well go out a hero.
What about Morgan? She'd be just barely four now. A bubbly little girl preparing for Christmas with her parents, unaware this was the last she'd share with her father.
It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
Peter knew where the Avengers compound was. Even without his tech, it wouldn't take long for him to get there. Someone had to be around and if no one was, then he'd go to the Stark cabin instead. He could explain everything, tell the Avengers what went right and what went wrong. They could fix things!
All he had to do was tear one final, massive hole in the timeline.
Peter Parker stood, stared at the sky, and thought of changing the future of the universe. He considered it.
And then, the thought passed.
The people he'd lost were scars on his heart, not open wounds. There was no denying the ache of their absence, but it was a selfish reason to jeopardize the entire universe. If he really wanted to, Peter was sure he could convince himself of his own rightness and go through with his hairbrained scheme. Hope could blind like that.
Maybe with a different opponent, with lower stakes, Peter would have risked it all. If only their chances of victory had not already been so slim, then maybe...
But there was already a future waiting for him, one where he lost more than he gained, but lived despite it. And that had to be enough.
Peter smiled at the horizon sadly, then turned and slipped into the crowd of passing strangers.
His feet carried him down a familiar avenue, past a grocery store he hardly recognized without solemnity hanging over it. Lively holiday decorations littered the front windows, spilling over into the shop fronts neighboring them until the street became a long string of tinsel and merriment.
An echo of sorrow lingered in the faded signage of stores left abandoned, their windows boarded and lifeless. Not all evidence of the Snap could be smothered by festoons of holiday greenery, but New York was certainly trying. And no matter how excessive it may have seemed, the glittering display of cheer had the desired effect.
People were smiling again. A little girl giggled in her mother's arms, a pair of brothers heckled each other as they strolled down the street. The somber quiet had broken and the world shone with color again. Peter smiled too, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, drinking in the calm before the end.
He remembered the way to Quentin's apartment like he remembered how to get to school in the mornings, when he was half-asleep and running on muscle memory. If he closed his eyes and let his feet carry him through the city, he'd still find his way there, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. Like there was a compass in his chest and his true north was Quentin Beck.
And he wondered what that said about him, that he was choosing to go to Quentin rather than do anything else. Either it was proof he was finally moving on, or evidence that he'd completely given up. He wasn't sure which.
There was a man sitting behind the once-vacant front desk of Quentin's building, yet another change from his last visit to New York. He looked up when Peter stepped into the atrium and smiled politely, tipping his head in a friendly nod.
"Good afternoon, sir. May I ask who you're here to see?"
"Quentin Beck," Peter said. "Tell him it's Peter, please."
"Just a moment."
The doorman picked up the receiver of a nearby phone and dialed the intercom for the apartment where Quentin resided. Peter waited patiently, his hands in his coat pockets.
"Yes, sir, he said his name was Peter." There was a pause, then the doorman looked up again. "Sign in first, then you can go on up."
He obliged the request with his name, written in his usual chicken scratch script. The time and date column gave him pause and he hesitated, deliberating what to do. In the end, he scribbled illegibly for both, which would have to do.
Peter hadn't noticed the windows along one side of the stairway, last he was here. Sunlight filtered through the clouded glass, dappling the tile in pale, foggy yellow.
He took the stairs one at a time, hand on the banister, climbing steadily. Then, he was taking the stairs two at a time, then three, and then he found himself bounding up the steps. Uncontained excitement glittered in his ribcage, all bright like a sparkler at midnight, urging him faster and faster until he arrived at the appropriate landing.
As though his very presence had been sensed ( or maybe it was his rapid footfalls mounting the stairs, ) the door to Quentin's apartment swung open the moment he laid eyes on it. And there, in the doorway, stood Quentin Beck himself.
"Peter," he breathed. Like the air had been punched out of him, like Peter's name was something sacred, like oh my god it's you.
The distance between them shrank until the toes of Peter's shoes threatened the apartment threshold. They paused there, openly assessing each other with critical, eager eyes. Similarities and differences from last they'd seen each other, all cataloged in a stare and filed away in their memory.
"Well, fuck," Quentin chuckled, almost breathless. "Merry Christmas to me."
Peter barked a startled laugh.
"You're Jewish!"
And then Quentin beamed, which was crooked and gorgeous on his bearded face, and it would've been a crime if Peter didn't kiss him. So he did. Of course he did.
It was the best feeling in the world. Kissing him again made up for every inevitable thing looming on the horizon. For this moment, none of it mattered; not the fighting or the losses, not blipping and its consequences, not even the dreadful unknown of his own fate. He was here with Quentin, in this very moment, and everything was fine.
Peter allowed himself to forget.
Quentin swooped an arm around his back and dragged him into the apartment. He returned the kiss enthusiastically, groaning when Peter's teeth dug into his bottom lip. The door slammed shut with Quentin trapped between it and the young man in his arms, who arched up on his toes to press flush against his front.
Absently, Peter fumbled for the lock, though most of his focus diverted to the hands sliding around his waist and down to cup his rear. He gasped, surprised and delighted, when the hands gave a firm squeeze.
The lock clicked shut. Quentin sank slightly, open palms sliding down Peter's thighs to grip and hoist him up off the floor. Their kiss broke to bright laughter, the sound of joy overflowing from smiling lips. Growling playfully in response, Quentin's teeth found their way to the bits of exposed skin nearest his mouth, nipping with each giggle.
He pushed off the door and started down the hall, unencumbered by the weight in his arms. Peter wrapped his legs around his middle and cupped his cheeks, drawing Quentin into another kiss, this one deeper and better than the first.
They parted breathless, cheeks pinkening.
"Missed you, Quin." Peter breathed.
Quentin exhaled a wounded noise into the space between them, lifting his face to press their foreheads together.
"I missed you too, daydream. So fucking much."
A water balloon of adoration burst in Peter's chest. He dove down and locked their lips together again, trying to spill the emotion welling inside him into the one he felt it for.
The hold on his thighs tightened, fingers pressing appreciatively into firm muscle. And trusting that grip implicitly, Peter let go of Quentin's neck and shrugged off his coat. Where it ended up was anyone's guess; he tossed it vaguely away from them, so it would stop impeding their closeness.
Next thing he knew they were descending; onto the couch, he realized, as his legs were caught between the cushions and Quentin's back. He had to pull away to rearrange himself onto his knees, but all that did was give the clever lips occupying his own a chance to move down along his jaw.
"Shit, Peter," Quentin breathed, his hands spread wide over the small of his back, sunk under the hem of his over-large shirt. "You're freezing."
"Walked here." he explained in an exhale tinged with lust, as teeth skated the sensitive skin below his ear.
Peter fisted both hands in Quentin's thick hair and dragged him back, dropping his open mouth onto the prominent jut of his adam's apple. He felt, more than heard, the rough moan he earned when he sucked harshly on the skin beneath his teeth. Each subsequent bite led his mouth up, from throat, to jaw, to the shell of Quentin's ear.
"Warm me up, baby?"
The sound Quentin made in answer was obscene.
Blunt nails dragged trails of red down his back and Peter arched. Again he latched his mouth to Quentin's neck, lavishing attention wherever his teeth and tongue could reach. The thought to mark crossed his mind in a wave of primal instinct.
Why not? What consequence would one small selfishness have, really? They'd fade and leave no evidence but the memory. Peter dug his teeth in deeper and sucked hard on the flesh between them, now determined to leave his brand.
Quentin's hands were restless, spreading and flexing along his back before one finally slid down past the loose waistband of his jeans. This time, Peter anticipated the squeeze. A low swear flexed Quentin's throat, shifting Peter's jaw as he sucked another mark. He rocked his hips pointedly and the hand on his ass tightened in reflex.
"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," Quentin breathed, his voice husky. "Never forgot how you looked riding me, daydream; all blissed out and gorgeous-"
With a lewd pop, Peter leaned back to examine his handiwork. Bruises littered skin like wildflowers in a garden, the same shade of purple-red.
"Can we?" he asked, eagerly.
Quentin laughed shakily.
"Wasn't quite that prepared for you to show up out of the blue."
"Oh."
"No need to pout, Peter," he grinned. "There's more to sex than just fucking."
Peter laughed as he was tipped back onto the couch, squirming to kick off his shoes. He continued giggling as Quentin crowded over him, beard rubbing his cheek.
When he reached for him, he found the hem of Quentin's shirt had ridden up, leaving his fingers to press against warm skin. Soft hair greeted his curious fingertips, the gentle give of healthy skin under pressure alighting a tongue of flame in his belly. He gripped the shirt and tugged insistently.
"Off." he demanded.
"Impatient, are we?"
Rather than reply, Peter slotted his knees around Quentin's thigh and rocked pointedly upwards against it. He rolled upwards again, grinding purposefully, as he felt the breath of the man above him hitch.
Quentin growled and sat back on his heels to divest himself of his shirt. Peter propped himself on his elbows to watch. Gone were the jagged edges and sallow skin, this was closed to the figure of the man seared into his psyche from their first night together. Broader, fuller, and flush with life.
"Look at you," he breathed, skimming his fingers through the trail of fur on Quentin's stomach. "Fucking stunning, Quin."
A sharp inhale and his belly jumped, tightening and relaxing with a sound too shaky to be a chuckle.
"Look better than last time, don't I?"
Something like a shamed grimace passed over Quentin's face.
"You shouldn't have had to see me like that..."
"Hey." Peter frowned.
He sat up, hooking his fingers into Quentin's belt loops and dragged him forcibly closer. Chastely, he feathered kisses from his mouth, down his chin to his chest, pressing a last lingering kiss just over his heart.
"I'm glad I was here." he murmured.
"Peter-"
"No, shut up. I hate... I hate thinking of you alone like that. I hate knowing I wasn't here to help."
"You were here, though." A hand carded through curls. "Saved me again, just when I needed you."
Peter looked up, leaning faintly into the hand stroking his hair.
How could he explain that yes, he was here, but also no, he hadn't been? Out in the ethos there was a different reality wherein Quentin Beck sat alone in the dark after the Snap. No one came to tend his aching soul, no one noticed as his humanity shed like snakeskin. There had been Rosemary and silence, and a world left devoid of joys. It wasn't this reality, but at one time it had been.
A spacetime that both existed and didn't, a parallel universe where he'd never begun to blip- The very thought made Peter's heart ache as if he were being speared through. It must have shown on his face, because Quentin kissed him softly and pushed him back down against the cushions.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up bad memories, beautiful," he sighed against Peter's lips. "Forgive me?"
"Always."
The naked truth of that statement momentarily floored him. There had been no hesitation; not a "yes" or a deflection, but always.
Quentin smiled.
"God, I love you."
Peter couldn't breathe.
Quentin kissed him, open mouthed and hungry, and he arched up into it with every inch of himself. Thoughts swirled mist-like in his head, all vibrant emotions and brilliant, unnameable colors. He forgave Quentin Beck. He was loved by Quentin Beck. He-
"I love you," he panted into their kiss. "So much, Quentin."
Peter's shirt slid up over his head. He flicked it carelessly from his arms and reached for thick, russet hair again.
The way Quentin dragged his hands down his torso felt like an artist searching the planes of his masterpiece for imperfections. And he found none, even as he dug his fingertips into his soft belly and pressed his thumbs to the divots of his hips. Peter rolled his body up to meet the harsh touches, sighing and moaning with each new bruise that threatened his flesh.
Quentin ground his hips down against his thigh, prompting him to lift his knee and rub purposefully. He swallowed the guttural sound of pleasure his beloved made in response, licking into his mouth to chase the taste of it.
The friction between them became a single sinuous movement. They were of the same mind, consumed by a need to relearn the slow rise and euphoric tipping point of the other. Maybe it had only been days since Peter last touched the man above him, maybe months, but for Quentin it had been years.
Quentin caged him in with elbows on either side of his head and dropped their foreheads together. Peter let his mouth go slack, panting wetly as the hard line of Quentin's dick dragged against his thigh. Denim did nothing to obstruct the heat of his arousal, or how he could feel when his cock jumped.
He tipped his head back, crown bumping the arm of the couch, and luxuriated in the sensation. What felt like molten metal began to trickle from the back of his skull down his spine. The slow drip of heat into his belly could have simmered to a boil over the course of hours for all he cared.
His hands slid up Quentin's sides, hooking under his arms to grip his shoulders. Then, there were firm fingers flexing around his cock and Peter made a noise of drunken exaltation.
"That's it, beautiful," Quentin purred. "You just relax and let me take care of everything."
Dimly, Peter was aware of the loss of weight on his thigh. His beloved hovered over him, knees astride his hips, deftly working his rough palm around his sex. A simple touch should not have robbed him of all sense, and yet.
"Quin," he moaned, the name drawn out in a long breath.
"Yeah?" came a lazy chuckle. "Something you need?"
Peter rocked his hips fitfully before regaining control of his own hands. Loathe as he was to release Quentin, he spared the moment to shove his jeans and briefs down. Lust hazy blue eyes trailed along the exposed flesh of his stomach to where the head of his prick peeked out of Quentin's fist.
"Fuck, Peter-"
His head fell back again, pressing into the cushions beneath him as his body bowed upwards. Nails bit and dragged across the tender flesh of his lover's spine. Breathy moans became ragged gasps of Quin and yes!
A guttural hiss escaped his teeth, the pad of Quentin's thumb a dizzying rotation across his leaky slit. No matter how badly Peter wanted this to last, the insistent pressure of Quentin's grip threatened to undo him with every stroke. His thighs shook, toes curled, his voice edged close to cracking with each exclamation.
Quentin's eyes were fixed on him, pupils blown wide. Senseless platitudes and sweetnesses spilled from his lips like honey, dripping with such thick desire that Peter could feel it slide down his throat. Then his voice dropped into a rumbling growl and he commanded;
"Cum for me, daydream."
He did. Breath choked from his lungs, body drawn tight, light arcing across his vision, orgasm crashed over him all at once. He spilled into Quentin's fist, over his rough fingers, dripping onto his own shaking belly. Cascading waves of euphoria washed through him, relaxing his muscles until he slumped back on the couch.
Quentin released his softening prick, brushing his knuckles gently across the sensitive mound. Peter's hips twitched up and he whined.
"Quin..."
"Yeah? What do you need, gorgeous?"
"Gimme kisses."
"Demanding." he laughed.
Peter smiled lazily and craned his neck to meet the shower of kisses raining down on his face. He was still floating, focus narrowed to his beloved above him and the rest of the world hazy by comparison. Quentin still held himself up on his knees, but a quick exploration down to his tented jeans promised that Peter was more than welcome to return the favor.
A plaintive meow sounded from just beside them.
Peter turned his head and found himself almost nose to nose with Rosemary, Quentin's notch-eared black cat. Apparently, they'd been so absorbed in their activities that they'd missed her approaching the couch altogether. She stood with her forepaws on the cushions, observing them with the vague disinterest of a feline.
She gave a second meow, then rubbed her forehead against Peter's shoulder.
"Aww," he cooed, twisting his arm so he could reach up and scratch behind her ears. "You remember me, Rosie?"
"You're hard to forget, Peter." Quentin said with fond exasperation. "Can I help you, madame?"
Rosemary looked up and meowed for a third time, as if this were a conversation she were participating in. There was a few seconds where cat and owner simply stared at one another before understanding appeared to dawn on Quentin.
"Oh it's dinnertime," he gave an exaggerated sigh. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey!"
Peter's hands flashed out, catching Quentin's belt loops as he stood. He hauled himself upright, tugging until he stumbled back over between his knees.
"What about your turn, huh?"
"I can wait."
"Quin," Peter whined.
"Hey," Quentin soothed, prying the hands from his jeans. He kissed Peter's knuckles. "You're here for a few hours, yeah? Like always?"
Startled, Peter could only nod dumbly in answer. Like always? Had Quentin kept track of how long they saw one another, over the years?
"Then we have time. Go hop in the shower. I'll feed the beast and put on some coffee."
They... had time?
The concept struck Peter as bizarre. Lately, he always felt like he had everything but time, especially with his love. He blipped more often than he stayed sedentary these days, leaving him in a haze, confined to a box. The only escape from his monotony was when he was yanked back, right to Quentin's doorstep.
But by contrast, Quentin had gotten used to Peter blipping in and out of his life. Accustomed enough to their odd meetings that he could say they had a few hours, like it was nothing. Like the fact they had any time at all wasn't-
"I love you." Peter blurted.
Quentin's mouth quirked into a lopsided grin.
"Love you too, daydream."
He kissed Peter chastely, then stepped back and patted his thigh to grab Rosemary's attention. She mewed and trotted over, padding along after him towards the kitchen. Peter watched them go, eyes shamelessly drawn to Quentin's ass.
Finding where his clothes ended up took longer than the shower itself. Everything was more or less where Peter remembered it being; he figured no one would mind if he borrowed a washcloth and soap. A few minutes under the steamy spray replenished his energy and settled the ambient tension in his mind.
Like Quentin said, they had time.
He redressed in the clothes he'd arrived in, sans socks and a coat, and ventured back out into the apartment. Still toweling his hair, which had reverted to a mess of curls now it was wet, Peter paused to observe his surroundings. Quentin's apartment was as he remembered it in shape and size, but not in many other ways.
There were photos in frames along the walls and shelves, people he didn't know grinning and laughing out at him from moments caught in time. Heavy winter curtains had been replaced with lighter ones, drawn open on the fading sunlight. The living room furniture had been rearranged, a new cat tree appearing in one corner, and there were plants on almost every table.
Henrietta Beck still sat beside the menorah on the mantle, her frozen smile full of comforting warmth. Peter stopped to smile back at her.
"Hello, Miss Henrietta," he greeted.
His eyes shifted to the menorah. Of the eight candles, six were melted down, their wicks barely exposed. The memory of Quentin's arms around him, deep voice singing low, replayed itself in his mind. He wondered if he'd hear him again tonight, when he lit another candle. He hoped so.
Peter trailed his fingers along the smooth lines and edges of Quentin's home as he wandered towards the kitchen. He passed through the doorway, gaze drawn immediately to Rosemary as she leapt from the tile floor up onto the breakfast table. From there, she sprang up to the windowsill, settling herself statue-like between a pair of sprawling potted plants, which hadn't been there before.
"I take it the offering was to your satisfaction, Miss Rosie?" Peter teased, leaning over to scratch beneath the cat's chin.
A purr began to vibrate her throat as she leaned into his attention, rubbing her cheek into his fingertips encouragingly. Peter grinned, content to continue until he was dismissed. He braced a hand on the table so he wasn't threatening to tip over, feeling paper beneath his palm rather than wood.
It was human instinct to glance down. The same natural curiosity that made one glance at anything slightly out of place, even if it's a pool of water you'd stepped in after dropping ice cubes. A half-second investigation so ordinary to the human condition, it's reflexive.
Peter registered the ink on the papers, but not the patterns they made. He knew blueprints when he saw them, had drawn more than enough of his own to clock them. Their subject took longer to register, the shape familiar, though it took him a moment to place from where. And then, he saw it.
It was a drone. It was one of Beck's drones. It was a blueprint, on Quentin's kitchen table, for one of the drones.
The world fell out from under Peter Parker the way it always did; all at once, tearing his heart from his ribs, down through his stomach, into the center of the earth.
"You want milk and sugar in your coffee? ...Peter?"
He found his voice lodged somewhere near his windpipes, strangled into a quiet, affectless murmur.
"Quentin... What... What are these?"
"What are-? Oh, that!"
Footfalls approached him, accompanied by a sheepish laugh. Peter was vaguely aware of a mug being set down on the table, not far from his hand.
"That's... something a little insane," Quentin said. "An absolutely crazy plan I hatched, lil' after you last visited."
Arms encircled his waist and warm lips pressed to his neck, trailing kisses affectionately upwards. No sensation accompanied the action, though every sense he had was dialed to eleven. Was it possible to feel so much at once you went numb?
"You- You're going to-"
"Yeah, think so."
Peter's mind raced.
The line he'd drawn between Beck and Quentin, the one he'd never acknowledged, began to blur. Memories of both bled together in his mind as he tried, fruitlessly, to patch the holes in his thoughts with feeble excuses.
How could this be happening? How could this be at all? Beck gutted his psyche and hung him up to bleed like a pig at slaughter; Quentin loved him. They couldn't be the same man. It wasn't possible. It wasn't fair!
"No!"
He tore himself from Quentin's arms as he whirled around, meeting his startled expression with panic on his face.
"No, Quin, you can't!"
"Wh-" Quentin stumbled back a step, beautiful eyes blinking. "I know it's kind of insane, but I thought you'd at least-"
"People are going to get hurt! Quin, why would you ever-"
"Because the world needs something to believe in!"
Peter stopped, his mouth agape.
"The Avengers are gone," Quentin continued. "People need something, someone, to believe in again. I can be that! I have the technology in my head to make that happen!"
"What are you...?"
This wasn't right.
Quentin Beck may have talked a good game, even at the end, but there had been nothing philanthropic in his intentions. His words had been; "People need to believe, and nowadays they'll believe anything." Nothing in that spoke to a man looking to inspire the people, just someone willing to take advantage of them.
But the sentiments weren't that different. In a way they were the same as Quentin and Beck; the same thing under different circumstances.
Suddenly, Peter could see it all unfolding before him. The beginning of a tragic end.
Quentin, his Quin, who was both so strong and so very brittle under the right pressure, didn't know what loomed on the horizon. As he prepared to debut himself as a hero for the world to believe in, the very people he sought to emulate would suddenly reemerge from the shadows en masse. At the forefront, the man who stole his life's work, who he never got an explanation from.
And then, in a single act of unmatched selflessness, that man would sacrifice himself for the entire universe. He would be deified across the galaxy, his name burned into the minds of civilizations they'd yet to even meet.
Then, E.D.I.T.H.
Those fucking glasses.
If Beck had been right about anything, it had been that Peter wasn't the right person to own that technology. Not yet. Why had Mr. Stark given it to him? Why not anyone else?!
Quentin would break. The world would have taken one too many things from him, slighted him one too many times. He would crumble, crack, and become cruel.
And there was nothing Peter could do to stop it.
Anguish welled in him like a tormented ghost, howling down the decrepit halls of his soul.
"Peter-? Daydream, why are you crying? What's wrong?"
Their future was set in stone and it ended in tragedy.
"Do you- Shit, do you really think I can't-"
"No!" Peter gasped wetly. "No, baby, no, I think you'd be an amazing superhero!"
Quentin reached for him hesitantly and Peter all but collapsed into the hands that came up to frame his face. He became aware of the hot tears rolling down his cheeks, swiped away by his beloved's tender touches. Concern laced the expression of the man who would, not so long from now, fragment his mind into so many jagged pieces.
They were doomed. Both separately and as a whole, they were hurtling towards a collision course with destiny that would mangle them beyond recognition.
Unless.
"Quin..."
Peter pulled away again, this time to scrub the tears from his cheeks. He looked up at Quentin, his eyes bright, jaw set with determination.
"Quin," he repeated. "If you're going through with this, there's some things you need to know. Things you may not believe, but I swear they're true."
He paused to let these words sink in.
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course I do, Peter."
Peter took a steadying breath.
Which was then harshly driven from his lungs as some intangible force slammed into him with the approximate strength of an atom bomb.
His vision exploded into dots of black and white, obscuring the world in a mess of shifting shapes. Blindly he caught the hands reaching for him as his knees gave out, which was a mistake, because every inch of his skin was an open nerve and touching another human being felt like being on fire.
Quentin called his name, but it came to him muffled, like it had been run through several sound filters before hitting his ears. Peter blinked dazedly, trying to focus. Panic began to set in.
What was happening? He'd never felt something like this before. There was something under his skin and it felt like a thousand flies, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Only smaller, like ants. Like spiders. Like his cells and molecules multiplying and dividing and separating.
Was this a blip? Was this the blip, the one that would erase him from existence? Why did it hurt so much? It wasn't supposed to be like this!
His vision cleared and he could see Quentin again, his eyes wide and afraid, skin pale as chalk.
If this was the end, Peter refused to let it all be for nothing.
"Promise me-" he choked.
"Anything," Quentin's voice, distant and muffled, out of sync with his mouth, said. "Anything, daydream!"
"Promise me you won't hurt anyone, Quin."
"Pete-"
"PROMISE ME!"
"I swear Peter, I swear, I won't-"
The world went up in an explosion of gold fire.
Everything was nothing. It was all black, or maybe white, or maybe there was no color at all and the human mind was not made to process the absence of all things. Peter- was he Peter? Was he anything besides a collection of displaced atoms divided into infinitesimally small pieces and scattered to the wind?
There wasn't any wind. There wasn't any anything. But there as a bit of something and a lot of nothing and-
And it hurt.
Agony on a scale Peter never thought he'd experience, pushing his pain threshold so high that it whited out into a numb nothingness just like the world ( was it a world? ) around him.
And then, quite suddenly, he collided with the floor.
There was, as it happened, a floor. One which was hard and cold, which hurt to fall and crack his head on, which did not give under his scrabbling nails.
Peter's ears rang and his vision, spotty and unfocused, tried vainly to make sense of what lay above him. Lights. That was light, wasn't it?
The floor vibrated. Footsteps. People.
Someone grabbed his wrist and he screamed. They let go. He couldn't get his jaw working to tell them he appreciated it- his whole body still felt raw.
More vibrations. More people. A lot of people, their shadows dancing across his mottled vision.
Something blotted out the lights.
He felt- he felt -a sensation he knew, liked, but couldn't name. He was sure he'd felt it before. It was...
His hair.
Someone was stroking his hair.
Someone, the shadow hovering over him, blocking the ceiling, was stroking his hair and murmuring to him over and over again.
The ringing in his ears faded slowly, filtering the world back into focus one noise at a time.
He heard Dr. Pym. Fury. Hope and Scott. People yelling.
And...
"You're fine, Peter, you're fine. You're home. It's okay. Just like I promised, Peter, it's all gonna be okay-"