The abandoned Roosevelt subway line was just as Peter remembered it. Tucked away and out of sight, it was nothing but a barely visible seam upon the tracks until the insertion of one of the tokens that'd been hidden in the back of his father's old calculator. Watching the repurposed subway car emerge from the ground was just as mesmerizing as it had been the first time; there was something grand about it, and it evoked a feeling similar to what Peter imagined it'd feel like if he were an adventurer stumbling upon a temple's secret room full of glittering golden treasure.

The lights on the subway car's ceiling flickered to life in a bright flare before they abruptly cut out again moments later. It was not completely dark however, lit instead by the dimmer lights that illuminated the clear cases of vials and petri dishes. Peter stepped inside; the subway car creaked under his weight, long unused to visitors.

Although Peter had been to this place before, he'd never dug through everything that was there. It was quite literally a buried secret and Peter had, for the most part, been content with finding his father's final message on the computer.

That computer sat innocently upon one of the tables now, its user interface outdated even by 2012's standards, with a popup reading Download Complete smack dab in the center of the screen, unmissable.

He'd already watched the recording once more than ten years ago… or over a year from now. More than once, actually – because after his initial discovery of his father's secret laboratory, he'd returned with a flash drive to save it. Peter's parents had left when he was six years old, and his memories of them were naturally few and fuzzy. With so little time of them in his life, video footage was sparse – and Peter had treasured that clip.

For a child who'd grown up believing he was abandoned for many years, hearing his father's voice say that nothing was as important to him as his son meant a lot.

Technically, he had no real reason to play the video again right now, but he didn't have a reason not to either – so after a second of hesitation where his fingers hovered above the keyboard, Peter finally tapped the enter key, clicking through the popup notification. Code scrolled across the screen momentarily before a video player opened and his father's face flickered into view.

From thirteen years in the past, Richard Parker spoke: "Test. My name is Richard Parker…"

Peter had watched the video countless times after he'd first found it, taking in every detail with the sort of greed that could only come from being deprived of something, of someone, for a majority of his life. He was more than familiar with it; he'd first discovered it over a decade ago and the information contained within the blurry, pixelated video was certainly not new to him.

And yet there was something about it, some feeling that he'd become numb to before upon repeated watches in his youth, but felt fresh and sharp now. It had been years since he'd sat down and played it. There was a tightness in his throat, as though someone had reached in and pinched it closed, and Peter felt his expression make an involuntary, miniscule shift towards some distinctly emotional reaction.

He tore his eyes away from the video footage and sucked in a breath. Richard Parker continued on unbothered and Peter closed his eyes, letting his father's voice wash over him for a moment before he forced himself to focus on what he'd come here for, pulling his backpack from his shoulders and dropping it on the stool in front of the bulky old computer.

Peter looked around, scanning his surroundings. As far as secret labs went, Richard Parker's was certainly a step up from the workspace Dr. Connors had crafted while under the influence of the Lizard serum. It wasn't in the sewers, for one – a big plus, there – and since it was sealed away underground, it had stayed relatively free of dust accumulation. If not for that, every surface would've likely been coated with layers and layers of grime. Though the vials and petri dishes full of substances that'd been sitting for years made it obvious that it was clearly abandoned, overall the place was still… somewhat clean. Somewhat, because what it lacked in excessive dirt buildup, it made up for in cobwebs.

After his talk with Dr. Connors back at Oscorp, Peter had fished out a blank piece of folder paper from within his backpack and written the name retroviral hyperplasia down so he wouldn't forget. He pulled it out now, and after eyeing it for a second, began folding the paper into a rectangular shape, like an uninspired origami creation. The finished result had the excess blank space tucked out of the way, leaving nothing but a paper plaque with retroviral hyperplasia scrawled across it in Peter's semi-sloppy done-while-standing handwriting.

Plucking a ballpoint pen from his backpack, Peter traced over the words again and again and again. Three times, so that it was messily bolded. Then, with a glance up at the still-playing video of his father, Peter propped the paper plaque between the keys of the computer so that it stood upright like a reminder.

"I always thought that I'd have more… time," Richard Parker's voice said, a statement that was just vaguely relevant enough to Peter's current situation that he stiffened slightly, feeling a shudder travel down the length of his spine. The video recording ended abruptly as Peter's younger self called out from somewhere offscreen.

More time. Well, Peter was now in the unique position where he had exactly that.

He looked down the length of the subway car and inhaled deeply, as though steeling himself for the task ahead. Might as well get started on making the most of that time, then.

The next several – minutes, hours? It was difficult to say – passed in a busy blur. Peter combed every inch of the subway car as best he could, poking around under the tables, opening cabinets, and cracking open plastic bins in a hunt for information. Any binders, folders, and loose papers he found all went into a neat pile on the floor at the far end of the subway car.

For a space that was definitely not originally intended to be a science lab, Richard Parker had done a pretty good job at transforming it into one. It wasn't as cramped as one might assume; despite existing within a relatively narrow space and with things packed up against both walls, there was easily enough room down the center walkway for both Peter and the numerous boxes and bins he pulled out from beneath the tables.

In the end, the total count was as such: he gathered three binders from atop the computer desk, four from a nearby shelf, another eight from some of the clear containers, twenty-six folders pressed together in one of the cabinets, seven from another, and twelve loose papers found scattered in various places throughout.

Technically, he could also count all the emails and files on the computer itself. The email was, thankfully, logged into and already open, meaning he didn't need to make guesses at his father's password. However, a cursory scrolling through the computer's contents quickly revealed that almost all of the information to be found there was encrypted.

So he prioritized what he could access right away and with ease: the physical information, the papers. Pressing himself into a corner formed by the far wall and a cabinet, Peter began the long and arduous task of going through all his father's old research notes.

Specifically, he was looking for any information regarding retroviral hyperplasia – mainly some sort of breakthrough, a cure. But even general knowledge pertaining to the disease itself would be welcome. Dr. Connors had doubted that insanity was a symptom, but Peter was not willing to rule it out completely.

Peter had two theories for Harry Osborn's sudden descent into insanity: it was either an effect of disease or… it wasn't. There were really just those two possibilities, and the first theory was the only one he could actually start actively working to prevent. The second, the theory that it was some unknown outside factor – what he'd always believed before his recent multiversal escapade – was significantly harder to do anything about, because he didn't know what he was supposed to be preventing.

But of course, even if Harry's insanity was not a result of the disease, Peter still wanted to cure him anyway. Harry had been – still was? – his best friend since childhood, and Peter hated to see him suffer and struggle. It was one of the distinct things he remembered about Harry before he'd completely lost it – he'd grown stressed, almost paranoid. Desperate.

If it wasn't the disease after all… perhaps that desperation had driven him towards whatever unknown factor had caused the insanity?

He didn't really know, of course. Never would know. He couldn't exactly ask him.

For all his knowledge of the future, there were some things he could only speculate.

Time passed. Marked by his slow progress through the materials piled around him rather than the passage of the sun, it felt both sluggish yet strangely imperceptible.

Peter pulled a leg up to his chest, hunching forward slightly to use his knee as an uncomfortable, bony perch for his chin as he read. Looking through his father's old research, he was beginning to find, was a long and not particularly rewarding process. Not, of course, that he'd expected it to be so quick and easy – but promising results were hardly forthcoming.

A certain amount of it inevitably went over his head, too full of very specific technical jargon for him to get much of anything out of it. Other content was irrelevant or unrelated to the cure he was looking for – as far as he could tell, at least.

Peter flipped another page within the binder. So many hours in, just starting on skimming through the contents of the fifth binder, the words were starting to blur together. He sighed, leaning his head back so that it was cradled in the corner. He could feel his focus fraying like a thread – and his thoughts wandered.

Sitting here, surrounded by his father's research, in his workspace – in a place so clearly frequented and utilized by the man he'd never really known, by the man who Peter felt like he recognized from pictures more than experiences… it was a place where practically everything had Richard Parker's fingerprints, his touch. His legacy. It was truly the closest Peter could ever get to meeting the man himself.

His eyes slid shut, and he let the feel of the place soak into him as though he were a sponge desperate for water. The gentle whir of the bulky old computer provided a constant background purr, soothing. The smooth, cold floor against the knuckles of his hand… the dim lights and the underground chill in the air… he breathed deep, filling his lungs with it.

With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine his father busying himself here, moving from station to station, typing away on the computer… and Peter, hunkered down on the floor, present in some strange, unrealistic fantasy of Bring your Kid to Work day.

With the video recording fresh in his mind, he could almost hear his voice, too – talking to himself as he worked? Talking to Peter? He didn't know. It didn't matter. But it solidified the idea somehow, made it feel almost tangible enough that he could physically sink into it.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, that thought settled over him like a blanket. Or like a parent's loving embrace.

…He stayed like that for a long while.

The first thing Peter became aware of was the soft but distinct sound of the working computer somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. Like reeling in a fish, it pulled him slowly, patiently back to the present moment. He blinked, momentarily disoriented by his awkward position and his strange surroundings, still half-caught in the fog of–... sleep?

He must've fallen asleep.

That realization startled him into proper wakefulness more than any typical shake to the shoulder would, and Peter sat up, pushing himself away from the wall with a grimace. He rolled his shoulders, feeling a lingering ache and stiffness – as expected, seeing as he'd been slumped sitting up in the corner.

It wasn't the first time he'd fallen asleep somewhere that wasn't his own bed back at his apartment – an inevitable result of devoting so much time to Spider-Man work. Sometimes he failed to properly return home for a night.

He looked up and out the windows, some part of his brain instinctively seeking out the sky to determine the time before he quickly remembered, oh yeah, the subway car was underground. Right. Rubbing grit from his eyes, Peter dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

The phone still felt outdated compared to the lightweight, thin touchscreen phones he remembered from 2024, but it told the time just fine.

And that time was just a little before 4:00 AM.

Any lingering tiredness dissipated instantly in that moment, pure alarm coursing through him like a bolt of lightning. 4:00 AM. How did it become 4:00 AM?! Had he really slept for that long?

Staying out until 4:00 AM wouldn't have been a problem before – in fact, it might've even been pretty commonplace – but Peter was now once again back at a time in his life where he lived with his Aunt May. She was probably worried sick.

Peter made a move to stand up, accidentally jostling the open binder from where it'd been resting partially over one leg, and his hand shot out immediately to slap his palm onto the page, saving his spot, just as his movement knocked it closed. Flipping it open once more, Peter ran his thumb over the pages he'd passed. He was four pages in.

For a moment he thought about using some sort of bookmark, but quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn't like he was going to stash all this stuff back in their proper places – he'd be leaving the stack here on the floor for easy access, and he could just leave the binder open too. It wasn't like anyone else frequented this place anyway; nobody would care about the mess.

And only four pages in? He could remember that.

The page he was on had some sort of chart taking up the upper third of the page. Pretty distinctive. Peter eyed it for a second, committing the general look of the page to memory, before his gaze slid over to the massive heap of content he hadn't yet gone through, the possibility of some sort of answer hidden within.

The thing was, Peter wasn't a genetics expert, nor did he have the resources that a big company like Oscorp did – and he didn't actually know what he'd do with a potential cure if it truly did exist within the research hidden away here.

Give it to Dr. Connors? To Oscorp? If curing Harry meant delivering his father's precious research into the hands of corporate greed, would he do it? Could he do it?

Even as the thought entered his mind, he already knew the answer.

…No. He'd just have to find some other way.

Not, of course, that any other way came to mind, but that wasn't a problem right now. He'd just… figure something out later. That was a hurdle for the future.

Although Peter knew better than most that the future was not quite the distant, unknowable thing that people often thought it was – at least, not to him. And as someone actively working on resolving problems from the future before they became problems, putting it off almost seemed a little ironic.

He shook his head, as though attempting to physically dislodge the thought. His immediate future was the problem he had to worry about right now.

Peter made it home in record time.

No detours, very few distractions. The single issue he did encounter on his way – some guy who thought he could break into someone's apartment unnoticed in the dead of night – was handled quickly and efficiently. There was no time to stop and smell the roses when it was 4:00 in the morning and the looming threat of homework he hadn't even looked at was becoming more pressing with every passing minute.

This marked the second day in a row he hadn't gone out of his way to fight crime or pursue the sound of police sirens, and the part of Peter's mind that wasn't kicking himself for falling asleep for so long was caught up in the strangeness of it.

Two days. When was the last time he hadn't done Spider-Man stuff for that long?

Well, two days excluding that one amateur robber, of course – but that'd just been on the way; he'd dealt with it so fast that he hadn't even bothered with a costume change. When it came to deliberately looking for crime, though…

When was the last time Peter Parker had been Peter Parker more than he'd been Spider-Man?

He couldn't remember.

Logic said that surely he must've taken a break when sick or something – but even then, Peter couldn't recall setting down the web shooters for any significant length of time. Sickness wasn't usually enough to hold him back – and Peter Parker's life was so unfulfilling and miserable. Wasn't it better to do good out in the city? To help people, even if it was just routine, because – that was easier, in a way. And people needed that, needed Spider-Man, needed… hope.

Peter needed Spider-Man too. Like a crutch, like a way to bury his head in the sand, like covering his ears and closing his eyes.

Like a distraction. Like something to do.

It had been a long time since he'd put so much thought, so much effort and time, into Peter Parker's life. It was out of necessity, he knew – time travel had made it so. But that didn't make it any less strange, to live his own life instead of a superhero's.

That feeling persisted all the way until he was home and standing at the door. The blinds were open, and through them Peter caught the faint golden glow of lamplight. With sweat gathered on his brow and hair askew, he pushed the door open – gently. After all, it was possible that Aunt May had already fallen asleep.

…Possible, but not true, because she was seated at the dining table with a mug cradled gently between her palms. Peter froze in the hallway and felt guilt crawl unpleasantly up his spine, making him want to hunch. He'd kept her awake.

Aunt May's expression was flat and unsurprised; she gave him a long, even look that somehow made him more uneasy than blatant disappointment. Peter grimaced, letting his gaze drop to the floor.

After considering him silently for a beat, Aunt May finally spoke. "You didn't get the eggs," she observed, which was a statement that seemed so far out of left field that Peter broke his guilty stare down at his feet to lift his head and squint at her.

"Wha–?" he started to ask, before the realization struck him a moment later – and Peter let out a sigh, lifting one hand to his face, fingers over his eyes.

Oh. She had told him to get eggs, hadn't she? Yesterday. It'd completely slipped his mind.

He opened his mouth, an apology on the tip of his tongue – but Aunt May seemed to take his reaction as enough of a response, and continued onward, cutting him off before he could say anything. "What were you doing out so late?" she wanted to know. She remained seated at the table, her tone deceptively placid.

There was a beat of silence where Peter hesitated. He should've thought of a good excuse before coming in. He sucked in a breath and let it out instantly, a release of nervous energy and a show of his gradually building discomfort. "I dunno," he said, working his jaw; a filler response to stall for an extra half a second. He couldn't exactly tell her he'd been digging around in his father's secret lab and lost track of time, so he settled on a partial truth. "I– I fell asleep."

Incredulity sharpened her next words. "You fell asleep?" she demanded, sounding horrified, as though that were some awful thing. He didn't even want to think about what her reaction would be to the stuff he usually got up to.

Peter looked away, unable to maintain eye contact with the burn of shame in his gut. Falling asleep somewhere outside sounded… dumb, and kind of pathetic, and he was well aware of that, but he didn't want this to be a big deal. "Yeah, I know, I was just – I got… distracted."

This was not the right word to use. "Distracted?" she echoed. When he looked up at her through his lashes, her eyes were wide and concerned. "Doing what?"

Peter felt an itch of exasperation. It'd been quite a while since he'd been grilled like this. He was twenty-nine years old, and far past the age where his activities were so scrutinized. As he'd gotten older and gone into college, Aunt May had left him to his own devices more often than not. And once he'd moved out, he had nobody to answer to but himself.

It felt odd to be questioned so thoroughly. He was no longer used to it.

When he didn't respond right away, Aunt May said, "Peter."

He straightened a little. "Look," Peter told her, his exasperation making his tone curt. "I'm sorry, I… I was just – busy, okay?" It was already past 4:00 AM on a school night; the last thing he needed right now was a lecture.

Aunt May didn't immediately press further and Peter stared at his feet, all too aware of the disappointed look he'd find in her eyes if he looked up. He ran a hand through the hair at the back of his head, feeling self-conscious, and sucked in a breath.

Finally, he muttered, "...Anyway, I got, uh – I got homework," and angled himself towards the stairs, intending to make his escape.

He took maybe two steps in that direction before Aunt May's voice rang out like the crack of a whip. "You turn back around right now."

Peter stiffened, freezing in place. A strange feeling hit him like a wave – a cross between frustration and guilt that only really came from being scolded by a parent or guardian figure. It gripped him very abruptly, familiar in a distant way. Almost nostalgic, but without the pleasant feelings typically associated with the term.

It was an experience so uniquely linked to youth that he couldn't help but feel somewhat caught off guard. Feeling like an ill-behaved child, Peter turned to face her, slowly, almost reluctant.

She'd gotten up from the chair. Gesturing at the empty table next to her, she said, "Come here." Her voice was firm and unwavering; as an adult and as the aunt of a seventeen-year-old nephew, she held all the authority, and she knew it.

…Peter knew it too. He faltered for a second, childish stubbornness rearing its head as though he really was the teenager he looked like.

Eventually he sighed, resigning himself to an unavoidable lecture. Aware of the mug on the table that Aunt May had been cradling earlier, Peter walked over to the refrigerator and yanked the door open, intending to grab his own drink. After digging through his father's old research for hours and then falling asleep, he could use one. Aunt May watched him silently.

Grabbing a jug of juice off the door, Peter skimmed over the expiration date printed at the top automatically – and abruptly did a double take. "This expired in 2013," he blurted out, horrified – but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized his mistake.

Of course. The year was 2012.

He could've slapped himself. Letting his head drop forward, Peter let his skull meet the freezer door with a gentle thunk; the surface was cool with the night chill. Maybe it'd wake him up a little. Clearly, he wasn't awake enough.

He barely paid attention to the soft pad of footsteps until he felt a light touch up by his forehead. Peter startled, pulling back to look at Aunt May, who'd made her way to his side. Concern carved creases into her face.

"Are you alright?" she said, the earlier sharpness in her tone significantly lessened. Her already-outstretched hand made another reach for his forehead, likely trying to feel for a fever.

Peter ducked out from under her touch, knowing he couldn't fake something like that, and said, as casually as he could manage, "Yeah, I'm okay, I'm fine." When her concern didn't dissipate, he added, "Just – tired."

Where Aunt May stood now, the glow of the streetlight filtered in through the blinds and highlighted the edges of her hair in silver – an echo of the older but certainly no less vibrant woman Peter remembered from 2024. He stared, feeling increasingly disoriented, until she spoke again, pulling him back to the present moment.

"Sit with me," she said, her concern making her tone more gentle. Peter didn't resist as she nudged him into a seat at the dining table next to hers. He left the bottle of juice in the refrigerator, still ashamed of his mindless slip-up.

Hunched at the table, avoiding Aunt May's eyes, he probably looked every bit the sullen teenager.

She sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the remaining sternness in her expression soften into sympathy. "I know it's been… hard," she began, her words almost tentative. "Without Ben."

He blinked a couple of times, a little taken aback. What? Uncle Ben's death had happened over a decade ago. And while of course Peter had never stopped missing him and never would, his death simply wasn't something that he thought about all that much anymore. Not regularly, at least; it didn't plague him in the same way it did when it had first happened. And that was normal. Peter didn't miss him less, of course – but life had gone on, and he had let that wound scab over in the years since.

But it was 2012 now and for Aunt May, the death of Ben Parker was… what, weeks ago? Peter swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the difference that time had made. Aunt May was still grappling with the death of her husband, but for Peter… that pain was a dull, old thing.

She was linking his strange behavior to the death of his uncle, he realized. It wasn't an unreasonable conclusion to come to, even if it wasn't correct. The truth was much more bizarre.

Peter dropped his gaze down towards his lap, away from her. "...Yeah," he said at length.

Silence. She was watching him, he realized. Perhaps she thought his reaction too callous, cold – too unaffected by the death of a loved one. Or maybe Peter was just worrying unnecessarily, paranoid and on edge after messing up so blatantly mere moments ago.

He felt unbalanced. Uneasy, like there was a giant chasm between him and Aunt May stretching a distance of twelve long years. A different life, a different reality. Impossible to bridge.

Aunt May's hand reached across the table and found his. Her grip was firm and warm, and with her thumb she rubbed soothing circles across the top of his hand.

"I was so worried," she confessed, and Peter's guilt multiplied tenfold. He looked up at her, at the earnest concern on her face. "I know you've been – staying out later," she added, a little delicately, "but I don't know what I'd do if–"

She stopped there, her grip on his hand tightening.

Some analytical part of him – the part that had been on edge all day, the part that was always struggling to piece together facts about his life based on what other people said – took note of the fact that he'd apparently been staying out late recently. No doubt it was due to Spider-Man stuff – but considering her reaction now, he assumed he'd just set a new record. Probably by a significant amount.

"I'm okay," he told her, a little misty-eyed now. "I just–" He stopped. He didn't know what to say. "I…"

He couldn't tell her the truth – about time travel, the multiverse, Spider-Man.

Peter had long gotten used to lying to Aunt May, hiding the other half of his life from her. It all came with the territory of being an anonymous superhero. After all, Peter knew firsthand the consequences of dragging other people into his business. He thought about Gwen.

In the other universe, Peter One's Aunt May had died, caught up in a fight between Spider-Man and the people they'd worked to cure. It'd been plastered across the news; he remembered seeing it, the report that May Parker had died.

He could never let something like that happen here.

"Peter," Aunt May said, her voice gentle and reassuring, pulling him from his thoughts. "You can talk to me." Please talk to me, she didn't say. But Peter could hear it anyway. It was an offered hand.

He didn't take it.

"...I'm sorry," he said, and there was genuine guilt coloring his voice. I'm sorry I can't reassure you. I'm sorry I made you worry about me. "For keeping you up."

Abruptly, Peter pushed the chair away from the table, stood up, and left. This time, Aunt May didn't stop him. She didn't protest, didn't cling to his hand as he pulled it from her grip. She didn't say a word.

He felt her eyes on him until he was up the stairs and out of sight.