pastself

Then, at the start of Michaelmas in Peter’s third year, Charles Xavier wandered into the Merton College bar and changed Peter’s life.

But then, of course he did. Charles’s kindness changed everyone’s lives.

It shouldn’t work that way. His radical empathy should have hurt him, but it only made him more powerful. It drew people to him — even more than his privilege and money and brilliance, and yes, Peter saw the similarities to Mr. Stark, but it was hard to care.

Because Charles Xavier picked Peter — of all people — to call his friend.

The night they met, they talked about Charles’s doctoral project until the sky turned pink and Charles followed him to his first class of the morning,"I only just found you, darling. I'm not leaving you now." And as Charles drifted to sleep in the dark lecture theater, head on Peter’s shoulder, the weight of him was a balm.

They matched, him and Charles.

With him, Peter was one half of a pair — and it wasn’t what he had with Ned. Or May.

Or Mr. Stark.

Ned didn’t lie his head on Peter’s lap while reminiscing about the best pizza slices in the city. May didn’t braid Peter flower crowns of daisies while describing her frustration with peer review.

And no matter that they both loved to talk about Peter’s research, Mr. Stark had never, not once, called him “darling”.

So three weeks after meeting Charles, as they lay in the sun, light making Charles’s eyes shine bright, and blue, and brilliant — Peter told him about Spider-Man.

Unprompted, mid-conversation.

Just because he wanted Charles to know.

Charles smiled, leaned up, and kissed Peter. Gently. Softly — like the ghost Peter used to be.

And a voice in Peter’s mind said, I know, dearest. I always have. Now, here’s a secret of my own. It’s yours to keep.

Peter spent most nights with Charles, after that. And as his stuff drifted out of his dorm room and into Charles’s flat, his uncertainty about staying at Oxford for his Master’s suddenly vanished.

Enough people had abandoned Charles. Peter would never count in their company.

Charles wore his wounds with pride — unashamed and unafraid — but they still bled over. Peter felt them as his own. The years of abuse, and experimentation, and isolation. Then the hope of acceptance, gone with the Snap — carving a hole in Charles’s heart the shape of a man.

Yet Charles called himself lucky.

Lucky to have survived at all and lucky to have found Peter.

“There’s always room for hope. We’re proof of that.”

He gave Peter hope and Peter loved him for it.

It didn’t matter that they weren’t in love because, for the first time since the dust, Peter had somewhere he belonged.

Almost as quickly as Charles entered his life, Mr. Stark found out about him.

“Did you just say hols?” he teased during their monthly call. “Two years in, and you’ve never code switched once. You got yourself tied up with a local, didn’t you?”

“Um.”

“English? Scottish? Blonde? Age? C’mon, give me details.” It sounded like he was taking notes. “How serious are we talking? 1 out of 10.”

What kind of number could he give to a bond for life that wasn’t quite true love? “… an eight? Brunette. Four years older. New Yorker, actually — there were just a lot of boarding schools.”

Mr. Stark made a considering sound. “I’ll want to meet an eight. Is she in engineering?”

She.

Peter's stomach twisted as anticipation and anxiety mixed together dangerously. He hadn’t prepared for this. For Mr. Stark knowing.

These weren’t the nerves he felt when he came out to May.

They were something else entirely.

“Actually, um… he's in medicine. Neurology.”

Silence met his reply and something new slipped between them. Heavy and pointed and big enough, finally, for Peter to recognize.

Peter... wanted.

Wanted Mr. Stark's jealousy, his laughter, his attention. He wanted what he saw in Charles's memories and he’d wanted it since the Snap. No amount of “parenting” from Mr. Stark would be enough; he understood that now.

And understood how impossible the ask was.

(He's married. Married with children, one of whom he basically thinks is you, what the fuck is wrong with you, Parker.)

Tony cleared his throat. “Hitting up the soft sciences, huh? This guy must be special.”

Peter’s mouth opened, but only dust came out. His vision blurred.

“I’m in London,” Mr. Stark said into his silence — the first Peter’d heard of it. “I'll come up and meet him. Give me two hours. We’ll make a night of it.”