#ff:mnir

Peter squints as he looks out across the panorama, bathed in the lights and sounds and gaudy not-quite-night that New Yorkers are so used to. Streets and avenues stare back at him, at once familiar and foreign. From time to time his gaze would pass over a corner of the city before jerking back to refocus on a building, or a block, or some ordinary intersection, pausing until he picks out a part that’s not quite like the others—like playing a giant, never-ending find-the-difference game.

It’s… jarring. Sure, sprinkled here and there are some blocks that look almost identical to his world’s, but even more parts of the city, entire swaths even, are just… off. The skyline, too, is wrong, with buildings popping up where they shouldn’t, and others leaving gaping voids in their absence.

Like the Avengers Tower… or rather, the lack thereof.

Peter clenches his jaw and tears his eyes away from where the tower is supposed to be. He palms the rough texture of the skyscraper’s exterior. It’s his second-favorite spot to cling to and be moody on. At least the Empire State Building is the same as he remembers, complete with the exact same security camera configurations and blind spots—seriously, what are the odds of that?

For the fourth time since he’s arrived, he wonders why this hugely inconvenient detour happened in the first place. It’s probably his horrid sense of direction at work, he decides. His topographagnosia—that’s legit what it’s called—is probably so bad that it made his Multiverse Quantum Spacetime Guidewatch malfunction. God that’s a mouthful (the watch, not the affliction). Everyone would be better off calling it a Gadget. Or a Gizmo? A Goober?

Yeah, he’ll just call it a Goober from now on.

Peter sighs and stares at the piece of machinery in resignation. To be fair, he did get briefed on the possibility of this exact scenario happening—something close to a one-in-ten-thousandth chance, or so Mr. Beck said—which is kind of impressively low, given the magnitude of what they’ve accomplished.

And, again to be fair, it’s not as if Peter is really… surprised, anymore, especially with his luck in recent months.

He knows he ought to care. He ought to be more worried. He’s supposed to be Spider-Man, supposed to do what he always did when entering a new world: find out what it’s like, locate a safe spot, and gather information. See if it needs his help; because no matter what universe, no matter what dimension, people are people.

But he’s so tired. Fighting, saving people, doing good. More and more often he finds himself wanting to run away as far as possible, to a place that doesn’t need constant saving. You shouldn’t even be doing this, a small voice would nag from time to time. You’re worthless. You never saved anyone. You couldn’t save him.

Peter knows that voice is wrong—because he has these gifts and if he doesn’t use them then what did Uncle Ben die for?—and yet he just can’t seem to help his thoughts. And it’s hard; hard not to feel young, and stupid, and alone, when he knows there won’t be a slightly annoyed voice answering his calls, tired but never hanging up while he blabbers about school, or new ideas, or the day’s herowork.

Then, before he knows it, he’s doing things more to cope than to help. To feel alive himself, than to help others stay alive.

He scoffs. Cope. People always seem to ask how he’s coping. Even people who he knows loves him. May. Pepper. Happy. It makes him angry that they just don’t get it.

As if anyone can just, cope. Just move on. As if he can ever forget that moment the blue light snuffed out.

They all said he’s ‘honoring a great memory’, as if it’s consolation and he should be instantly cheered. Like, yeah, maybe that ought to have given him more of a purpose, but on some nights its… hard. Those nights, when the suit chafes and burns on his skin, when the night air becomes suffocating, when he would see yet one too many red-and-gold graffiti, a tribute—

Peter gulps down air and forces himself to calm down. He’s gotten quite good at that. He bites his lip and blinks.

Pathetic, he thinks, half joking, half bitter. Even after four months, he’s still stuck in this limbo. The brochures and guidebooks, they’re all a bunch of crap—because it didn’t get… hasn’t gotten… will never get better. It’s there, creeping up behind him when he least expects. It’s there, even after he’s learned to shove it beneath sarcasm and witty banter. It distills, condenses, reverberates; sometimes overwhelms.

It’ll take three days for the field to recharge and re-align itself. Three days to spend in this strange alternate dimension, this less-swanky version of his New York, with dirtier air and heavier clouds, but also more people, more hustle and bustle, more energy.

But no… him. Never him. Peter’s looked. He’s been to six other universes already.

No him.

He turns and leans his forehead against the cool glass. The dark inky surface dances and pulses with the city lights behind him.

“I miss you, Mr. Stark.” His breath fogs on the smooth pane. He has to try really fucking hard so his voice doesn’t crack.

He forces air into him, to push back the tightness.

“Please… let me find you.”

Silence answers him, like it always does.

The vibrations are what he notices first, passing through the concrete and stone and steel of the building’s bulk to tickle at his soles, like tremors in a spider’s web.

Peter tilts his head, feeling the stiff sinews of his neck crack and pop. He’s been staying in the same spot for an hour, he reckons.

Then the faintest of melodies reach him, and he realizes that the vibrations are music. Very loud music.

Somewhat groggy, Peter turns his head to look up, where the rest of the Empire State’s impressive height disappears into the gloom. He shrugs. Couldn’t hurt, he decides. Besides, the music is kind of good—unfamiliar and different in style, but good.

He webs and climbs the rest of the way up, still careful to avoid the cameras. As he gets closer to the top, he makes out burning beams of light poking into the sky. He makes out laughter and the din of conversation. He makes out cheers and applause and the click of cameras.

It’s a good thing the Building is a carbon copy of the one in his world, or someone would have found him by now. Peter swings and jumps expertly in the blindspots, and soon he’s just below the Observation Deck.

Where a party is in full swing.

Practically next to the Deck, now, Peter pokes his head over the railings, relying on his Sense to tell him where the crowds are thinnest. Tuxedoed men and elegant women are everywhere, laughing and chatting and dancing, glasses of champagne in their hands. They all seem to be converging on one side of the Deck, so Peter takes this chance to hop over the railings and shimmy his way up to the terrace above.

There must be close to a hundred people in attendance tonight. Peter thinks they must be either business people or entertainment people—he sees quite a few lavish dresses, blazing with colors and ostentatious display, looking not at all practical to move around in.

Peter wonders what the party is for. Then again he doesn’t really care. He occupies himself by observing the way the people move, the way they talk. The suit helps filter out the worst of the bright lights and sounds, and he sticks himself to a wall, just quietly watching.

It’s been so long since he’s been to a party. When was the last time?

Ah, that Stark Industries Charity Tony had roped him into attending, a few months before Thanos. ‘Pepper forced me to go so now I’m forcing you to go,’ the man had said, grinning. ‘Misery loves company, kid.’

That was a century ago.

Peter sighs. Maybe he’ll recognize some people here, he thinks, even if they’re not the people he wants to recognize. He’s already seen six incarnations of the Kardashians across as many universes, for example, and his mouth twitches in disgust at the thought of meeting a seventh. It makes him angry to think people like them exist across the multiverse, but not the warm, sarcastic voice he hears in his dreams, or the hand he wants to feel ruffling his hair after missions, saying, ‘good job, kid’.

He brushes his thoughts away.

Well, guess what? Life doesn’t work the way you want. Suck it up, Parker.

A round of thunderous applause drowns out his thoughts. Peter huffs. Another celebrity has probably just arrived; either that, or some kind of speech is about to start. He couldn’t care less, either way. Someone clears their throat

“Hello, hello!”

Peter almost falls off the antenna. His head whirls to pinpoint the voice, a ship homing in to the beam of a lighthouse. He yanks off his mask, and the world assaults him with information and sound and light, and his heart rate skyrockets to probably over 150, pounding relentless at his temples. He ignores all that. They don’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He fixes his gaze in the direction where most of the applause is coming from.

All that matters is the voice, that voice, his voice—Peter holds his breath, throat throttled, his mind a potpourri of fleeting words and formless thoughts and disbelief and disbelief and disbelief. And beneath it all… a hint of what strays dangerously close to hope.

“Thank you, thank you all so much for coming!”

It’s him. It’s got to be him. The timbre, the confidence, the hidden smirk. The warmth.

Peter never ran so fast in his life. Ran, hopped, skipped. He could’ve thwhipped himself over, but his entire body was shaking and he didn’t trust his aim. He skids to a halt by the end of the terrace, panting hard even though the short sprint should’ve been like a casual stroll to his enhanced body.

He hesitates a split second. Then he looks down—

It’s him It’s him It’s hIM IT’s HIM IT’S HIM. He is here, he is in this universe. He is alive, alive, aliVE, ALIVE, ALIVE.

Peter crumples onto the floor, barely keeping enough wits about himself to rein in the volume of his gasping breaths. They came, and came, and came, wracking his thin wiry form, tsunamis of joy and relief, and still that disbelief. Abruptly he snaps his head up over the low concrete wall, terrified that the man would be whisked away if he so much as blinked, like a mirage, a hologram, another one of BARF’s cruel simulations.

And he’d lose him again.

But no. The man is still there, still present, right there. Talking. Laughing. Holding a champagne glass. He says a toast, mingles with some celebrities, takes a sip.

Peter laughs. It’s a quiet laugh, yet somehow hysterical. Half-deranged.

Seven worlds. Seven universes.

I found you, he thinks. I found you.

He thinks it so strongly, so violently, that he can almost imagine it hurtling across the air, louder than any shout or declaration.

I found you, Mr. Stark.

“Bye honey! Love you!”

Robert puts down his phone and smiles fondly in the direction of the Hamptons, invisible behind New York’s skyline and its pulsating, effervescent night. Just a short drive away, Susan and the kids are waiting for him, with the promise of pop tarts and a family movie night. No, nothing from the MCU… Exton’s in a bit of a Batman phase right now, and Avri idolizes her brother.

Hey, at least he’ll be watching a different billionaire superhero on screen for a change!

Robert chuckles and shakes his head. The whirlwind press tour ended not too long ago, and overall, he’s had a very good few days. It’s nice to finally have the chance to wind down and enjoy a well-earned meal or two with his friends and co-stars, not to mention a few (more than a few!) video calls with his family.

The din of the party grows louder behind him. He’s been able to excuse himself from the general hubbub with Susan’s phone call, and he breathes in the night air, not exactly in a hurry to get back. He’s always loved the energy and goodwill coming from the fans, but eleven years and ten movies in, it’s both bittersweet and incredibly satisfying to have completed his journey in such a way. This fundraiser ball will be the last official engagement for him in quite a while, and he’s looking forward to the peace and quiet (not that things are ever that quiet with a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old).

A small voice pipes up from behind him.

“M-Mr. Stark?”

Robert snorts. No rest for the wicked, it seems. All the same, he turns around and cocks an eyebrow, stepping effortlessly into character. A trivial kindness on his part can be the highlight of someone else’s day, so why not play Tony for a little while longer?

“Alright, you found me,” he says with a quick shrug. The light from the skyscraper’s spire blinds him temporarily, and he can only make out the shadow of a figure. “And you are? Come on, step forward.”

The figure remains frozen. Robert squints. It’s a man, he thinks—not very tall (which is saying something, coming from him), and built rather strong. Probably one of the younger guests at the ball.

He beckons again. He knows how to deal with star-struck fans. “Come on,” he says, this time letting a bit of warmth into his voice. “I’m not gonna fire a missile at you. Unless you’re secretly from HYDRA?”

The young man is trembling, Robert notices—so violently that, even with a good ten feet’s distance and his silhouette darkened by backlight, the shiver is still apparent.

The actor shrugs. Sometimes fans get more than a bit overwhelmed; he’s not one to judge. He takes a step, still squinting, and hears a sniff. Ah, so they’ve probably seen Endgame, huh.

But then, finally, the person steps closer.

Robert’s mouth drops open. Then he beams. “Tom? I thought you’re in Mexico!” He strides forward, arms outstretched. “Should’ve given me a heads-up that you were dropping in!”

Tom is oddly silent, but Robert hears an unmistakable gasp as his arms wrap around the young man. There’s a split second pause, and then Tom is hugging him back, almost uncomfortably tight.

“Woah there,” Robert says, taken aback. “Press tour that bad, huh?”

Tom doesn’t answer. He’s still trembling. Robert frowns at the texture at his fingertips.

“Is that—” he looks down, and laughs. “Did you smuggle that off set?”

Tom still doesn’t answer. Instead, he… whimpers. There’s no other word for it. He whimpers: a plaintive, tiny noise, halfway broken.

“Mr. Stark,” he croaks, and buries his face in Robert’s shoulder. Then, quietly, powerfully, he begins to sob.

Robert rubs his co-star’s tense heaving shoulders. For a prank scene, Tom is really giving it his all—tears are coming hard and fast, and already the fabric of his tuxedo is damp. You owe me a new suit, Robert thinks fondly as he settles into the rhythm of the shoot. He wonders where the cameras are at, and wonders where they’ll use this footage; maybe on the press tour for Far From Home?

He expects someone to shout And Cut from the sidelines. Tom just hasn’t stopped crying, and his grip is tighter than ever. But then a full minute passes, and all he hears is the buzz of conversation back from the party, and the occasional whistling wind, and Tom’s quiet, devastated sobs.

Surreptitiously he glances around. He’s been in the industry long enough to know every possible camera angle they can surprise him with, and… he doesn’t see a camera. Not even a drone.

This is him, Robert realizes with a pang in his heart. Just him.

He hasn’t seen this kind of panic in the young actor ever since the early days of Spider-Man’s inception into the MCU, and even back then, Tom had certainly never just… broken down, like this. Robert doesn’t ask about why he’s here at the party, why he’s in costume, and a million other questions that demand answers. Those can come later.

“Hey,” he says, gently brushing the young man’s hair. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, buddy.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom gasps. “I-I’m s-sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Robert frowns. He double and triple-checks that there really is no camera, before his gaze comes back to the boy in his arms. It makes no sense. Why would Tom not drop character? Yet the emotions seem so genuine.

“Do you want to go inside for a bit and talk?” Robert offers finally, unsure again whether or not this whole thing is a prank.

Tom seems to consider for a moment, before he nods. Almost sheepishly he steps away from Robert, still sniffling. He takes a shaky breath, visibly steadying himself.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says, glancing at his feet. “I… I guess I’m called Tom in this dimension but I…” he trails off.

Robert’s frown deepens. Before he can further question his young co-star, though, his phone buzzes, and out of habit he slips it out of his pocket.

It’s a message. From Tom.

[Tom Holland]: just wrapped up press tour in Mexico!

[Tom Holland]: heard u’re on the last leg too, Boss Man, so congrats

[Tom Holland]: oh and jake says hi

[Tom Holland]: see u stateside! say hi to susan & the kids for me :)

[Tom Holland]: Sent a photo.

Robert swipes his phone open. It’s a photo of Tom and Jake, making the webshooting motion as they enter the airport gates, a crowd of fans behind them. Robert blinks. He lifts his gaze.

Tom is in front of him, in costume, head still lowered.

He looks down at his phone. Double-checks the time-stamp.

Tom is in Mexico. About to fly.

Robert feels dizzy. He looks back and forth between the two Toms, then focuses his attention on the Tom who’s here. He reaches out and touches his cheeks, trying to see if there’s make-up or even a face mask. Tom lifts his head at the contact. His eyes are red and twinkling still. His face is entirely real.

“Who… are you?” Robert asks in a whisper.

“I’m, I-I’m Peter,” the young man stammers. “Peter Parker.” He looks on the verge of tears again. “Mr. Stark, you have no idea, I just—I’ve been to so many dimensions and—”

“I’m not Mr. Stark,” Robert says, numbly. He pinches a cheek, his own this time. It hurts. It’s real. “My name is Robert.”

Not-Tom looks as if he’s about to say something when he blinks. A split second later, he leaps up—ten feet, easy—over Robert, over the balcony, and over the railings.

Robert’s heart almost stops. He rushes to the edge of the Deck, and looks down in stunned horror.

The young man hasn’t fallen. Instead, he is plastered to the side of the building—no wires, no safety harness, no equipment of any kind. Just… sticking.

Robert blinks. Blinks again. His mind is blank.

Not-Tom seems to sense something, and looks up. Their eyes meet. Not-Tom gives him a small, grateful smile.

“Robert?”

Robert jumps. He whips around to see Gwyneth, who happens to be at this event.

“Oh hey,” he says. He gulps even though his mouth feels dry. “Hey.”

Gwyneth smiles. “You were taking so long they sent me to find you. Everything fine back home?”

“Uh, yeah! Of course, of course.”

“Good to hear. Come on, they’re waiting for your speech.”

And with that, she’s already moving away.

Robert breathes out. He casts one last look over the railings.

Not-Tom is still there, clinging to the building. Peter is still there. The boy hasn’t looked away, and upon catching Robert’s gaze, his eyes shine.

“Wait for me,” Robert blurts out. “I want to talk to you.”

Peter’s eyes widen. Then he nods.

“Okay.”

Part 1 of 2. Also on AO3.

My main post-Endgame Iron Family fic is Hearts of Iron!

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