Chapter Text
Fourteen million, six hundred and five outcomes.
Funnily enough, that -- in Doctor Strange's deep timbre -- is the first thing Peter's brain chooses to recall when he's hauled into the arms of a desperate Tony Stark and thoroughly kissed in the dusky, orange heat of Titan.
Oh wow, he thinks, dazed by the sudden turn of events. He wavers on his feet, and Stark's hold is the only thing which keeps him upright. Where the hell did I end up?
At the end of the day, Peter is a sci-fi geek and science nerd with a deep working understanding of physics. The existence of multiverses is hardly an outlandish concept to him. All the weird shit he's seen throughout his amateur superhero-ing career just further cements the concept.
It only makes sense that there are other worlds extremely similar to theirs, worlds that are fighting the same threats and working to reverse the same apocalyptic actions of a mad Titan.
So, this Tony Stark that's kissing Peter with such heartwrenching desperation? As much as Peter could wish otherwise, as much as he loves his mentor in ways he could never give voice to, this isn't -- cannot be -- his Tony Stark.
Peter's in the top of his class at Midtown Tech. He's hopelessly infatuated, not stupid.
There were more than fourteen million divergences from just that one single point in time Strange had accessed. If that's the case, then how many more divergences and alternate realities could there have been in total? How many more universes with different variations of Peter Parker and Tony Stark?
If that number is even a fraction of what Peter imagines, then how hard would it be to find a near-identical world? One where the only difference is that Tony Stark feels for his Peter Parker in a way Peter’s only ever known through dreams?
Not that difficult, apparently.
What is difficult, however, is resisting Stark’s lips when they’re moving against Peter's like that. It doesn’t matter which Tony Stark he’s dealing with, a kiss is still a kiss, and it’s no surprise that the Tony Stark of a different universe is just as skillful as Peter imagined. And man, can this Stark kiss, even without any contribution from Peter.
It’s almost a good thing that Stark's embrace is so vice-like and unrelenting that Peter has no choice but to wrap both his legs around the man and submit to his death-grip, because with the way Stark's lips are devouring his? Peter’s too weak-kneed to stand in any capacity.
It’s so much. Too much. The sting of mechanic’s fingers weaving into Peter’s hair, the roughness of his beard chafing against Peter’s skin, the heat of his arm that’s looped low on Peter’s waist, the distinct scent of Tony that apparently transcends universes… Peter’s had countless dreams about being loved by Tony Stark, and this blows them all out of the water.
He’s on fire.
And if Peter’s honest, he... kind of kisses back. He lets it continue half a minute longer than he should, sighs softly and lets his own lips part ever-so-slightly, just so he can know how Tony Stark’s tongue feels when it brushes up against his own. It’s not like this will ever happen for him again.
It’s his only chance to know.
Besides, Peter’s recently died and come back to life, so he allows himself this one celebratory indulgence -- and what an indulgence it is.
At the end of the day, though, his good conscience wins. Peter steels himself and draws back just enough that his lips break apart from Stark’s. “Uh, Mr. Stark?” he says, trying to ignore how husky his voice sounds. “I’m not...I’m not...”
God, what does one even say in a situation like this?
“Sweetheart,” Stark murmurs, “it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And oh God, Peter is instantaneously and hopelessly hard, just from those few words of endearment.
Stark dips back in with parted lips and hooded eyes like a starving, drunk man, and Peter wants so badly to fall forward and lick into the billionaire's mouth, to let himself be ravished.
But, this isn’t his Tony.
This man, enticing and familiar as he is, is not the man Peter’s worshipped his entire life, nor the actual man that Peter had gotten to know over the course of these past few years. He’s not the man who learned Peter’s darkest secrets and wholeheartedly accepted them, nor the man who brought Peter and Ned to the Last Jedi premiere, nor the man who spent hours upon hours working with Peter in the lab for no other reason than that Peter likes science and enjoys working on projects.
No, this Tony Stark is a completely different man from a completely different universe, who has his own Peter Parker that he loves so very dearly if the look in his eyes is indicative of anything.
With those thoughts in his mind, Peter manages to resist and dodge Stark’s searching lips. “Mr. Stark, I’m not your Peter,” he blurts, and that, thankfully, stops the man in his tracks.
“Not my--” Stark pulls back in bewilderment and finally gets a good, long, searching look at Peter’s face. He likely finds something distinctively different as his gaze charts out every detail of Peter’s visage, because his face pales and his arms slacken. Peter -- with nothing holding him up beside his shaky legs that are still wrapped around the man’s waist -- goes falling backward like a dead weight.
At the last moment, Peter instinctually releases his legs so he doesn’t drag Stark down with him; he lands hard on his back like an overturned turtle while a stricken Stark stands stock-still above him.
“Uh, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, trying his hardest to keep his voice from shaking.
It’s a lot to process. One moment, he’s coming back to life, and then he’s being kissed within an inch of his life by a mirror image of the man he loves, and then he’s being dropped like a sack of potatoes because he’s not the right Peter Parker for this Tony Stark.
His body aches, his head throbs, and his heart hurts.
Actually, his heart feels like it’s being squeezed until it’s a second away from bursting. Because this? He wants this, so damn much. Why can’t he be this Peter? Why can’t this Tony be his? Why can’t his own Tony love him like this?
“Oh God,” Stark breathes. “Oh my God. What the fuck is going on?” He looks down at Peter, and his face twists in an ugly mixture of anger and confusion that makes Peter feel sick. Never in Peter's life, even when he's fucked up to ridiculous extents like at Staten Island Ferry, has he imagined that Tony Stark could ever regard him with such a hateful expression. “Who the fuck are you, then, and what the fuck do you want?"
When Peter fails to immediately answer, Stark pounces forward into the most uncomfortable straddle and fists the collar of Peter’s suit. “Answer me, you son of a bitch,” he snarls, giving Peter a rough shake that bounces the back of his head off the dirt several times.
Peter could say that the force of impacts are painful, but they're not -- not really. Not when compared to the look of pure loathing on the man's face, or the inherent wrongness of the concept that some version of Tony Stark is laying hands on Peter. No, those hurt worse, by far.
“Where’s Peter? My Peter?” Stark asks, and he shakes Peter even harder -- so hard that Peter feels a lump rise in his throat and dejected tears sting at his eyes.
“Stark,” someone tries to interrupt.
“Shut the fuck up!” Stark barks. He drags Peter’s head a few inches off the ground so that they’re nose-to-nose again, except this closeness is distinctively not awesome. Not like before. “Where is Peter?” Stark asks -- slowly, menacingly, and then his voice cracks horribly at the end. “Tell me,” Stark grits out, and after a long pause, he swallows and hisses, “Fucking tell me, right now.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter finally manages to stutter. “I’m sorry.” Against his will, he begins to cry. Once he starts, he can’t stop, and he finds himself sobbing in earnest under the wrong Tony Stark -- one who has no comfort to offer him. It’s utterly humiliating. “Mr. Stark,” he weeps, “I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on. I am Peter, you have to believe me.”
“Prove it,” Stark snarls, looking like he’s seconds away from straight-up choking the life out of Peter. “Fucking prove it.”
Peter knows, immediately, the one thing that is likely to count as sufficient proof, and he hates that he has nothing else to offer. Peter's an open book about most things, which is now biting him in the ass. He hates that he has to bring this up -- that he has to take something so sensitive, so private to him and Mr. Stark alone, and then exploit it. All just to fucking prove that he's himself.
It's not fair.
It's his only option.
“Skip,” Peter gasps out, wretchedly. "Skip Westcott."
Stark goes rigid above him.
The ghost of Peter's childhood nightmare swoops down and sucks the air away for the most horrid of suspended moments.
There’s a long, terrible silence that follows, interrupted only by Peter’s crestfallen sobs and the deafening loudness of how Stark is noticeably not breathing.
Peter closes his eyes and wishes, hard, that he’ll open them and find himself back in his own world.
They remain closed for a long time. Long enough that he hears Stark start breathing again -- deep, shuddering, pained breaths, the sound of someone trying desperately to hold himself in one piece.
“Kid,” Peter finally hears, whispered in a strangled voice, and he opens his eyes to the conflicted visage of the wrong Tony Stark. For a moment, he swears he catches something flashing across man’s eyes, something full of tenderness and love. It’s gone, though, before Peter can properly identify it, let alone savor it, and then the warm weight of a body over him vanishes as Stark pushes himself up, takes a deep, quivering breath, and walks away without a single backward glance.
And then Peter is alone.
He bawls, lying flat on his back and bringing his hands up so he can press the heels against his eyes. “Wake up. Please, wake up.” He tries slapping himself once, twice; hot, sharp stinging erupts along the side of his face, vividly real. Regrettably real.
He doesn’t wake.
This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare of some sort. He can’t be trapped on this planet with strangers who look like his friends and family -- strangers who bring up feelings of affection and familiarity in him that will just go unfulfilled.
Fuck the kiss, fuck the good fortune of this universe’s Peter Parker; Peter wants his own Tony Stark. He wants his own May and his own Ned.
He wants to crawl into May’s arms and breathe in the scent of her soap and perfume.
He wants to listen to Ned’s rambling words that have long become an essential element of his day-to-day life.
He wants to see Mr. Stark on Titan and bask in his mentor’s presence, in that sense of comforting reassurance his person seems to radiate for Peter. And if all Peter gets for his return is a clap on the shoulder, he won't even feel disappointed. He’ll be good; he won't dare to be discontent, ever again.
He just wants to go home.
“Peter,” the deep baritone of Dr. Stephen Strange says then, and it’s not comforting in the way Peter wants, nor does it aid the smallest bit in helping Peter swallow down the tears that just won’t stop coming. His entire chest aches fiercely, and he can’t breathe. “Peter,” Dr. Strange tries again, and an uncontrollable whine escapes Peter’s throat. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.
“Hey, dude, stop.” A different voice breaks through his thoughts, and suddenly, strong and warm hands are helping him sit up. It’s enough movement and physical contact to help Peter see through his fog of misery. “You’re stressing him out, cut down the intensity.”
It’s Quill -- the other Peter, the one who likes Footloose and is weird and kind of cocky, but has a certain warmth to him -- and he smiles at Peter in this kind of freaked out, sympathetic manner that makes it a little easier to breathe.
“Hey, buddy,” Quill tries, “Peter. It’s okay, just let it out. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”
I’ve got you, you’re okay.
It’s nearly identical to the arousing words Stark had hissed in his ear not minutes ago, but has a completely different effect.
Listening to Quill’s soothing tone is like uncorking the drain on a full bathtub. Slowly, Peter manages to reign in the sobs as Quill gently rubs his back, up and down, up and down. When Peter takes his first deep breath that doesn’t get interrupted by a sob, Quill makes this light little noise of victory that Peter can’t help but smile at. “There you go,” Quill says, patting Peter on the shoulder. “That’s a little better, right?”
Peter Quill is quickly becoming Peter’s favorite person in this shitty universe -- not that the bar was set especially high. But still, he likes this Quill, and he appreciates the kindness so much. "Thank you, Mr. Star-Lord,” Peter says, wiping away the remaining tears on his face. “I do feel better. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. And Star-Lord? Just Peter is fine. Or Quill, if that’s easier for you right now. Or...right!” Quill snaps his fingers. “Big Pete and Little Pete! Does that help?”
“That’s perfect,” Peter murmurs, grateful and hungry to accept every ounce of comfort possible. “Big Pete. Little Pete. I like that.”
His eyes flutter as warm fingers stroke at his hair, and a hand guides his head to rest against the firm, flat expanse of Quill’s chest. “I don’t know what to do,” Peter whispers against the soft leather of Quill’s jacket.
“Are you…” Quill asks hesitantly, “Are you from a different dimension or something?”
Thank god for Peter Quill. Even as he asks, his hands never stop gently carding through Peter’s hair. It’s probably the only thing keeping him relatively sane at this moment, a single physical anchor.
It also hits Peter, though, that besides some heated kissing followed by a freakout and embarrassing tears, he hasn’t really given anyone a clue as to what’s going on. They’re probably all wondering, and Peter has little choice but to face this situation.
Otherwise, it won’t get solved. And that’s simply unacceptable.
Peter clears his throat and summons every ounce of composure left in his body. “I fought on Titan with Mr. Stark and I, well.” Died. “But I wasn’t...with Mr. Stark.” Even if I’ve always wanted him. “We’re close, but not like, uh, this. So I think I somehow fell into the wrong universe.”
“You’re not wrong,” Dr. Strange contributes, voice minutely softer compared to how it previously sounded. The barest tendrils of magic are disappearing from his fingers -- clearly, he had taken a minute or two to investigate the situation while Peter was otherwise occupied.
“There are countless universes,” Strange explains, “and in many, the Avengers don’t reverse Thanos’ actions. In some, Thanos isn’t even a threat. But those few worlds where Thanos gained the Infinity Stones and the Avengers were successful in reversing his misdeeds occur on different timelines and at their own pacing. Some instances, it takes mere months. Other times, years. Either way, these differences ensure that when the dead are returned, they can easily find their way back to their rightful place.” A regretful look crosses his sharp features, then, and he looks directly at Peter. “Unfortunately, that was not the case here.”
“So,” Peter says, lifting his head from Quill’s chest as his brain works in full gear. “You mean that at the same exact time my world’s Avengers reversed what Thanos did...”
“It just so happened that we did the exact same,” Strange finishes with a nod. “Two mass exoduses, two enormous groups of people coming back into existence at the same time. In the process, you and the other Peter Parker were misplaced. It remains to be determined why this has happened to the two of you, specifically. Only the two of you, it seems.”
Well, that certainly explains it in the vaguest of ways. But… “How do we figure it out and fix this?” Peter asks, and ugh, he cringes at the desperation that leaks into his voice, the way it raises in pitch by octaves. “I need to go back - I have people I love and I need to go back to them. As much as this is…” kind of everything I’ve fantasized about. He quickly shuts his mouth before he reveals more.
Strange quirks an eyebrow and Quill murmurs something that sounds a lot like ‘Oh, man,' but aside from that, everyone graciously glosses over his slip. Strange says, “I have some theories, but it will take time,” and Peter’s heart falls.
“But,” Peter says, even though he knows anything he says is useless. He’s in the wrong place, and all the if’s and but’s in the world won’t change it.
It doesn’t matter if the thought of a different Peter Parker -- one with no compunction about kissing his mentor -- being anywhere near Peter’s own Tony Stark fills him with a defensive, burning jealousy.
It doesn’t matter that Peter dreads the possibility that his own Tony will learn from a doppelganger how Peter looks when he’s desperate in that type of way, or how Peter’s lips feel against his.
It doesn’t matter that if the fates were so generous that Tony was going to find out, his own Peter should be the one to show him, not some impostor.
The only thing that will fix everything is action and resilience and -- Peter really hopes -- the aid of this universe’s heroes.
“Okay,” he murmurs, and then louder, with more conviction, “Alright. We’ll work on those theories, then. If...you're willing?”
Strange looks at him with something that borders on approval. “That we will,” he agrees. “You can rest assured I will not rest until this is resolved.”
Thank god, Peter thinks. He doesn’t know what he would have done if Strange had refused to help. “I -- Thank you, Doctor,” Peter says as Quill guides him to his feet. Knowing that he has at least two people on his side is an enormous relief. He manages to stay standing on shaky legs, though Quill’s arm around his waist makes the job easy.
With his feet back under him, Peter finally surveys his surroundings and notices their lack of an audience. Stark is nowhere to be found. Neither are Quill’s friends. It’s just the three of them left.
Catching Peter’s confused look, Strange says, “Everyone else has already boarded the Guardians’ ship. As the process of regeneration has depleted my energy somewhat, we’re flying back to Earth instead of opening a portal.”
“Oh,” Peter says. He had been hoping to get his feet back on Earth as soon as he can, but if Strange is tired, there's little they can do. Peter’s not going to complain, especially when the man has so generously agreed to help him with his situation not even five minutes ago. “T-that’s fine. I suppose we should get going, huh?”
Strange levels him with a look that says he’s not fooling anyone. “I may not be able to open a portal,” the wizard says, “But I have more than enough magic to put you to sleep for the duration of the trip.”
Peter swallows, feeling a flood of relief. “That would actually be great, Doctor. That - I’d really appreciate that. Could you?”
“Of course.”
Together, they get settled in the ship, and Peter allows himself to be led straight to a private bedroom where Quill lays out a soft shirt for him -- one big enough that it hangs to mid-thigh. “Leather pants aren't comfortable to sleep in, and I don't usually wear clothes to bed, so..." The man shrugs apologetically. "This should cover you, though. And if you need anything, that--” he points out an intercom-like button on the wall, “will call someone to you. But otherwise, there’s facilities through that door if you want to clean up, and this bed is all yours. Take it easy and get some sleep, okay?”
Peter nods his thanks, then gets dressed and crawls under the covers of the plush bed.
The day finally gets to him, then, as he wraps himself in softness and goes limp. Everything slows down, and all he wants is to drift into unconsciousness, far beyond the reaches of any thought or worry. He wants to be aware of nothing. Distantly, though, he catches the sounds of muted knocking at the door.
"Come in." He peeks out from under the protection of the comforter as the door slips open.
It's Strange.
For all that the doctor was pushy earlier, he's silent and gentle now, sitting on the bed by Peter's head and running practiced hands through Peter's hair. It's authoritatively soothing in a way only a doctor's touch could be, and Peter closes his eyes with a soft sigh.
"I'm going to place a simple sleeping spell on you, followed by a spell to ward off any dreams. You will wake naturally once we are on Earth. Is this okay?"
"Yes, please, thank you," Peter murmurs, bracing himself for whatever magic is coming his way. However weird it would feel, worth it.
But the discomfort doesn't come. There's a melodic murmuring of a spell in Strange's deep baritone and the hypnotizing carding of fingers through his hair.
Peter's eyes slip closed, and the world mercifully fades to tranquil darkness.
---
Strange doesn’t linger once Earth is back under their feet.
“I need to investigate some things of a magical nature,” he explains to Peter, “and consult some of my peers. At this stage, I’m afraid your intelligence -- as impressive as it is -- will be of little help. What I’m investigating goes beyond scientific understanding.”
“It’s okay,” Peter says earnestly. He takes a deep breath and forces the bravest smile he can muster. “I understand, Doctor. Don’t worry. Do what you need to do.”
Strange looks at him with softer eyes, and nods in approval. “Good kid,” he murmurs, and it’s impossible not to preen a little at the compliment when it’s delivered in such a smooth tone by someone with the innate authority Strange seems to radiate. “Stark has my contact if you need it, and I’ll be in touch.” With a few twists of the hand, Strange opens a portal for himself. “Take care, Peter,” Strange says, and then he steps through, portal shutting cleanly behind his heel.
And then there were three.
Peter looks at Quill first, trying his best to ignore the burning presence of Stark behind him. Quill meets his gaze and offers a small smile. “I wish I could stay, Pete,” Quill says, truly apologetic, “But there’s a few things I have to take care of first.”
“And after?” Peter asks, hating how needy he sounds.
“A week, max,” Quill assures him. “We just need to run a few tasks, and I’ll come straight back. It's time I revisit this planet, anyways. It's been decades.”
“Okay,” Peter breathes, nodding a few times to calm himself.
“Hug goodbye?” Quill asks, opening his arms, albeit a bit stiffly. Peter doesn’t hesitate before stumbling forward and falling into Quill’s embrace. His arms are strong, and his body is solid. Sure, he hugs like he'd had very little practice in physical affection, but any hug is still a hug. The simplest and most accurate way to describe the feel of the man is safe.
I can do this, Peter thinks as he breathes in the space pirate’s scent. Just one week, and then I’ll have this again.
He tells that to himself over and over as he watches the Benatar disappear into the atmosphere.
Then, steeling himself, Peter turns to face the cutting figure of Tony Stark. “Okay,” he says, meeting the billionaire’s unreadable gaze. Some (read: most) of Peter's bravado is absolutely false, but he figures this is a 'fake it till you make it' type of situation. “What now?”
“Follow me,” Stark says shortly, as he turns and walks further into the compound.
With few options available to him and nothing else to do, Peter follows.