Work Text
May smiles gently, petting down the curl askew on his temple. Peter leans his head into her hand, giving her a smile back. “Be careful, won’t you, sweetheart?”
Peter nods slightly, closing his eyes tightly to stop the itching feeling of tears threatening to spill. He could barely keep his voice from cracking as his lip trembled. “Of course, Aunt May.”
May kisses his forehead, tugging his shoulder to push him into a hug. She wraps her arms around him tightly. He could feel her slipping something into his pocket, warm and solid, but he could barely think about it when Peter could hear her frantic heartbeat, could smell the tang of salt tracking her cheeks and landing on his shoulder. He’s hyperaware of his Aunt’s every movement.
At that moment everything comes flooding back to his senses. The smell of burning flames and high-beaming light shooting near them. Midgardian gunpowder grows sharper as it spills, the sharp prickle of his danger sense settling in. The smell of iron and vomit fills his nose as he buries his face into her shoulder.
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, listening as May’s heartbeat gets quicker and quicker and the flames grow hotter.
Suddenly, May pushes him back urgently, dark eyes boring into him. “Go, Peter. I can’t leave, but you can.”
Peter shakes his head violently, eyes darting to her trapped leg surrounded by twisted, bloody, torn up metal. He can feel his throat clogging, his limbs starting to tremble. “No-no no nonono- May I cant- I can’t- You can’t leave me, okay? I’ll get you out. I-I promise. I’m strong enough. I can do it.”
As Peter starts to tear at the metal trapping her leg, his hands become bloody. Vibranium easily slices his skin with ease regardless of its sturdiness. May finally lets tears start dripping out of her eyes, tracking her tears down her cheeks.
“No. Go. He’s coming, Peter. I can’t stop him.” May pushed him harder, enough for Peter to actually be sent backwards. “But- May- please-”
A loud boom, and the sharp ringing suddenly in his ears alerts Peter to the spaceship that was blown up not too far from them. A plomb of smoke, screaming, crying, the oncoming footsteps has Peter scrambling.
“Go!” May screams, her eyes alight with fear as she tosses him the controls. “I love you, Peter! Now go!”
Peter could barely comprehend what happens next as a chunk of flaming metal is launched towards him, hitting the ground…on May.
The crunch of her bones, the splatter of her blood sprays his face as he’s launched backwards. His hearing goes out again and Peter can feel the shock settling in as he scrambles to the ship only a bit away.
He doesn’t have time. He has to leave. Leave.
Escape.
Without May.
The tears burn as Peter launches himself into the pod, the glass slamming closed as another ray is shot nearby. His breathing starts to pick up as a soft voice starts to speak as bright, blinding lights turn on.
“I’m Pod 213, and I will be your guide as you travel. Please keep hands, tentacles, feet, and any other appendages strapped in at all times. Please strap in after typing in your desired location.”
Peter furrows his brows, his vision blurry as he types in a random location, somewhere far from the sound of it. It’s what May told him…but he never had the chance to ask.
Strapping himself in, Peter could hear yelling outside the pod as the boosters stirred to life and launched him with a jolt into the air. Something hits the side of the pod, sending it spinning and bright red lights blinking boldly across the screens.
“Yellow Code 83, Pod 213 will now go into stasis mode for passen-” A glitch starts, the lights spazzing which sends Peter into a worse panic. He’s going to die. He won’t make it.
He failed May.
“Destination is located. Launching in 3…2…1…”
Peter feels the pod moving before it even finishes the count, a deep blue gas starts to fill the pod and he can feel his danger sense spike again. He can’t leave. There's no air-
He’s going to die- diediedie-
“You will be at Erang-” Static. Another glitch overtakes the entire pod, controls blinking and the destination panel flashing different locations from what he typed in. Peter can feel his eyes getting heavy, his limbs going numb from the smoke. His eyes close and he can barely catch the last sentence before it goes completely dark.
“-Midgard in approximately 1 Rolipra day, or 237 Midgardian hours.”
— Peter woke up to the sound of pounding winds, blinding sunlight, and the frantic beeping of controls on the panel in front of him. Blinking his blurry vision away, Peter brings his hands up to rub at his eyes. It takes a few seconds to register what is happening, but by that time it’s too late for Peter to do anything as he sees land rushing up to meet his pod.
Fuck- Shit shitshitshit–
Peter barely had the time to brace himself before the pod impacted on the ground, an explosion ringing in his ears as his seat was ejected violently as a secondary blast of heat was fired into his surroundings. His head slams on sheet metal below him, cracking ominously enough for Peter to become immediately disoriented with the breath knocked out of him. Everything is sore and there is a burning, stinging pain on his right hip that makes him want to scream.
Fuck.
Heat beats down on his frame as Peter struggles for air. His head throbs terribly and he struggles just to open his eyes enough to try and look at his surroundings. The color of orange and pale-yellow attacks his eyes, with the clashing of blue of the…sky? He’s heard about it before, in their books, but never has he seen one.
Where the fuck is he?
The straps on his cushioned chair give out, retracting back into the seat. Peter couldn’t be more relieved as he rolls out of the chair and lands face-first in the burning hot crumbly-feeling ground. Peter closes his eyes again, just trying to breathe. His hands run through the grating substance under him as he feels like baking alive. Slowly, his hearing and sense of smell return to him. Smoke fills his lungs, and he can hear the crackling of flames somewhere off to his left.
Shit.
Bolting up from his position on the weird-soft-flowy ground Peter looks at the pod. It's torn to shreds as flames lick its Vibranium shell, wires sticking out sporadically as they crackle with electricity. Peter bites his lip, glancing around himself now. His only way out is destroyed, and the area he’s in just looks…desolate. Double fuck .He’d much rather scramble together the Unflems* for a whole day then figure this out. Peter raises himself off the ground, dusting off whatever the grainy looking substance is off his clothes. He’ll have to pick a random direction and hopefully come across…something?Where was he again? He typed in planet Erang, the address for May’s mother, but this is nothing like Erang. This is more like…
“Midgard in approximately 1 Rolipra day–”
Peter groaned out loud, smacking a hand across his face. He’s on Midgard . The most un-evolved planet in the system. Of-fucking-course.The horror stories surrounding this planet are famous on Rolipra, Erang, Asgard, and Disjencher. The amount of people they’ve killed of his…Peter shivers. They can’t know. They won’t know.Peter will disguise himself. Get help from…someone? Maybe someone else from his planet escaped here? Fuck if he knows. Peter starts to walk as he tries to shove his fangs back in, the ones showing he’s part venomous, which only a small population of Rolipra was. Otherwise, he was below average on his planet, always the loner, the slower one, the outcast. But he won’t think about that because Peter has to focus on walking on this god-awful grainy stuff that just keeps fucking moving with every step which is incredibly annoying. Peter heaves a sigh as he walks, heat beating down on his form of torn clothing and drying blood. His hip burns like never before as he tries to keep his balance. His mouth is dry as hell and it makes him want to dive into one of the water pits back home to feel alive again. Midgard seems terrible already. No water holes, no buildings, no spacecrafts, nothing but…whatever the hell this is. On top of that something keeps banging against his leg in his pocket and swear to the goddess above he will rip whatever it is to shreds. Shoving his hand into his pocket, Peter touches something smooth that radiates heat. Confused, he grasps it and pulls it out. Unfolding his hand near blinds him as he looks at a small, very bright, red stone. Blink.
Wait-
Holy shit. It's the Reality Stone. The longer he holds it the more it feels like it’s going to rip him apart, even in its suppressive casing.Glancing around himself, he shoves it back in. Biting his lip, he continues to walk faster away from the ship. His danger-sense starts to prickle. Is he being watched right now, how would he know? What if they're after the stone? Where did he even get it?
He felt May slide something in his pocket.
Of course his Aunt, even if her dying moments, prioritized anything and everything above herself. She gave him the stone to protect. She trusted he could leave. She trusted him.Now he has to trust her decision. Peter walks for a long time. He can barely think as he urges himself off, eyes dropping every now and then as sluggishness takes its hold of his limbs. Somewhere along the way he found this solid gray-black ground that makes him feel twice as hot. He doesn’t even remember when he found it, just that one moment everything was yellow-orange and the next there’s a staggering amount of faded gray lining the grain. Less than another mile into his walk on this weird path, Peter hears something. Like a loud engine, the sound of a motor turning in a familiar fashion as the craft warehouse on his planet. Next comes a blast of music, the tingling of his danger sense as the sound only gets louder. Looking behind himself, Peter squints to look at the blue-looking blob heading towards him.
What the actual shit is that?
The cart looking thing starts to slow its approach, circular black things rolling under it start to slow their spinning. Peter doesn’t really know what to think as he blinks blearily at the blue cart-rollie thing. The dark tinted glass rolls down in a slow fashion and Peter ducks his head down to see who’s inside. It’s an old woman, akin to what his Grandma Herata looked like at her worst. “Hi Sonny. What you doin' out here in the middle of Chihuahuan Desert?” The lady asks, eyes wide with curiosity. Peter furrows his brows, what did she say? “I don’t… understand?” Peter responds, and only a few seconds later does he want to hit himself. Of course. She’s speaking whatever the hell Midgardians speak. Peter speaks Roliprain. The lady just smiles without a concern. Maybe they’re used to his language? She doesn’t look distressed at the difference. “Ah, well, that’s okay, Sonny. Come on in, I’ll get ya to the next town.” The woman says, waving her hand towards herself. Peter can understand that much, at least. Looking at the cart thing, Peter puts his hand in the handle and pulls at it. Hearing a slick crack he panics and throws himself in the cart as fast as possible, almost slamming into the nice lady before slamming it probably way too hard by Midgardian standards. God Peter is so bad at this. The old lady hums, picking at a strap-thing laying across her chest. “Put this on, will ya?” Peter stares at her for a second, trying to comprehend what she’s wanting before looking to the side of her head where the strap is coming from then looking next to his own head. There was another one there, so Peter’s assuming he’s supposed to put it on. Tugging at it gently it pulls quickly to the point he feels it jam, making Peter pause because holy shit everything here is fragile. With a sigh, he lets it go as the lady directs and eventually clicks it in place next to a big red button thing. Midgardian technology is wack. The cart makes a sputtering noise before it starts rolling forwards again, wind picking up as it slaps at the sides of it while the little old lady starts to hum along to something that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Like, really, what the hell was it? Screeching zasipolls*?Peter had never wanted to rip his ears off his head more in his life . The ride was long as they passed by hills full of yellow-y grain, light from the sky beating down on all of it. Some type of vent was blowing cool feeling air around him, which is strange and a bit foreign since they didn’t have anything like it for their own personal use, just for the machines. But it is kinda useful, so Peter won’t comment. Soon Peter can see large buildings in the distance glistening with sharp lights, the sky turning muffled blue to darker tints of orange and black. There is a specific type of smell that hits Peter as they roll into the town, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s like the feeling of familiar surroundings, but never being there. Is that even a thing? Peter mentally shrugs. Eventually they roll next to a short sturdy looking building, bold white font against a black metal-looking sheet at the doors on the front. Peter furrows his brows as he tries to understand what it says but gives up halfway through. The old woman coughs, gaining Peter’s attention. Looking back at her the woman is pointing out the window. “In there, sonny. They’ll help you out. Them officers will know where to put ya.”Peter nods slowly, looking back at the building again as he clicks the big red button which releases the strap quick enough to startle him. Guess he’s going into that building. That’s what the lady’s pointing at anyway. Maybe there’s someone there from Rolipra she knows of? She seems confident. Peter nods decisively. “Thank you, Miss” Peter says as he opens the door, and the woman just nods. She doesn’t look like she understood what he said, but that she got the sentiment. With a little wave, the door shuts and the old woman pulls off out onto the long pathway again with a few other carts darting past. He’ll never understand this place at this rate. Turning around, Peter makes his way to the doors of the building. Pulling only slightly at the fragile looking handles to open it with a loud piercing ding from some type of bell. A head shoots up from behind a long counter, curly black hair frizzed to the max shoved into a half-fallen hairstyle he doesn’t know the name of. Her dark brown eyes bore into his own, and Peter pauses for a second as the woman tries to collect herself. “Hello, what seems to be the issue you need to report?” The woman asks politely, and Peter wants to bash his head in. Of course. Midgardian language again. Peter sighs, glancing around the place to try and understand where he was dropped off. “I, uh…I’m lost, I suppose?” She stares at him blankly for a second before furrowing her brows, clicking her nails along the countertop. “Great. Okay, well, I’ll get someone who might understand you out here. You from New York? I swear that’s the place with all that funky business.” Peter watches as she reaches for a weird-shaped device that kind of reminds him of a clunky semi-circle on a plate thing with buttons. She starts to click them, and he startles when a shrill ringing sound comes from the device. Damn that’s annoying.The woman starts talking in the device as Peter waits there awkwardly, watching as other people in similar clothing walk by with papers or other people in metal bracelets things that look distinctly uncomfortable. Wiping his nose on his wrist, the woman hands him a papery looking thing that kind of looks like a very thin cake. Is she giving him something to eat? It doesn’t look that appetizing…but Peter doesn’t want to be rude.What the hell does he do? He eats it.
That tastes like shit.
*** Stella didn’t know what to do. She’s seen weird shit, it’s Texas for God’s sake. She’s seen re-enactments of Ted Bundy or someone being a rip-off Bunny Man with an ax, and to be honest she shouldn’t be surprised by much at this point. But lo and behold, something strange hits again. It starts with this scruffy blood-covered teenager walking into the station, hair an absolute mess, weird clothing torn to hell and back, and the weird fear of touching literally anything she’s offered– like a tissue when he tries to wipe his nose. The boy ate the tissue. Stella is not paid enough for this because what the actual fuck? So as the phone rings in her ear, she prays to God someone picks up and she can ask what the hell is she dealing with. Because New York is so used to this she has to ask for their professional help. Plus, the boy distinctly sounds similar to Thor with that weird language…so somethings up. The phone finally picks up and a tired sigh is heard from the other side of the line. “Hello, This is the NYPD, how may I help?” Stella bites her lip, watching the boy look around as if he didn’t recognize anything. It’s creepy in a way. “Uh…yeah, this is Stella from CPD in Texas. I have a teenager here bloodied to hell and back, clothes torn, and speaking some language I’ve never heard before that sounds similar to what those aliens in New York spoke a while back. Like, Thor for example. You remember his speech of 2015? He sounds like him. I don’t have a clue what he’s saying but we can’t question him if we don’t know what he’s saying. Can you…get someone down here? You guys are the experts.” The guy scoffs, “You expect us to know anything? We don’t know what they’re saying half the time either.” Stella scowls. She hates dealing with guys like this. “Well, you have that direct contact with the Avengers, don’t you? It was established this year months ago. Can you just– give me the number to connect to?” With a sigh, the guy shuffles around on the other side of the line. “Fine, but fair warning they almost never show up to help unless it’s world-ending.” She nods, “I’ll take my chances.” The guy gives her the number, she thanks him, and hangs up. That was unpleasant. The boy is standing in front of her again, talking, and it sounds like distorted sounds that she can’t seem to quite catch. She just holds up a hand to him and he stops talking. “I don’t know what you’re saying. But I’m going to call someone that might. So, wait.” He stares at her a little bit longer before tilting his head and following where she points to a chair next to her station. He seems to understand that command and goes to sit on the chair as she types in the number for the Avengers. She prays to God that they respond. The phone starts to ring again, and Stella crosses her fingers that it works. It takes about twelve rings before there's a click, static, and a stern voice speaking into the phone. “This is Hogan.”Happy Hogan? Tony Stark’s personal guard? Thank fuck. “Yes, Mr. Hogan, the CPD in Texas needs some Avenger assistance. Nothing deadly, but there seems to be a boy here that talks eerily similar to Thor, as we all have come to understand his language from the 2015 speech, and no one here knows how to talk to him. The main problem is that he is covered in blood, torn clothes, and honestly looking as skinny as I’ve seen them. Do you think you can get someone out here that understands…well, any variation of how Thor speaks.” Hogan pauses for a moment. “Are you sure? Can it not just be an Eastern Language?”Stella nods, but voices it when she remembers he can’t see her. “Positive. It’s too distorted and indistinct.” There's clicking from the other side of the line as Stella waits impatiently. After about two or three minutes, Hogan shifts and starts talking again. “I can get Thor or Bruce Banner to come down, seeing as they are both free and have experience with Alien Languages. They can be there in approximately two hours.” Relief floods through her system, and gratitude takes place. “Thank you, Mr. Hogan. I’ll send the exact address.” “Don’t bother, Stark has it already. Be ready for a landing.” The line cuts and Stella puts the phone down on the receiver with a feeling of accomplishment. Not her problem. The boy is staring at her again, but she makes sure she doesn’t make eye contact with him for the remaining two hours it takes for the Avengers to get here. This is going to be awkward.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tony didn’t know what to think at first when Happy called him talking about some Alien threat in Texas, to be honest, he was surprised because all the weird shit normally comes straight to New York in their backyard. Which, Tony doesn't mind, because at least this time he won’t have to worry about skyscrapers falling and killing everyone within a half-mile radius.
Still doesn’t mean he wants to travel to
Texas
either.
With a sigh, he leaves his lab to head to the Avenger’s level. FRIDAY going over his schedule as he tries to figure out when he needs to cancel and go to just to see what the hell the threat in Texas is. He saw a news cast that even talked about a minor meteor that hit Earth earlier in the morning out in the desert.
There has to be a connection there, Tony knows it.
It wouldn’t make sense for them to be two different things. Alien language? Predicted minor meteor crash landing without days notice into the desert? Somethings up, and he’s going to figure it out.
The elevator dings quietly and the doors open smoothly. Tony steps out with confidence, glancing around the common room where the Avengers have already gathered. He probably has FRIDAY to thank for that.
“Well, looks like we’re going to Texas. So, other than Point Break or Brucie-Bear, who wants to come?” Tony asks pleasantly, eyeing everyone in the room. To be honest, he doesn’t want either Clint or Sam coming. They have been pissing him off for weeks with their inconvenient-timing pranks.
“I think Steve and Thor go. Most known icons, right? I think that’ll help. Thor knows the most about Alien languages, and Steve’s the second strongest here…and, no offense Bruce, I just don’t think we need a Code Green just yet.” Sam says casually, looking at his nails as if he actually cares about him.
Tony has never felt so much relief in his system then at this moment. Him, Thor, and Steve? At least Steve can be tolerable when it comes to missions, so Tony will take what he can get.
“Alright, then. Point Break, Cap, let’s get it rolling.” Tony spins around on his heel not bothering to watch the both of them get up.
They’ll follow.
***
Peter picks at the skin of his fingernails anxiously. He had no idea what the nice-looking, but very irritated, lady said. The only thing he managed to catch was a name.
Thor
.
Like. Thor.
The
Reigning King of Asgard?
Thor was mentioned. Was he here? On Midgard? What happened? Did Thanos get his planet too?
They haven’t heard of respondents to their sister planet in a while but… was that coincidental or was it because they’ve been wiped too?
Last thing he heard was that either Thor or his brother, Loki, had one of the other stones. Other than that Peter hasn’t heard a thing.
That’s good. If he doesn’t know. If not a soul tells…
Thanos doesn’t know either.
But he will try and find the stone that he killed everyone on Rolipra for. He’ll hunt Peter down as soon as he knows. He’ll slaughter and hurt anyone he gets close to—
Is it worth waiting for Thor? If Thor has a stone, would it be smart to be near him with another? So close? So noticeable?
Wouldn’t it be better with little unnoticeable Peter? Wouldn’t it be better if he disappears, hides away in the deepest parts of this Earth till he can figure out a way to leave? To fight Thanos?
Ha, there’s no way weak little Peter Parker could fight off a being such as Thanos with his army.
God he’s such a dreamer.
But he has to try.
He can’t wait for Thor or these… Aehngears? Avehnger? Whatever the hell the woman said in that Midgardian Language.
Peter has to leave. To protect the stone. To protect May’s wish. To prevent it being too close to a known power: Thor.
He needs to leave.
Peter bites his lip, glancing around the room where the lady was pointedly ignoring him. But there's no one else.
Taking a deep breath, Peter decides that he needs to make a break for it. He needs to go out, go on the run, hide away this stone and himself along with it. No one cares for him, there’s no one left to.
Why squander that?
Bolting up from his seat, Peter makes a mad dash for the doors. Pushing his arms out in front of him–he forgets himself. They shatter into millions of pieces. Metal bar being launched out into the lot-looking thing, the noise reverberating loudly. He barely feels it past the panic of
oh shit he’s going to be in so much trouble.
The scraping of chairs, the clicking of weapons, shouting, yelling, lights, and alarms make his head start to pound. His eyes go foggy and he feels disoriented. But he starts running. The large gray-black pathway stretches out for only a few minutes away before it’s completely swallowed by large buildings.
Peter can lose them there.
He has to protect the stone.
Ignoring the prickling of his danger-sense, Peter runs. He’s never ran faster in his life. He can feel his legs pumping, those carts that go crazy fast blurring in his vision as he just
runs
.
Loud shots can be heard behind him, and Peter can only that’s the Midgardian guns that Uncle Ben used to talk about. His danger-sense spikes, twists, and sharply stabs him over and over again until the danger finally hits him.
Literally.
A bullet tears through his left thigh and Peter’s never felt so much pain before in his life. The white-hot fire licking his muscles, the adrenaline trying to mask it because Peter can’t stop to help himself. He needs to run.
He needs to get somewhere safe.
Sirens ring out behind him as he hears the sound of blasters not far off from his location. It sounds dangerous. Foreign. He can’t chance it.
Ducking into a dead-end looking hall between buildings, Peter looks behind himself. No one is there but he can hear the heavy footsteps, the sounds of barking animals, and Peter looks up. The building isn’t too tall, and he could probably scale it quickly even in his current state. But will he be fast enough?
Peter has to try.
Another rush of anxiety sweeps through his being, choking him and making his hands shaky as he jumps up on his right leg, getting a grip with both hands. He sticks perfectly fine, thank the goddess, and he starts to scale it. Peter barely makes it over the lip at the top before animals come racing into the hall below him.
He watches wearily as the people search around with bright lights, muttering and yelling to each other. Yellow-tape being hung up everywhere near the puddle of blood that his leg left just for them.
There's no blood on the side of the building other than where Peter just tugged himself up from, but he doubts they’ll actually look upwards to spot it.
Backing away from the edge, Peter shuffles his way over to a small awning next to a door and sits under it. Glancing at his leg, he can see the beginning stages of the wound healing over, and just by prodding the back of his leg, he can tell it's a clean-through shot.
Thank fuck. It sucks digging shit out.
The blood leaks on the roofing, but Peter doesn’t pay it any mind as he leans his head on the concrete behind himself. It grates against the back of his arms, digs through his ripped shirt, stabs his wounded head. But it's a place to rest.
It will be enough, even if Peter feels like he’s fading.
It has to be.
***
Tony steps off the quinjet to a scene of chaos. Alarms are ringing, glass is shattered across the parking lot and one of the door handles is lodged into the side of a police car. There are officers surrounding the doors, dogs barking, cop cars skittering out the lot.
All Tony can think is that it looks like a guaranteed shitshow.
This is so not what he signed up for.
A man walks over to him. Gray hair, aged eyes with one that looks half-faded. Must be partially blind.
“Ah, Ironman! What a pleasure it is to have you at our station!” The man greets with a stilted smile. Tony raises a brow. “Is it? You seem to have your hands quite…filled. With this situation.”
The officer’s smile wanes a bit. “Yes, well, that boy we called you about? Up and bolted as soon as we got off the phone. We don’t know why. Some of the younger troops went out after him, but they lost the boy’s trail to one of the cities’ dead-end allies. It’s like he just disappeared.”
Tony nods, glancing back to Thor and Steve. “Did you attempt to see if he just escaped the ally? Climbed a wall? You did say he was a potential alien, right? Well, he probably has some type of powers we can’t begin to fathom. Why didn’t you put him in a holding cell? Interrogation room? Some place he couldn’t just run from?”
The man gulps, tugging at his collar. “Well, uh, Mr. Stark. It was a delicate situation we coul–”
Tony raises his hand. “So, you’re telling me we flew all the way out here, in record time may I add, just for you to lose the boy?”
Nodding glumly, the officer gives a sigh. “Yes, Sir.”
Tony runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. “Well, I guess our work here is done. Thank you for wasting our ti–”
“Sirs!” A woman yells, racing over. Her eyes were wide as cucumbers, her facial expression befitting someone who found something interesting. “We located the spacecraft– the rumored meteor– just a few miles away from here. It crashed and burned in the desert, so far we weren’t able to hear it.”
Turning towards Tony herself, he raised a brow. She has tenacity, he’ll give her that much. “And what does that have to do with us?”
Puffing her chest out, face stern, she looks both him and Steve in the eye.
“It’s an alien spacecraft. A boy, whom we consider foreign, the one we brought you here for, shows up only a bit later? It has to be connected, sirs. I think you would like to study it, Mr. Stark, seeing as this is your area of expertise and figuring out what we are working with.”
Thor coughs into his fist, Tony guesses he’s a little annoyed at being called an
alien
if only indirectly by this woman and speaks. “Thank you, Daughter of Falice! Will you take us to this craft?”
The booming voice of his friend makes Tony want to bury himself in the sand, curl up, and die. Because that's the
last
thing he wanted to do. Be in the blistering heat to inspect a craft that’s most likely so burned he’ll get nothing from it.
Fucking fantastic.
The woman nods. “Of course, if you three would follow me?”
Steve pushes his shoulder, blue eyes piercing. “Just play along, Tony. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Tony purses his lips, following the woman to one of the cop cars near them. “I hope you’re right, Cap. I hate playing the long game.”
The desert, Tony decided, is
not
his thing as he stands in front of the blown-up spaceship. Its metal ripped to pieces, a cushion chair a few years away from the entire thing. The controls of the entire thing seems to have combusted, and worst still it’s all extremely smokey and blistering hot to the touch.
Though, as Tony moves closer, there is one major thing that clues him in that this isn’t just any space craft. The exterior, no matter how ripped on the outermost layer, the second one isn’t touched.
It looks like–
“Vibranium.” Steve comes up next to him. “Has to be, Stark. Look at how it didn’t even scratch as the fragile metals on the outside curled and melted.”
Tony nodded. “I agree. But can’t you only get Vibranium from Wakanda?”
Thor comes up to Tony’s other side as the woman officer goes off and starts talking into her radio again. “Yes, Man of America! My planet, Asgard, has traded with them for decades for such a metal. It’s one of few that does not break easily from our strength. Though, they have been known to trade with our sister planets lately for their ores that they need.”
Steve nods with a pinched look on his face. “So how many is that? Is this an Asgardian ship?”
Thor shakes his head. “No. This is closer to what Erang or Rolipra would make. Disjencher trades most frequently with Asgard, so similar styles have been made.”
Tony hums, bending down to poke gently at the control panels. They seemed smooth, no dents, no indications other than a pad of buttons of different colors to the side. Other than that, Tony can assume it works best with holograms and electrical boards mostly.
“So, Point Break, is there any type of chip? SD card?” Tony stands up, brushing off the non-existent sand from his jeans. God he hates the desert.
Thor furrows his brows, then shakes his head slowly. “Our ships do not work that way, Man of Iron. They erase everything once it crashes.”
With an annoyed sigh, Tony kicks at the side of it. “Then what's the point of being here if we can’t get anything from it.”
Looking back at both Steve and Thor, Tony feels his hackles rise as he sees the God of Thunder’s face. “What’s up?”
Thor looks at the both of them, a serious look on his face. “This ship crash landed, correct, Man of Iron?” Tony raises a brow. “Well, yeah, look at it. Of course, it did.” Thor doesn’t look assured with that, if anything, he looks more concerned. “Erang and Rolipra are planets that do not travel or associate themselves little with most others in our solar system. For one of their ships to crash here, in all places, there is cause for it to be worrying.”
Tony stares at him, dread bubbling in his stomach. That’s not good. That’s
so
not good.
Steve tightens his hold on his shield, turning to face himself more to Thor than to the craft. “So, you’re saying there's something going on with your sister planets that you don’t know about? If there was something so major, wouldn’t you know?”
Thor shrugs wearily, eyes scanning the desert with a keen look. He looks more alert now, too. “Yes. My planet is known for quick communication and for nothing to be said to me, and the time it would take for this pod to get here…” Thor trails off, a grimace gracing his features. “Something must’ve happened in my absence, the Stone of Time has been handed off to Man of Strangeness. With that task complete, I fear I shall have to take my leave to learn what has become of our sister planet.”
The woman comes back over, her big eyes watching them intently. “A team should be here soon to assist with taking the craft back to your jet, should you want to take it.”
Tony nods with an award-winning smile at her, despite his festering worry that something big was coming.
Something bad.
“Thank you, Sweetheart. Could we hitch a ride back, if you don’t mind?” Tony lays the sweet-talk extra thick, just for assurance that she would.
She flushes prettily, nodding, before whipping her ponytail around and walking across the sand awkwardly back to the car a distance away.
“How soon do you think you’ll be back, Thor?” Steve asks as they follow behind the officer. The God gives a shrug, “At least three weeks or more. It takes a while to get to and from Asgard to Midgard.”
Tony pats Thor on the shoulder, opening the car door to the passenger side with a flourish. “Don’t worry, Big Guy, Earth will be covered. Do what you need to.”
Thor hunches into the backseat, nodding. “Thank you, Man of Iron.”
As he slides into the front seat, Tony feels anticipation build up in his gut. Whatever Thor finds, whatever Tony himself will uncover, he has the distinct feeling none of it will be good.
Tony’s not sure he’s prepared.
None of them are.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Peter can barely think as he feels his body burning up from the inside. His leg feels like it’s eating itself alive as the skin creeps over the wound. His pants cling to the drying blood, getting connected into the patching skin. It feels like shit, but Peter can’t think of anything. He failed. He ran, he got somewhere safe, but he’s going to die here because he’s weak stupid little Peter Parker that can’t save Ben or May or even his-fucking-self. Peter’s pathetic. Temples pounding, he brings his feet towards himself before laying his head on his knees. He feels out of breath, tired, defeated. He wants to go home. He wants May.But he can’t because she’s dead and he’s alone and he doesn’t know anything about where he is– A thud. The sound of dragging, panting, and cursing filling his ears. Peter shoots his wrists up, fingers pressed lightly into his wrist to release his webs if need be.There's a guy in a red and black suit, form fitted, blades lining his back and holy fucking shit a missing leg– “Ha! Who knew dogs had such a bite?” The suited guy says, eyes looking blankly in the distance. “Ah, well, you readers obviously know, with how your mother-in-law acts!” The guy cracks up, rolling over in his own puddle of blood, chuckling to his heart's content.Peter is stunned, because what the actual fuck? This guy is missing his leg and he’s laughing? What a badass. “Uh, sir– Are you okay?” Peter asks, because it’s the nice thing to do and May would slap him for his lack of manners regardless of the language barrier. The red-suited guy snaps his neck over to Peter, white eyes round and getting bigger as if his eyes had an endless boundary. It was weird.And kinda cool.“Whoa, kid bleeding out on the roof. You know parents say do as I say, not as I do? Honestly we can’t have you copying me. That’s plagiarism.” The man says, mask upturning where Peter assumes his mouth would be. Peter has a feeling he was joking, and has a moment of sadness that he doesn’t understand it.He doesn’t understand anything here.
Peter isn’t at home, he isn’t with May, she’s dead and his homes gone and he can’t go back, he can’t talk, he can’t breathe–
A hand lands on his shoulder, fingers curling into the meat next to his neck. It’s uncomfortable, but it helps Peter snap out of his panic-induced haze. The guy crouches in front of him, big white eyes staring at his own. For a moment, Peter’s concern for his looks crosses his mind. Here he is, bleeding out, blood on his face, looking no better than a damn space rat, as the Asgardians picked up from Midgard say. Great first impression, Peter. Way to go, truly. “Kid, seriously, are you breathing? People love to meet me, Deadpool, as we all know I’m great–” Deadpool looks at you, winking, “and you’re not reacting. I think I’m pretty funny, but your deadpan stare is a bit disconcerting. Killing the vibe, ya know?” Peter blinks at him, blearily, before just nodding along carefully. This guy seems strange, and honestly? Peter doesn’t feel like getting on his bad side would help himself in the slightest.Suit man stares at him a moment longer before nodding to himself, white eyes narrowing to focus, Peter assumes, on him. “Your mom is rancid meat, edible for cockroaches.” The man says confidently, and Peter hesitates. He has no idea what the guy is saying, but at the same time what else is he supposed to do? He probably asked a question. Peter just nods in response. The guy looks flabbergasted. Peter guessed wrong. Oops.“Cool cool cool. You don’t speak do you? I don’t think you even know what I’m saying. You know, I’m feeling a bit like a mime right now. I’m doing crazy things and you hear and see nothing but gibberish, huh?” The man stands up quickly on his newly reformed leg which when did the fuck that happen. “Great, well, you’re not bleeding out any more but that wound is infected as shit. So, you should go to that hospital! ” Deadpool looks over at you with a smirk, obviously you know what he’s about to say. “Weenie Hut General!” The guy says with a flourish, both hands landing over his mouth in an exaggerated stance. Peter looks at him dumbly and the guy deflates. “Well, I still think I’m funny so let's get you patched– or at least some goddamn clothes that don’t smell like rotten death mixed with human stink. It’s unbecoming.” Nodding to himself, the red-suit guy picks Peter up as if he weighs less than a bucket. Which, seeing how those are literally hollow, Peter’s a bit worried about this guy’s strength. Are all Midgardians this strong without a blink? Peter stares at the guy’s face as he feels wind starting to hit his own, the sound of feet pounding against concrete and the weightlessness of jumping from one rooftop to another hits him. Most of everyone, including him, on his planet is strong, but if people here could regrow limbs . Peter might just have an issue. A massive one. The guy keeps running for a while as Peter drifts in and out of consciousness, his leg still feeling like hell warmed over. What the hell was in those bullets for him to be reacting so harshly? He could heal from lasers no problem, but isn’t Midgard unadvanced? Too simple to leave fatal damage? Peter feels the wind get knocked out of his lungs when the guy jumps off a roof, landing on the concrete hard enough that Peter could hear bones snap in the man’s body. Multiple snaps. But the guy acts like nothing happens. So fucking strange. Having someone else carry him makes Peter feel strange, mostly odd. Nobody would do that on his planet regardless if they were injured or not. They had to make their own way. Strength was a virtue, and one you do not lose. It's strange for it to be so different here, but a welcoming change. Peter had been in his own head for so long that he didn’t even notice he was being put in the back of a really big car, with two wide doors, a small looking bed inside with all these different types of metal instruments hung on the walls. Peter barely catches the glimpse of a red crossing of lines on the outside of the cart-thing before he’s being laid down on the bed. God that feels like heaven. Peter can already feel his eyes closing again as he lays there, listening to the man pick random things up, rip things open, and set them down just a bit too roughly. Suddenly, theres a ripping sound and a flash of holy fucking divinity on *cranstinct– pain. So so so much pain. Fire licks its way around the wound and it feels like it's gaping once again as the fabric is pulled roughly away. Peter could barely hold in a sob in his delirious state because crying is a weakness he can’t show. But the blood is dripping, his hands are shaking, and he wants to cry. To let it out because all he feels is pain. The poking and prodding of cold instruments and liquid finally make him cry out as pebbles are dug out of his skin, glass is removed, and other random things that must’ve gotten in there to infect it. Peter never wanted to bash his skull in more in his life because it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad, and all Peter could think of is how much pain was May in before she died with her leg all trapped, cut, shattered as her body was ruptured from flaming metal–No no. Stay focused. Don’t spiral. Don’t be weak. Stay awake. Stay alive.For May. Eventually the prodding wears off as something cool wraps around his leg, sticking weirdly to his skin before the guy pats his shin. “There, kiddy, all good and new! Who knew medical shit was so complicated?” Deadpool cracks his neck, glancing at your screen. “Well, I suppose you do, right? God bless the USA healthcare system, am I right? Charge you to hell for this shit I swear.” Peter doesn’t really get who the guy is talking to, but he ignores it in favor of the rushing footsteps getting closer to the car. The man seems to realize the same thing, white eyes growing wide as he stares Peter down. Slowly, the mask around the man’s mouth quirks up and Peter feels like he’s about to do something real stupid. The guy scrambles past Peter after locking the back doors, which Peter hates but what say does he get? And gets up front. The starting of the engine of the cart and the squealing of those black-circular things he saw earlier grates on his ears. He can hear yelling and swearing outside the vehicle, but as the guy makes a sharp turn that makes Peter hit his head really hard on a pull-out metal table, he can’t seem to care. Why? His visions blacking out. Fuck that table hurt. Without any more resistance, he nearly falls off the rolly-bed thing at another sharp turn, making his wound press harshly against the metal railings. Pain pain pain– Peter blacks out. *** The feeling of a hand consistently slapping his face is what Peter wakes up to in a daze, eyes unfocused as something distinctly red pops up in his vision. Was it saying nonsense? And for a second Peter could only think of his Uncle Ben— who was from a different planet where the people had colorful skin tones like purples, greens, and reds. He was part of the latter category. “Uncle Ben?” Peter calls, dazing, and the figure seems to pause for a moment before something like a chuckle sounds around him. “I have no idea what you’re saying, but I feel like it’s something sentimental so I’m going to completely ignore it.” The figure says, shuffling around Peter with ease. His danger-sense isn’t buzzing, so he knows he’s safe, but that doesn’t stop the overwhelming confusion. Shifting his hip slightly, Peter hisses out in pain. Fuck that hurts. “Yeah, yeah, you got yourself in quite a pickle. First time getting shot?” The man asks, which, again, Peter doesn’t understand. Is this guy stupid? Has he not figured out through Peter’s unresponsiveness and drunken-like state he doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying. “It’s not mine. Women love taking a shot on me.” Peter completely ignored the commentary from the guy as he tries to move, but all it does is send a wave of pin-pricking soreness and pain from his head to his toes, stopping with a hearty throb on his leg. Frowning, Peter flexes his leg ever-so-slightly just for it to feel like death had burrowed a cavity in his leg and started a fire to keep itself warm. How was it not already healed? Is his healing wrecked? When was the last time he ate? Shit. This is so not good. “Whoa, slow your roll kiddy. I know you’re pumped to kick ass, but you’re still bedridden like Snow White, got it? Seriously, you’re going to give me an aneurysm.” The guy forces Peter to stop moving, which, rude. Peter was trying to get a hold of his bearings. He’s not five. “Sir…” Peter starts, if a bit slurred. “W-Where are we? What’s- ow fuck- wrong with my le-leg?” It’s hard to concentrate when there’s something metal prodding at an open wound, especially when done by a stranger when he doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. Another shock of pain to his system later, the guy perks up as if he’s excited and puts his bloodied hands to his hips. “All patched. You ripped your stitches flexing kid. I get you wanna look cool, but this isn’t the time for your teenager angst.” Peter glances down at his leg, bloodied and wrapped to hell and back as it is, then back at the guy soundlessly. Fucking hell.Nodding to himself, the guy walks past Peter to somewhere behind him. As the engine starts up again, he can’t help but drift back off to sleep. Albeit with a bit of confusion about his situation. But hey, what can a person do against pain meds? *** Peter doesn’t know what time it is when he next wakes up, all he knows is that the engine is off and it’s dark out. The windows of the back of the cart show black skies and a roof that has harsh shitty lighting that continues to flicker. The next thing to catch his attention is whistling and the sound of running water, but a smell of something distinct but foreign hits his nose. It’s putrid and it makes him want to vomit, so he breathes through his mouth instead. That doesn’t help much. Sitting up, Peter looks around the small room that he was laying in, if it could even be called that. He was on a tall, very small bed with little railings. There are two built-in metal looking seats on his left and on his right a whole wall of instruments that look vaguely familiar from that one lecture he and some of the youngsters had on medical applications and appliances. The sheets of the bed are bloodied, most of it surrounding his numb-feeling leg and his pants are ripped to shreds. Click. Thud. Peter immediately looks behind himself towards two large front seats where the man slings himself into the cart. The man inserts some type of key into a hole and the engine starts, rumbling in its intensity, before turning around to look at Peter. ”Morning Sleeping Beauty!” He chirps, eyes glancing towards the long gray path ahead of the bright lights on the cart. They start moving for a few moments before he starts again. “So, you can’t talk right? Damn.” The guy sighs dramatically, letting his shoulders thump against the seat. “We’ll have to fix that if you’re going to get anywhere here. Well, mostly, because people here are douches and only like English-Speakers because they're racist shit holes.” Peter stares at him blankly for what feels like the millionth time. It’s getting old not understanding a person as they talk. Shrugging his shoulders, the man looks out at the path again. Peter watches quietly as signs pass by them. It feels like only minutes pass before a big colorful sign is coming up with big letters, and the man looks back at Peter with something akin to amusement at his curiosity.“Welcome to Oklahoma, Kiddy!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The strap of the seat chaffs against Peter’s neck, making him squirm every few minutes to try and make it go down again. Why do they have them so high? He can barely breathe. It’s pressing against his throat hard enough that it makes him nervous, enough for it to block a part of his airway.
“So, what’s your name, kid?” The man asks, glancing in his direction and the white-eyes of his mask narrows before a sigh escapes his mouth. He gives himself a facepalm before sliding it off slowly in a dramatic fashion. “Shit. Yep, you can’t talk– or like, speak English. What is it that they do in movies? Point at themselves? You think you’d understand that?”
Peter gives a shrug, hoping that’s a good enough response. The man falls silent before pulling in the lot of some long line of carts next to a building. “Well, while we get food we can figure out how to talk.”
Turning to Peter, the man points at himself. “Deadpool.” Then, pointing to Peter he looks at him expectantly. Is the guy asking for his name? Well, it’s a decent guess. Pointing to himself,
“Peter.”
Which, to Deadpool, sounded more like “Peh-ta”, but he seems to understand well enough.
“Good! Great, now I know your name. For the most part.” Deadpool rolls down his window and starts talking to some weird speaker in front of a brightly colored menu. Peter looks at it curiously, but nothing seems to look familiar at all.
With a hint of disappointment, he leans back on his chair again, shifting the strap lower as Deadpool brings his head back into the car.
Deadpool rolls his eyes– or a close imitation of it, and leans over Peter to where the strap comes out, clicks some button and it automatically lowers. Moving back, he nods at the boy before looking out the window again.
Peter tests the strap, pulling it and letting it snap back to its place. On his chest.
Thank god he can breathe now.
The line moves slowly, enough so that Deadpool only seems to get more and more antsy as time wears on. When they have moved to at least the half-way point, the man turns back to Peter. “Alright, well, this line is going to take twenty-fucking-forevers, so lets teach you some words, yea?”
Hearing the questioning lit to his voice, Peter gives a hesitant nod. That seems to be the right answer, for once, and the hero glances around the cart before pointing at a little knob with a tiny print above it.
“Volume.” Deadpool says, turning the knob to the right and a type of music Peter’s never heard starts going up. Now, pointing to himself, Deadpool gets progressively louder while repeating the word.
Volume. Getting louder, and probably means getting lower too.
“Vol-hume.” Peter repeats, a determined look on his face. Deadpool ways his hand in a so-so motion and repeats himself, annunciating it slowly. “Vol-ume.”
So, Peter tries again. “Volu-me?”
“Volume.” Peter feels his throat making a funny sound in order to repeat it, but by the happy spark in the man’s body language he seems to be getting it right. “Volume.”
“Perfect, great start.” Deadpool glances back at the line and pulls up again. Now they were two carts away from an ever opening and closing window where a lady’s been handing out bags for the last half-hour.
Moving his hand to another knob, Deadpool rolls it to the right to show changing numbers on a crappily lit screen, then back to the left. “Radio Station.”
Peter bites his lip, repeating the words in his head a few times. “Rah-deo Stat-in?”
“Radio Station.” Deadpool repeats, pulling the car up more. One more cart left.
“Ray-de-o Stat-in.” Peter frowns, repeating the word station over and over again before it sounds close enough to Deadpool’s version. Which is kind of hard.
When Deadpool seems to have enough, he raises his hand to signal to stop as he leans out the window again but this time with some time of card in hand that he gives to the lady. It’s an interaction of about five minutes seeing as they don’t have whatever they’re getting ready already finished. Peter gets thrown for a loop when they park in the lot and Deadpool hands him his own bag. Curious, he looks inside to see a box and a bag. “Open them, they won’t bite. Unless it’s raw, then it might.” Picking out the two objects, Peter tries to open them carefully so as not to rip them completely open.
Obviously, that didn’t work.
The bag split open nearly making the sandwich inside fall on the floor. Peter grabs it in time and brings it up to his face. It smells like food. Looks weird, but it’s Midgard, so can it be that bad for him if they live off it? If Thor’s eaten it before, he could too, right?
Taking a large bite proves to be a mistake as some sort of sauce drips down his fingers and onto his soiled clothes, but it tastes
heavenly
.
Peter devours the sandwich in record time before licking his fingers, glancing at Deadpool who's looking at him with amusement as he eats his own fries. “Well I’ll be damned, kid, you can put down like it’s nobody’s business.”
Peter has the strong feeling he’s being teased.
Turning away, he opens up the small box and inside are another type of food in long-stick like form with a bunch of seasonings on them. They look really strange, but Peter’s eaten a cake-thing from Midgard a few days ago that tasted awful so it probably couldn’t be worse than that god-awful creation.
He pops a few in his mouth as Deadpool polishes off his stuff, sliding his mask back over his chin and down his neck once more. Peter gets wanting to hide one’s face, he’s wanted to do it many times over in his embarrassment.
The cart-thing pulls out of the lot and onto the gray path again with a strong but soft rumbling from the engine. It’s silent for a few moments before Peter decides to try out one of the words Deadpool told him.
“Vol-uh-Volume?” Peter asks, pointing to the knob. He wants to hear more of the strange music. It covers up the sound of the heartbeats he can hear passing on the streets, the screaming, the laughing, and other overwhelming mass of noise outside the cart.
Deadpool glances at him and gives him a nod, seeming to really get it through his skull that Peter won’t understand anything. But his poster shows that he’s happy Peter knows one of the words in his language.
In return, Peter gives him a bright smile, eyes crinkling in happiness as he turns it to the right and the music gets much louder. The words don’t make much sense, but it steadily drowns out the overbearing sounds that stretch out forever around them.
It’s peaceful.
After a while, Deadpool pulls out a small rectangular device and pokes at it a few times before handing it over to Peter. Across the screen is a bunch of lines and shapes that he doesn’t really understand, glancing at the man.
Deadpool seems to understand, staring at the road as he tries to explain to Peter why he gave him the device.
“Learn.” Deadpool taps his head, glancing at Peter to make sure he sees. Peter nods. “Le-ern?” The man shrugs, tapping his head again. “Learn.”
Peter repeats it until he gets it right, then Deadpool continues. “Language. Talk. Speak.” Deadpool points to his mouth as he talks, then points to Peter. “Learn.”
It takes a few moments for Peter to get what he’s saying, but he comes to the understanding that Deadpool handed him the device that must have some type of translating or teaching capabilities to teach Peter his language. It’ll be necessary to blend in.
Peter will learn. For May’s sake.
For the stone’s protection, he needs to know.
With a determined nod, Peter gets to work on the app. It's confusing at first as it demonstrates what’s called an
alphabet
, which is a bunch of weird looking symbols with straight lines and curves. It starts with getting him to repeat the sounds each
letter
makes.
It feels like it takes hours before he can sound out the letters at least semi-properly, though he struggles with the
r
and
s
sounds the most. They don’t seem to form properly, but Deadpool never gets mad at him. Just points to things along what Peter has learned to be a
road
not a path for
cars
not a cart to
drive
on for him to repeat the name of. He didn’t catch the meanings, but Deadpool said it was for
practice
.
The sky turns dark when Peter starts to get tired of trying to teach himself
English
, which Deadpool explained in a very very slow manner that it’s a
hard
language to learn.
Peter has to agree. They make weird noises.
“I think we’re going to stop for the night, Petey. Stay out in one of those sketchy motels like the movies.” Deadpool glances over at him and Peter gives him a thumbs up, which Deadpool showed him meant
okay
or an affirmation of something being alright.
The car, or
ambulance
as Deadpool told him, is parked in the lot of a run-down looking building. Greenery climbing up the stone and brick, attaching to rotten looking windows that look like they’ll fall off any day now.
Doors are cracked, the lot is dark, and the only lights are along the top of an awning at the entrance. Even then they flicker irritatingly, making Peter grimace to himself at the annoyance.
Peter has some serious reservations about this place, but Deadpool’s already getting out, and he’s an adult.
With a sigh, Peter follows. Curse May’s ingrained manners.
The man has a large black sack slung across his shoulder while walking swiftly to the entrance.
A guy sits at the counter, big-bellied, beard, and something yellow sticking to his clothes. It’s gross, but he says nothing.
Deadpool steps forward and speaks to the guy a bit, both of them glancing in his direction once or twice before grumbling is heard from the big-bellied man and he gets up, trucking to some back room.
He comes back out a few minutes later with a ratty-worn looking set of clothing and a card that he sets on top. Deadpool hands over some green paper things before taking up the small pile of clothing and card and turns around, dropping them unceremoniously into Peter’s arms.
Peter yelps in surprise, sticking his hands to the clothes so they don’t slip through his arms. With a playful glare, Peter huffs, following Deadpool from the main entrance to the long outdoor pathway to one of the middle rooms of the building. The numbers
two
and
zero
are hung in black on the door, the third one having fallen off in the past leaving the shadow of the number
seven
in its place.
Deadpool scans his card into the little reader, the light blinking a bright green before making a churning sound in its rusty system that pops the door open.
They make their way into the room, Deadpool choosing the bed closest to the door and Peter gets the one closest to the bathroom.
The man waves Peter off towards the
bathroom
which is supposed to be where you do your business on Midgard, and he goes with the new scratchy clothing he was given. Changing took a bit longer than he’d like, seeing as the shirt has these little circle things you had to slide in holes for them to close near the top.
Dropping the clothing on the floor, his old pants make a thud sound, high-pitched enough that it alerts Peter to attention. He snaps his head down to look at the lump of clothing and it takes him a moment to think of what could make that sound.
Shit. The stone.
He bends down quickly and shoves his hand into his old pocket to take the stone out. It shines bright in his hands from its protective casing that allows it to even be near him without it- like- imploding him as a person. Pain starts up in his fingers before it licks iron-hot down his arm as he looks around frantically for something to wrap it up in to prevent skin contact. A few rags lay in a bin on the counter and he snatches a few, wrapping them tightly around the stone to abate contact with it. He feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest the more it gets covered. It’s like ever since the crash it has been wrapping my itself around Peter’s throat, slowly suffocating him in a way he wouldn’t ever notice until he was dead. Peter never realized the toll it must’ve had on his Aunt until now, how she always looked tired. It never clicked that it should’ve been tied to the stone, not just the long work hours. How she must’ve felt as it’s protector and it being near her constantly. When Peter was really little he remembers their make-shift family being given the choice of taking over protecting the stone after it was taken from the Collector when they had attacked some of their ships. Uncle Ben had agreed, easy as a breeze, but the duty was placed in May’s hand after his death. And from May it passed to Peter’s. Except, his Aunt and Uncle were blessed by the Goddess with protection from the stones power, Peter was not. She blessed the pain away, and while she gave him some in his youth, they were not full-blown enough to protect him nearly as much now. So he’s stuck with the full oppressiveness and heaviness of the stone unlike the more minor forms his pseudo-parents had when they were alive. At least he has the protection against overwhelming pain of just being in its presence. Shoving the large wad of cloth back into his pocket, Peter turns to look at the mirror.
The entire outfit was a pit too big and saggy on his form, and the swaddle of rags around the stone sticks out like a sore thumb, but he could give less of a rats ass as he picks up a rag laying by the sink thing. Turning the knob to the right, which seems to be the one direction that’s common, it doesn’t turn. With an exaggerated groan befitting May’s description of “Drama Queen” as Uncle Ben used to say, Peter turns it the other direction.
Water spews out merrily, taunting his stupidity. “
Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Peter spits, running the water over the rag before using it to wipe…
May’s blood.
May's blood is still on his face and he forgot she died.
He’s such a bad nephew because May’s dead and he still has her blood on his hands. It’s all his fault. She died because he couldn’t free her, he’s weak itty bitty Peter Parker that’s too stupid, too cursed to keep anyone.
Peter tries to breathe through his panic. He feels like throwing up, choking on his own spittle as he roughly scraps the cloth across his face until it feels like it’ll bleed. It burns something fierce as he keeps scrubbing because he killed May.
He killed May and her blood is on him, on his hands. He’s nothing. He’s pathetic. Lonely little Peter. Everyone dies.
Spray of blood on his face as he hears her scream, calling for him.
Cursed.
Give up, give up, giveup–
A knock on the door startles him from his ragged breathing, surprising him enough to make him suck in a breath.
Peter scrambles for the door and opens it as he tries to breathe. Deadpool comes in, suit off and in different soft-feeling clothes as he tries to steady Peter. His face is kinda of weird, but in a way reminds him of Tehen that lived a few homes from him.
It feels like a misplaced feeling of home and he rushes forwards, throwing his arms around Deadpool who goes stiff as a board. Peter doesn’t really mind, even when all he gets is a few pats on the back.
“Yeah, okay, I love sentimental shit and all, kid, but this kind of came out of buck fuck nowhere.” With one more firm pat, Deadpool pulls back and pushes on his shoulders. “What happened?”
Peter sniffed, eyes tearing up as he looks down at the rag and holds it up towards him. The man pauses, mind going into high-gear to figure out what was going on. Peter knew the moment it dawned on him when Deadpool went lax and gave a little sigh.
“Oh.” Deadpool steps back, looking contemplative. “Family, I’m guessing.”
Family
. Peter nods.
The man curses, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks tired. Put out. “Well shit.”
Shaking his head, Deadpool leads him from the bathroom and waves to the bed signalling for him to sit, as he’s come to understand if not just a bit. The bed is soft, comfy, and but a bit scratchy. It’s an odd feeling having something so squishy but so firm.
Deadpool points to himself, “Wade.”
Peter furrows his brows and points at Deadpool. “De-ahpo-ol” Deadpool does the so-so motion. “Deadpool, Fake. Wade, Real.”
Fake
, which Peter learned was a fabrication. False. A pretense.
Real
, actual, from what Wade said. So Deadpool’s real name is Wade. Simple. Not confusing at all.
“Wa-deh?” Peter says, and the man nodes. “Wade. Wah-aid. Wade.”
Peter nods, “Wade.” It was stilted, and not perfectly pronounces but the man grins giving Peter a thumbs up.
It’s a start.