greatresponsibility:
“What did you do to me?” he whispered. “Is this a spell? Oh, goddammit, Wanda, this isn’t funny.”
He’d taken a long time to grow into his powers. Yeah, okay, some of it had been an overnight thing: go to bed with a fever and what you can only assume is some kind of allergic reaction to a bug bite, wake up with a six pack and twenty-twenty vision. That was the fun part, except for the bit where you had to scramble to explain how you’d gotten contacts without anyone knowing and wear oversized sweaters to hide your new biceps, because no one would believe Peter Parker went to the gym. The rest of it? Days and weeks and months of practice.
When he’d woken up that day, he’d had to learn everything all over again. His balance was different, his vision was different, his feet fell different on the creaky old floorboards. His grip strength was all wrong, and he kept sticking to things–why was he sticky? It wasn’t until much later, until much too late, that he learned how to tune into that weird omnipresent buzzing sensation he’d developed. If Peter had only known what it meant at the time; if only he’d known how to use it, maybe things in those early days would have turned out differently. Maybe the one suit he’d owned in high school would have a lot less graveyard dust on it.
Woulda, shoulda, coulda.
But he had learned, and he did use it, and this was–this was nothing. This was the same blank he had when he waved his own hand in front of his face. No response. He’d never felt anything like this before.
He knew the look Not-Peter was giving him. The steely glint, the way the weight of the fear and anxiety and rage–and this deep, swirling sadness–pressed heavy on his shoulders. (You’re taller than you look, MJ had told him once. You shouldn’t slouch so much. It was hard to stand up straight when you were carrying that much.)
This was absurd. There were answers to this–magic, aliens, sleep deprivation–but something in him wanted to believe the guy. Ben? Ben. Maybe it was because Peter knew exactly what his voice sounded like when he was trying so hard to get someone to believe him, the way it did that little pinched thing around the edges that made it sound more like he was lying than if he’d lied. There was something there. Maybe.
“You know what? Fine. I’m listening. I’ll hear you out. But I’ve seen Orphan Black–the second you try to kill me and start walking around with my identity, I’m out. Capisce?”
A tension fled from Ben’s shoulders, knowing that Peter would at least hear him out. He hadn’t outright killed him either, which was a good start, considering the Peter of his timeline had gone right for the throat. Jackal had a way of spinning webs (ha) of lies that tangled up things so badly you couldn’t see your hand right in front of your face. Ben’s stomach gurgled, reminding him of his anxiety and the fact that he hadn’t eaten a decent meal since he left Nevada.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but I really don’t want to be any more you than I already am.” Deadpan, he ran a hand through too-long bangs, thinking about how much truth he was ready to give Parker.
Licking his lips, he supposed he’d cross that rickety bridge when he got to it.
“I was...born? Made? Whatever - I was brought into my timeline pretty abruptly, and like, super dramatically by Jackal. Do you have a Jackal in this universe?” This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped, more questions than answers to give his other half.
He tried again. “Jackal decided he would take my timeline’s Peter down by cloning him and pitting us against one another.” Ben’s shrug was downcast, emotions swirling in a dark miasma inside of his heart. It still stung to think about the fact that all his existence was was simply a petty attempt to take down Peter Parker.
It had taken long enough for Ben to find value in himself, and he was still battling with it every day. He wondered if he would be battling with it for the rest of his life. How long was his life? Would he live and die with Peter Parker? Was there another Ben in this timeline? He had so many questions and no guidance.
“After me and Pete had our cowboy showdown, and he drew first, I said I would go to Vegas to lick my wounds and be Spider-Man there,” He explained, his hands vaguely gesturing in front of him, voice pinched, “On the one year anniversary of my...existence,” The word tasted sour on his tongue, “I found myself in the desert, alone, sand in my mouth, and no one around. When I tried to find my apartment, the building had never existed. All I had was my wallet, my memories, and something inside of me guiding me,” Ben paused.
“Well, here. To you, I guess.” Would Peter even believe him? Would he strike Ben down as he did before? That same emptiness in Ben’s psyche glowed in Peter’s presence, as if they were meant to be side by side again. Something had brought him here.
He just needed to find out what.
“And the rest is history. Or, a bad Hallmark movie with a lot more ass-kicking, I guess.” He was always guessing. Wondering. Ben’s cheeks puffed out with defiance, face heating.
