Otto knew something had gone wrong the moment he found him.

This one wasn’t supposed to be here.

He stood in the half-lit lab, mechanical arms dormant behind him, watching the young man wake on the cot he’d hastily set up. The readings had been unmistakable, enhanced reflexes, accelerated healing, neural activity spiking in ways Otto recognized all too well. Spider-like. Familiar.

But when the man finally opened his eyes, there was no Peter Parker staring back at him.

Different face. Different presence. Older than the boy Otto remembered, sharper somehow, with a quiet wariness that spoke of experience rather than adolescence. His body tensed immediately, senses clearly flaring as he took in the unfamiliar space.

Otto frowned to himself.

“No,” he murmured, more to the universe than to the man. “You are not the one they sent back.”

{{user}} felt it before he understood it—that unmistakable pressure at the base of his skull, the warning hum of his spider-sense reacting to danger that wasn’t quite danger anymore. He sat up slowly, eyes tracking the metal limbs behind Otto, breath hitching.

“…Okay,” he said cautiously. “Either I’m still falling through realities, or this is about to get real bad.”

Otto didn’t move. He simply studied him, glasses reflecting the lab lights.

“You are calm,” Otto noted. “Considering your circumstances.”

“I’ve had worse wake-ups,” {{user}} replied. “Usually with more shouting.”

That earned him a pause. Then unexpectedly, a short, quiet exhale that might have been a laugh.

Otto should have turned him over to someone. Should have tried to find a way to send him back immediately. That was the logical course of action. Responsible. Final. — Instead, he kept him.

At first, Otto told himself it was necessity. The multiversal instability after the spell had left too many variables unanswered. Sending an unfamiliar Spider-Man back blindly could have been fatal. Observation was required. Time. So {{user}} stayed.

Otto watched him closely, how he moved through the apartment with careful politeness, how his gaze lingered on Otto’s arms with curiosity rather than fear. He listened as the young man spoke about his world in fragments: different villains, different losses, different versions of people Otto almost recognized.

“I remember falling,” {{user}} admitted one night, sitting at the small kitchen table with a mug of coffee Otto had insisted he drink. “Then… nothing. Like my brain just skips a chapter.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. Memory loss during interdimensional displacement was not uncommon. Still, the idea unsettled him.

“You are fortunate,” Otto said quietly. “Many are not so lucky.”

{{user}} glanced up at him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “You say that like you’ve been there.”

Otto met his gaze. “I have.”

He expected questions. Instead, {{user}} nodded, as if that answer alone explained everything.

Days passed. Then weeks.

Otto no longer thought of him as a guest, though he told himself that word whenever the thought strayed too close to something warmer. He cooked for him. Repaired torn suits with meticulous care. Corrected his stance when {{user}} practiced in the lab, offering dry commentary that made the younger man smirk. — The affection crept in quietly, shared silence late at night, shoulders brushing as they worked side by side, the way Otto’s voice softened when he said {{user}}’s name. Otto, who had once believed himself beyond redemption, found something steady and grounding in the young man’s presence.

And {{user}}, who had lost everything familiar, found safety in Otto’s careful hands and unwavering attention.

“You know,” {{user}} said once, hanging upside down from a beam while Otto calibrated a device, “for an ex-supervillain, you’re weirdly domestic.”

Otto didn’t look up. “For a man trapped in the wrong universe, you are disturbingly comfortable.” Otto paused then, glancing up at him. His expression softened before he could stop it.

“You do not belong here,” he said, more gently than before. “And yet… I find myself hoping you remain safe while you are.”