Dark Matter - mysterycyclone - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Peter crouches on the edge of a dusty ruin, watching Quill and Tony discuss (well, ‘discuss’) plans for taking on Thanos. It seems to be going well, but they’re just out of reach of his super hearing to really tell. At the very least, no one looks like they’re going to start throwing punches again.

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up. “Oh. Hey, Dr. Strange.”

“Mr. Parker,” Strange says with a gentle nod, coming up to stand beside him. He’s been withdrawn and resigned since he looked into the future. Quiet, almost humbled. It’s a drastic change from the aloof sarcasm from when they first met.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, looking up at him and tilting his head. “You seem a little not okay after that time thing.”

“I’m as well as can be expected. I've been preparing some spells ahead of the battle. That's always somewhat draining,” Strange says, distracted. He pauses, then looks at Peter. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” Peter says, standing up from his crouch. There's a weight to the sorcerer's gaze that he's never seen before. “What do you need?”

“Hold out your hand, please.”

Peter does so, curious as to what the sorcerer could possibly need from him.

Strange pulls out a piece of paper thick enough to qualify as parchment and places it in Peter’s hand. It’s folded in half and sealed with an honest to god wax seal. Peter’s thrown by it’s sudden appearance until he realizes that this is probably one of the simpler tricks the sorcerer has up his literal sleeve. He takes a moment to admire it; the paper is almost clothlike, and the wax seal glows with a subtle power that presses against his hand, even through the suit.

And then it disappears in a green flash. Peter stares at his hand in disbelief.

“Um?”

Strange, for his part, doesn’t seem surprised or even upset. “Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

“You’re welcome?” Peter says, looking at his hand. “I’m not going to sneeze out a letter in three weeks or something, am I?”

“Something like that,” Strange says, far too casually for Peter's liking. “Are you prepared for this?”

“The fight? Yeah! I mean, as well as I can be, I guess.” Truth be told, he’s a little freaked out. Titan had once been like Earth and now it’s nothing but dust and ruin. If they don’t stop Thanos here, there won’t be a home to go back to. He’s glad Tony’s here; without him, they wouldn’t stand a chance. “I’m ready, Dr. Strange. Promise.”

Strange nods, watching him thoughtfully. He holds Peter’s eyes for a moment, hesitates, and then says, “A bit of advice?”

“Sure,” Peter says. This is the longest conversation he’s had with Dr. Strange. The man had all but ignored Tony and Peter on the ship during their flight towards Titan. This sudden interest and oddly friendly conversation is, well, strange.

“No great thing can be done without sacrifice,” Dr. Strange says.

And then he walks off.

Peter stares after him, thoroughly confused.

* * *

Thanos arrives and he's much bigger and much more terrifying than Peter expected. They subdue him in seconds, but it's a near thing.

Peter puts his hands over the jewels slotted into place on Thanos’ gauntlet and finds his grip just near the biggest one set below the four others. The orange-gold one. It fairly thrums with power, like Tony’s arc reactor, pushing out unseen waves of heat that run along the length of his arm. He starts to pull.

Something cracks beneath his hand.

There's a weight in his hand that disappears the second it lands there. Something bright, something gold, he thinks, but he can't think of why it would be gold. It isn't in his hand when he looks, so whatever it is, he must've dropped it. Thanos must have invested in some pretty cheap metal for this gauntlet.

"Kid, focus!" Tony grits out.

"Right! Sorry--"

Peter resumes pulling at the gauntlet. He doesn't notice that half of the Soul Stone is missing.

Quill drops from the sky and approaches Thanos.

Everything goes wrong after that.

* * *

Thanos disappears through the portal. And almost immediately things feel wrong.

“Something is happening,” Mantis says.

He doesn’t know what happens after that. He hears Drax ask for his friend. He hears Quill mutter a quiet ‘aw, man.’ He knows they’re dead. He can’t hear their heartbeats anymore. And then--

Then it happens to him. His spider senses are absolutely screaming at him. The fear is all encompassing. The pain is more than that. Every nerve ending is on fire.

"I-I don't feel so good," Peter mumbles, staggering towards Tony. He trips and catches himself against the man, can feel him wince. "I don't know what’s--I don’t--"

Something is trying to tear him apart. But he can fight it. Barely. It takes almost all of his concentration, all of his willpower, but he fights it back. For a bit.

All it does is make the pain last longer.

At the edges of his consciousness, he can hear other, distant voices. It sounds like they’re coming from a tunnel far away from him. He babbles at Tony, begging for help or comfort or something; things the man is thoroughly incapable of providing for him.

“Why is it taking so long for him?” Quill’s voice asks.

“Nick, was it like this for me?” another asks.

“No, it happened instantly,” Nick, whoever that is, answers.

“I don’t wanna go--” Peter pleads, half hugging, half clinging to Tony as they’re both dragged to the ground. Tony, by his wound and Peter’s unexpected weight; Peter, by his rapidly disintegrating legs and feet.

Tony still finds the strength lay him out relatively gently. His voice is calm and reassuring, in contrast to the despair and panic just behind his eyes. “You’re alright. You’re okay.”

“Jesus,” a voice quietly says. It’s one he heard before. The Falcon.

"I've got you," Tony says, gripping Peter’s shoulder. He looks away briefly, his eyes meeting with the blue alien woman who rammed a ship into Thanos. When he sees the vaguely shocked and defeated expression on her face, he turns back to Peter. “I’ve got you. You’re alright--”

He isn’t. He’s slowing it down, yes, but that’s a losing battle. Even if Tony could stop it--

Well. His legs are gone. The pain is crawling up his stomach, up his spine, and it’s starting to gain speed. He reaches up to grab Tony’s shoulder, and his crumbles inside the suit. The suit collapses around him, giving off the illusion that he’s deflating. Ash seeps out of the edges of it like water.

“You’re okay,” Tony repeats. He’s trying to make it easier for Peter.

And all Peter can hear is ‘if anything happened to you, I’d feel like that was on me’ in the back of his mind.

“What the hell? Did you guys just hear that?” Quill asks.

“It’s a memory,” someone else says in a quiet, withdrawn and decidedly Sokovian accent.

The pain has reached his chest now. His lungs. He can’t fight it anymore. He looks up at Tony, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

The last thing Peter sees is Tony's horrified, heartbroken expression leaning over him. The guilt in his eyes is almost worse than the burning pain that's taking Peter apart piece by piece. The world starts to go dark.

There's a flash of gold and green. For one moment, he finds himself standing amongst the Guardians and others; Falcon, the Winter Soldier, Scarlet Witch, Black Panther and Princess Shuri, others he doesn’t recognize--they all stare at him, some confused, others concerned. And then there’s Dr. Strange. The look he gives Peter is pure pity, and more than a little guilt.

And then darkness again. It feels like blinking; an extended period of nothingness that ends as abruptly as it begins. One moment there’s nothing, the next there’s light.

A dingy, yellow light that covers brick walls, cement floors, and an obscene machine that he’s been attached to. Reality crashes upon him with all the subtlety of an asteroid strike. Sights, sounds, smells--his senses come alive all at once, overwhelming him. The first thing he feels is an agonizing, white hot pain, as if every cell in his body is being torn asunder piece by microscopic piece and put together again.

The first thing he hears is his own screams of pain. He can't stop them; frankly, he's barely aware of them. He's trapped inside something. A tube? Smaller. A glass coffin maybe; he isn't sure. He knows he's trapped, he knows he's alone, and suddenly he's back at the warehouse again. He starts to fumble inside the glass tube, hits it once, twice, and shatters it from the inside with a heavy, desperate flail of his hand. Glass falls to the dingy floor beneath him, and he can hear things now. People are nearby, speaking to one another.

“Is that a kid?” a voice asks, deep and tinged with worry. Whoever it is, they’re close.

Peter ignores them completely; he hauls himself out of the machine--some sort of strange pod thing--and takes stock of himself. He’s not in his suit. Why isn’t he in his suit? He braces himself against the machine and tries to calm his breathing. God, his head hurts. His face is covered in dirt, grime, and dried blood and his clothes are covered in the same. It looks like he just crawled out of his own grave. Honestly, it feels like it, too. His body shakes and trembles with phantom pain from whatever Thanos did.

The room he’s in is in full chaos as he hauls himself up. There’s cries, shouts, gunfire, and sounds of fighting. It starts to die down, and he realizes he should probably not stand in the middle of a gunfight where one side is clearly losing. He shudders, staggering forward, and trips over his own feet--

He’s caught by a strong pair of hands and gently lowered into a sitting position on the ground. His spidey sense isn’t going off, which is a good thing. He’s weak as a kitten right now. He won’t be able to defend himself.

“Easy,” a woman says. Her words are gentle, and carry a slight accent that he can’t place.

He looks up at her, blinking at her owlishly. She’s wearing armor from toe to neck, all of if in a style that vaguely reminds him of Thor’s Asgardian armor, but also clearly follows a different aesthetic. Something closer to Greek myth, he thinks. She’s easily just as strong as Thor, too. She handles his weight as if he weighs no more than a feather.

She watches him carefully, sharp blue eyes looking him over from a beautiful face framed by black hair. Her eyes soften just a bit.

“Easy,” she repeats, pressing a hand on his shoulder when he tries to stand. “Don’t try to move too much.”

Peter nods dumbly, slumping back against the wall. The room spins on a tilted axis, and his ears ring.

“Hold this for me,” the woman says, handing Peter a golden rope. Peter takes it on autopilot and looks it over. It feels heavier than a regular rope, and there’s a strange tingling sensation along his arms when he grabs it. She relaxes slightly when he takes the rope without question.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Peter Parker.”

"I'm called Wonder Woman," the woman says. She motions towards a man standing in a blue super suit with a red “S” stenciled across an almost ludicrously muscled chest. "This is my friend, Superman. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions about what happened here?"

Who? "Um, sure. I'm kind of confused right now, though."

"That's fine. It won't take long." She stops, considers him, and her expression softens again. "We'll get you somewhere safe after we're done here. I promise."

Peter believes her. And hopes she isn’t evil.

The man in the suit with the red S across his chest asks, “Were you the one inside the machine?”

“Yeah,” Peter answers, almost without realizing it. “Yeah. It hurt.”

An odd look is exchanged between the two of them before the woman speaks again. She motions towards the unconscious men on the ground.

“He’s not what I was expecting,” Superman says quietly in the background, half to himself.

“Do you know any of these people?” Wonder Woman asks.

Peter stares at the unconscious bodies strewn across the floor. They look odd; half human at best, with batlike features. “No, not at all. I have no idea where I am. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. I don't even know where here is, and Tony's going to be worried--”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Wonder Woman asks.

“Dying,” Peter says immediately. The memory rises up, and his eyes glaze over. He can almost taste the dust in his mouth, in his throat-- “Tony was trying to help, but I was...I was already dying. And I didn’t want to, because he always said if anything happened to me, he'd blame himself but I--I--and there was this dust and-and he looked so scared but he was trying to keep from showing it because he knows I freak out when he does--”

“That’s enough, Peter,” she says, gently gripping his shoulder.

Superman frowns, looking at the machinery around the room. “I think they actually pulled it off. They brought someone back from the dead.”

“But why him?” Wonder Woman asks. “He’s clearly not associated with them.”

“To test it, most likely,” Superman replies. “They weren’t going to try it on their cult leader right away. Most of them didn’t think it would work.”

"That’s not what they said last time we broke into one of their hideouts. They found their leader's body. They had it ready. And now the machine is destroyed, and they used it on a kid? It doesn't make sense," Wonder Woman insists. "We need to bring Batman into this."

"I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer. Something's happening in Gotham--" Superman starts.

“There they are!” a voice cries out.

The sounds of boots pounding the ground soon follows, and dozens of men charge into the room, some armed with rifles, others with decidedly more esoteric weapons.

Wonder Woman snaps into action, turning to face the new threat head on. She shifts her stance, placing herself firmly between Peter and the flood of bad guys.

A man in shifting dark armor, brimming with dark energy, grins at Wonder Woman, squaring up to face her. Purple lightning crawls down his arms and hands, gathering in his palms.

“Hello,” he hisses. “I’d like a rematch.”

“Peter, stay down,” Wonder Woman orders, pulling the shield off her back.

“Yeah, uh. You got it.” He should get up and help. He can’t. He’s close to blacking out.

Wonder Woman leaps into battle, trading blows with the man. She has the upper hand, constantly beating him back and away from Peter and the weird machine he’s leaning against. The two move so quickly that Peter loses track of them completely. Superman is handling his own foes, and the only thing slowing him down are the sheer number of bad guys.

Yeah, he needs to get up and help. He centers himself, braces himself, and stands up. Doing the one thing Wonder Woman told him not to do.

And he does it just as the man in dark armor lets loose a blast of eldritch energy at Wonder Woman. The spell misses her completely. It does, however, hit Peter full force in the chest. It’s a bit like taking a Hulk sized kick straight to the stomach, and he flies backwards. A second errant spell, this one aimed at Superman, clips against one of the eldritch machines behind Peter, knocking a lever into place. A black and purple portal tears itself open in behind Peter, and he flies through it.

The world shifts around him. The portal collapses. He flies into a dirty brick wall, bounces off of it, and lands hard on his hands and knees. Since he’s barely recovered from dying(?), it hurts worse than it should, and it takes him a minute or two to gather his wits. It takes him five more to stand up and brush himself off. His clothes are covered in ash and dust.

He stumbles out of the alley into the fading evening light and braces himself against a street sign near one of the only functioning street lights. Park Row. He doesn't recognize the street. He looks up and down the block and realizes he doesn’t recognize that either. The skyline is all wrong for New York; no Stark Tower, no Empire State building, or anything he can recognize from here. So he definitely isn’t back home, which is a shame. And also very typical for his luck.

He sees a man across the street, standing outside a garage door, smoking a cigarette. The man looks exhausted and irritated; probably a cab driver. Peter’s never met a happy cab driver in his life.

“Hey!” Peter calls out. His accent comes out thicker than intended; normally he has a good handle on it, but his head is still throbbing. “Where am I?”

“Gotham, New Jersey, you goddamn idiot!” the man calls back. He huffs, tosses his still lit cigarette on the ground in front of himself and mutters, just loud enough to be heard, “f*cking New York tourists.”

Why the hell is he in New Jersey, Peter wonders, casually flipping the man off and walking away. Is this one of Dr. Strange’s tricks? It must be. He must have done something, cast some sort of spell, that interrupted Peter’s death and sent him here.

And here appears to be Earth, but not the one he’s familiar with. An alternate Earth, then. Is that what happened to everyone who got dusted? A part of him hopes so, because right now, standing alone in the bad side of town in Gotham City, he’s completely out of his depth.

A newspaper machine, half broken, catches his eye. Gotham Times is stenciled along the sides of the machine itself. The paper inside shows the headline Mayor Approves Controversial Truancy Law. Beneath that, another: Teens Beware: Truancy Will Take You To Juvie. A few other articles pepper the front of it; a stark rise in crime, something about a Wayne Juvenile Defense fund being formed in response to the new, and finally, a weather report. The sun isn’t due to shine in Gotham for the next two weeks, apparently.

Great.

Here's where things get odd: the date in the corner is two and a half months after the fight on Titan. It's late summer edging into fall right now. Dr. Strange didn’t just send him into an alternate timeline. He sent him through time, as well. Which would make sense; he is a time wizard. Or, rather, he was a time wizard. Peter has the distinct feeling that Dr. Strange didn’t survive Titan.

He doesn’t want to think about Titan right now.

Peter sighs, fidgeting in place. His headache has not lessened at all. It’s only getting worse. He ducks inside the nearest building--a half burned restaurant, judging by the rusted signs bolted to the concrete walls--and stops to take stock of himself and his situation.

“Right. Okay. No food. No money. No phone. Absolutely no clue where I am. The only new part of that is having no idea where I am. I can handle being homeless. I’ve done that before,” Peter mutters to himself, pacing around the fire station office.

And he had been homeless before. For a brief time with May, when they’d been evicted from their apartment after Ben’s death. The ambulance and funeral bills had devastated their finances and the landlord was less than sympathetic to their situation.

“What would Iron Man do? What would Tony do?” The immediate response to that triggers a visceral memory. He pauses, frowns, and reconsiders.

“Okay, what wouldn’t Tony do, then.” That brings him even less options. He groans in frustration, rubbing his eyes. “Captain America’s PSAs never covered this.” And then, in near perfect mimicry of Steve Rogers’ voice, “So, you’ve died and come back to life in an alternate universe where no one knows who you are and all of the superheroes have really obvious names."

Okay, focus. He’s getting away from himself. He covers his face with his hands, blocking out the evening light coming in from the window and takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

“What would Rhodey do?” he asks. And then, as if the man is standing right beside him, he can hear: It’s common sense time with Uncle Rhodey: If you’re lost somewhere without help, get the basics first. Shelter, water, and food, in that order. The rest can wait.

Right. Shelter first. He can’t just wander around in what is obviously the bad side of town at night, in the rain, and expect to get out of it unscathed. He needs to find some place to hunker down until someone can find him.

Peter takes a deep breath, and steps back out into the Gotham night.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Okay. Find a place, hunker down, wait for someone to find him. He can’t be the only person to make it here from his universe, right? The Guardians might be somewhere nearby. Maybe Dr. Strange, too. He just has to find a place and standby until someone finds him. And they will find him.

Because the thought of being the only one to survive Titan, the only one to end up here, is too much for Peter to bear.

The rain starts to pick up when he leaves the burned out store, plastering his hair to his head and washing the ash and blood off of himself. There’s an added bonus to the rain: it helps dim his enhanced senses. He can still smell the city itself--the exhaust fumes, the oil embedded in the broken asphalt, the moldering garbage--but the rain mutes those scents. And it smothers sound, as well. Which is a bonus; the streets are as busy as any city, and the wind and water mutes the sound of heartbeats, conversations, and other ambient noise in the city.

He really wishes his earbuds had made the transfer between universes. And his phone. And his suit, for that matter. He can still feel his wallet in his pocket, but that’s almost useless. Nothing electronic made the jump between universes, just the clothes Peter was wearing beneath his suit. Maybe that was a limit to Dr. Strange’s spell? But why? Human bodies are a trillion times more difficult than electronics. One would think he could manage it.

“One would be wrong,” a dry voice says somewhere on the street behind him. It sounds a lot like Dr. Strange.

Okay. Focus. The sun is setting behind the rain clouds, and he doesn’t want to be caught outside after dark. He is definitely in the bad part of town; the roads are cracked and pock marked with potholes, the streetlights either don’t work or barely work at all, and the police look just as hardened and rough as the obvious criminals slinking along the alleyway entrances. More than a few eye him warily or speculatively as he passes by, and his spider senses twinge at each one.

In fact, most of this street seems to be dive bars, pawn shops, shady warehouses, and abandoned buildings. The few office buildings dotting the street somehow seem even more malicious than the bars; more than half of those are abandoned outright, with smashed in windows and boarded up entrances. His spider senses set off at a low hum, an anxiety inducing buzz that runs down the back of his neck. He can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. There’s just an overall sense of danger-bad-careful running on loop in the back of his mind.

It spikes, suddenly, and footsteps come pounding up the alley towards his side. Peter’s barely begun to turn when something heavy and metallic snaps across his shoulders and the back of his neck, sending him face first into the ground for the second time in an hour. His head bounces off of the cracked sidewalk, sending stars across his vision.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to hit him that hard,” a voice says, amused. “It’s not like a skinny twerp like this is any threat.”

“Shut up and grab his wallet, idiot,” another snarls.

Someone rifles through his pockets and grabs his wallet from his pocket. “All right, let’s see--”

“Hold it right there!” a third voice yells out.

“f*ck, the cops,” one of the men hisses. He drops Peter’s wallet and sprints down an alley, his friend close behind. They disappear into the shadows and rain in seconds.

Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief, reaching out to grab his wallet as the cop steps into view. “Hey, thanks--”

The cop snaps his baton across the back of Peter's hand, knocking the wallet back out of his hand. There’s a slight crack and an explosion of pain that numbs his hand and shoots up his arm. Peter curses and curls up around his hand, fighting back a wave of nausea.

“Didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart, kid,” the cop says dryly. He snatches up Peter’s wallet, peeks inside, and sighs loudly before flinging it into a puddle.

"No cash, no cards, just a transit pass and a driver's license. I should've left you to the wolves," he says, kicking the wallet at Peter. "Run home. There's a curfew in a few hours. I’ll beat you twice as hard as those guys if I have to deal with your sh*t after it starts."

With that, he turns around and leaves, disappearing into the shadowed street as smoothly as the men who mugged Peter. Peter lays on the ground for a moment, contemplating his life, and then sighs.

“So to recap my life so far: I died, got thrown into an alternate universe, zapped by an evil wizard, mugged, and now I’ve got a broken hand from a crooked cop,” Peter mutters darkly. He flexes his hand, winces, and then grabs his wallet with his good hand and shoves it into his pocket. "I'm so throwing rocks at Dr. Strange's house when this is all over. I’m going to make a huge scene of it, too.”

God, will he ever. Right now, he mostly feels like huddling into a corner and crying.

"Hey, kid! Over here." A man in a line cook's outfit flags him down further down the street. He’s standing outside of one of the few decent looking buildings on the block.

Peter stares at him warily, then mentally shrugs and heads over to him. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like he can die again, right?

“New on the streets?” the guy asks, motioning for Peter to follow him inside the building. It’s a restaurant; the outside is as weathered as the rest of the block, but the inside is clean and furnished well. The man leads him into a kitchen.

“Yeah, you could say that, I guess,” Peter mumbles, cradling his hand. It's definitely broken, but the bones are fusing back together already. It'll heal, but it's one discomfort piled on top of another.

The kitchen is brightly lit and smells like fresh bread and cooked clove and sumac. A young woman is cleaning a workstation when the two of them walk in, and only spares Peter and the man a brief look before continuing her work. The man points to a small alcove where an old formica table sits. Overturned crates serve as chairs. Peter drops down on one and winces when he jostles his hand.

“I could tell,” the man says, tired. He’s young, maybe twenty two at the most, but sounds much older. He hands Peter a towel to dry himself off with and grabs a first aid kit off the wall. He starts to clean and bandage Peter’s hand. “Officer Brady’s a massive prick. Most of the cops in the Bowery are crooked. You got off light.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“Avoid the homeless shelters, too,” the man continues, tying off the splint he’s put on Peter’s hand and wrist. “The city closed down all of the decent ones and bussed most of the homeless population out of the city. The ones that are left are not safe.”

“Oh. Good to know.” He hadn’t even considered that.

The man eyes him carefully, frowning. “When was the last time you ate?”

He shrugs, opting for honesty. “Uh, Tuesday?”

The man's frown deepens, and he turns towards the woman finishing up her work and says something to her in Arabic; Peter knows a few basic phrases, but he can't track what the man says. The woman stops, frowns, then sets her cleaning cloth aside to wash her hands and turn on the oven.

"Oh, she doesn't--you don't need to cook anything--"

"It won't take any time. And yes, we do. You are a guest in our home, and you haven’t eaten in three days." He offers his hand to Peter. "I'm Omar.”

Peter takes his hand. “Peter.”

“I’m Sophia,” the woman says, appearing at his side. She sets down a bowl in front of him. “Eat. Omar, you get to clean.”

“That’s fair,” Omar answers. He watches Peter eat for a moment. “You can’t be older than fifteen.”

He’s sixteen, actually, but his baby face hides it. Much to his annoyance. “Sixteen.”

“You’re young enough that a year makes a big difference to you,” Omar retorts. “Do you have a place to stay?”

No. “Yes.”

His lie must not be very convincing. Omar’s frown grows deeper.

“I have a place. Promise. My, uh, uncle’s coming to town soon. I’m leaving town in a few days,” Peter says, desperately hoping that’s true. If Happy showed up right now, he would hug the man. Same for Rhodey. Honestly, even Vision would get a giant bearhug. “I just got lost in the bad part of town.”

“You’re in Crime Alley, Peter. The worst part of the most dangerous area of the city. Not even Batman comes here anymore,” Omar says. “You really got lost.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a new place, you know?” Peter says, picking up the bowl in front of himself. It looks delicious.

Omar considers him for another moment, then stands up. “Enjoy your meal, Peter. Meet me at the door when you’re ready to leave, but stay as long as you need.”

He leaves the kitchen alcove. Peter practically inhales his meal, suddenly aware of how hungry he is. In all fairness, he’s had a pretty busy day. He’s halfway through his meal when Sophia sets another bowl down on the table.

“We’re closing for the night,” she says by way of explanation. “And you look like you could use the food. Eat up.”

Peter does, infinitely thankful for the kindness from these two strangers. The first people to show him any since he was blasted sideways into the city. Which isn’t saying much, really, since he’s been here less than a day.

Omar hands him a faded red backpack. Peter takes it, opening it and taking a peek inside. He stares at it for a moment then looks up at Omar. “I can’t--”

“You can,” Omar says. “There’s clothes, a sleeping bag, gloves, a coat, and several pairs of socks. Toiletries, too. And food.” He sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? The city’s curfew is about to start and... Well, we don’t have much, but Sophia and I can stretch things for a week or two.”

The last thing Peter wants to do is be a burden.

“No, I won’t be in Gotham for very long. Thank you, Omar,” Peter says, zipping the backpack up and shrugging it on. “Seriously, you have no idea.”

"I used to volunteer at the Wayne Foundation homeless shelter down the block. They closed it a few weeks back, so I'm sort of doing it freelance these days. If you need anything, please come find us,” he says. “Even if it’s just to get a meal. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Peter replies, oddly touched. He walks towards the back exit with Omar.

“Good luck, Peter,” Omar says.

Peter gives Omar a friendly wave, before stepping back out into the street.

He makes a point to avoid alleys after that. And keeps a wary eye out for any figures lurking in the dark. He won’t be caught unaware again.

* * *

He regrets leaving the restaurant behind almost immediately. The rain, which had lessened some while he was in the restaurant, comes back full force. He again finds himself wandering Gotham’s dingy streets in the rain, with night falling soon. It’s the ‘nicer part’ of Crime Alley, at least--not that that means much, really--with less people around. It’s all but abandoned, in fact. He can’t hear any nearby heartbeats. At least, nothing larger than rats.

He’s in an old business district. Something that could have been the heart of a booming commercial district, judging by the half finished skyscrapers, abandoned office buildings, and empty cafes that dot the street. There’s a single convenience store lit up like a beacon at the far corner, and that’s it. Which suits Peter just fine, though it’s a bit eerie. He can hole up here for a night.

He finds, of all things, an abandoned fire station in the heart of the block. It’s ancient by today’s standards; the architecture clearly harkens back to an earlier 20th century design. Two storeys tall, with a single garage that’s been boarded up along with most of the windows and the entrance. Only a single window on the second floor is intact, with a window air conditioning unit settled in it.

Peter glances back and forth, listening closely to make sure no one’s nearby, then begins to climb up the wall to the window. It’s tricky; between his hand and the rain, he’s forced to move slower than he’d like. Still, he’s at the window in seconds. He braces himself on the bricks near the window and roughly shoves it upwards before hauling himself inside and out of the rain.

The inside is damp, dark, and dusty, but it’s warm. And it’ll keep him off the street. He swipes rain from his eyes, pushing back his hair, and slowly explores the building. The room he’s in must have been the dorm for the firefighters stationed here; he can see where the bunks had been bolted to the hardwood floor. A door nearby leads into a large bathroom, and another, hanging off of its hinges, leads to the stairs to the floor below. Peter shuts the door leading to the stairs before entering the bathroom.

Okay, shelter acquired. Now for step two of Rhodey’s survival tips: water. The rain isn’t going to last forever, and Peter has the distinct feeling that drinking rainwater in Gotham is the equivalent to licking sewage pipes; the air smells of smog and pollution even in the rain. Peter shrugs off his backpack and sets it on the dusty tiled floor before approaching one of the shower stalls. This probably won’t work, but what the hell. He turns on one of the showers and is surprised to find clear, clean and freezing cold water shoots from the spout. It pegs him right in the face and he sputters, blindly flailing into the stall and turning it off.

He huffs, pushing his newly damp hair away from his face. "Okay, water. Yay."

Step two complete, apparently.

He grabs the driest part of his shirt and wipes his face, shuffling over to the mirror mounted on the wall. He glances up, catches sight of himself in the mirror and freezes. He pushes back a few strands of hair, leaning in to get a closer look. The hair just above his right temple is bone white, in direct contrast with the rest of his hair. It’s a perfect streak, too. Peter touches it, then sighs and leans back. His hair didn’t look like that before Thanos dusted him. All things being equal, if that’s the only thing that’s different about him after coming back to life, he got off light.

He doesn’t think it’s the only thing that’s different, however.

He considers that for a few moments, then shakes his head and grabs his backpack, moving back into the dorm room. He’s tired. It’s late. And he needs sleep. He drops the backpack on the floor, flops down on the ground beside it, and drops his head on the backpack. It makes for a poor pillow, but it’s better than nothing.

Despite the chill and the rain, he falls asleep almost immediately.

* * *

He dreams of a city made of gold and metal, with technology far outside of his own reckoning. The streets are empty, and there’s a strange sense of grief that seems to hover around the empty buildings. Peter’s standing in a grand plaza, surrounded by gleaming buildings that stand silent in the sunlight.

“You’ve ruined everything,” a man says behind him.

He turns around and finds himself the subject of scrutiny from Loki Odinson. The man watches him coldly, annoyance and disgust clear on his features.

Peter stares at him, confused. “What?”

“I had a plan, you see. Not the most clever plan I’ve come up with, but one that would work given the circ*mstances. And you ruined it.”

“Uh. How did I do that?”

“I found a place a long time ago that allows me to hide away my soul until I can conjure a new body,” Loki explains, using the tone one would use around a particularly slow child. “I found it on Vormir, and I’ve used it to keep myself essentially deathless and immortal since long before your people began bathing on a daily basis. And you broke it.”

Peter, beyond helpless, frowns at him. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My plan was simple. I was going to hide away in the Soul Stone, then erupt out of it just as Thanos used the gauntlet. A well placed knife would have done the trick. I would’ve reclaimed the gauntlet as my own and used it to bring back Asgard for my brother.” He glowers at Peter. “And yet, that didn’t happen. My pocket dimension has been overrun by the souls of those Thanos killed. Not all of them, mind. Just the ones who failed to stop Thanos. Just the Avengers.”

Peter can’t think of a worse idea than giving Loki the Infinity Gauntlet. “How is this my fault? I got dusted!”

Loki stares at him for a long moment and then laughs. “You really don’t know what you’ve done, do you? Oh, this will be interesting.” He shakes his head. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Run along. I need to speak with your sorcerer.”

He snaps his fingers.

Peter startles awake on the floor, unnerved by his dreams. The images and words fade away within seconds of waking, the way all dreams do, and he’s left puzzled and ill at ease. He rubs his eyes, sitting up with a wince. He tests his hand, gently flexing it. It stings and burns, but the pain disappears quickly; his broken hand has upgraded itself to a mild sprain. He leaves it in the splint Omar made just to be safe.

The rain has stopped, but the sky is cloudy and dim. He might as well get up.

He finally opens the backpack and sorts out his supplies. He has a sleeping bag (which he should’ve used last night), a flashlight (not necessary), a dozen breakfast meal bars, three t-shirts that look half a size too large, socks, two pairs of sweatpants, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and more meal replacement bars along with a jar of peanut butter. And a note from Omar and Sophie, asking him to come back if he needs anything.

Peter folds the note back up and keeps it in his wallet. It’s nice to know that there are good people in the worst places. And it’s a good idea to keep those reminders nearby. Karen told him as much at one point.

He grabs a breakfast bar (strawberry and cream flavored), and scarfs it down before standing up. He spends that first day exploring the firehouse completely. He finds a kitchen in complete shambles on the ground floor, a set of old tools in the garage, and a half broken radio sitting on a desk in an office. He grabs the tools and radio and takes them upstairs. There are other things on the first floor--old tires, hoses, lockers--that he might yet find use for, but right now he’d feel safer if the first floor is blocked off completely.

By the end of the day (which isn’t as long as he’d expect; he must have slept half the day away), he’s ready to settle in and wait. And hope that someone finds him.

* * *

Days pass. His food disappears bit by bit.

* * *

He can only stay in one place for so long. He leaves the firehouse on the fourth night to get a better look at the city. The easiest way to do that is by staying high and out of sight, moving during the evening dusk.

His hand is fully healed by now and he reaches the top of the building quickly and easily. It’s late--he doesn’t know how late--and the city is lit up beneath him. He’s not standing on the tallest building in the district; it’s only about twenty floors tall. It should give him a bird’s eye view of things.

He strolls along the edge of the building, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning over the edge to look over the city. A lot of it is in disrepair; more than he expected. And there's a lot more blight than he expected. He can see and hear over two dozen red and blue lights and sirens tracing the city streets, each moving in a different direction. A distant spotlight shines against the clouds with the image of a bat set in the middle. It reminds Peter of the ‘spider signal’ Tony built into his suit.

Peter can hear the distant crack of gunfire nearby. It seems to come from every direction, varying in distance and intensity, but it’s also near constant. The whole city must sound like a warzone. No wonder Batman--whoever that is--hasn't been through this part of town recently. Even if he had a full crew on hand, they'd have to work nonstop just to keep things from falling apart in the rest of the city. The man clearly has his hands full.

There’s a low rumble, and then a larger pop, as a building erupts into flames across a distant river, near what looks to be a port. More sirens begin, and Peter can see helicopters fly towards the fire. He focuses on that area of town. Something inside of him is pulling at him in that direction. Not his spider senses. Something else. It feels golden? Or orange. He’s not sure. The longer he looks, the more he leans over the ledge, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from--

"Hey, I'd appreciate it if you took a few steps back from that ledge," a voice says behind him, calm and gentle.

Peter startles, jumping in place, and whirls around to find himself face to face with a masked man in a black suit with blue, stylized wings spread across the chest. There’s a small earpiece tucked away in his ear. Peter can just barely make out the sound of radio traffic coming from it.

"How did--where did you come from?" Peter asks.

"The next building over," the man says, carefully walking over to Peter. He stands just within arm's reach and offers his hand. "I'm Nightwing."

"Uh, Peter," Peter says, automatically reaching out to grip Nightwing's hand. He yelps when the man pulls him away from the edge and spins them around so that Nightwing stands on the ledge and Peter stands more towards the center of the roof. "Dude, what the---"

"There. Better." He lets go of Peter's hand. "You alright? Actually, I guess that's not the best question. If you were all right, you wouldn't be up here at two in the morning."

Peter frowns at him, utterly confused. And then it clicks. "Oh! You thought I was---no, I-I just came up here to think. That's all."

Nightwing frowns at him. “Lots of people come up to buildings to think. Do you want to talk for a little bit?”

“Nightwing,” the radio says. “We need you. Now.”

Nightwing frowns, but gives no indication that he heard his own radio. His focus remains on Peter completely.

“You have way more important things to do,” Peter says. He doesn’t want to keep Nightwing away from whatever he should be doing. “I’m fine. Honest. I really did just come up here to think. Also I kind of think abandoned buildings are cool, you know? Just...doing some urban exploring. You know.”

“Nightwing,” the radio says again.

Nightwing sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at the raging fire at the docks, then turns back to Peter. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, man. I’m fine. Go do your superhero thing. I can find my own way down,” Peter says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to the door leading inside the building. He has no intention of actually going inside, but he doesn’t want Nightwing to think he’s going to launch himself off the top of the building either.

“Okay,” Nightwing says hesitantly. His radio kicks in again, this time in a burst of traffic full of shouting, gunfire, and cursing. “Just be careful, Peter.”

“Sure,” Peter says.

Nightwing gives him one last lingering look, then leaps silently off of the side of the building. Peter can just barely see a dark shape swing between the silent office buildings that surround them. He waits for another five minutes before crawling down the side of the building and walking back towards the firehouse.

That night, before he falls asleep, he wonders if he should have taken the time to talk to Nightwing.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Three days pass, and Peter takes a moment to fully consider his situation. If someone’s coming for him, then they’re taking their sweet time with it. He’s almost out of food, and he’s rapidly running out of clean clothes. Also he’s bored out of his mind.

And lonely. He misses May. And Ned. And MJ. All three of them have become a near constant presence in his life, and now he’s gone several days without seeing any of them. Peter feels incomplete without them. Especially May and Ned. He feels naked without a phone in Gotham, but he doesn't miss it much. It's not like he can shoot a message to Ned across whatever divides parallel realities or send MJ a picture of a cafe she hasn't gone to yet.

It’s weird to go to bed and wake up without chatting with May, texting her some silly gif or joke, or eating dinner with her. His days feel incomplete without her, and it’s starting to drag at him. Sure, he misses Ned and MJ, and Tony. But he misses her most of all. He wishes she were here to help. Even if it’s just for a little while. He’d been in such a rush the day of the field trip that he forgot to give her his usual hug on the way out. He regrets that; the guilt of it--of something that small--weighs on his mind more than it should.

It doesn’t help that he’s tired, cold, and almost constantly hungry. It doesn’t help that no one’s come to find him. And it really doesn’t help that his hand still aches painfully in the morning, stiff and tense in a way that hints at an ongoing problem that will haunt him for awhile yet.

All in all, he's in a pretty low mood. The loneliness is the worst part of it. And that's what ultimately drives him up to the rooftops most nights. It helps him think, and it gets him out of the firehouse. Sometimes it helps keep the nightmares at bay. Not always, but sometimes.

He sits at the edge of the rooftop, building a mental map of the city; he quickly pinpoints where the sirens are in the city, where they start, end, and what neighborhoods they avoid entirely. The worst neighborhoods never see the police, and he makes a mental note to scope those places out when he gets the chance. He also waits to see if that tug he felt a few days ago starts up again. It hasn't yet, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

His senses twinge for a moment--a brief flash he otherwise wouldn’t notice in the constant drone of the city--and he hears someone swing through the air behind him and land on the rooftop.

“Hey, Peter,” Nightwing says behind him, strolling up to the roof’s edge. He drops down beside Peter, holding a paper sack. He pulls out a couple of hamburgers and offers the larger one to Peter. “Hungry?”

“Dude, yes, you have no idea,” Peter replies, perking up and taking the offered burger. It’s huge and takes both hands for Peter to hold. It’s worth more than its weight in gold, too. Peter’s food stocks are starting to become worryingly thin. “Where’d you get this?”

“Burger joint around the corner,” Nightwing answers, grabbing his own burger. It’s much smaller. “I don’t go there very often. It’s a guilty pleasure, and I’m using you as an excuse.”

“Sweet,” Peter says, taking a bite out of his burger.

They sit in companionable silence, eating their respective burgers. The city is relatively peaceful for once. It’s a pleasant change from the past week. Gotham almost seems nice.

Peter makes short work of his burger, sighs, and leans back from the roof ledge. “Where’d you learn to swing like that? You’re really smooth.”

Nightwing grins. “The circus.”

Peter stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

"Okay, show me a trick, then."

Nightwing thinks, shrugs, and then stands up. He balances himself on the edge of the roof with his hand, bumps himself up on the tips of his fingers, and then finally balances on just two fingers. He holds the pose for a minute before jumping back onto his feet. There isn’t one wasted ounce of energy; it’s smooth and agile. Peter's a little jealous of how easily he moves.

Which just brings out his competitive streak. “Huh. I could do that.”

“Yeah? Show me," Nightwing says. He pauses for a moment. "Away from the roof edge."

Peter rolls his eyes but stands up and wanders over to the center of the roof. Peter leans down, braces his fist against the rooftop, then pushes himself up on two fingers while pushing his legs off of the roof. He holds the pose for about ten seconds, subtly adjusting his balance. And then he overcorrects, flails his legs, overcorrects again, and falls flat on his back.

Nightwing pops into view, grinning down at him.

“Okay, so, you may have caught me on a bad day,” Peter says after a moment of silence.

Nightwing laughs, offering Peter a hand up. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Come on.”

“No, really!” Nightwing says earnestly. “You just need to work on your core a little more. Where’d you learn to do that anyway?”

Peter almost says ‘from being Spider-Man’ but stops at the last second, racks his brain and says, “From, uh, ballet, actually.”

“Huh. I should look into that one day,” Nightwing says. In the distance, the bat signal lights up, and he focuses on it. “Duty calls. Guess break time is over."

"I thought that signal was for Batman," Peter says.

Nightwing pauses. "Usually, yes. But Bats is a little under the weather. The crew is handling things for now."

“Oh,” Peter says, thoughtful.

Wonder Woman and Superman had mentioned Batman, hadn’t they? He should ask Nightwing about that. He starts to speak when Nightwing’s radio sounds off. Peter can hear static and muffled words.

“Right. I’m on it,” Nightwing says to his radio. He strolls towards the edge of the roof. "I better go handle that. Later, Peter!”

“Later, Nightwing! Thanks for the burger!”

Nightwing gives him an easy salute, leaping off of the side of the building and into the night below.

Peter waits for a few minutes and then crawls down the side of the building. He feels a little less lonely now, at least.

He sleeps well that night.

* * *

Two days after the visit from Nightwing, Peter takes stock himself and his situation.

First of all, parallel dimensions exist. Multiple universes exist. Holy sh*t. The scientific ramifications are absolutely limitless, especially for physics. If he wasn't currently trapped here, he'd be shrieking at the very idea of researching the concept with Ned. Tony Stark wouldn't be capable of keeping him out of the lab at the Compound; he'd be stuck with a feral, terminally nerdy child literally bouncing off of his walls for months on end, moving from one experiment to the next.

That's something for later. It's starting to look like he's the only person from his universe to end up here, and he can't stay here forever. He has to get home. The problem with that is rather obvious. Magic brought him here, not science as he understands it. As cool as that is, it puts him at a severe disadvantage.

But maybe he could figure it out? Not magic, but the science fueling it. Everything functions under a set of laws, even magic. He gets up, and starts to pace the firehouse dorm floor. The movement helps him organize his thoughts.

Magic is just science people don't understand, isn't it? Show a medieval serf a videochat on your phone and they would consider it magic. Also you'd be called a witch and burned at the stake, but that's neither here nor there.

He needs more information. He needs access to scientific research.

Well, he's getting ahead of himself. He needs food. Clothes. A way to gather the information he needs. He can’t just saunter around town looking for it, either. Not with that weird truancy law. His baby face is still in full effect; he’s sixteen and looks it. The cops will be on him in seconds if he starts wandering the streets during school time, and he’d really rather avoid Gotham’s juvenile halls if he can help it. God only knows how horrible those places are.

School or juvie. School gives him regular meals, a shower that isn’t made of ice, and a place to gather information.

Well, time for him to get back to school, then.

Which means he needs to enroll himself.

Which means he needs a computer.

He thinks for a moment, then practically slaps himself in the forehead.

The library. Duh.

* * *

It takes him most of the morning to find a library. The Bowery has none, which isn't a surprise, so he takes to hopping the subway and heads for Old Gotham. The trip is a long one, and he spends most of it bored out of his mind. A few times he sees flashes of people he recognizes out of the corner of his eye as he makes his way towards the library. He sees Sam Wilson walking beside him. He sees Bucky Barnes squinting suspiciously at a rough looking group of guys near an alley. He sees Dr. Strange's cloak flutter past. They disappear every time he turns to get a closer look.

He must be losing his mind. He's dreaming up people from his own universe. And two out of the three don't even like him! God, that's some luckless loser nonsense.

"You're not that bad, kid," Sam says.

Whatever. Peter ignores them, moving down the street. The sky is overcast, the air damp and chill, and the people of Old Gotham are only slightly less surly than the people in the Bowery. The buildings, however, are absolutely beautiful; every building on this street is built with old carved stone, complete with gargoyles in some areas, and old trees line narrow streets. It’s a nice break from the blight and despair in the Bowery.

He finds the library soon enough (and can, in fact, see it from almost two blocks away; it’s huge), and jogs up the stairs to the massive front doors. He’s about to walk inside when he sees a red haired woman in a wheelchair out of the corner of his eye. She presses the automatic door button, waits for a few moments, then presses it again.

“God, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

Peter walks away from the door he was about to use and heads over to her. He opens the door for her, propping it open so she can go inside ahead of him.

"Hey, thanks," the woman says, wheeling herself through easily. She’s strong; Peter can see toned muscles moving smoothly beneath her shirt.

"Anytime," Peter replies, holding the door open for her. "I guess the button's broken."

"Wouldn't surprise me. The mayor's a notorious cheapskate." She smiles at him, offering her hand. "I'm Barbara."

Peter takes her hand. "Peter."

For a moment, there's a flash of recognition in her eyes. It passes quickly, and her smile becomes a touch more friendly. "What brings you to the library today?"

"Uh, getting a card and enrolling for school. You know. Before I commit a felony by existing outside of it.”

Barbara smirks, leading him over to the main desk. "It'll take a few days to get your card--again, the mayor's a cheapskate--but I can sign you in as my guest and help you get signed up. You can use my login on the computers."

“Oh, that’d be awesome,” Peter says, walking beside her. She moves behind the desk and grabs a few forms for him to fill out, and he takes to his task eagerly. If nothing else, he can at least borrow a few books to pass the time at the firehouse.

“Here,” Barbara says, handing him her card. “Just plug it into one of the computers. It’ll unlock it for you.”

Peter takes it, a little surprised by how helpful she’s being, but he’s not going to look too hard into it. “Thanks, I won’t take long.”

Barbara hums in agreement, looking over the form he filled out. He leaves her to her task and heads to the nearest bank of computers. He drops into a seat, plugs the card in, and all but sighs in relief when the internet browser pops up. He would never describe himself as a screen addict, but he’d also be lying if he said he didn’t miss the internet at all since leaving Earth. His Earth, at least.

Time to start some research. He starts looking for articles about recent alien appearances (if the Guardians popped into existence, they’d definitely warrant a news story or three) or sightings of a strange man wearing a living cloak. He finds neither, which doesn’t surprise him, but it is disappointing.

So back to his original plan, then. Finding a school to go to.

He could try to enroll in a public school, but there's a very good chance he won't find the chemicals he needs for his web fluid there. Public schools tend to have much more stringent budgets for chemical compounds than Midtown, at least back in his universe, and his refined recipe requires a few of the less common ones. Looking at Gotham, there doesn't seem to be a heavy focus on the sciences in any capacity in the public sector.

But there is a private school in town. Gotham Prep, where the city's best, brightest, and richest children go. Peter can't afford the tuition, but there are full ride scholarships. A few even come with stipends, but they require a bank account belonging to a parent. Peter sorely lacks both.

Well, he lacks both right now. Ned’s taught him a few tricks. Hacking into a banking system to create an account probably breaks several federal laws all at once, but whatever. The bank has laughably terrible security anyway. He’s inside their system within minutes--from a library computer, no less--and quietly appalled by how easy it is to create a fake account under Tony Stark’s name. He doesn’t want May’s name associated with this; it feels wrong to involve her in the seven felonies he’s currently committing and the two more that will soon follow. Tony probably wouldn’t mind.

He registers for an academic scholarship to Gotham Prep, one of the mid tier ones that offers one hundred dollars a week as well as tuition. It requires an entrance exam, but that’s not much of a hurdle. He can take the entrance exam easily enough, and it might even help calm his guilty conscience somewhat. The registration takes no time at all.

He can hear Tony's voice in the back of his mind while he gets to work.

"If you ever have to steal, do it to a rich man. The old money kind like me. New money is obsessed with wealth and counts every dime they have. They'll notice. Old money is so used to playing fast and loose with their budgets that they'll never realize it’s a few thousand shorter than it should be. And if they find out about it, there's even odds they'll just be amused. Rich people crave new experiences, trust me."

At the time, Peter had been deeply offended by the very idea of stealing something that doesn’t belong to him. Uncle Ben would never do that. That goes triple for Aunt May.

But he’s homeless, penniless, and close to helpless. He’ll make it up to Bruce somehow. Or at least leave a very apologetic letter somewhere for him to find. Given that Bruce Wayne is basically an airheaded version of Tony Stark, he may not even notice the money was stolen in the first place. Which would be ideal, since he's using Barbara's login to commit a few felonies right now.

Getting a PO box at a post office is easy enough. His first objective is completed within minutes, and it’s almost offensive how easy it is. He sets up a bank account under Tony’s name, using the PO box as an address, arranges for bank cards, and then does the most dangerous part: he hacks into Bruce Wayne’s bank account.

He doesn’t take much; only five hundred dollars. Enough to get him new clothes at a thrift shop, his new uniform (maybe a co*cky move, but he's never met an entrance exam he can't pass), food, and a public transit pass. Plus a few extra things. Bruce probably won’t even notice it's gone, honestly.

At least, he hopes so.

He makes sure to clean up after himself, masking his digital trail with tricks Ned taught him during their last hackathon. A genius cyber sleuth will notice the intrusion eventually, but the trail will be cold by then. They won't find him. And besides, how many genius hackers can Gotham possibly have?

Hopefully none.

He’d feel a lot better about this if Bruce Wayne turned out to be some massive asshole that kicks orphans through windows or something. He checks Twitter (which apparently exists, albeit with the old interface from the mid 2000s), half out of curiosity, half as a way to assuage his own guilt.

And finds utter nonsense.

Wonderful day out at Memorial Park! one tweet says, with quite possibly the most tilted picture of an old oak in existence.

A bird stole my phone! is the follow up to that.

Peter scrolls on.

And Alfred said I couldn’t cook. An image is attached to this one. The noodles look burned beyond all recognition. Peter is pretty sure Alfred isn't paid enough to deal with this sh*t.

You know, it’s been too long since I’ve had a nice party with Wayne’s Girls! Throwing one this weekend. Invitations are being sent out today. ;)

Gross.

Dozens of tweets, all of them empty of meaning, most of them dull beyond comprehension. At first glance, Bruce Wayne is Tony Stark without a brain; nothing but parties, women, and selfies with celebrities. His company is under the control of a board, and he only occasionally stops in to check on it. He really hasn't done anything with his life outside of the odd philanthropy fund. Which, well, isn’t nothing, but it could be a lot more.

Maybe Peter’s being overly judgemental and unfair in order to justify stealing from him.

Someone really should take away Bruce's twitter privileges however. The man waxes poetic over a houseplant at least once a week, ending each one with #Metropolis for some reason.

"Catching up on celebrity gossip?" Barbara asks behind him. She peers over his shoulder. "Oh, Bruce Wayne. He's a favorite of mine."

"Why did he describe the sun shining on his houseplant for four tweets?" Peter asks. “Actually, how does he have thousands of likes for those tweets? How is he anybody’s favorite?”

"Bruce Wayne is an enigma in most things, but this? He’s doing it to tease a friend in Metropolis. And he’s something of an institution in Gotham," she replies, grinning as if laughing at some private joke. "He grows on you."

"So does fungus." What the f*ck is a Metropolis. That's a place? They might as well have named it City. This universe is weird.

Barbara's grin grows wider. "You might change your tune someday, Peter."

"Doubtful," Peter says, logging out. He stands up and stretches; if he hurries, he can reach the post office closest to the firehouse and pick up his key for the PO box. And then go to bed early; the entrance exam is tomorrow. "Thanks for letting me mooch off of you, Barbara."

"Anytime, Peter. Don't forget to come back for your card in a few days, okay?"

"I will! Thank you again!" Peter says with a casual wave.

He strolls towards the library exit, unaware of the puzzled, curious expression that crosses Barbara’s face when she logs into her own computer.

* * *

He sleeps terribly that night, his dreams flitting from one scene to another. He dreams of Titan, of waking up inside glass tubes, of death and failure. He dreams of a Stark Industries missile landing inside his living room when he’s very small. He dreams of a bomb exploding while his father(?) makes a speech. He dreams of a friend falling to his death, just out of reach. He hears people murmuring near him, around him, but he can’t make out their words. They sound alarmed.

“He can see our memories,” Dr. Strange says. It feels as though Peter flies past him at great speed.

More sights, sounds, words, and places flash by him. None of them are pleasant.

At the end of it, he lies face down in a pool of shallow water, in a place made of dingy, orange light.

Peter startles awake sometime before dawn, breathing hard, and covered in sweat. He runs a shaking hand down his face, getting his bearings. It’s early; he can hear distant gunshots (miles away), the buzz of the streetlights outside, and the all persistent drone of traffic. Nothing else. No voices.

He sighs, pushes himself up on his good hand, and goes to shower. The nightmares fade, but the vague unease they caused linger.

* * *

Showered, dressed, and mostly fed, Peter makes his way to the nearest subway station. And there’s where he runs into his first problem: how the hell is he going to get to the rich part of town?

Gotham's subway system is a Lovecraftian nightmare knot of lines, transfers, and dead ends that don’t seem to follow any logical pattern whatsoever. The route to the library from the Bowery is straightforward. The route to the rich part of town is very much not, and the map is laughably unhelpful. And, for a bonus, half the lines are currently down for maintenance or renovations. He has no idea where to go, and no one nearby seems eager to help. The lady standing at the ticket booth looks ready to murder anyone who speaks to her and the nearby transit cops are people he avoids on principle. So he does the best thing he can think of.

He stands in front of the subway map and stares at it in blatant confusion. And, just like in New York, it works. An older man in a suit, wearing a tan overcoat, stops beside him. Everything about the man screams cop: from the flat haircut to the graying mustache and the way he carries himself. Not a beat cop, either. Someone higher up in the ranks.

"You lost, son?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah," Peter says, wary of the man. His first experience with Gotham law enforcement hadn't been a good one. "I've gotta get to Gotham Prep for an entrance exam but...uh."

He gestures towards the map helplessly and the man chuckles.

"The subway's a nightmare right now. Normally I'd say to take the W line, but it's under repair. Your best bet is the J line, then grabbing a transfer over to the L." He stops and checks his watch. "You know what, I'm headed that way anyway. Come on, I’ll show you."

He turns and walks towards the nearest train. Peter looks at him, then back at the map, and shrugs. He might as well take his chances with this old guy. Peter follows him onto the train and grabs a handhold beside him.

"I’m James Gordon," the man says.

“Peter,” Peter says. “Are the subways usually this, uh...”

“Trashed?” Gordon finishes. “No, not usually. There was a gas attack at the main transit hub. That’s why everything’s been out of service for so long. It takes a long time to decontaminate these things.”

“A gas attack?”

“Yeah, the Scarecrow finally made an appearance,” Gordon says, as if that should mean something to Peter. “Whatever his new formula is, it’s potent and he’s got a lot of it.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “I guess that’s what Nightwing was dealing with a few days back?”

“Nightwing’s been dealing with a lot. So has Red Robin, Signal, Black Bat, and Spoiler. They’ve all been working to the bone these days.”

Peter stares at him. “Exactly how many superheroes live in this city?”

“Too many and not enough,” Gordon says. The train pulls to a stop, Gordon checks his watch again. It’s an old analog watch, and one that’s seen years of use. “Come on. Your next train leaves in five minutes.”

They hurry off of the train, and Gordon guides him over to another terminal. “This one will take you straight there. It’s the next stop.”

“Right,” Peter says, looking around and committing the place to memory. He’s homeless, but he’d like to stay inside that firehouse if possible.

"Good luck on your exam, Peter."

"Thanks, Mr. Gordon,” Peter says, jogging towards the benches. He can feel Gordon watching him for a few seconds before moving on.

Well, at least there’s one nice cop in Gotham, Peter thinks.

* * *

The train ride passes in a blur. The walk from the subway to Gotham Prep passes by in a similar manner. The buildings here are modern, gorgeous, and speak to a level of wealth he’ll never see in his life. He tries to walk like he belongs here, and isn’t sure he pulls it off.

Peter’s a bit out of place at the testing hall, but most of the kids here aren’t dressed any better than he is (thank god), so he doesn’t automatically stick out like a sore thumb. Most of the kids separate off into their own cliques and ignore him completely which suits him just fine. He ends up wandering into the testing hall early and sitting down. He’s been on his feet plenty enough for the past few days.

Soon enough, the tests are passed out along with a simple calculator, two pencils, and several sheets of scrap paper. Peter falls back into ‘school’ mode almost immediately, and finishes his test early. The only part that gives him trouble is History and Literature, which doesn’t surprise him. Those weren’t exactly his best subjects at Midtown, either.

An alarm goes off and one of the test proctors silences it. “All right, people! Pencils down, chairs back. Leave your tests where they are. We’ll pick them up. You’ll get a letter about the scholarship in a few days. Please, leave in an orderly fashion. Thank you.”

Murmurs and mumbling follow the announcement. Peter is quick to take his leave.

* * *

Two days later, a letter appears in the PO box address to himself and Tony. He pulls it out and opens it.

Inside is a brief letter:

Dear Mr. Parker,

I am pleased to award you the Thomas and Martha Wayne Scholarship Fund, which includes full tuition to Gotham Prep and an academic stipend of one hundred dollars a week. Your classes will begin on September 8, and you will be required to meet with a guidance counselor at least one week before to select your classes.

Congratulations!

-Bruce Wayne

The letter seems pretty boilerplate, but it’s a massive relief to Peter. He won’t starve for awhile yet, apparently.

It’s strange, though. Peter’s seen form letters before on Tony’s desk, and all of them have Tony’s signature printed at the bottom. This letter looks like it was signed by Bruce Wayne himself.

Odd.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Most of the five hundred dollars he stole from Bruce Wayne goes towards his uniforms, and he’s lucky to get five shirts, two pairs of pants, and a single blazer with Gotham Prep’s logo stitched across the breast pocket out of it. The fabric isn’t even that good, which annoys him more than it should. Rich people will pay top dollar for bottom barrel quality, apparently. He and Aunt May could make better quality uniforms with a sewing machine and a weekend.

He uses the remainder of his cash at a secondhand shop to pick up more clothes and a few threadbare blankets then visits a generic big box store to pick up a roll of tarp and the cheapest camp stove he can find, plus camping utensils. The sturdy kind that somehow manage to be three separate things at once.

Room temperature peanut butter is starting to get stale and depressing as a meal. He portions out a fraction of what’s left (a whopping $20) to buy a small pot and dry beans and rice. That essentially wipes out his bank account until the stipend deposit on Friday.

He makes his squatter’s hovel more palatable after that: the tarp is tacked into place in the corner near the bathroom, creating a small 'room' beneath it. His sleeping bag and blankets are tucked inside it, with his backpack serving as a pillow. The beans and rice are kept inside the backpack to keep them out of reach of the mice that live in the walls of the firehouse.

It takes him two days to get his living space in order. It's comfortable enough. The tarp traps in heat he would otherwise lose, the bag of rice inside his backpack makes a decent enough pillow, and the extra blankets help soften the otherwise rock hard floor. Not bad.

And then the second worst part of absolute poverty hits him: the absolute boredom and loneliness.

* * *

As before, the boredom drives him to the rooftops. If he’s going to be lonely, he can be lonely above the smog of the city where the air doesn't taste like exhaust and sewer gas.

And as before, Nightwing visits him.

“Hey, Pete!” Nightwing says, dropping down on the rooftop. He wanders over and leans against a rusted HVAC system. “Nice night, huh?”

“Nice enough,” Peter says, standing up from the ledge and walking over towards him. Nightwing always tenses when Peter wanders too near to it. “How’s your patrol going?”

Nightwing loses just a bit of tension to his shoulders as Peter walks away from the ledge. “It’s been quiet tonight. I'm bored out of my mind."

"Yeah, me too," Peter says.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Nightwing turns to him.

"Hey, wanna learn some parkour?" he asks.

Peter grins.

They start simple. Peter's balance is impeccable when he's not balancing himself on one hand. He takes to Nightwing's lessons like a fish to water, mastering the simpler concepts easily. By the end of it, he can jump and run over and along obstacles without losing speed. A pretty handy skill to learn for someone lacking their web shooters. Peter’s speed almost always comes from his webs. Learning how to keep up that momentum when he’s running is a good idea.

By the end of it, he's exhausted. He hasn't had a workout like this since Titan, and it shows.

Peter flops back against the HVAC system. “Hey, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve fought as a superhero?”

“Weirdest?” Nightwing squints into the air above Peter’s head, frowning in thought. “If we’re limiting it to the past, uh, year? Probably the Killicorn.”

Peter looks at him, tilting his head.

“A mutant gorilla unicorn with pink fur,” Nightwing explains, sitting down beside him. "Trust me, it was an interesting fight."

“I’m almost jealous. I just fight muggers and bike thieves,” Peter says, amused.

“You’d be better off running away and leaving that to me,” Nightwing says. He’s quiet for a moment, then tilts his head at Peter. “What brings you up here today? You seemed a little down.”

“I guess I’m a little homesick,” Peter admits. "Not that it matters. I can't go home."

Nightwing watches him, and Peter can all but hear the man weighing his words. “You can’t go home?”

“I’m not sure there’s even a home for me to go home to,” Peter amends. “Outside of Gotham, that is.”

At least, not in this universe.

Peter shakes his head. “Not that it matters. I’m here. I’ll be here for awhile. I just miss New York.”

Nightwing is silent for a few seconds. “What do you miss most about home?”

“Right now?” Peter asks, thinking. His immediate answer ‘getting a hug from May and sleeping in my own bed’ is a touch too honest. He’s afraid if he admits that, he’ll break down in tears, and that’s the last thing he wants to do in front of Nightwing. “Delmar’s sandwiches.”

“Yeah?”

“Delmar ran this little bodega in my neighborhood. Best sandwiches in Queens. I’d get a number five after school, all smushed down flat, and eat it while wandering around the city,” Peter says. God, he misses those sandwiches. “It was just the right balance between meat, peppers, and oil. Barely any oil and vinegar, but a ton of peppers and meat.”

Nightwing tilts his head, amused. “Maybe I’ll look him up the next time I’m in New York.”

“You should,” Peter says. He stands up and stretches. “I better go. I’m wiped.”

“Good night, Peter.”

“Later, Nightwing.”

* * *

The stipend deposits into his account that Friday and unfortunately it doesn't go as far as he'd hoped. It's enough for food for his higher metabolism, trips to a laundromat, and a few toiletries, but only barely. It becomes very clear that his budget margins will be razor thin for his stay in Gotham.

He skips a meal or a two to pick up some electronics. The best part about starving is that you can get used to it. That also happens to be the worst part, but whatever. He'll live. Rice and beans for every meal is starting to get boring anyway.

He gets lucky and finds an electronics shop near the firehouse. He picks up a small solar panel, a soldering iron, wires, a charging cable, a battery pack and a rechargeable LED lamp. It's enough to give some light, but the battery is cheap and not efficient in the least. Even when he tightens his belt, skips a few meals, and shells out for a supposedly top of the line battery, he's sorely disappointed. It lasts four hours, and sometimes not even then.

It's better than nothing, though. And the light brightens his mood and makes the place look less dreary.

Another week passes him by. He uses his stipend for an airtight bucket to keep his food inside. The bucket doubles as a stool, which he uses at the desk in the dilapidated office. Bored and terribly lonely, he takes apart the broken radio and begins to fix it.

It's vintage, with smooth wood and chrome along the outside. The receiver inside is busted beyond repair, but that's an easy fix with his leftover electronics.

It's actually soothing working on a project like this. It reminds him of the Compound, and Tony's lab, and the memory forms in his mind.

"Got a project for you, Underoos."

"Am I doomed to have that nickname forever?"

"Yes. Project time: build me a radio."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. I want to see how your brain works before I give you access to all the highly advanced lab tools."

“Okay, okay. I’m going old school with it.”

“You’re going old school on a project in a futurist’s workshop?”

“Yes.”

“This is because I called you Underoos, isn’t it.”

“Also yes.”

The memory is a familiar one. It's the first step Tony took to really become Peter's mentor, and the first time they found true common ground between them. Tony had been nervous and unsure, but encouraging. When he realized Peter had some talent in engineering--that his webshooters weren’t just some lucky fluke--he fully came into his element. The nervousness disappeared, and the tips and tricks of the trade came out in full force.

They spent hours on that radio. Not because it was a difficult task, but because they would both be sidetracked by conversation and the different tricks they used in their own separate processes. Peter had given him that radio at the end of the day, and Tony had kept it on his desk in the lab. It’s probably still there, gathering dust.

Peter sinks into the memory with ease. It seems clearer than usual. Sharper. And he's pretty sure Dr. Strange, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and other various people weren't there at the time. They crowd the edges of the memory, some watching curiously, others facing away as if to give him privacy. It’s hard to focus on them, so he doesn’t bother trying.

He finishes with the radio by sunset, snapping out of his work groove, and leans back to look over the result. What had been a scratched, broken mess is now an art deco style radio with the word Stark across the front of it. He turns it on, and the Stark lights up, flickering in time with the static. He fiddles with the dial and finds an oldies station that seems to switch between genres at will; one moment it’s 80s pop, the next it’s 90s rock, and at one point it switches straight to 40s big band music.

It's not his mp3 player, but it is nice to hear some music again, even if he only hears one song for every five ads that play over the air. He leaves it on that channel and listens to it while he gets ready for school tomorrow. He needs to get up early if he wants to catch the train on time.

* * *

In Midtown, Peter is known as a loser; a dork among dorks. His clothes are unfashionable at best, his movements awkward (first by nature and then because he overthinks trying to look normal), and he carries a reputation for being a flake. Still, he can blend into a crowd among his fellow students and no one gives him a second look or thought.

In Gotham Prep, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Sure, there's a uniform, but that just means flashes of wealth shift to the quality of fabric for the uniform, then jewelry, then--the most obvious show of wealth--shoes.

His shoes, scuffed and a dirt tinged grey, are out of place among the polished leather shoes and flashy brand new sneakers others are wearing. That's to say nothing of his obvious hand-me-down uniform jacket, too big pants, and loose shirt. He looks downright shabby compared to everyone else. Even the teachers look down their nose at him, and a fair few of the professors don't look much better than him. For them, it's acceptable eccentricity or rebellion. For him, it's poverty. And there’s nothing more offensive to the rich and well to do than poverty.

And that doesn’t even touch his accent or the fact that he has absolutely nothing in common with any of the students here. He’s the weird poor kid with a low class accent wandering around halls full of people discussing what they should name their third yacht. People have literally turned their nose up at him as he moves past them.

“Do not show weakness to them, child.”

Another one of those strange thoughts-as-a-voice. This time, it sounds like Loki Odinson.

“Stand up straight, little spider.” This one is younger, female, Wakandan. Princess Shuri. “You're smarter than all of them. You belong here.”

Yeah, except he quite literally doesn't. Still, he loses his self conscious slouch, straightening up into a confident stride he's seen Tony use before, and walks towards his locker. It opens easily, and he stashes his backpack inside just as the first bell sounds off.

Right. He can do this.

* * *

School is school. By turns boring, exhausting, and interesting. The only real difference in Gotham Prep is that he doesn’t have Ned nearby.

His first wake up call happens in history class.

“All right, who can tell me the year the Justice League was formed?” the teacher asks. He’s a stern looking man, bald on top, with thick grey eyebrows and a near perpetual glare on his face. “Mr. Parker?”

Peter snaps out of his post lunch daze, suddenly aware of every other student staring at him expectantly. “I---sorry, what?”

“The Justice League, Mr. Parker. When did it form.”

Oh god. The Justice League doesn’t sound so different from the Avengers, really, and it is a parallel universe, so maybe-- “Uh. 2012?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the teacher sighs. Snickers erupt around the room. “No. Who has the answer? Mr. Bright?”

“Mr. Parker, I want an essay on the Justice League on my desk by Friday. Three pages minimum. Single spaced.”

Great.

* * *

The cafeteria is less cafeteria and more like a fancy buffet. It smells heavenly. He covers his tray in food; roast beef, rolls, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and anything he can get his hands on. It earns him more than a few funny looks, but he’s too hungry to care. Frankly, he’s already a loser in the eyes of most of the people here. He might as well be a well fed loser.

He doesn’t bother trying to sit with any groups, opting for a table in the back corner away from everyone else. It firmly marks him in the friendless loser strata of the school population, but whatever. He wouldn’t even know how to begin a conversation with most of the people in this school anyway.

And it’s easier to sneak dinner rolls into his jacket pockets when no one’s looking at him.

* * *

Homeroom is right after lunch. He opts for a pass to the computer lab and starts looking up the Justice League.

He should’ve investigated this further. There’s no Avengers, no Battle of New York, no Sokovia Accords. People aren’t enhanced, they’re metahumans (which is objectively cooler in Peter’s opinion), and there isn’t quite as much tension among the population over them. Which is probably why there’s no Sokovia Accords. Superman’s had such a lasting, positive impression that the government has taken a hands off approach for the moment.

Interesting. He should probably figure out a way to call that guy someday. If only to let him know that Peter’s not dead.

For the first time in his life, Peter becomes just as interested in history as he usually is for chemistry or physics. He prints off as many articles as he can find and even manages to sketch out an outline for his paper. He’ll write out his report by hand and type it out during homeroom during the week.

The rest of his day is, fortunately, boring and peaceful. His only real trial is staying awake after having a full meal during lunch.

* * *

He crawls into his firehouse with a massive sigh of relief and shucks off his blazer as soon as he’s inside. He grabs one of the bread rolls he smuggled home from lunch and starts to gnaw on it while getting ready to start on his report. The train ride is a long one, and the sun sets early in Gotham, so he’s left with his tiny lamp sooner rather than later. He's only halfway done with his paper when the LED lamp he put together blinks out and plunges him into darkness, too.

"Seriously, what is with the tech here?" he mutters as the lamp flickers. "It's a battery pack. It should last twelve hours. Even the cheapest knock off uses some of Tony's design--"

He stops short, a sudden realization hitting him.

There's no Tony Stark in this universe, and aliens haven't invaded and left their tech behind for someone to tinker with and reverse engineer. Of course their power tech isn't what he's used to. He sighs and rubs his forehead. All of the tech here is probably two decades or more behind.

"Right. No Tony, no cheap and reliable energy sources," he says. He stares at his unfinished report, then looks outside.

The streetlight outside is still on. One of those big sodium bulb lights that he's only seen in the oldest parts of New York. The light it gives off is a strange green tinged white, washing out everything beneath it and somehow making the street seem more sinister and lonely than if it were full dark.

But it's working. And he needs to finish his report.

He grabs his things, shrugs on his coat, and steps into the street. The wind hits him, hard and cold, and he ducks against it as he moves across the street. He sits beneath the lamp and starts on his homework again.

The wind picks up, and the air becomes downright frigid after the sun fully sets. His hand is trembling and pale by the time he finishes, and his teeth are chattering. But he finished. And he's honestly tired enough that he might sleep tonight. Bonus.

A thought enters the back of his mind, and sounds a lot like the Winter Soldier to him.

“Go back inside,” he says. “It's too cold out here for you, kid.”

He's officially cold enough to hallucinate.

Well, the guy’s right. It is too cold out here for him. He shuffles back inside the fire station and tucks himself under the blankets, coat, shoes and all. The tarp has done its work; the wind doesn't quite reach his sleeping area, though a brief gust stirs the edges of it now and then.

When the shivering ends, he falls into a restless doze. A few minutes later, red energy in the shape of a hand materializes above him, presses against his forehead, and he enters true sleep for the first time since he woke up in that horrible machine.

* * *

His sleep is horrific. He manages (because what other choice does he have), but it's rough. The cement floor is freezing, the wind cuts right through his uniform blazer, and he spends most of the night shivering.

And when he sleeps, he dreams of death and failure and dust.

Tony's impaled, crushed, turned to ash the way Peter did--every form of death his mind can dream of. Sometimes Thanos stabs Peter. Sometimes the Guardians, sometimes Aunt May or Ned or--

At one point, he sees Star Lord crushed by rocks from the moon Thanos threw at Tony. Peter stares at his body, and is horrified when Star Lord snaps awake and glares at him.

"This isn't how it happened! You saved us!"

Peter freezes, stuck in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. More voices shout around him, though he can only see Star Lord.

Star Lord's voice, distant and upset, cuts in. "Do something to help him, man! Figure it out!"

"Spaceman's right," Falcon says. "He can't keep going like this."

"Fine," Dr. Strange says.

Peter’s nightmare freezes, then washes away in a wave of green light. Peter’s left in the dark. He whimpers, half asleep, tossing and turning, fingers bunching the thick fabric of his blanket--

Wait. Blanket?

He opens his eyes and looks down. The blanket is thick. Heavy, red and warm--and not a blanket at all. It's a cloak.

He knows this cloak. It's Dr. Strange's friend.

When he looks up, he finds he isn't in the firehouse. He's in a library. Bookshelves line the walls, stretching up to the ceiling, every inch of them weighed down by thick, leather bound tomes.

"Mr. Parker. Welcome," a voice says, deep and rich and familiar.

"Dr. Strange?" Peter asks, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. The cloak follows his movements, keeping him warm, and he's forever grateful for that. "Where---is this real?"

"In a sense. This is a dream, and like a dream, it will fade when you wake up," Strange replies. "The others and I thought you deserved a decent night's sleep. We won't be able to do it every night, but we can intervene every now and then."

"The others?"

"Myself, the Guardians, a certain number of the Avengers, King T'challa, Princess Shuri, Director Fury, Maria Hill, and--"

"Why do you bother wasting your breath? This is already a waste of your power, sorcerer. The child will not remember a moment of this when he wakes," another voice says, sneering and bored.

A man steps out from the shadows, dressed in green robes. He has one of the larger leather bound tomes in his hands.

Peter stares at Loki. Strange only sighs.

"And Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard."

"Charmed, though we've already met," Loki says, distracted by whatever book he has open in front of him. "Your history on the Anshega is laughably incorrect, sorcerer."

"Why are you here again?" Dr. Strange asks.

"Because I want to be here, and while your powers are admittedly impressive, your skill leaves a lot to be desired. Go on," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Speak to the spider. I won't interrupt."

The exasperated look on Strange's face mimics Tony's annoyed expression so well that Peter is briefly thrown.

"As I was saying, Peter," Strange says. "You're safe here. You'll wake in the morning, refreshed and comfortable. We're all going to take turns with this."

"But I won't remember?"

"Not completely. You can hear us and react to us on some subconscious level, but you won’t remember it. Not until you begin to learn how to use the stone."

“Is that something I should learn?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps,” Dr. Strange says slowly. “There would be consequences. I wouldn’t recommend it at the present time.”

“Well, you’re the wizard. You’d know.”

“Sorcerer,” Strange corrects. “At any rate, you’re safe. You’re warm. You will wake rested. Until then, your dreams will seem much more lucid than normal.”

“So, I’m asleep in real life, but awake here.” Peter thinks, looking around the library. It feels as real as anything, but there's a subtle sheen to it around the far corners. "What should I do until morning?"

"Whatever you like. You’ll just be trapped inside a pocket realm of our own making for the duration."

Peter looks at the nearest bookshelf. "Do you have a copy of The Lord of the Rings?"

Strange chuckles, and the book appears in Peter's hands. Loki looks up from his own book, frowning curiously. "Enjoy, Mr. Parker."

* * *

He finishes his report early, and turns it in ahead of time. The permanent frown on the history teacher’s expression softens by a microscopic amount after that. Peter becomes less of a target for hard questions, too. Which is nice.

The rest of his classes pass by as usual. He’s taking a range of normal classes this semester: physical science, chemistry, literature, modern history, and gym. His chemistry class only meets twice a week during block periods, but he manages to start the process for creating his web fluid, which is nice.

He has yet to make a single friend. Or to be acknowledged by anyone but his teachers. That isn’t surprising. His only real friend in Gotham is a guy in tights that leaps off of buildings for fun, who would also probably take him to jail if he knew Peter was a thief.

School does lend a sort of stability to his life that he needs, so he can’t complain too much.

* * *

The stipend deposits at the end of the week. Peter could go get a decent dinner somewhere, or more electronics to toy with, but riding the train and walking several blocks from the subway to the school has worn him out. It’s also after dark, and muggers always become braver when the sun sets. The last thing he needs is to lose a meal to a group of assholes hiding inside one of the many dark alleys that pepper the Bowery.

Instead of dinner, he opts for the rooftops. And he’s not surprised when Nightwing makes another appearance.

Nightwing swings up to the rooftop and drops down beside him. He offers Peter a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, pressed flat. “It’s probably not Delmar quality, but...”

Peter could hug the guy. “I’m not complaining. Where’d you get this?”

“I made it,” Nightwing says easily, pulling out his own sandwich. "The sky's clear enough that we might see stars tonight. Oracle says there's a meteor shower that's supposed to start soon.”

“You think we’ll be able to see them in the city?”

“Definitely. This is supposed to be a big one. My brother’s been nerding out about it for weeks,” Nightwing says, taking a bit out of his sandwich. “He’s had his telescope set out for hours.”

“Your brother?”

“Red Robin,” Nightwing says. “You probably haven’t seen him yet. You might.”

“I’m sensing a bird theme here.”

“It’s a good theme,” Sam says, distantly.

Nightwing grins. “Birds are cool.”

Peter shakes his head, turning to his sandwich. It isn’t Delmar quality, but it’s damn close. And it’s one of the nicest things anyone has done for him since coming to Gotham. He takes his time eating it.

They sit together on the rooftop, watching the meteor shower flash above the city.

For the moment, Peter knows peace.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Another week passes without comment. Peter finds himself in a minor crisis when school lets out for the weekend. He loses access to the biggest meal of his day, which is starting to become an issue. He’s already losing weight; his metabolism is still churning away at a high speed, even though he’s learned to ignore the hunger. He can’t afford to buy the amount of food it would take to keep himself fed. There simply isn’t enough money left for it after using the laundromat and dry cleaners (of course the stupid uniform needs dry cleaning, ugh). He does have some savings, if one could consider the spare change left over from each week so far--a whopping $1.97--to be savings.

He tried dumpster diving, but that didn’t get him much. The first dumpster he found was so foul he was gagging from three feet away. And he kept hearing voices around himself when he got close to it, distracting him, though he didn’t see anyone. Still, the entire experience was enough to put him off the idea for now. He felt oddly judged by the whole experience.

Fortunately, he has an idea.

Peter leaves the firehouse Saturday afternoon and finds his way back into the heart of Crime Alley, back at the restaurant where he met Omar and Sophia. The walk there is as hair-raising as it was when he first stumbled through it, but he manages to look just miserable and poor enough to avoid the attention of the gangs loitering on the street. None of them even give him a second look. Thank god.

He slips into the alley leading towards the restaurant and knocks on the door. It swings open almost immediately; Omar stands with a baseball bat in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other, clearly ready for a fight. He freezes when he sees Peter standing at the door, and a very brief, very awkward silence passes between them.

“I, uh, I’m staying in town for awhile longer, and I was wondering if you needed a dishwasher on the weekend?” Peter asks after a moment. “Even if it’s just for a meal or two instead of money--”

Omar sets the bat down, and waves Peter inside. “Actually, yeah, we could use some help on weekends. The dinner rush is always brutal. Are tips okay?”

“Well, yeah, sure--” Peter starts.

“When can you start?”

“Now,” Peter says.

Omar tosses an apron his way. “Let’s get you set up then.”

Peter’s worked before; oddjobs, mostly. Manning a dishwasher at a busy restaurant is new to him, but he picks up the particulars of it quickly. It’s hard, miserable work in a room thick with steam and humidity. By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, but fifty five dollars richer. Not exactly a great exchange rate for six hours of backbreaking work, but it’s money he sorely needs.

Omar meets him at the door, just as exhausted as Peter. He presses a carryout bag into Peter’s hand. “Here. You did great today, Peter. Can you make it tomorrow?”

Peter almost says no until he smells the food. It’s freshly made, and the scent of it is enough to make his stomach growl. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Good. See you tomorrow, Peter,” Omar says, smiling.

Peter makes it home, showers, and sits down hard near his bed. He looks at the carryout bag, half asleep already, and wonders if he should bother with food at all. He’s clean, he’s tired, and he’s not even that hungry anymore, really. The food will keep until tomorrow.

He’s just about to fall asleep slouched against the wall when something nudges his shoulder. Hard.

“Nuh uh, kid,” Sam says. “You need the food. Eat.”

Peter lets out a frustrated whine, but stirs awake. He did just put him six hours of hard labor for this meal. He might as well enjoy it. And he hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast (cold beans and rice, ugh).

He demolishes his meal after that first bite, setting aside the empty cartons to throw away later. He crawls into his bed and flops across it bonelessly; full and exhausted. He’s asleep in minutes.

* * *

The next day is identical to the last; he spends hours working the dish pit, gets a meal and another fifty dollars for his trouble, and walks home exhausted. His wrist is starting to give him trouble again; it aches and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He might have to buy a splint for it at some point.

He takes his meal to the roof this time. If he goes into the firehouse, he’ll just fall asleep. And he doesn’t want to keep startling awake in the middle of his meal like last night. Honestly, it felt like someone was shaking him awake every five seconds.

“We were,” Mantis says. “It was kind of fun!”

Peter plops down on the edge of the roof and starts in on his meal. It’s an apple curry, vegetarian, and oddly spicy. It’s quickly becoming his favorite dish at the restaurant. He has to eat it carefully with his good hand.

He doesn’t react when he hears someone land on the roof behind him. He turns to face Nightwing, grinning.

“Hey, Nightwing--” He pauses. “Oh, you’re not Nightwing.”

The man standing in the middle of the roof, hands resting on his knees, is wearing a bright yellow suit that stands out against the Gotham night’s hazy orange glow. There’s a bat symbol across his chest that seems to draw in light. It takes Peter a moment to recognize him from the descriptions he’s heard from school and the subway. This is the Signal. And he looks like he’s gone ten rounds against a gorilla.

“Uh, hey, man, are you okay?” Peter asks.

“What? Yeah. Just, you know, a little winded--” Signal says, turning to face him. He freezes for a moment, looking around Peter in frank confusion.

“Can he see us?” Sam asks.

“I think he can,” Dr. Strange answers slowly.

“His eyes are following us,” Bucky says.

Peter tilts his head, clueless. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Signal pauses for a moment, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I’m not doing the Ghostbusters thing tonight, I refuse.” He straightens up and looks at Peter. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Pulling a double shift tonight, and I’m feeling it.”

Peter decides to politely ignore the ‘Ghostbusters’ comment. Technically, a normal human being wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. “Oh. You want some food? You look like you could use a break.”

Signal pauses for a moment, obviously debating it, then shrugs and walks over to sit beside him. He perks up when he catches the scent of the food Peter hands him. “Is this from Omar and Sophie’s place?”

“Yeah, I work there now,” Peter says.

“Nice," Signal says, dropping down on the ledge beside Peter. "I guess I could take a lunch break.”

They eat in silence for a few moments. Signal demolishes his food in minutes, always looking at Peter from the corner of his eye.

“So, why is Gotham’s daytime superhero working the night shift?”

Signal sighs. “Because sh*t’s hit the fan in a bad way. Something’s happening in Metropolis, and some new crew has moved into town. They’re hitting all of us at once. It’s almost coordinated. B-man’s losing sleep over it. Oh, and Catwoman is back in town.”

Peter tilts his head, thinking. “Oh.”

“Plus, no one’s heard from Wonder Woman in weeks,” Signal adds. “That’s got everyone on edge. The League is losing it.”

“What?” Peter asks, straightening up. “Why? Where is she?”

An explosion sets off in the city. A big one, judging by the fireball that lights up the sky. Signal is on his feet in a heartbeat. “sh*t. That was Arkham. Listen, I gotta go. And you--”

He turns to face Peter, freezes for a moment, then shakes his head. “Stay inside, all right? The city’s dangerous.”

He leaps off of the ledge and swings away into the night. It’s easier to trace his path. Peter watches him, disturbed, and then crawls down and heads back into the firehouse.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

* * *

Days pass by and grow colder, so Peter upgrades his transit pass for bus use and starts to catch the bus outside the subway. The stop he needs is only a mile away from the school. The problem is that he has to sprint from the subway to the bus stop in order to catch it in time. Gotham's public transit is laughably inefficient. He’s starting to miss New York’s subway more and more by the day.

The driver is a big man, soft around the middle, with a dour expression almost permanently fixed on his face. Peter goes out of his way to leave the man alone. The only thing he says to the man is a quiet thank you on his way off the bus. It pays off. The man keeps the bus at his stop for an extra thirty seconds after a week or two, and Peter’s able to make the last leg of his trip in a warmer environment.

One day, when the autumn rain starts to come down hard, the bus driver stops him before he leaves.

"It's raining like hell out there, kid. You got an umbrella?" he asks. He pauses, takes another look at Peter. “Or a coat?”

"What? Oh, no, sir." Peter looks outside. "It's just a little rain. I'll be fine."

"Bullsh*t. You'll catch your death of cold out there," the man replies gruffly. He reaches over to some compartment in his cubicle and pulls out a brand new umbrella and a scarf. "Here. Take this."

Peter, startled, takes it. It's the first thing he's been given since the man and woman at the restaurant fed him. He's taken off guard. "Thank you. I'll, uh, bring it back tomorrow. Promise."

The bus driver watches him, frowning. "Just keep it, kid. Hurry up and get to class. The storm's gettin' worse and that thing won't save you from the hail."

* * *

He makes it inside, and he’s only half soaked. The school, sporting marble floors and polished wood halls, is chilly enough to keep him awake. That keeps him from catching a lecture or a snarky comment from his teachers, but his clothes never quite dry out. They’re damp throughout the day. They cheap out on the heat even in rich kid schools, apparently.

He suffers through it, and he manages just fine. But by lunch, something feels off. It isn’t his spider sense. It isn’t anything he can put a name to, not yet. He puzzles over it as the last class of the day comes to a close and the bell sounds off.

He doesn't realize what's wrong, why he feels so off, until he realizes he can see fully out of his left eye. He tests his eyesight, closing one, then the other while focusing on his thumb. There's an empty spot on his thumb when he looks at it with his left eye. Not darkness. Just a strange sort of staticy nothing. He sighs. An ocular migraine. Just what he needs.

This could be bad. He doesn’t have a support network in Gotham. He can’t text a 911 over to May. He can’t beg Karen to call Happy or Tony. He’s on his own. And he’s going to be fully blind and in excruciating pain within an hour, if he’s lucky. If he isn’t, it’ll hit him when he’s halfway home.

"You need to get somewhere dark and quiet immediately," Shuri says.

"Do you get these often?" Dr. Strange asks.

"Kid looks like he’s going to keel over," Bucky mutters.

Their words echo across his subconscious, and he winces, reflexively thinking at...someone. Them. Whoever that is. It's hard to focus. It’s hard to see.

Please be quiet, it hurts, he thinks.

They fall silent and still. Peter relaxes a tiny bit. He can still hear the electricity running through the walls and the thumping of a dozen heartbeats up and down the hall. He does his best to wind around them on his way to the exit.

He bumps into someone near the lockers, roughly shoving them into their locker as he stumbles past them.

"Hey, what the f*ck!" a voice yells. The sound is almost enough to drop Peter to his knees. "What the f*ck is your problem, new kid?"

"Shut up," Peter grits out.

"What?" They sound absolutely furious now. A warning flash of his spider senses kicks in and he deftly shifts away from them as they reach out to grab him. “Hey--”

“Not now,” Peter says shortly. He hates being rude, but god, he can’t handle hearing their voice right now. He shoves past them and heads towards the main doors at a trot.

He doesn’t hear anyone behind him. Which is good. The last thing he needs is to catch a beating from some rich kid because he bumped into them. He’ll find them later and apologize. Right now, he heads straight for the bus stop. Normally he would walk to the subway station, but today that’s out of the question.

* * *

The train is absolute torture. The blind spot in his left eye is gradually growing, and there’s a streak across his right eye now. He feels clammy and shaky. He’s sick enough that people on the subway become visibly concerned. He must look absolutely horrible if random Gothamites break through their infamous standoffishness to reach out to a stranger.

“You look like hell,” a man says beside him. He's tall, broad shouldered, and there's a streak of premature grey in his hair. Combined with the leather jacket and red hood, he looks intimidating as hell. There’s an air of restrained violence and brooding fury to the man. Normally Peter would avoid a bruiser like this, but the only open seat was next to the guy. If the guy knocks him unconscious, it’d be worth the concussion.

Peter, already reeling from the sound of the subway's brakes screeching beneath his feet, sways. "Migraine. Sorry. I won’t puke on you, promise."

The man is still for a moment, then pulls something out of his pocket. "Gimme your hand."

"What?"

"Just do it," the man retorts, annoyed.

Peter hesitates, but puts his hand out towards the man. He presses a pair of earplugs into Peter's palm.

"Put those in," the man says. "And hold still."

Peter stares at the earplugs dumbly, then quickly puts them in. They don't block all sound, but they block enough of it that Peter relaxes.

The man gently slides a pair of sunglasses over Peter's eyes. They're too big for him, but they work. Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief when the train’s harsh lights are dimmed.

"Thanks," Peter says. The subway screeches to a halt, the hydraulics letting out a hiss of air. With the earplugs in, it’s almost bearable.

"Yeah, whatever," the man mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he heads for the exit. "Just get home."

Peter plans to do exactly that. The subway is much more bearable with the earplugs and sunglasses.

Even with the earplugs and sunglasses, the sights, sounds, and smells of the city are almost too much. He crawls into the firehouse, leaves his backpack in the middle of the room, and crawls into his bed. He buries himself in blankets in an effort to block out the ambient noise of the city, whimpering when a truck blasts its horn on the street just outside the firehouse.

"Enough," a woman says, her voice thick with a Sokovian accent. She sounds close. Like she's right beside him.

Peter opens his eyes to try and find her. He sees a hand, glowing red, hovering above him. It reaches down and taps his forehead.

The pain washes away immediately, replaced by a bone deep exhaustion. Peter slumps in relief, closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, he’s in the Avengers Compound. The lights are dim, the windows are dark, and the only sound he can hear comes from the kitchen. Peter sits up from the couch, disoriented, and then lays back down when the room starts to tilt. He looks around, and realizes that he’s not alone.

“Rest,” Wanda Maximoff says to him. She looks worn down, grief stricken. There’s an air of sadness that hovers around her, thick enough to make his own heart clench. A casual wave of her hand lifts the blankets up and over him. “I made a safe place for both of us.”

“Oh,” he says, caught in a post-migraine brain fog. He snuggles down into the blankets and couch. “Thank you.”

Wanda doesn’t answer. She focuses on the kitchen, and specifically, the man inside the kitchen. It’s Vision, fussing over a meal and humming to himself. Peter remembers this; he had spent the night at the Compound, helping Vision perfect his cooking skills.

Wanda watches the memory with rapt attention.

Peter sleeps.

* * *

For a time, his life hits a shaky sort of equilibrium. He goes to school, does homework, snoops around the rougher part of town, picks up the odd shift at the restaurant for Omar and Sophia, and does his best to blend in. He still has a nagging feeling that he's not the only person to pop into this universe from his own; whenever he thinks about it, his spider senses kick up ever so slightly.

And through it all, he ponders a way to get home. His mind ticks away at it in the back of his mind, steady and constant, picking at theories, ideas, and experiments to test.

He keeps all of the promising ideas in a notebook, which isn't ideal, but it's all he has. If he was back home, he'd break into Tony's lab, spool up FRIDAY's lab settings and start flinging models around.

In Gotham, he doesn't even have a cell phone. He barely has a calculator.

One more roadblock among many. He can save up enough to buy electronics, but finding a place to build things will be difficult.

Well, that’s a problem for another time.

His savings grow. And he starts to make a few purchases with the cash. Better tools, cloth and leather, a sewing kit. Capsules. A first aid kit. Goggles.

It’s slow going, but he knew it would be from the start. He has time.

* * *

His day is going well until his physical science class. The last class of his day.

“Mr. Parker, meet me after class, please,” the teacher says, his tone flat, unimpressed, and bordering on belligerent.

Great, Peter thinks. Did he forget to turn in an assignment? “Uh, got it, sir.”

The teacher huffs, turns around, and begins his lecture. Peter frowns, baffled. He keeps his head down. He doesn’t bother anyone. What did he do wrong?

“Uh, got it, sir,” a sneering voice says behind him, followed by a paper ball bouncing off of his head.

Peter rolls his eyes and ignores it.

"Kids are the worst," Bucky mutters at the edge of his mind.

Peter focuses on the class, wondering what he could have possibly done to earn the professor’s ire. When the last bell sounds, the rest of the students get up and leave. A few of the larger boys--the ones sitting behind him--sneer at him on their way back.

What the hell is their problem, Peter wonders. He stays in his seat, waiting to be called to the front by the teacher. That doesn’t happen until the principal, a short man with a serious face and impeccable suit, strolls into the room.

“Mr. Parker. Up here,” the professor says.

Peter stands up, grabs his backpack, and walks up to the front desk, taking a seat near the teacher’s desk. “Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to discuss your test score, Mr. Parker. Did you know that you are the only student to get a perfect score on this test? That hasn’t happened since I began teaching at this academy ten years ago.”

Peter allows himself to relax. Okay. He can stammer through this just fine. “Oh. I thought I was in trouble--”

“You are,” the teacher says flatly, looking up at him. “A perfect score on this test is only possible if you’re a certifiable genius, which you are not. I don’t tolerate cheating. The principal is here to discuss ending your scholarship.”

“I---what?”

“You heard me. How did you do it? Cell phone? Did you break into my office to memorize the answers? Hm?”

Peter stares at him in disbelief, utterly dumbstruck.

An older voice-thought, as dry and as unimpressed as the teacher--he’s heard the other voices call this one Nick--says, “Did this man just accuse Stark's kid of cheating?”

“I think he did,” Shuri replies, just as unimpressed.

The principal clears his throat, drawing Peter’s eyes towards him. “Answer his questions please, Mr. Parker.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Peter says flatly.

The teacher scoffs. “Please. You? Getting a perfect score? Stop wasting my time. As I said, no one has gotten a perfect score in my class.”

“That says more about your failure to teach than anything else,” Peter snaps, his temper coming loose for the first time since he came to Gotham. Between the lack of sleep, the constant hunger, and the backbreaking work from his job on the weekend, it’s a surprise he’s managed to keep it as long as he has. “I don’t cheat.”

“No? Guess we’ll do this the hard way, then,” the teacher sneers. He pulls out a test from his desk and sets it down in front of Peter. “If you can get a perfect score on this test, I’ll be inclined to believe you, and I’ll withdraw my complaint. I’m sure a genius like yourself can handle this.”

Peter looks at the test. It’s far more difficult than the one he supposedly ‘cheated’ on; this is senior AP level physics that he hadn’t touched at Midtown. The questions are far more complex than what they’ve been studying, using concepts he hasn’t been taught in any school.

It’s a good thing he learned physics from Tony Stark.

“Fine. Give me a pen.”

“You’ll want a pencil for this--”

“No. Give me a pen. I don’t make mistakes, unlike you,” Peter says, letting his temper get the best of him.

The teacher scowls, but hands him a pen. “Roll up your sleeves. I want to make sure you don’t have anything stashed inside them. You have an hour starting from the moment you put your name on the test.”

Peter rolls up his sleeves and takes the pen. He starts the test and focuses on each problem, working methodically through each one using the tips and tricks Tony taught him during his internship days. He finishes it and sets the pen down.

There is not one scratched out answer on the paper.

“They didn’t even bother to make the test difficult,” Shuri sniffs.

“Thirty minutes? That’s awfully quick,” the teacher drawls, taking the test. “Let’s see how badly you failed.”

They sit in silence while the teacher grades the test. His self assured smirk slowly drops away as he goes down the paper. After fifteen minutes, he looks up at Peter, blinking in astonishment.

Peter stares back at him, defiant.

“Well?” the principal asks. “How did he do?”

“He, uh. He aced it. There isn’t one mistake,” the teacher says numbly. “I...but--”

“Well, then I see no reason why his scholarship should end,” the principal says easily. He looks at Peter. “Thank you for staying late to clear this up for us, Mr. Parker. You’re dismissed.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says, rolling his sleeves down and snatching up his backpack. He shrugs it on and stalks down the hall out of the school.

He’s missed his bus; he’ll have to walk across town to get back to the fire station now.

Above him, the clouds rumble, and rain starts to fall. He growls in frustration, rubbing his eyes, and stalks down the street.

* * *

Unseen by Peter, the dusted walk with him.

"I don't get it," Star Lord says, frowning back at the school. "Why'd they do that? He’s not a bad kid. He does school stuff."

"Because he is different from them, and that is something they cannot bear," Loki answers. "The mentors will leave him be for now, but his peers will not. He's proven himself worthy to their instructors. They will take it as a threat."

"Sounds like you've lived that life," Shuri says.

"It isn't unfamiliar to me. The child should prepare himself.”

“It’s a little strange to hear you worry about the kid,” Nick Fury says.

Loki shoots a venomous look his way. “My wellbeing is unfortunately tied to this idiot child. His continued survival is to my benefit.”

“He can handle himself,” Bucky says idly, walking alongside Peter. He does that often, along with Shuri and Sam. "Kid’s a lot like Steve."

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Nick Fury says. “From what I’ve seen, Gotham could use a bit of red and blue.”

* * *

It’s late by the time he gets back to the firehouse. The sun has already gone down, and the air is growing colder by the minute. He’ll have to move fast if he intends to finish his homework before freezing. He grabs a couple of protein bars to snack on, and then casually leaps out of the second floor window to the alley below. He walks towards his usual spot and then freezes halfway.

Someone is lying in the street near the streetlight he uses for homework. A teenager, wearing a red and black outfit. It takes a moment for Peter to recognize the costume, but when he does, his stomach drops. Red Robin, bleeding and groaning in pain, tries to stand, slips, and falls again.

Peter can hear distant, angry voices growing closer. He drops his backpack at the base of the streetlight, grabs Red Robin, and lifts him up. The hero winces, hissing in pain, and tries to move away from him, clearly half conscious.

“Easy,” Peter hisses back. “I need to hide you. You can trust me.”

Red Robin freezes for a moment, then nods before letting his head go slack. He’s coming in and out of consciousness, and that has Peter worried. He Red Robin into a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He jogs over to a nearby fire escape, climbing up the side of the rattling, metal stairs as quickly as he can. He sets him down on one of the landings overlooking the street, and briefly checks the fallen hero. Red Robin hisses when he prods his side, gripping his wrist, and glaring warily. His eyes are still hazy, but they’re starting to focus on him more.

"Okay, it's bad, but not life threatening. I think you cracked a rib,” Peter says. “That sucks, but you'll be okay as long as you tape them up. And, you know, avoid leaping off of buildings for awhile. Trust me on that one.”

Red Robin says nothing, but he does squint at Peter, tilting his head curiously.

The angry voices around the corner grow louder, drawing nearer. Peter looks over his shoulder. "Just, stay here. I'll make sure they don't find you. Okay? Stay awake. I think you might have a concussion, too."

He starts down the fire escape before Red Robin can respond, jumping down the last two flights before making his way back to the streetlight and opening his backpack. He starts to pull out his homework, and pretends to focus on it when a crowd of furious men in cheap suits storm up to him.

Four pairs of feet edge into his periphery, but Peter can sense at least five others nearby. Some are going up and down alleys, but most are focused on him. None of them are heading towards Red Robin. Good.

"Hey, kid," a man growls. "What the f*ck are you doing? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

"Homework," Peter says, bored and resigned. "What are you doing?"

"What the f*ck are you doing homework in the street for?"

"Because my home doesn't have electricity."

That sets off a round of murmurs, a few scoffs, and someone chuckling low and calling him an orphan. Which is true, but also rude and kind of baffling as far as insults go. Even Flash’s ‘Penis Parker’ jibes are better, and that’s truly saying something.

"You seen anyone around here?"

"Just you,” Peter says, half paying attention. Someone looms over him and blocks out the light he’s using to read through his textbook. “Hey, move, you're in my light."

"There's blood next to you."

"There's blood all over the street," Peter retorts. "So what?"

There's a brief silence and then Peter is grabbed and hauled to his feet. His books and homework are kicked out of his hands and the man to his right slugs him right across his jaw. Before he can recover, the man to his left drives his fist into Peter's left eye hard enough for stars to appear.

Peter's left standing between them, reeling. If the men weren't holding him up, he'd be on the ground.

"I don't like being lied to. That’s blood’s fresh," the man growls. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and points it at Peter threateningly. "If you're covering for that freak..."

"Dude, I'm literally just trying to do my homework," Peter mumbles. He can sense Red Robin behind him, watching from the fire escape above. He hopes the guy is smart enough to stay hidden. He’s hungry, and while he can probably handle this group of thugs, he’ll be down for awhile trying to recover. "I don't pay attention to the street. People think you're trying to get into their business. It just causes trouble."

The man holding the knife considers Peter's words for a long moment. Finally, he scoffs, putting the knife away and motioning towards the two men holding Peter up. They drop him.

Peter lands on his hands and knees with a grunt. He starts to stand, but a swift kick to his ribs sends him sprawling across the sidewalk. The men laugh, and one kicks his text book into a puddle as they leave, walking down the street and murmuring about where to search next. Peter waits until they turn the corner before standing up and rescuing his book.

It's utterly soaked. Ruined. He sighs. "Great. That's a fine I'm not looking forward to."

"You all right?" a quiet, slightly breathless voice asks from behind him.

Peter starts, turning around and finding himself face to face with the Red Robin. "What? Yeah. How'd you sneak up on me like that?"

"I move quietly," Red Robin says. He frowns. "Thank you. For saving me."

"No problem. You gonna be alright? Cracked ribs suck."

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before," he answers. "What about you?"

"I've taken way harder punches back home. That was nothing," Peter says, half amused.

He doesn't realize how bad that sounds until Red Robin's frown deepens, turning a touch sad. "Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better." He looks Peter over, then looks at his notebook. "Gotham Prep, huh?"

"I got lucky with a Wayne scholarship. It's, uh, my one chance, you know?"

Red Robin tilts his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I know." He pauses, as if debating something, then shakes his head. "I better go. Stay safe, all right? Find a better place to do homework. The city library is open later than you think. You should study there."

That hadn't occurred to Peter. He blinks, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Red Robin gives him another lingering, curious look before ducking into a nearby alley and disappearing into the darkness.

Well, that was exciting. Peter reaches up and touches his eye, then winces. Hopefully that heals overnight. The last thing he needs is to show up at school with a black eye.

Speaking of school, he still needs to do his homework. Sighing, Peter grabs his ruined book and his notebook. It won’t take long.

* * *

After the test debacle, the professors and teachers shift their tone, just a tad. They stop throwing 'gotcha' questions at Peter, content with the knowledge that he's capable of keeping up academically, if nothing else.

The same cannot be said for his social life.

"Please take your seats-- Edison Bright, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not sitting next to the charity case anymore. He's bringing down the mood. Looks like he 'fell down some stairs' last night, and I'm sick of seeing his face."

That brings the chatter in the classroom to a halt. The professor sighs. "Sit down, Edison."

Peter, caught completely off guard, stares at the guy. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice. This is the kid he ran into that day his migraine kicked in. That explains a few things.

"No way. My father doesn't pay my tuition for me to sit next to his kind. Half of the reason I’m here is to network. What am I going to get out of networking with him?"

Wow, what a dick, Peter thinks. His sentiment is shared with a few others in the classroom, judging by their expressions, but no one comes to his defense. Most just aim sour looks at Edison and then carefully avoid Peter’s eyes. They may not like him, but they’re not going to turn on one of their own in Peter's defense.

Typical.

There’s a lengthy pause as the professor visibly weighs between standing up to Edison’s bullying and not angering the son of a wealthy donor and alumni. Finally, he sighs.

"Will someone please trade seats with Mr. Bright?"

A boy in the front row raises his hand. "I will."

"Thank you, Tim," the professor says, audibly relieved. He speaks above the sound of Tim and Edison trading desks and pointedly makes no comment when Edison roughly kicks Peter’s desk on his way by. "If you'll all please turn to page twenty-five--"

“Dick,” Bucky mutters.

The lecture drones on, no different than any other English class he's had. Peter is half paying attention, half doodling, unaware of the sharp scrutiny of Tim beside him.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

His class is normal, boring, and borderline insufferable after that. When the bell sounds off, he’s one of the first out of the door for his next class. Chemistry, thank god. The class is still below his ability, but it’s comforting to be in a subject he understands. And lunch is right after. Another bonus. He needs to eat more after taking that beating last night.

Tim walks into the lab two minutes after Peter sets his books down. He’s moving stiffly, taking care to not bend or turn, and he sits with obvious relief. He looks pale and exhausted, and he’s desperately clinging to a large cup of coffee. Something he probably shouldn’t have in the lab, to be honest.

He catches Peter’s eye and waves him over to his lab station in the back of the room. "You might as well sit with me here, too. Your lab partner isn't much better than Edison, and I usually do my work alone."

Peter hesitates for a moment, idly wondering if this is some elaborate set up to embarrass him, then shrugs, and moves his seat over to Tim. The guy seems decent enough; he’s withdrawn, pale, and constantly drinking coffee, and that’s all Peter knows about him. Peter doesn’t remember hearing him snicker or mock him when he walked past him in the hall, and that puts him far above the standard in this school.

"As long as you're sure I won't ruin any 'networking opportunities' for you," Peter says, dropping his book and notebooks on the lab table.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Hardly." His voice carries a very distinctive old money accent, the kind where even a compliment can sound like cutting damnation, but he seems to be about as down to earth as anyone Peter would meet on the streets. It’s a welcome change from the norm in this place. He offers his hand to Peter. "I'm Tim."

Peter shakes his hand, relieved to find a normal human being at last. Which is pretty ironic given his own status. "Peter."

"You're a Wayne scholarship kid too, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" That may not be a good thing; if there's some sort of social network for people who have this scholarship, they might notice he earned it through illegitimate means. He never considered that, and he should have. He certainly wasn’t alone when he took the test for the scholarship.

"Yeah, but in a good way," Tim replies, grinning. "Normally they keep us away from each other, but I guess you slipped through the cracks. Lucky me."

“Yeah, lucky you,” Peter says, not quite as eagerly.

“Hey, we’re all pretty cool,” Tim says. “It’s nice to meet the newest member of the club, you know? You’ve seemed busy so we all gave you space.”

“What, have you guys been following me?”

“Kinda hard not to when we have the same classes,” Tim says wryly. “You haven’t noticed, but I’m in most of your classes, and Duke and Steph share a couple of your afternoon classes.”

Well, he’s right. Peter hasn’t noticed. He frowns, thinking back over the previous three weeks. He has a hazy memory around that history class where he got the Justice League’s formation wrong. Most of the class had snickered at him or given him looks of pity and disbelief. But three students had just looked at him. Tim had been one, another had been a blonde girl.

At that moment, the professor walks in and starts the lesson. There's not much room for idle talk after that.

Tim, as it turns out, is one of the few people Peter's met that can match him at all things science related. It's refreshing, and a welcome relief from carrying his wealthier and lazier classmates' grades. It is, however, more difficult to get away with making his web fluid. He’s got enough to last him a month or two at the moment since he isn’t patrolling every night, but still. Like food, he could always use more.

But the company more than makes up for it. Tim's apparent friendship earns Peter less scrutiny from the professor in that class. And it even seems genuine. Peter can count on one hand how often that's happened in his life.

By the end of the period, the two are fast friends.

When the bell sounds off, Tim stands up. He's moving very carefully as he does so. It’s oddly familiar.

"His ribs are broken or bruised," Bucky points out.

Peter notices it after that; Tim is moving the same way he did back home after catching the Scorpion’s tail across his back during their last fight. He frowns; there aren’t a lot of good reasons for someone his age to have bruised ribs. And it’s not like child abuse is purely a poor kid phenomenon.

"What's your next class?" Tim asks, grabbing his coffee. He shakes the thermos and makes a face when he realizes how little he has left.

"Uh, literature."

Tim thinks. "That's not far from my class. Come on, I'll walk with you."

"Sure."

* * *

His next class goes by in a blur. Peter's baffled and shocked by how easily he gained a friend. Like Ned, Tim simply sat down beside him and talked to him with no reservation whatsoever. Peter's equal parts envious and grateful for that. And wary of screwing it up. That would just be his luck, really. He finally meets a decent person at this school and he chases them off by being himself.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Shuri says. “You’ll be fine.”

Well, maybe that’s true. He’s still wary of it. Parker luck dictates that every good thing that happens to him will soon be followed by something much worse. It all balances out eventually.

Or maybe he’s just weirdly paranoid about his own fortune.

The bell rings and pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Okay, everyone, don’t forget! We’re starting a new book on Friday! Make sure you pick up a copy of Stranger In A Strange Land by next Monday at the latest!” the cheery teacher calls out.

Peter can smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from the back of the class, and idly wonders if that’s just a requirement for English and Literature teachers in every universe as he puts away his books and makes a note to visit a second hand bookstore at some point before going to work tomorrow.

* * *

His stomach growls as he moves through the line in the cafeteria. He piles his tray high with as much food as he can carry on it. He doesn’t care how it looks; ever since he started working, his appetite has shot up, and rice and beans can only do so much. The lunch lady takes one look at his tray and general physique and then adds a cookie to the pile. He could hug her.

He turns away from her and starts towards his usual spot, eager to eat as much as he can and smuggle what’s left over for the ride home on the subway. If he’s lucky, he might even manage a nap on the subway. It's warmer than the firehouse these days.

“Peter! Over here!” a voice calls out, startling him out of his thoughts.

Peter turns to his right and sees Tim sitting at one of the more secluded tables in the cafeteria. He’s not alone; someone else is sitting across from him. A tall, dark skinned boy with sharp brown eyes that look Peter over curiously. Peter fidgets nervously and briefly considers pretending he didn't see him. Tim would be polite enough to leave him alone--

"Come on, kid, don't do that to yourself," Sam says gently.

“Come sit with us,” Tim says, waving him over.

Peter hesitates for a moment, then mentally shrugs and walks over to sit next to Tim. His plate is piled higher than anyone else’s at the table, and he hopes no one comments on it. He’s never felt more out of place in his life. He wishes Ned was here. Ned’s always been better at meeting new people than Peter.

“Duke, this is Peter,” Tim says, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, this is my brother, Duke Thomas.”

"Hey, Peter, welcome to the Wayne Club," Duke says. He has an easy grin and friendly eyes, and he shakes Peter's hand warmly. There’s a subtle, natural charm in the way he carries himself that draws Peter in almost immediately. He feels stronger near Duke, more confident.

Or maybe he’s just that lonely. Who knows. It’s not like he’s drowning in friends in this universe. “Wayne Club, huh? Is there a secret handshake?”

Duke’s grin grows wider. “Something like that. You’re still a level one Wayne kid right now, so you don’t get the secret handshake yet.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but grins. “I think I can live without that.”

Tim stirs an unnervingly large cup of coffee in front of himself. Peter’s fairly certain you aren’t supposed to drink coffee past noon, and he’s definitely certain it shouldn’t be from a cup that’s nearly as tall as Tim’s forearm is long.

“Duke’s just glad he’s not the newest kid in the club,” Tim says.

“Absolutely. Being the new kid sucks,” Duke says, grabbing his sandwich. His eyes dart around the cafeteria behind Peter, as if he’s looking at people nearby. Or a crowd of them. Peter finds that strange; the only thing behind him is a wall. “Where are you from?”

“Queens.” Technically, at least. “Gotham’s been kind of a culture shock.”

“I bet,” Tim says. He takes a deep drink of his coffee before continuing. “How did you end up in Gotham anyway?”

“It’s a long story. I kind of ended up here by accident. I’m waiting to hear back from home.” Which is true enough, though he’s starting to think that’s not very likely to happen for awhile yet. Not until he figures out who or what else made it into this universe from his own. Everytime he thinks of home, his senses twinge.

Tim tilts his head, considering this. Duke looks past Peter for a moment, then focuses on him again. “Well, you can hang out with us until that happens. The more the merrier.”

“I think I’d like that,” Peter says. He’s starting to relax around them, grazing on his food as they talk. Somehow, the meal seems more filling today.

Tim glances around the cafeteria, frowning. “Hey, where’s Steph?”

“Something came up with her dad,” Duke says, sending Tim a significant look.

“I--oh, right. I guess we’ll catch her later,” Time says. He goes quiet and thoughtful for a moment, then focuses on Peter. "Hey, I wanted to ask you how you figured out that calculation for the lab today."

Peter perks up. He's always down to talk science.

Peter likes Duke. He likes Tim. And he's surprised when both of them adopt him into their friendship as smoothly as they do. The topics they talk about are pretty generic--classes, school, which teacher is the nicest (the drunken literature teacher), which is the worst (the physics teacher), and which one they would choose to have on their team during a zombie outbreak scenario (the angry bald history teacher is Peter’s vote).

When the bell rings, Peter’s finished his meal completely, and he leaves the cafeteria with two new friends.

* * *

The rest of his day goes by in a blur. As it turns out, he does have Duke and Tim in one of his last two classes of the day. History is a lot more tolerable with friends nearby. In his final class, he’s alone again, but that might be for the best. He doesn’t exactly want Tim or Duke to see him head for the subway in the afternoon rush. The less they know of his living situation, the better, frankly.

He steps off the subway early, heading for the library.

* * *

Red Robin had told him that the library is open late, but it looks almost abandoned. The building is huge, foreboding, and built in a gothic style as is fitting for a public facility inside Gotham. The overcast sky and chill autumn wind pushing leaves along the street only enhance the feeling of brooding isolation that covers the building. The lights are on, sure, but he doesn’t really see anyone going in or out, which is a stark contrast from his trips to the library back home in Queens. The local library seemed busiest on Friday evenings. The opposite seems to be true in Gotham. Peter hesitates outside of the polished wood doors, shifting back and forth on his feet.

The door pops open, and Barbara sits at the other side. She gives him a friendly grin and waves him inside. “Hey, stranger. Here to pick up your card? I’ve been holding onto it for a few weeks now. I was about to track you down and hand it to you.”

Peter completely forgot about that card. “Oh, uh, yeah. Actually, I was hoping to get some homework done here? A, uh, a friend said you guys were open late but--”

Well, it doesn’t look like the library is actually open. In fact, the whole block looks dead. Aside from the occasional passing car or pedestrian, the streets are quiet. It’s a little unnerving, really. And it isn’t much better when Peter steps inside the library. The building is empty; he can only hear his heartbeat and Barbara’s. They’re alone in the library.

“We’re open for a little while yet,” Barbara says. “Feel free to pick a table. I’m going to be in my office finishing up a few things before I start up my second job. Give a yell if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Barbara,” Peter says. After a moment’s hesitation, he heads for the nearest table and sits down after dropping his backpack on the table.

He starts in on his homework. If nothing else, he’ll be warm and dry while finishing it up. He settles into the flow of it, churning out homework for the next week in the safety and warmth of the library while he still has the chance. He might as well; there’s no guarantee the library will be open this late next week, and he’d like to have a weekend free of it. Getting everything done early will give him...more free time to feel hungry at night, or something. He hasn’t quite figured that out yet. It’s not like he’s got patrol competing for his time right now.

Barbara shuts the door to her office, but not all the way. It’s open just a crack. Peter can hear her settle into her desk, hear her laptop turn on, and put headphones over her ears. Beyond that, the tinny frequency of her radio, and static.

“Okay, guys, I’m here. What’d I miss?”

There’s a long pause.

“So, not a pit, but a Lazarus machine?” Barbara says. She’s pitching her voice low, and it’s clearly something Peter shouldn’t overhear, but well. Super hearing. “How many? Is it still working?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then sighs.

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess,” Barbara says. “Except now we have a potentially insane zombie running around--No, Jason, I don’t mean you. Focus. Where is this machine?”

Another pause.

"Right, I'll keep an eye out," Barbara says. “I have a gut feeling that this ties into the kryptonite being smuggled into the city---”

What the hell kind of second job does Barbara have? Peter sets his pencil down, tilting his head and listening in. He shouldn’t. It’s not his business. But he’s curious.

“It’s either meant to keep Superman out--which isn’t likely, you know Batman’s ‘no metas in Gotham’ rule--or it’s a power source. Which is equally bad.”

Peter freezes. No metas in Gotham? What? He knows mutant powers are rare in this world, but he didn’t realize Batman actively chased them out of town. That’s disturbing. Add another point towards his 'avoid Batman' instinct. The man's reputation is already intimidating as hell, and Peter’s got two things working against him: he’s a thief and a mutant. He’s not eager to earn himself a beating from one of this universe’s superheroes. And he’s even less eager to end up in prison.

“Who on earth would need that much kryptonite anyway?” Barbara asks thoughtfully. “Better question would be to figure out where it came from. It wasn’t Lexcorp. Steph double checked.”

Peter taps his pen against his notebook, then gradually goes back to work.

* * *

A few hours later, he’s finished his assignments for the weekend, and he’s ready to leave. Barbara paused her second job long enough to see him out into the misty Gotham night. He hesitates outside of the library doors, and turns to face Barbara, tilting his head.

“The library isn’t actually open this late, is it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned the library had funding issues. That usually means they close things early,” Peter says slowly. “No one else is inside the library. I would’ve noticed. It was just me and you. How did you know to stay late tonight?”

Barbara quirks a brow, and when she smiles, it feels a lot more genuine than the customer service smile she had before. “Let’s just say a little bird asked a favor of me.”

Huh. That makes sense. Peter had friends up and down Queens when he was doing patrols as Spiderman. It makes sense that Red Robin has the same kind of network. Maybe she’s his ‘guy in the chair’? That’d explain the extensive knowledge of Gotham’s ongoing crime crisis. Maybe he should come by the library again tomorrow to make sure she makes it home safely. He feels a sudden urge to ask her if he could come back inside and ask her for help. But if she is working with Red Robin, then she’s working with Batman by extension. And that’s the last person he wants to cross paths with at the moment. In fact, he should avoid this whole Bat clan if he can.

A part of him realizes that includes Nightwing, too. That thought is oddly painful.

“Oh. Cool,” Peter says after a moment.

“I’ll keep the lights on for you next week,” Barbara says. “But it’s late, and you should go get some rest.”

Yeah, that’s true. He’s downright exhausted after today’s events. “Thanks, Barbara. Good night!”

“Good night, Peter! Get some dinner!”

Right, dinner. It’s late enough that he’ll just have to snack on what’s available. Whatever, he barely feels the hunger anymore.

When he has that thought, a very annoyed sigh comes from his right, and it sounds suspiciously like Dr. Strange.

Peter ignores it, walking towards the subway. Night has fallen, the wind is much colder, and it cuts right through his school blazer. He adds ‘find a warmer coat’ to his already depressingly long shopping list.

He never once looks up, which means he doesn’t see Red Robin and Signal shadow him along the rooftops.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

He hears them on the rooftops, keeping pace with him. He can’t see them--he’ll give them credit enough for that--and they are moving as quietly as one can when leaping across rooftops, but he can hear them. They follow him to the bus stop, hiding in the shadows while he sits alone beneath a flickering street light. He’s surprised when they don’t show themselves; if they were going to attack him, the bus stop is the perfect spot for it. His night vision is ruined by the light, and they have an advantage in height and numbers. And training, he adds after a moment. Peter is clever. He’s quick. He’s agile. But he functions more on instinct than trained skill when it comes to situations like this, and his instincts are always to go high and swing away as quickly as possible. That’s not an option at the moment.

They don’t attack or even drop down from the rooftops. Instead, they stick to the shadows, their breath nearly silent in the autumn wind. He whistles lowly, some song he remembers from an old Captain America cartoon he used to watch with his Uncle Ben, and plots out his next move. He doesn’t want to head to the firehouse with people hot on his trail, but he can’t spend all night wandering the alleyways of Gotham city either. That’s a good way to get yourself shot. He needs to hide or lose his stalkers quick.

He needs help.

That thought, that word seems to trigger something. His vision goes fuzzy, and he falls into a weird trance, aware of what’s happening, but at a distance. Something gold and orange flashes at the edge of his vision, across the street. A man in a trenchcoat with a dark patch across his eye briefly steps out of the shadows. He pins Peter with a stare, then curtly motions for him to follow.

Peter frowns at him, confused, but something inside him tells him to do just that. So he does. He checks the street for oncoming traffic, then crosses it at a brisk jog. The man slips into the shadows, but Peter can just see the faint golden outline of his form in the darkness. He follows him down two or three different alleys, across another four more streets, and then down into a subway station, always with one or two buildings between himself and his followers. By the time he reaches the station, they're three blocks behind and struggling to catch up.

The station is abandoned; it smells mildewy and still, and Peter can’t hear anyone nearby. He can hear heartbeats in the dark; small ones, running quicker than a human's steady thump-thump. Rats. The man with the eyepatch leads him silently through abandoned and damp tunnels until they reach an active station. It takes Peter a moment to recognize it, but he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he does. He uses this station to go to school every day. It's only eight blocks from the fire house. Once he recognizes where he is, the man disappears, and his trance ends, snapping him back to reality, feeling strangely exhausted and weak. He pauses for a moment to consider what just happened, and decides he’s far too tired to deal with it.

He steps onto the next train and heads home.

* * *

“He caught onto us at the bus stop,” Tim says. “I’m not sure how, but he did. God, he’s quick.”

“He must have eyes on the back of his skull. He figured us out within minutes of us finding him. I saw one of his ghosts started leading him away from us,” Duke replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“So he has ghost powers?” Tim asks.

“Something like that. He’s definitely meta. I guess it's a good thing his ghosts are the friendly variety."

Tim hums, thinking and idly rubbing his side. His ribs are bruised, and they’re healing slowly, much to his frustration. It’s not enough to put him off patrol. Not yet. “That could explain why he’s on the streets and so far from home.”

“He wouldn’t be the first meta to get kicked out of home for being different,” Duke agrees. He clicks on his com. “Oracle, we lost him near Crime Alley, on 57th and Vine. Do you know any place around here he might have gone to?”

“All of my maps of the Alley are years out of date. The place is practically a no man’s land these days,” Oracle says unhappily. “It’s possible he ducked into one of the tunnels or abandoned subway stations in that part of town, which means he’s invisible. Sorry, guys.”

“Damn, imagine walking through this kind of place just to get to school everyday,” Duke says, making a face at the half rotted buildings, distant gunshots, and rusted, abandoned cars resting on cinder blocks along the street. The Narrows has a pretty rough reputation itself, but he'd sooner walk down the most dangerous alley in the Narrows blindfolded and drunk than walk a Crime Alley street sober.

There’s an air of malice and despair in Crime Alley that makes him edgy and nervous, and he can see why most of the others steer well clear of the place. The only exception is Jason, and even his patrols through the neighborhoods in the Alley are brief and violent affairs. Most of the skyscrapers inside the district are dark, towering hulks that overlook decades out of date apartments and tenements with crumbling facades. The people are usually Blackgate fugitives, crooked cops, or victims of both. The latter always makes Duke uneasy to think about.

“I found him in a much worse neighborhood when we first met. He took a beating for me and saved my life,” Tim says. He shakes his head, and lets out a tired sigh. “We need to get him to the manor.”

“At the very least, we need to get him more food, or clothes. He’s obviously homeless,” Duke says, dropping down on the roof ledge with a sigh. "No wonder Nightwing's been so worried about the guy."

"He found him on a roof in the Alley, standing on the ledge. Nightwing's still worried about him," Tim says. "He's afraid Peter will hurt himself."

"I didn't get that feeling from him," Duke says, a little disturbed at the thought. "He's worn down and exhausted, but he's not self destructive. Just tired."

"I'm tempted to agree, but people can surprise you. I think we need to keep a closer eye on him," Tim says.

Duke hums his agreement. He's quiet for a moment and then asks, “Why don’t we go into Crime Alley anymore anyway?”

“We’re too busy. Between the Scarecrow’s attacks, the weird stuff going on at the docks, and the recent crime wave in general....We’re spread too thin,” Tim replies, sitting down beside his brother. “I mean, we’ve always had trouble keeping the peace in Crime Alley, but we literally can’t spare anyone for it. And Batman doesn’t want anyone going in there alone. He’s pretty paranoid about it.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess he would be,” Duke says, idly kicking a heel against the rough brick of the wall. “He already lost one family to the Alley. It makes sense that he doesn’t want to lose more.”

“The Alley wouldn’t survive it if he did,” Tim says, rubbing his side again. “God, I barely survived the lecture I got after the other night. I haven’t seen him that upset in years. Jason and Dick teamed up on me for it, too.”

“Even Damian seemed upset,” Duke adds. Tim scoffs in disbelief, and Duke decides to change the topic. “So, the Alley is off limits for all of us until B-man has a chance to organize a clean up.”

“And with the Joker, Bane, and Clayface out on the streets again, we’re busier than ever, so that isn’t likely to happen for awhile yet,” Oracle says. “Crime Alley is still the same level of terrible it’s always been, maybe a little worse. We just can’t devote a whole operation on it when we’ve got so much going on. Speaking of which, guys, break time’s over: Batman needs you back at the Narrows.”

“Duty calls,” Tim says, standing up slowly. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Peter climbs in through the window of the fire house and drops his backpack. He walks over to his bed and collapses across it, yanking one of the threadbare blankets over himself just as he falls asleep.

Peter snaps awake, sitting at a circular table that seems to be set inside a plane. Clouds pass by the large windows that stretch across the front of the plane. People in slick, black uniforms with the SHIELD logo stitched across the left breast work at dozens of stations that look vaguely out of date by today’s standards, and there’s a quiet murmur of conversation: clipped, steady, professional.

The man with the eye patch walks through a pair of sliding glass doors alongside a woman in one of the sleek uniforms. They stop at the conference table Peter’s sitting at, and he suddenly feels very young and very out of place.

The man with the eye patch regards him silently for a moment. “You don’t recognize me, do you.”

“Uh, no,” Peter says slowly. “Sorry. Should I?”

“Probably not. I’m Nick Fury. This is Agent Maria Hill. We run SHIELD,” Fury says.

Ah. That’s why they’re so intimidating. Peter doesn’t know much about SHIELD--most people don’t, actually--minus seeing a few headlines about Captain America dismantling it because it had been infiltrated by HYDRA. Or something to that effect; he doesn’t remember much about that incident. He was too young to pay attention to it, frankly. He has a feeling that saying so would not endear him to the two people in front of him.

"Where are we?" Peter asks

"The helicarrier. The first one," Fury says. "Where it all began. The Avengers formed here shortly before the Battle of New York. I figured you’d appreciate the setting, since we’re about to have a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting ourselves.”

“Uh. We are?”

"We are," Fury confirms. "Didn't Stark bother teaching you how to be stealthy? How to shake off someone tracking you in a city?"

Peter pauses. "Sir, don't take this the wrong way, but when has Tony ever been stealthy in his life?"

Fury snorts. "Point taken. In that case, Agent Hill and I will start the process of filling in the gaps of your knowledge. With a bit of help."

“Help?” Peter asks.

“King T’challa and Bucky Barnes offered to help drive a few of the lessons home. Eat a big meal tomorrow after work, Mr. Parker, we’re going to be busy for the next few nights.”

Peter’s Saturday goes by in a flash; after waking up from truly exhausting dreams, he splurges on a big breakfast at a 24 hour diner a few blocks away from his home and spends the few hours before his shift wandering around thrift stores and second hand shops for anything he could use. He doesn’t find much, but he does find the book he needs for school, as well as a dog-eared copy of Watership Down. He hasn’t read this since he was a kid; it had been one of Uncle Ben’s favorites, and he remembers enjoying it. If nothing else, it’s something to read on the subway.

He ends up going to work a few minutes early, ahead of another rain storm rolling into the city from the ocean, slipping inside the restaurant just before a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky and the first heavy drops of rain fall from the sky. Peter gets to work; time passes quickly, and he barely notices it. It isn’t until Sophia lets out a frustrated growl and stomps back into the kitchen that he looks up from the dishes.

She stops in the kitchen, standing out of Omar’s way while he chops vegetables and pinches the bridge of her nose before letting out a deep sigh and heading for the dishpit.

"Peter, can you wait tables?" she asks

"Sure? I've never done it before--" Peter stammers out.

"That's fine, trust me," she replies. "If I have to deal with one more customer today, I will lose it."

“Are they really difficult or...”

“No, actually, everyone’s been nice, even the drunk guys, it’s just that if I keep using the customer voice, I might go insane. It happens in the service industry,” she says, grabbing a clean apron and tossing it his way. “Here. Just cover for me for the last hour of your shift, okay? Keep all the tips, even. I just need a mental break.”

He catches the apron and quickly shrugs it on, grabbing a pen and notepad from a sealed bin on the counter. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Peter,” Sophia says.

Peter shrugs and steps into the restaurant proper. It’s a small place, with a max occupancy of thirty, and those thirty people had better be very good friends if they all intended to eat at once in the restaurant. Fortunately, there’s only a few people here right now. An elderly couple flirting with one another while murmuring to each other and giggling in Farsi. A man in a brown coat hunched over his food and swaying in place in the telltale way all drunks do. And a young Asian teenager in the corner, her back to the wall, watching the restaurant. She sits utterly still, and there’s a vague air of threat around her, though Peter can’t quite pinpoint why he thinks that.

And then it hits him.

She reminds him of the Black Widow. Natasha, on the one occasion they met, was just as still, just as disciplined, as this girl. Gotham must be worse off than he realizes if this girl is any indication of the sorts of teens that come out of the Bowery and Crime Alley.

He makes a note to be more polite than usual towards her and instead cleans tables, sweeps the floor, and buses the few tables Sophia left behind after hitting her limit with customers. It’s nicer to work up front, where the air isn’t constantly humid. He grabs a clean rag and starts to clean a few of the tables. He settles into the rhythm of work, getting the ticket and payment for the old couple and cleaning their table. It’s the same kind of boring, just in a different setting.

Thirty minutes into his new role, the man in the browncoat starts to stare at him. Peter ignores him until he pushes out his chair and block’s Peter’s path back into the kitchen, stopping him cold. The drunk man squints at him, tense and suspicious. The stench of stale whiskey rolls off of him in waves, strong enough to make Peter’s eyes water. Peter's already made the decision to call a cab for the guy when the man snaps his hand out and grabs Peter's arm, gripping it tightly.

"You. You don't belong here," the drunk man slurs. His voice is thick with whiskey and a British accent. Not the standard BBC accent; the more down to earth, gravelly one. Peter had met a man from Liverpool once, and this guy’s accent matches it completely.

"I work here," Peter replies, even and patient. He’s had plenty of experience talking down erratic drunk men before while on patrol. He sees the teenager in the back corner--Sophia said her name was Cass--go tense as they focus on Peter and the man, and Peter makes an effort to reign in his frustration. He doesn't want to make a scene. “So yes, I do.”

The man's squint turns into a frown as he looks past and around Peter, as if he's seeing people who aren't there.

What the hell kind of whiskey did this idiot drink, Peter wonders.

"Those souls don't belong to you," the man says, his confusion turning his tone belligerent. "How'd you get 'em?"

"Two for one sale at the thrift store," Peter remarks dryly, pulling his arm free with a smooth twist. He grips the man’s coat, hauls him up from his chair and firmly guides him to the door. "You're drunk, pal, and you’re causing a scene. Go sit outside while I call you a cab."

“Wait, hang on a minute--” the man mutters.

“Ah. Constantine. I wondered if he would show,” Strange says.

“Who is he?” Sam asks.

“A sorcerer. Of a sort,” Strange replies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Will he help us?” Wanda asks.

“Not yet,” Strange replies.

Peter suddenly shivers, and he feels a strange emptiness inside of himself that hadn’t been there before. He pauses at the door, frowning, then shakes his head and shuts the door just as the man in the brown coat shouts at something. Probably just the wind.

“There’s always gotta be one weirdo,” he huffs to himself.

He catches sight of the remaining customer--the stone faced teenage girl, and straightens up, clearing his throat. He's intimidated by her more than he usually is around beautiful girls. There's a weight to her gaze and a confidence in the way she moves that makes him feel awkward. Which adds to the Black Widow impression. Peter had felt like a bumbling idiot the few times he and Natasha had been in the same room together.

“Sorry about that," he says. "I'll bring your receipt."

She tilts her head, then nods. Her eyes follow him as he walks towards the register behind the counter. It takes him a moment to puzzle out how to use the old machine--it functions on some kind of truly ancient OS that would send Ned into hysterics over how unsecure it is--so he doesn’t notice the teenager get up until the door is already swinging shut behind her.

He stares after her, holding her ticket in hand, and lets out a frustrated sigh. He walks over to her table, mentally cursing. A dine and dash. Just what he needs on his first shift in the front of house--

There are four twenties tucked away beneath a plate of unfinished food. That’s five times as much as a full course meal at the restaurant and more money than he’s held in his hand since he started working here. He hesitates for a moment, then takes the cash and goes to clear the ticket.

He has enough now that he might even swing an extra meal at the diner tomorrow. That thought puts a bit more spring to his step when he starts to close down the restaurant.

* * *

School is school, and most of it bleeds together. The single bright spot are his friends. Tim and Duke wait for him near the entrance most days, nursing cups of coffee. One day, during a particularly blustery autumn rain, a girl with blonde hair jogs up alongside him and pops open an umbrella above them both. Her sudden appearance startles him out of his thoughts, causing him to jump.

She laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I should have said something. I sneak by default these days.”

Her laugh is infectious, and he grins in response, a little taken in by her already. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. I just didn’t expect you to pop up like that.”

She smiles at him, warm and mischievous. “You'll get used to it. I’m Stephanie. We’ve got a few classes together.”

Peter frowns at her, and then brightens. “Oh. You’re in the Wayne club too?”

She grins again, firmly taking him by the arm and guiding him over to Duke and Tim. “The one and only. Come on, let's brighten their lives up with our presence.”

Stephanie Brown is a force to be reckoned with, Peter discovers. He’s never met someone so sure of themselves before, and it’s a bit awe inspiring. She teases him, Tim, and Duke with equal measure, seeming to have adopted Peter within minutes of meeting him. He has one more friend to keep close. And he could always use more of those.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (02:43am): do the ghosts watch him in the bathroom

Tim (02:52am): duke, this is important. Are they in the bathroom with us when we’re at school

Steph (02:57am): actually, I wanna know this, too

Duke (03:01am): no, they don’t go into the bathroom

Duke (03:02am): if u wake me up for this nonsense again I will commit violence

* * *

Class becomes something he looks forward to. The few classes he has alone aren’t nearly as draining when he knows that Steph, Duke, or Tim will be in the next one. Like work, the days blend together, his friendship grows closer with the three of them, and nothing stands out. At least, not until two weeks after he joins the Wayne club. Things change during gym class one day.

“Boxing,” the coach says at the start of class, grinning. “Find some training partners, glove up, get your helmets on and get ready to be partnered up for a spar. We might not get through everyone today, fair warning.”

Is this what rich kids do at their fancy prep schools? Peter can’t even remember the last time Coach Wilson managed to get people to run races against one another at Midtown. There’s no way in hell he’d be able to convince anyone to actually box each other. Even the jocks at Midtown are sufficiently nerdy enough to want to avoid recreational brain damage.

“Is this, like, legal?” Peter mutters to Duke.

Duke shrugs, clearly just as baffled. “Dude, I have no idea.”

“Boxing is a gentlemanly sport,” Tim remarks. He pauses, drains half of his coffee in one gulp, and then continues. “Supposedly.”

"Is it?" Duke asks incredulously.

“Well, anything is a gentlemanly sport if it’s done by people with sufficient net worth, I guess,” Tim remarks dryly. Duke scoffs at that.

Peter rolls his eyes, stretching his arms. They’ve gotten thinner, but the muscle is still there. He’s not opposed to the idea of a boxing session, but he’d rather train on his own. He could use the practice.

“Reilly! You and Freeman are first!” the coach calls out, marking something off his clipboard.

The two students fistbump each other, then hop into the ring. It looks more like two friends rough housing than an actual boxing match. They keep aggressively complimenting each other with each hit. Every other hit is met with an enthusiastic nice one, bro! and dude, you’re really good at this! MJ would probably make a snarky comment about himbos right about now if she was here. The thought of it makes Peter smile.

“Parker, Bright, you’re next!” the coach yells out after shooing off Reilly and Freeman.

And then his smile disappears.

What. Peter stares at the coach. Edison Bright outweighs him by thirty pounds at least. That doesn’t even take into account that the guy is four inches taller and with corresponding reach. Yeah, it’s not really an issue for Peter--he could quite literally fling the guy through a wall--but what the sh*t, coach.

“Uh, what? We’re not in the same weight class--”

“Just go easy on each other,” the coach says, distracted. “This is just practice.”

Bright focuses on Peter and grins. He is most certainly not going to go easy on Peter. Peter sighs. God, he does not need this right now.

“Peter, trade partners with me,” Duke says quietly. “You can spar with Tim and I’ll handle Ed. It’ll be a more even match that way.”

“Yeah, I can’t box my way out of a paper bag,” Tim says, shrugging. He’s also clearly lying through his teeth; Tim has some kind of training, judging by how easily and confidently he moves. Despite matching him in size, Peter has no doubt that Tim could handle a lunk like Edison Bright with one hand tied behind his back. Probably with both hands tied behind his back. Even with his ribs taped. “I can show you a few moves.”

“I already know how to box,” Peter says, distracted. He weighs his options. He could switch off with Duke and let him fight in Peter’s stead; it’d be an even match, Peter would escape with mild jeering and a ruined reputation (which is nonexistent to begin with so whatever), and he could move on with his life.

But judging by the way Edison Bright sneers at him when the coach isn’t looking, he’ll make sure to fight Peter no matter what. In the ring or outside of it. And there’s no guarantee he’ll take no for an answer a second time.

So, option one: let Duke fight Edison. Peter’s reputation is ruined and he becomes an even larger target for bullying than he already is, since his cowardice will justify everyone’s low opinion of him.

Or option two: step into the ring, take a few hits to the face, tap out, and maintain the status quo.

Yeah, it isn’t much of a choice. High school sucks. He sighs, grabs a mouthguard, a helmet, and a pair of gloves.

“Peter, you can’t be serious,” Tim hisses. “He’s twice your size! And you’re--no offense--you’re a twig.”

“Well aware of that, thanks,” Peter replies dryly. “Help me with the gloves, all right?”

“Peter,” Duke says.

“He’s not going to drop this, guys,” Peter cuts in. “He’s going to hound me until he gets his stupid fight, no matter what. It’s best if he gets it over with in front of a teacher who’s legally obligated to keep him from killing me.”

“He’s not going to hold back. And the coach is his dad’s cousin. He won’t stop Edison,” Duke warns.

“I know how to take a punch. Harder punches than anything he can throw my way.” Thanos threw a moon at him, for example. Unless Edison Bright suddenly gains that type of strength, he’s not in any real danger.

“We’re talking about a severe concussion at the very least. Missing teeth at worst.”

“Not a stranger to those either,” Peter replies. He’s discovered that his teeth do grow back after a particularly disastrous swing back when he was new to being Spider-Man. It just takes forever and itches like hell. Missing teeth and concussions are nothing to him these days. He ignores the deepening frown on Duke’s face and lets Tim lace up his gloves for him. “Just help me put my nose back in place if he dislocates it.”

Tim and Duke are silent by the time he finishes. Peter doesn’t catch the pained, worried, and frankly disturbed, expressions on their faces as he pushes the ropes up and ducks into the ring. Edison is already in the ring, shirt off, clenching his fists to show off his muscles which were, admittedly, pretty impressive for a sixteen year old. Given that Peter survived a hand to hand fight with Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and the Falcon within five minutes of each other, he’s not all that impressed. Granted, none of those three were trying to actually hurt him--the Winter Soldier especially after Peter caught his fist--but they almost certainly hit harder than Edison Bright of Gotham Prep.

Peter ignores Edison, loosening up for the fight. Honestly, this might be good practice. He hasn’t fought since Titan. And boxing is sort of fun, in a way. He learned the basics from Tony, Happy, and Rhodey one day at the Compound. Rhodey had taken point on that lesson, wearing a set of armor meant to match Peter's enhanced strength. He can practically see and hear Rhodey in his mind, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his suit beside him.

“Boxing 101, kid: if the other guy is bigger, you gotta be quicker.”

Right, well. Edison is certainly bigger. Peter doesn’t think he’s trained, but he could be. The first knock out punch he sees, he’ll take and call it even. Edison gets his win, Peter loses, and he can focus on more important things. Like lunch.

“All right, boys, touch gloves,” the coach says.

Peter raises his gloves and touches them against Edison’s. The other boy sneers and pushes his gloves against Peter’s, shoving him back a step. Peter catches his balance and barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. In the corner of his eye, he sees Duke and Tim pull themselves up onto the ring, gripping the ropes and watching Peter and Edison very closely. Given the way they’re standing and how tightly Duke is gripping the ropes, he half expects them to jump into the ring themselves.

The bell sounds off, and the two boys circle one another on the mat. Peter isn’t eager to catch a punch with his face; he moves just out of Edison’s reach more often than not. He could dodge every last one, but that would look suspicious as all hell. He just wants to make sure Edison earns his TKO. So far, he hasn’t bothered throwing a decent punch. Edison’s form is sloppy and arrogant at best.

“Looks like you’ve managed to find yourself some friends, weirdo,” Edison mutters, just quiet enough that only Peter can hear him. He jabs high, quick and sure, and Peter’s instincts to duck kick in before he remembers he’s trying to lose this fight.

Peter frowns at him, putting a bit more distance between them. Edison’s words throw Peter off for a couple of reasons: the first is that his voice is so full of sneering anger it surprises Peter, and the second is that Edison isn’t wearing a mouth guard. He’s so sure he’ll win this, so sure he’ll beat Peter into a pulp, that he’s not wearing the required protection. That’s not good. Even a normal punch from Peter might seriously hurt the guy.

Edison closes the gap, throwing a couple of jabs at Peter. They’re so obvious that Peter refuses to be hit by them. He might be trying to lose, but he does have standards for the kinds of beatings he’s willing to take. Come on.

“How long before their little club drops you?” Edison mutters. “I looked at your records. You don’t have parents, or a family, just some guy named Tony Stark who hasn’t bothered to show up for parent-teacher conferences. Hell, does anyone care about you or are you just that f*cking worthless?”

He throws three more jabs in quick succession at Peter. They’re a little cleaner now, but Peter dodges them all the same. His temper is rising, he realizes, and that hasn’t happened in years. He puts more space between themselves, frustrated. Why is this getting to him? He’s heard worse before.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round. Peter backs away again, wary of turning his back on his opponent. The guy seems like he’d take a cheap shot. Edison smirks at him.

“I saw you had an aunt on your paperwork. Looks like she died. Probably just to get away from a worthless f*ck like you,” he says turning to suanter over to his corner.

And that one little comment is what pushes Peter over the edge. He clenches his fists inside the gloves, can hear and feel the leather creak. His entire posture turns stiff and angry, and Edison grins at him, glad to strike a metaphorical blow against Peter. Tim catches the look on Peter’s face and grips his shoulder.

“He’s just trying to rile you up so he can get an easy hit in,” Tim says. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I know,” Peter says. And it’s working.

“Peter--” Tim starts.

The bell rings. Peter moves away from Tim and meets Edison in the middle of the ring. He doesn’t offer to bump gloves this time. He just starts to move. Peter pulls his punches. He’s not trying to break any ribs.

But he also doesn’t give Edison a chance to do anything but block and dodge. He moves, just as Rhodey taught him, and can still hear Rhodey matching his movements with small encouragement and comments in the back of his mind. Peter chases Edison around the mat, forcing the larger boy on the defensive. Three minutes pass, and by the end of it, he barely has the energy to put his gloves up to block Peter’s punches. Thirty seconds after that, Edison is swaying on his feet, beaten without landing or taking a single punch. He still tries, weakly bouncing a punch right off of Peter’s shoulder.

Peter rolls his eyes, steps back and taps the rope with his glove. "I quit. He wins."

The coach stares at him. "What?"

"I'm throwing in the towel. He wins," Peter repeats, walking over so Tim can help him with his gloves. "Good fight, or whatever. I'm done."

"Uh, match set goes to Bright," the coach says, giving Peter a disbelieving look.

"Nicely done, Peter," Tim says quietly.

“He won’t mess with you after that,” Duke adds.

Other voices, ones at the edge of his awareness seem to echo that sentiment.

"Should've popped him in the jaw at least once," Bucky says.

"Yeah, definitely," Quill mutters. “f*cking twerp.”

"That would have given him more reason to antagonize Peter," T'challa says. "Peter handled it perfectly."

That gets murmurs of agreement from Sam, Wanda, and the others. T'challa speaks rarely, but when he does, the others listen. Even Fury and Loki. Peter half listens to them, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t feel altogether happy about how things played out. He let his temper flare, and he never lets that happen. Not around people he could hurt so easily. He’s never been that furious with Flash, and Flash has been a dick to him for years. Granted, Flash isn’t always a jerk, and they even have their friendly moments, but...

The coach walks over to Peter, grinning.

“You know, we could use you on the boxing team,” the coach starts.

“No,” Peter replies, pushing past him and heading for the showers. His wrist hurts, and he’s suddenly very tired.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

The fight sours his mood for the rest of the day, poking at the back of his mind. And he doesn’t hide it very well. Tim, Duke, and Stephanie all seem to notice his change in mood immediately. To be fair, he’s not exactly subtle. Instead of inhaling his food, he’s simply picked at it for most of lunch.

“Peter, you’re barely eating,” Tim says. “What gives?”

Peter pokes at his meal, eyes unfocused. It isn’t until Steph nudges him with her elbow that he snaps out of it. “Huh? Oh, uh. Just thinking, I guess.”

“You’re upset about gym class?” Duke guesses.

Peter sighs, then nods. “He actually made me lose my temper. That hasn’t happened before.”

Sure, Flash is a massive jerk towards him, but it’s nothing close to the kind of bullying Edison is apparently intent on committing. In fact, Peter’s fairly certain Flash would get in Edison’s face for half of the sh*t he’s pulled so far. The thing is, Peter normally wouldn’t let it bother him. He’s heard worse comments before, dealt with worse, and shrugged it off easily. So why is Edison bothering him so much now?

It’s the fact that he lost control of his temper, however brief. He let his anger get to him, and that hasn’t happened before. If he’s this trigger happy, should he even try to go back to being Spider-Man? What happens the next time someone says something to him and he snaps? Crooks and thugs aren’t exactly gentle with their words, and if he can’t handle relatively harmless jeers from some spoiled rich kid, he has no business doing any crime fighting. Spider-Man doesn’t kill, but he just might if Peter’s temper is that fragile. Maybe he shouldn’t be Spider-Man; maybe he should just focus on figuring out a way to get home instead. Leave Gotham to itself and use the suit to travel across the city at night.

“That would be ideal,” Loki says dryly.

“He’s been trying to pick a fight with you for weeks,” Duke points out. “He was bound to hit a sore spot and piss you off eventually, Pete. You handled it perfectly.”

“Yeah, if that’s you ‘losing your temper’ then I don’t want to see you go into a berserk rage,” Tim adds jokingly, stirring his coffee as Duke takes a massive bite of his burger. This is Tim’s fourth coffee of the day, Peter notes, and he’s a little concerned by that.

Peter frowns. That’s the last thing he wants, too. If he ever truly lost his temper, became furious beyond all control, he could level the city within hours and nobody would be capable of stopping him. He’s strong enough for that. Powerful enough. And that knowledge terrifies him on some level; you have to be careful and responsible with the kind of strength he has. Otherwise you’re just a monster.

“It wouldn’t be good,” Peter says, feeling oddly sick at the thought. Acting selfishly with his powers had caused his Uncle Ben’s death.

“Stop worrying about something that won’t happen. You're not a monster, Peter,” Sam says.

Duke looks up from his meal and glances around, frowning in confusion. Tim stays focused on Peter. “Peter, you got annoyed with a guy who’s been a massive asshole to you for weeks, and instead of pummeling him into a fine paste, you just scared the hell out of him. You stood up for yourself and no one got hurt. That’s the best possible outcome.”

“As a bonus, he’s been mildly tolerable ever since you knocked sense into him,” Steph adds. “He won the match and lost against you in a fight, and that seems to be causing some kind of short circuit in his brain.”

“Doesn’t take much,” Duke mutters.

The bell rings, and Peter sighs, standing up. He grabs a bread roll and takes a bite of it.

* * *

Class drags on. He idly rubs his hand and drifts for most of it. He may not have actually landed a hit on Edison, but he did strike the boy’s gloves a few times. Even that’s enough to cause his hand discomfort. Dammit, the bones are healed, why is it giving him so much trouble?

“You haven’t had a chance to heal fully yet,” Shuri says.

That’s a disturbing thought. Sure, he’s been stressed, and he’s not sleeping well, and he’s not eating well--

“Oh, is that all,” Bucky mutters.

But his healing factor should still work. Why isn’t it working?

“You died. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty damn sure that even Cap himself would need a month or two to get right from that,” Fury says.

Huh. That makes sense. Peter isn’t sure what kind of healing factor Cap has. He does know Tony compared their eating habits and informed him he eats nearly as much or more than Cap does when he visited the Compound. He's definitely not getting that kind food in Gotham.

Class ends with the teacher mentioning something about a school spirit day next week. Peter isn’t paying attention. Someone drops something on his desk as the final bell rings, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks down at the desk and sees a bag of chips, then looks up and finds himself face to face with Duke who grins and shrugs.

“I figured you’d be starving by now. You headed home? I could use some company on the subway.”

“Subway? I thought you, Tim, and Steph all rode together,” Peter says, shrugging on his backpack and grabbing the bag of chips. He tears open the packet and grabs a chip. It’s empty calories, but at this point any calories would do him some good.

“Yeah, usually Steph drops me off at my job after school, but I’m going to visit my cousin and some friends over in the Narrows with Tim tonight,” Duke says, hooking a thumb in his pocket. “It’s quicker to take a subway over to that part of Gotham. The bridges are a nightmare for traffic.”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t mind the company,” Peter says. This almost feels rehearsed. “Let’s go.”

Duke grins. “Come on, there’s a diner we can stop at, too. I know you’re starving.”

“Is it that obvious?” Peter asks, walking with him out into the hall. People move out of Duke’s way, and more than a few of them throw grins his way. Peter’s a little jealous of that; Duke is indisputably a cool kid at school, which makes his friendship with Peter all the stranger.

“Only because I know how much you usually eat,” Duke replies, waving at Tim when they reach the front entrance. “Come on, you’re overdue for a trip to Batburger.”

Peter makes a face. “That can’t possibly be a real place.”

Duke grins.

* * *

Batburger is, in fact, a very real place. It’s a theme restaurant, and that theme is Batman, his friends, and his villains. Peter gawks at the uniforms, the cheesy names, and the cheap decorations and briefly wonders if something similar exists back home. But the food isn’t actually all that bad. He’s definitely had worse burgers, and the fries are cooked to perfection. He can’t complain about that. For a moment, his sour mood is pushed back.

Tim drops a kid’s meal box in front of Peter just as he finishes off his third cheeseburger. “Time for the family tradition. Here. You get a free action figure. It’s a mystery set this time.”

Peter, amused, grabs the box. “Gee, thanks. I wonder who I’ll get at Batburger.”

“You might be surprised,” Tim says, stirring a fresh cup of coffee.

“How many of those have you had today?” Peter asks, pulling out the toy packet. It’s pretty big for a knock off happy meal toy.

Tim lifts up his cup, pauses, squints, and takes a mental count. “Six.”

“That is beyond unhealthy,” Peter says.

Tim shrugs and downs half of his cup in one go.

Duke rolls his eyes. “One day he’s going to try and cut back on his caffeine intake and collapse from the withdrawal.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Tim remarks. “And it won’t happen. If you try to serve me decaf again, I’ll dump a bottle of Dick’s old itching powder in your sock drawer.”

“His what?” Duke asks.

“He used to prank Alfred as a kid,” Tim explains. “I found his old stash inside his closet. Itching powder, whoopie cushions, hand buzzers, the works.”

“Why were you in his closet?”

“Because I’m nosy,” Tim says patiently. “And he owes me twenty bucks.”

“Tim, we’re rich.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Duke.”

Peter hides a grin, popping open the toy package and pulling out a tiny, borderline cheap model of Nightwing. The toy wears a cheesy grin and holds a kali stick in each hand. Peter’s never seen Nightwing with weapons before, but that doesn’t mean they’re not somewhere in his suit; Nightwing’s a pretty big guy. Otherwise, the suit seems true to life.

“Hey, congrats, you got the coolest one,” Tim says.

“Signal’s cooler,” Duke says.

Tim rolls his eyes at that, but only smirks in response, casting a glance through the window. Peter examines the little Nightwing toy, amused by it, and then tucks it away inside his blazer. He used to carry around a similar figure when he was a kid. A little Iron Man toy he had picked up at the Stark Expo, shortly before Iron Man saved his life. He’d considered it a good luck charm at the time. Maybe Nightwing will serve the same purpose in Gotham. His mood is a little lighter, at least. But that could just as easily come from the food. He ends up eating three meals’ worth of food: burgers, fries, two milkshakes, and a small apple pie.

Duke and Tim seem content to chat with each other while he eats enough food to sustain himself for the next week. They also pay for it without thinking; Peter feels a bit guilty about that, but he’s too hungry to care. He’ll pay them back after he gets his next check. He’s polishing off the apple pie--not the best he’s ever had, and definitely not something that measures up to Aunt May’s--when he notices a sleek red sports car pull in front of the restaurant. Tim and Duke go still, staring daggers at it, and it takes Peter a moment to figure out why.

Edison Bright sits in his sports car, staring daggers into the restaurant. Judging by the way his eyes roam across the front of it, he can’t actually see inside. At least, not past the foggy mist that seems to just hover close to the ground of Gotham City this time of year. Duke stares daggers at Edison, and starts to get up. Tim reaches up and grips his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Tim says. “He’s looking for an excuse.”

“I’m happy to give him one,” Duke mutters, but sits back down. His eyes never leave Edison.

“He’d just run from you,” Tim adds. “Like he’s doing now.”

And Edison is moving. He eases his shiny sports car back onto the street and then revs the engine a few times, loud enough to rattle the windows of the burger place, before tearing off down the street with a squeal of wet slick tires. And then it clicks for Peter. Duke and Tim didn’t just happen to need the subway today. Steph could have easily driven them over to the Narrows despite the traffic; they walked with Peter specifically to buy him dinner and protect him from Edison Bright.

Peter boggles at that. This is something Ned would do for him, without a second thought, and he wishes suddenly that Tim and Duke could meet him.

“Hey, Peter, why don’t you come home with us?” Tim says, breaking Peter out of his thoughts.

“You can swing by the Narrows with us first and meet some friends of mine, and then stay over with us,” Duke adds.

Peter shakes his head. He’d love to sleep in an actual bed, but he needs to finish his spider suit. Without the suit, he can’t start working out how to get home: he needs the suit to be able to track down the person that keeps pinging his spider senses. “Sorry, guys. Not tonight.”

Tim seems disappointed by that. “Next time, then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Peter says, standing up and gathering his trash. It’s pretty sizable; he really did a number on the menu here. “Thanks for the meal, guys. I’ll pay you back sometime, promise. See you at school tomorrow!”

Tim and Duke wave after him. Peter can’t help but notice the pinched, worried look they share when he turns his back to them and leaves the restaurant.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (11:10pm): he was holding back during that fight

Duke (11:11pm): he’s much faster than I thought

Duke (11:11pm): not Flash fast, but really quick

Tim (11:13pm): another power?

Duke (11:15pm): maybe. I saw this hazy sort of person fighting with him, too. Not a ghost. It was like a memory? like an echo. Peter was mimicking all of his moves.

Tim (11:16pm): interesting

Dick (11:20pm): Guys, I need a favor and I really need you to not comment on it.

Dick (11:21pm): Can someone please bring me pants

Dick (11:22pm): There was an...incident during patrol tonight.

Dick (11:22pm): Do NOT tell Bruce about this

Tim Drake screenshot this.

Dick (11:23pm): Come on, man

* * *

Peter sleeps well that night, but his sour mood still lingers. He’s starting to wonder if it’s more than the fight that’s bothering him. He tries not to think about it and keeps his head down in school, moving from class to class with as little input as possible. The day passes by in a gray blur for most of it, but he snaps out of it briefly when he gets lunch and walks over to Tim and Duke’s table. They’re hunched over a piece of paper, bickering with one another. Neither of them looks up when Peter sits down beside them and starts to eat his lunch.

“No, that’s--that’s way too much,” Tim protests. “There’s no way he’d be able to bend as much as he needs without breaking something--”

“He needs some armor,” Duke insists.

Peter leans over to peer over Tim’s shoulder, curious as to what they’re arguing about. His eyes scan the page, first in confusion, and then in shock. They’re designing armor. This is for a suit. Peter blinks, squinting at the hastily written computation in the corner. It’s clearly written by someone who isn't used to wiring up power inside a suit. Or, at least, as much power. They're close, but it's such a mess...

“Yeah, but that means he needs wires and circuits and--”

"This is wrong," he says suddenly, interrupting Duke and Tim. He taps one of the circuit diagrams. "The resistance is too much for a portable battery to function efficiently. Are you designing a super suit?"

Duke and Tim go quiet, giving him curious and shocked looks. Clearly they didn’t expect to be caught in the middle of this.

"That's a good guess. We're working on a new one for Nightwing," Duke says. “His suit got shredded last night on patrol, and his fan club is helping him build a new one.”

“They’re lying,” Bucky says.

They are. He doesn’t know why they’re lying to him, but they are. Peter quirks a brow at Duke before grabbing Tim’s pen and pulling the paper over to himself. He rewrites the calculations and draws a completely different circuit plan throughout the whole suit; he's using a circuit model Tony taught him months ago, and an older design at that. Tim and Duke crowd around him, watching him work. When Peter starts to speak, he can hear hints of Tony in his own voice.

"You have too much of everything in this equation. Start over and use this first. Keep the concept simple. You can add redundancies later. In fact, you’ll need them in case one fails during patrol, and they usually will," Peter says.

His sketch is basically an older version of the suit Tony first built for him. No Karen, no web shooters, and none of the fancy bells and whistles Tony usually puts into a suit. Peter only needs the basics for himself, and Nightwing clearly doesn’t need them. So he keeps it minimal; health monitoring, a HUD for the mask, a specific weave for the joints of the suit to handle constant use and stress.

"Use this,” Peter continues, adding a small calculation to the edge of the page before marking off specific points on the suit. “Nightwing’s an acrobat, so this will give him room to move and bend all weird without breaking anything electronic. Armor’s a little tricky, but you might be able to find a stronger fabric weave to at least help deflect knives."

“You did that pretty quick,” Tim says, impressed.

“I like designing things. Who doesn’t design a super suit when they’re a kid?” Peter says. “I just have more practical experience after a few engineering classes, that’s all.”

Granted, that practical experience comes from building his suits in Tony’s lab, and those engineering classes were run by Rhodey and Tony, who are both genius engineers. But it’s technically the truth.

“That’s true,” Duke says, grinning. “I used to draw Batman’s suit all the time when I was a kid. Every kid in Gotham did.”

“So did I,” Tim adds after a moment’s thought. He’s still giving Peter a curious look, but continues. “I think I gave him functional bat wings in one design.”

“That’d be cool,” Duke says thoughtfully. “His cape’s way too iconic, though.”

Peter finishes off the sketch and leans back to look at his handiwork. It's passable. Good enough for five minutes of effort, at least. He caps the pen, puts it back on the table, and immediately digs into his lunch. Maybe Spider-Man won’t come to Gotham, but he can still help in other ways. Nightwing’s suit, for example. Assuming he pays attention to this fan club of his and accepts suit designs, anyway. Tony never did.

He doesn’t notice Tim snap a pic of the schematic before tucking it into his backpack. And he misses the significant look Tim and Duke share with one another. That grey fog from before is easing back into his mood.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (01:12pm): Hey, this looks great. Did you guys design this during your lunch?

Tim (01:13pm): Peter did all of it. I knew the guy was smart, but he might be a certified genius. He took one look and had a whole system sketched out within a minute.

Tim (01:13pm): We need to test a few things out, but the suit looks more than viable.

Dick (01:14pm): Wow. Wait. Aren’t you still in school? Pay attention to class!

Tim (01:15pm): don’t be a nerd, Grayson

* * *

The weight of it all starts to catch up to Peter later that week when he finds himself shivering inside the fire house. He crawls in through the window, tosses his backpack across the room to the tarp hiding his bed from view, and gently thumps his head against the wall. He stays like that for a long moment. God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to make a phone call back home. He doesn’t know what’s happening there, if anything is happening, or how to get home. He can just imagine the reaction he’d get from Happy (god, Peter hopes Happy is okay) if he called.

“Hi, Happy,” he mutters against the filthy wall. “I’d really appreciate it if you could pick me up and take me to my aunt. Or Ned’s house. Or MJ’s. Or Rhodey. Or Tony. Or Vision. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if you dropped me into whatever super secret hideout the Black Widow is hiding in. She’s terrifying, but I’m like ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t kill me. At least, not until she got to know me.”

There is, of course, no answer, and he feels rather silly muttering at a dirty wall. He sighs, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. That weird grey feeling is still lingering around him, muffling his emotions and smothering him at the same time. The constant grind of school, starvation, homework, and work is getting to him. It must be. There’s no other reason--

His eyes focus on the day planner the school gave him at the start of the year, and the reason for his sour mood is readily explained: the anniversary of Ben’s death is this weekend. He must have subconsciously picked up on it sometime after the fight with Edison. That was just the tipping point. And this year he doesn’t have May to lean on. Or Ned.

He sighs, skipping the work on his spider suit for the night in favor of curling up in bed. It’s a little too cold to do anything else, and he’s still feeling conflicted by the whole Spider-Man thing. And he has work tomorrow.

* * *

Peter wakes up to a steady, freezing rain on Saturday. The temperature has turned unseasonably cold, plunging the temperatures down to near freezing. He eats a half frozen protein bar for breakfast, takes the quickest shower of his life, and then heads for the nearest cafe to grab a hot chocolate to nurse for the few hours before his shift starts. He slips into the restaurant with a quiet greeting, pulls on his apron and gets to work. There’s an odd tension to the air, and Omar keeps glancing at the clock and the back door. Peter ignores it. He’s got too much on his mind.

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he’s functioning on instinct and habit alone while he works. That’s not an issue when he’s handling dishes in the back of the restaurant by himself. It becomes an issue when a man with a black skull mask pushes open the door to the alley beside Peter and walks into the restaurant, gun handle glinting beneath his suit jacket.

Instinct takes over, and Peter’s moving before he fully realizes what’s happening. One moment, the man with the gun lurches into view, the next Peter is standing over him, flinging the gun away and kicking him hard across the face, snapping the mask in half. The man crumples to the ground in a wordless heap, just like every other thug Peter’s taken on before. The guy really didn’t stand a chance.

“Good reaction time,” Fury says idly.

Omar rushes into the back. When he sees Peter standing over the unconscious man’s form, his eyes go wide.

“Oh, no,” Omar says weakly. “Peter, what did you do?”

Peter frowns at him. “He had a gun! He was going to rob--”

Something heavy and metallic slams against the base of Peter’s skull, just beneath his ear. It’s hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground with stars in his eyes. He rolls over, disoriented, and finds himself staring up at a crowd of other men wearing pressed suits and black skull masks. All of them are armed, some with clubs, others with guns, and approximately none of them look too pleased with Peter. That’s fine, he’s taken on guys like this before--

Omar puts himself between Peter and the masked men, hands raised. “Wait! Wait, stop! He didn’t know! He’s new! Please, don’t hurt him.”

“New employee, huh,” the biggest one says. He points a meaty finger at Peter. “You know the rule, Omar. If anyone--anyone--hurts one of the False Facers, the price is taken out in blood. We run the protection racket here, and that includes protecting ourselves.”

“No, no, please. He’s just some kid, he thought we were being robbed--” Omar stammers.

“Omar--” Peter starts, standing up. He sways a bit, but catches his balance quick. He can feel the bruise forming, and the burning itch from his healing factor kicking in.

Omar whirls on him and hisses, “Shut up, I’m trying to save your life.”

Peter stutters into silence, reaching up to rub the back of his head. He finds a knot there and winces. Omar looks like he’s about to faint from panic; Peter keeps silent.

The man in the black mask--the False Facer--chuckles. “Tell you what, we’ll make it even another way. Get rid of the kid and take the beating yourself.”

“What--” Peter starts.

“Done,” Omar says, gripping Peter and roughly shoving him past the gangsters towards the alley. Peter starts to fight him, Omar pushes him harder. “Peter, you’re fired. I’m sorry, but--”

“Omar, I need this job--”

“They’ll kill you,” Omar retorts. He won’t look Peter in the eye. “Listen, if it’s safe, I’ll try to leave some food out, but you can’t work here, okay?”

With a final shove, he pushes Peter out into the alley and slams the door. Peter stares at it in blank shock when the lock slides home. And then the beating begins. He can’t just kick in the door and start cracking heads together. Not without causing a bigger scene than he already has and blowing his cover wide open.

The rain picks up, falling hard and fast enough to drown out almost everything else. Peter eyes the roof of the restaurant, considers jumping on top of it--

“If you do that, Omar and Sophia are the ones who’ll pay for it,” Bucky says quietly.

And that’s an excellent point. Sure, Peter could barge in, expose himself as a freaky brawler capable of taking down an entire squad of mafia men. But that will just put a target on Omar and Sophia’s backs. Not to mention his own. Peter knows enough about Gotham to know that various mobs and gangs run the show in Crime Alley, and anyone bucking that trend disappears. The nail that stands out gets hammered down and all that.

Growling in frustration, he kicks a trashcan over and stalks back towards home.

* * *

It rains that night. Hard and constant and miserable. The leaks in the roof of the warehouse guarantee the floor is damp and chill. He shivers, half awake, and partially damp. Peter ends up sleeping curled up in a ball under the tarp to avoid the leaking roof.

At some point, he falls into a true sleep. When he wakes, he’s laying in warm grass, warm and at ease. He sits up, frowns in confusion, and then stumbles up onto his feet, looking around.

"Ah, I was hoping you would join me next," a man says behind him. His voice is accented, warm and regal.

Peter turns to face him. T'Challa, King of Wakanda, stands beneath an ancient tree. The branches above his head glint with curious golden eyes, and living shadows move among them. The ground is covered in thick, green prairie grass tall enough to tickle Peter's palms. And above them there’s an endless sea of stars set against an aurora of purple and blue.

"What is this place?" Peter asks, walking up to him.

"The Ancestral home. What comes after," T'Challa replies, strolling over to stand in front of Peter. "A Wakandan king never truly dies. His wisdom lives on, to inspire and lead from afar, if need be, so he goes here to share that wisdom with the next king or queen. I visited this place when I first became king and it became a part of myself. I find myself wandering through it while I sleep. When I need time away from the others in the Stone, I go here. Sometimes with Shuri, though she has her own private area as well.”

“Oh,” Peter responds dumbly. He looks around the majestic field again and feels sorely out of place. This is not a place meant for someone like him, and he's very aware of that fact.

“Be proud of yourself, Peter,” T’Challa continues. “This is a land of Kings and Queens, welcoming you as a guest."

Peter freezes, his brain finally catching up to the fact that he’s standing near royalty, and, after a brief panic, starts to bow. T'Challa gently presses his hand against Peter's shoulder, stopping him cold.

"There's no need for that," he says gently. "I may be a king, but we are equals here, brothers in arms. We are both Avengers."

"Oh. Y-yeah, I guess so," Peter replies, unsure. He’s definitely not equal to T'Challa. There’s a reserved nobility in the way the man carries himself that Peter knows he’ll never be able to match. Arguing the point seems rude, however, so he keeps his mouth shut. He stops, looking around.

The savannah is warm, and dry. The wind sweeps across the prairie grass, and distant birds call to one another in the moonlit night. Distant blue-black clouds scuttle across the sky, never dimming the aura or the stars glittering above. In the distance, a city glimmers beneath the watchful gaze of a massive stone panther, at peace with the landscape around it. There's such a feeling of contentment and peace that Peter knows, somewhere deep inside, he'll hunt for this feeling for the rest of his life.

T'Challa regards him silently for a moment, then seems to come to a conclusion. "Walk with me, Peter. I would like to show you my home.”

With that, he turns and walks through the grass towards the city. Peter follows him, his head on a swivel, looking at all of the sights and sounds of the Wakandan homeland. They walk in silence, moving past deceptively humble border villages on their way to the city. Eventually, T’Challa motions for Peter to walk alongside him, and Peter hurries to move to his right, walking beside him.

“You doubt yourself,” T’Challa says after a few minutes.

“Always,” Peter says.

T'Challa tilts his head. “Well. You are honest with yourself. In some respects, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are often your harshest critic. And your doubt is a double edged sword.”

“I can’t risk getting an ego. Not with this kind of power,” Peter retorts.

T’Challa says nothing, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

Panthers follow them, stalking among the trees, the buildings, the prairie. Peter never feels threatened by them, but he does keep note. After awhile, the more silent and stealthy panthers realize he can see them. It becomes a game; they sneak in as close as they can before Peter notices, then they duck away. He catches them more often than not, but a few of the sleeker, thinner panthers come close enough to tap him with their paw before darting away.

T'Challa notices, too. He chuckles.

Peter looks up at him. “Oh, uh, I'm paying attention, honest---”

“The Dora Milaje test their recruits by stalking them in this way. It is training and a game all in one. Okoye did the same to me when we were children, many times.” He nods to the small group of panthers stalking them in the grass. If not for his heightened senses, Peter wouldn’t know they were there at all. “It seems you’ve earned their approval as well as their interest.”

"Oh, good. I'd prefer that,” Peter says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I’d like to stay on the good side of immortal panther warriors who can eat me."

That earns him an amused look from the King. "You learn quickly. One of my favorite games growing up was to tease Okoye endlessly. She was very efficient about showing me where the line was drawn."

“She beat up the King of Wakanda?” Peter asks, tilting his head.

“She beat up her very foolish friend who happened to be of royal blood,” T'Challa corrects, still with that amused smirk. He stops at the steps of what is unmistakably a grand palace. It’s style is nothing like the European castles and stately manors Peter’s seen, but he can recognize a place of government when he sees one. "And it was well earned. Okoye is wise with her violence. And that is something you lack.”

Peter looks up at T’Challa, frowning. “Wisdom?”

“In regards to your strength, yes. That isn’t surprising. You are young in your abilities,” T’Challa says, clasping his hands behind his back. “You don’t think that you can aid the people of Gotham.”

“Yeah,” Peter admits, rubbing the back of his head. “Gotham is different from New York. People need help, sure, but I’m not sure if I can help, you know? There’s a dozen people doing what I do here, and they’ve been doing it longer than I have. Wouldn’t it be better if I left it to them?”

“How many of them have you seen in your neighborhood?” T'Challa asks.

Peter stops cold. He hasn’t seen them in his neighborhood. Nightwing swings through, but it’s almost always while on the way to the latest disaster in another part of the city. Red Robin is probably still out of commission, and he was clearly in over his head the last time he came through. Signal sticks to the Narrows, mostly, and has never ventured far into Crime Alley minus that time he said he was covering for Nightwing. Spoiler and Batgirl patrol together, and they seem to focus on the docks near Old Gotham. No one knows where Batman is; his patrols vary widely, and lately he’s been all over the place.

No one is focusing on little guy stuff. No one’s returning stolen purses or lost bikes. No one is doing anything to stop the almost daily muggings. No one is standing up to groups like the False Facers. No one is helping Omar or Sophia or any of the other decent people that try to get by. Sure, the Bat crew swings through the Bowery and Crime Alley, and he’s met them on the rooftops, but that’s just it. He’s met them on the rooftops. You can't stop a street level crime from twenty storeys up.

T'Challa raises an eyebrow, waiting for Peter’s answer.

“I guess there’s room for Spider-Man here. At least until I figure out how to get home. And it would make things easier, too. I can’t really investigate the city if it’s constantly on fire, and people might be able to help me when they aren’t constantly trying to survive,” Peter says thoughtfully. “May always says that if you help someone, you help everyone, at least in a roundabout kind of way.”

“Your aunt is a wise woman,” T'Challa says.

“She’s the best. I owe her everything,” Peter says.

T'Challa smiles. “Perhaps she could meet my mother one day, when this is all over. I think you would both enjoy Wakanda.”

Peter pauses, taking a moment to mentally fanboy over the fact that the Black Panther just invited him over to visit. “I have to warn you, I might be completely obnoxious if that happens.”

“I grew up with Shuri. I am well used to obnoxious behavior.”

Peter grins a little. T’Challa returns it.

“We walk similar paths,” T'Challa says. “It is not an easy one, and it will be full of pain.”

“I know.”

"It is hard for a good man to live such a life. But I think that it will be worth it. For now, you should rest." He offers Peter his hand and clasps forearms with him. "Until we meet again, Spider-Man."

“Thank you, T'Challa.”

Peter wakes up slowly, gradually. He’s completely at ease in his makeshift bed, and he wakes feeling refreshed for the first time since he came to Gotham. His dreams, when he thinks of them, leave behind only a sense of a firm resolve and relief.

* * *

He spends the next day hard at work and finishes his suit just as the sun begins to set. It's not the Iron Spider, but it's got enough sensors and electronics to get him by. He just needs the web fluid indicator, compass, and the map of Gotham. Those are easily enough done, even with his limited supplies and coding skill. The most tedious part is hand sewing everything, and that doesn't bother him much when he has the radio or a book on hand. That goes double when he’s not busy with work.

And then he finishes it. It isn't his best work, but it's worlds above the sweatpants and hoodie he used in Queens a lifetime ago. It’s blue and red, with a gray webbing pattern across the whole of it, and the fat red spider across the back from the first suit Tony built for him.

It takes him no time at all to put the suit on. The moment the mask hits home, he all but sighs in relief. He can’t believe he almost gave this up. A quick jump out of the nearest window and a carefully placed web sling later, and he's resting on top of the building, balanced on a rusted HVAC system in the steady rain of the Gotham night. On the anniversary of his uncle’s death, Spider-Man returns.

"All right, Gotham. Let's see what you've got for me."

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

He spends most of that first patrol getting back into the swing (ha) of things. He circles the perimeter of Crime Alley, swinging from one darkened skyscraper to the next, dodging between buildings at speed to check his reaction time, and then builds up as much speed as he can to test his webbing. It's not as refined as the stuff he could make in Tony's lab, but it's more than serviceable.

But it wouldn't be a patrol without at least some crime fighting. During his last swing through the district, Peter catches sight of two men hovering near the back entrance to one of the darkened warehouses in the industrial zone. They’re hunched low; one big guy with a heavy crowbar gripped in his meaty hands, and one thin, twitchy guy who keeps glancing back at the box truck parked beside them.

Peter drops down on top of the box truck lightly before skittering over to the edge, peering down at the men below. It takes effort to keep himself still; he’s hyped up from the swinging, from being himself again, and it’s hard to keep from leaping straight into action. But he has to make sure that these guys are bad guys. He stays crouched low, pressed flat against the top of the truck in a way that’s impossible for a normal human.

“Goddamn, that is creepy,” Sam mutters.

“Don’t distract him,” Bucky says.

"You're paranoid, Frank," the moose looking guy says. He's struggling with the crowbar, and quickly losing patience. Peter marks him as an amateur burglar; he’s too clumsy, too impatient to be a pro.

"The hell I am," Frank retorts. "The bats swing through all the time. I swear I saw one earlier. You know what the Bat does to people like us? He'll beat you into a coma if you piss him off. I once saw him grab one of Joker's guys and dangle him over the side of a building. Gave me nightmares."

"Oh, are we sharing our nightmares?" Peter asks from the shadows above them. "I have so many to share--"

Both men startle; Frank actually lets out a terrified yell and Moose curses a blue streak, yanking the crowbar free of the door frame to swing at Peter. The swing is sloppy and slow. Peter pins the man's arm--crowbar and all--to the door with a shot of web fluid and quickly follows it up with two more globs that pin his free arm and both of his feet. Frank starts to sprint for the alley. A single shot of his web gums up the man's legs and sends him face down into the asphalt of the alley with a muffled oomph.

Too easy. Peter pokes around Moose's pockets, ignoring the man's repeated curses, and pulls out his phone. He taps it and tsks when the screen unlocks automatically.

"No lock screen?" Peter asks, casually leaning against the wall beside Moose. "Man, you really are new at this. Why are you trying to get into this place anyway?"

Moose glowers at him. "Because people keep moving real big pieces of equipment in and out. Expensive stuff. Stuff that can be pieced out and sold easy. One good sale and we’re set for a week."

"There are lots of warehouses like that around here," Peter points out.

Moose rolls his eyes. "This is the only one not used by the False Facers. I ain't lookin' to get killed."

"Huh. Good to know," Peter says, tapping out 911 on the phone. "Hello? Yeah, hi, I need the police at warehouse thirteen at 59th and Park Row. Okay, cool, bye." Peter ends the call and shrugs at the two criminals. "It's gonna take them forty five minutes to get here. So, uh, get comfy."

"f*ck off, kid," Moose mutters.

"Language, mister," Peter chides before tucking Moose's phone back into his coat and flinging himself back up to the rooftops. It’s late, and he has school tomorrow. He’d better call it a night.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (9:56pm): Duke, Tim, time to call it.

Duke (09:58pm): on our way

Tim (10:00pm): we can do at least another hour

Duke (10:01pm): no, we cannot. not with your busted ribs. Barbara, hit us with the wrap up talk while I manhandle Tim back home, thanks.

Tim (10:01pm): wow rude

Barbara (10:01pm): Cass and Steph have finished cleaning up the docks. Damian and Bruce are on recon duty. Jason and Dick broke up a trafficking syndicate in Blüdhaven earlier tonight and didn’t kill each other, so they get a gold star for that. And you and Duke managed to get the Riddler back into Arkham.

Barbara (10:02pm): Also, someone called 911 from Crime Alley tonight for the first time in six months.

Barbara (10:03pm): The police found two men bound up in massive webs. The men said a giant spider caught them while they were trying to break into a warehouse.

Duke (10:04pm): what.

Barbara (10:05pm): Any takers on tracking down a giant spider in Crime Alley tomorrow?

Duke (10:05pm): absolutely f*cking not

* * *

Peter wakes up sore the next morning, but rejuvenated. He actually feels somewhat back to normal, as if he’s been nudged firmly back onto his foundation after teetering off of it after Titan. He has the oddest feeling that he should thank someone for that, but can’t quite figure out who or why.

“You are welcome,” T’Challa says.

Well, whatever. He gets up and heads into the shower. If he rushes his homework during homeroom today, he’ll have time to fit in another patrol tonight after school. He stretches, rolling his shoulders a little to loosen them up, and staggers into the shower. The freezing water doesn’t do much for his sore back and arms, but it does plenty to wake him up. He grabs his backpack, a stale protein bar, and his jacket, and leaves for school.

The classes pass by in a grey blur; he’s aware of doing the work, of listening to lectures, but he focuses mostly on his homework. Nothing really pierces his focus. Except for Tim. And not in a pleasant way, unfortunately.

It happens during home room. Peter, Tim, and Duke have their desks facing each other--technically against the rules, but the teacher doesn’t seem to care--and share desk space. Duke is kicked back in his chair, foot pressed against the desk, tilting it back on its back two legs as he reads through a textbook. Tim is hunched over his desk, violently erasing a paper in front of him, muttering darkly about his chemistry assignment. He ducks down and blows on his page, spreading tiny, twisted pieces of eraser rubber across the desk and onto Peter’s hand.

Peter’s senses go wild. It looks like ash. And the way it falls--drifting into view and blowing in just the right way--suddenly, Peter’s not sitting in school, he’s back at Titan. Or in the machine. His skin tingles, growing hot, and his clothes feel like they’re constricting him, tightening around his neck and choking him, like the ash and dust on Titan--

“Hey,” Tim says. He sounds distant and alarmed. “Peter?”

“This is bad,” Quill says.

“Parker, focus,” Fury says slowly. “Remember where you are.”

“Yeah, that’s not helping,” Sam adds.

Peter stands up, snatches his backpack up, and flees the room. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s not thinking at all. He just knows he has to get out of there, to get away. In his mind, he’s fleeing Titan, Thanos, and the disintegration he’s sure will soon happen again.

He isn’t sure how, but he makes it back to the fire station. Peter can’t remember if he ran here or took the subway. Regardless, the result is the same. He drops his half open backpack and skitters up to the furthest corner of the room, pressing his back against it, and hugs his knees to his chest. From there, he just has to ride out the panic attack.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (02:05pm): he didn’t show up to any of his classes, and he missed lunch.

Tim (02:36pm): that’s not good

Tim (02:37pm): we have to cover for him. That stupid law is still in effect. The school has to report AWOL students to the cops.

Duke (02:35pm): think we can get Bruce to do it?

Tim (02:37pm): i’ll forge an email and tweak the school’s records, it’ll be fine

Tim (02:38pm): we’ll give his books back to him tomorrow and try to get him home

Tim (02:39pm): hey, Dick, check on him for us, all right?

Dick (02:40pm): Consider it done.

* * *

He snaps out of his panic gradually. Eventually, it drains away from him completely, leaving him feeling jittery and embarrassed. He’ll have to come up with some kind of excuse tomorrow when he goes to school. Or not. Maybe he can just pretend it didn’t happen and brush it off completely. He drops from the ceiling, rubbing the back of his head, and grabs his suit. He needs to work off the excess energy.

He starts his patrol again, and quickly earns a minor reputation, even after only a few days. The cops aren't his biggest fans (shocker), but the people take to him well enough. Gotham isn't Queens, but it does have a lot of Queens problems. Especially the Queens he grew up in after the Battle of New York. There were hardly any police around after half the force was killed in the Battle, and crime became a massive issue. The same issue lives on in Crime Alley, minus the alien invasion. Fortunately, this is his specialty.

So he spends the evening stopping petty thieves, guiding lost children back to their parents, and walking lone travelers through the sketchier areas at night. Little guy stuff. Tony would be proud. And little guy stuff adds up; the streets become a little safer around the same time he starts to get a wider view of what’s happening in the city. Usually, things aren’t this bad. Batman and his crew handle these kinds of issues in Gotham, but they’ve been busy. Stretched thin. Add Red Robin’s broken ribs, and the breakout at Arkham Asylum to the mix, and things start to look shaky in general.

As an added bonus, the more he spends his time as Spider-Man, the less time he’ll have to deal with Peter Parker’s issues. Which are many and numerous, at this point. Better to bury himself in work than deal with that, frankly. He can do a lot more good helping people instead of dwelling on whatever happened to him on Titan.

“He really is Stark’s kid,” Fury remarks dryly.

“That’s not a timebomb waiting to go off or anything,” Hill replies, caught somewhere between resignation and frustration.

Peter is just about to call it for the night when the bus depot at the edge of the district suddenly goes up in flames. Literally. It starts as a brief flare, and erupts into a full conflagration by the time he makes it to the depot. He drops to the ground beside a group of coughing, teary eyed workers.

“Is everyone okay?” Peter asks.

“Yeah! Yeah, we’re fine,” a woman says. Her voice is rough from smoke, and she coughs around her words, clutching a coworker’s shoulder to keep herself standing. “But Lou’s still inside, and the fire department’s too far away to help. They closed the only station in the district last year.”

“Where’s Lou?” Peter asks, scanning the outside of the depot. The fire is spreading, growing hotter. If it hits one of the fuel tanks, it’ll blow sky high.

“Near the break room. The, uh,” the woman struggles for a moment. “The northeast side.”

“On it. You guys stay here, I’ll be right back,” Peter says before launching himself back into the air and swinging along the outside of the building.

“You don’t have an oxygen tank on this suit,” Shuri says.

“If you’re doing this, kid, be quick,” Bucky adds.

Right. He’ll have to try and upgrade this suit at some point, but for now, he’s has to focus on getting the guy out. Gotham’s infamous nightly rain will work to his advantage for a little while, maybe enough to get everyone out safe. One of the big windows near the roof of the brick building is propped open. Peter launches himself inside, rolls when he lands on the concrete floor of the depot, and stays crouched. He can crawl on all fours as quickly as he jogs, and he uses that speed to his advantage, staying low to avoid the smoke. Hopefully Lou doesn’t freak out and throw a chair at him or something if he sees this.

He can hear the man’s thundering heartbeat and coughs up ahead and to his right. Peter finds Lou laying on the ground, holding a handkerchief to his face, leg pinned by a collapsed wall. He startles when Peter appears next to him.

“I can’t move,” he says. “Leg’s stuck.”

“Is it broken?” Peter asks.

“No, just stuck. You gotta help me--”

“I’ve got this,” Peter assures him. He stands up and grips the heavy beam that, miraculously, didn’t crush the man’s leg. He sticks his hands fully to the beam and braces his feet on the floor. “Get ready to move on three, okay?”

The guy gives him a disbelieving look, but nods. “Sure, but you won’t be able to move that unless you’re Superman.”

“I’m cooler than Superman,” Peter says. “One, two, three--”

It takes more effort than it should, but Peter lifts up the beam and the debris piled on top of it smoothly, holding it well above Lou. The man gapes at him for a moment, then quickly drags himself away from Peter, pushing himself to his feet. Peter lets the beam drop as soon as he’s clear.

“Man,” Lou says wonderingly. “You weren’t kiddin’.”

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Peter says, shaking his arms out.

“I’ve got it, follow me.”

They crouch low and move through the burning building. They’re within ten feet of the exit when something cracks above them and Peter’s senses go off. A piece of the roof caves in, and a heavy metal pipe falls from the ceiling. Peter shoves Lou out of the way in time, but catches the pipe with his face. It lands hard, with a solid thump loud enough to make Lou turn and give him a worried look.

“You okay, kid?” the driver calls out, his voice muffled by the handkerchief in front of his mouth and nose.

Peter hisses, cupping his face for a moment, then shakes it off. “I’m fine! I’m fine, come on--the exit is straight ahead. Stay low and go straight, okay?”

“Only if you’re right behind me,” the driver says between coughs.

“I am! Trust me, I’ve taken harder knocks than that!”

Lou hesitates, then shakes his head and then leads them out into the frigid night air. Lou’s coworkers swarm him, hugging him, giving him water, and generally fussing over the big guy. Peter makes sure the bus driver is taken care of, and then slips away into the rooftop shadows, heading back into the heart of Crime Alley.

The rain washes off the ash and the smell of smoke. At least, it mutes it enough that it isn’t very obvious. He drops into the alley with his backpack, landing on unsteady feet. He hasn’t used his super strength in weeks, and he feels wrung out and exhausted. He can feel the bruise forming across his eye and cheek, and rubs at it idly while he pulls on an old hoodie and loose fitting jeans over his suit. Normally he’d change, but like hell is he going to chance that in Crime Alley.

“Thank god,” Bucky says.

And besides, it’s cold as hell. The suit is great, but it’s not exactly insulated for heat, and the misty Gotham nights are always chilly. He shoves his mask under his books in his backpack and slips out of the alley on silent feet. The street is silent and still in the early morning hours, and Peter can only hear the distant roar of traffic and, beyond that, trains. It’s the background noise of a busy city, and he puts it out of his mind. His exhaustion grows with every footstep, and he yawns. It’s Sunday, and terribly late, but he might be able to get a few hours of sleep before school--

“Hey, Peter,” a voice calls from above.

Peter jumps, his exhaustion chased away by a rush of adrenaline, whirling to face the source of the voice. He sighs and relaxes. “Oh. Hey, Nightwing.”

Nightwing grins at him from the roof and hops down to the street beside him. His suit is brand new, and it looks just like the one Peter designed with Tim and Duke last week. Peter tilts his head, giving the suit a critical eye. It doesn’t seem to be missing anything from his design that he can tell, which is a good thing. He’s a little pleased with himself, really. And amused that the Avengers insignia Peter doodled onto the shoulder of Nightwing’s suit apparently made the cut. Nightwing would make a pretty good Avenger.

“Like the new suit? My brother said a fan of mine designed it for me,” Nightwing says, strolling alongside Peter.

“I think they did a pretty decent job,” Peter says with a slight grin. “There’s room for improvement, though.”

“Is there?” Nightwing asks.

“There’s always room for improvement. You don’t just finish a suit, you know,” Peter says, mimicking one of Tony’s grandiose hand waves as he passes under a streetlight. “They’re pieces of art. You know. Branding.”

Nightwing laughs, then freezes, reaching out to grip Peter’s arm. He frowns, tugging Peter back under the streetlight. Peter goes with him willingly, confused by the sudden change in the man’s demeanor.

“Uh, you okay, Nightwing?” Peter asks.

“Who hit you?”

“What?”

“Peter, your eye is practically swollen shut, and there’s a bruise down your cheek,” Nightwing says slowly. “This is fresh. Trust me, I know bruises. What happened?”

Peter goes quiet for a long moment, desperately wracking his too tired brain for an explanation. Finally, he says, “I fell.”

God does that answer not help his case. Nightwing’s frown grows deeper, and a bit heartbroken.

“Remind me to teach you how to lie,” Fury says.

“Come with me. Let’s go talk somewhere, all right?” He’s using that tone. That tone Peter’s hated ever since he first heard a social worker use it to tell him his parents were dead. Peter stiffens. “Look, this place isn’t safe--”

“And whose fault is that?” Peter asks. He regrets it the moment he says it; Nightwing’s face falls, the concern shifting to guilt. Peter sighs and shoulders past him towards the street. “I’ll see you around, Nightwing.”

Nightwing doesn’t follow.

* * *

The bus driver watches him closely when he climbs onto the bus in the morning. He probably looks like flaming garbage. He definitely feels like it. The bruise across his eye and cheek is an ugly, purple and blue thing that stands out against his skin. Even the people on the subway kept giving him second looks.

“Morning,” the driver says. His eyes focus on the bruise on Peter’s face for a moment.

“Oh, uh, good morning,” Peter says, fumbling with his transit pass. God, he’s tired. And hungry. And a little cold. He really should have eaten something before going out on patrol last night. Or after. Or when he woke up this morning.

The driver pauses, stares at him, and then clears his throat and reaches up to grab something from the dashboard.

“He recognizes your voice,” Shuri says. “You need to add a voice modulator to your suit.”

That's a good idea. Peter adds that to his mental to-do list. It’s at the number two spot, right under ‘convince Tim and Duke that he’s not insane and just kind of had a moment yesterday.’ God, he’s not looking forward to that talk.

"Here," the bus driver says. He presses something into Peter's hands.

Peter looks down at his hand to see what the bus driver gave him. It's a cheese and egg bagel sandwich wrapped in parchment paper. It's warm and smells heavenly. Peter's stomach growls loudly at the scent of it. His food intake has dropped a bit since losing his job.

"This is for me?" Peter asks.

"I accidentally grabbed two sandwiches today. Figured you'd take it. When I was your age, I was eating my parents outta house and home." He stops, then offers one meaty hand to Peter. "Call me Lou."

Peter takes his hand, suddenly recognizing the man from the night before. "Peter."

"Nice to meet ya, Peter. Now, sit down and chow down before it gets cold. Let’s get you to school."

Peter drops down in his usual seat, wedging himself over to make room for a sleepy eyed businessman carrying a Daily Planet newspaper under one arm, and opens the breakfast sandwich. The man settles in on the seat behind Peter, muttering about cheap business practices. Peter chows down on his breakfast sandwich and settles in for the ride to school. The food helps; he can feel a tingly itch along the edges of the bruise on his face, indicating his healing factor is kicking in. Peter begins to doze, lulled by a full stomach and the steady pre-dawn rain that taps against the bus window.

“Oh, goddammit,” Lou mutters darkly. “Not the manbats again.”

“The what,” the businessman sitting behind Peter asks.

The what, Peter thinks.

“The what?” the voices at the edge of his consciousness ask.

And then a man sized bat slams against the f*cking windshield of the bus. Lou curses and grabs an umbrella from under his seat. He rolls down his window and smacks at the manbat. It doesn’t seem to do much more than annoy the monster. The thing is huge; six feet tall and bristling with muscle. It snarls, clutching the front of the bus, its beady eyes focusing on Peter through the windshield. Peter stares at it blankly, completely blindsided. What the hell is going on?

“Come on! I’m on a schedule!” Lou growls.

A motorcycle revs somewhere to the left of the bus, screeches to a stop, and suddenly the bat creature is kicked off of the bus by Signal. He faces off against the creature in the street, trading blows with it. He almost has it subdued when two more monsters dive down from the sky and leap on him. Signal knocks one aside with a perfectly timed kick, but dodges his attack.

Signal goes high. The creature goes low, moving quicker than Signal can adjust his attack. It grips his arm and twists it. Peter can hear the moment Signal’s arm breaks beneath the pressure. Signal drops to the ground, clutching his broken arm with a vicious curse. The monster grips Signal’s helmet and starts to slam the hero’s face into the pavement, over and over.

Peter’s out of the bus the instant he sees Signal’s arm break, swinging his heavy backpack in a low arc. His backpack lands hard against the monster’s nose, sending it flying back with a startled, ear piercing screech that goes beyond normal human hearing. Peter winces, his ears ringing, but stands above the fallen Signal, holding his backpack like a flail. Three well placed swings sends the closest two monsters sailing away from them.

“Hey, I’m Sam,” Sam says. He’s not speaking to Peter, but to someone else. “Easy, you’re all right. Just stay down and let Peter handle it.”

Peter hears the bus driver curse darkly behind him and scramble out of the bus with his umbrella, whacking the bat creature nearest to him with it hard enough to bend his umbrella in half.

“Kid, are you out of your mind--” Lou starts.

“Protect Signal!” Peter says, swinging his backpack at one of the other creatures. He needs to start carrying his web shooters with him. This would already be over if he had them on hand. “Just stay behind me.”

Three gunshots ring out, and all three of the bat monsters fall to the ground. Peter is suddenly face to face with a tall man wearing a red helmet, a leather jacket, and a suit with a red bat signal stitched across the front. He stares at Peter for a moment, then roughly pushes past him over to Signal, kneeling down in front of him.

“Hey,” the man in the red helmet says. His voice is staticy, as if he’s speaking through a voice changer. He probably is. “Signal. Focus. You with me? Tell me you didn’t pass out with a concussion.”

“I--yeah. Yeah, I am,” Signal says woozily. “Sam kept me awake.”

“Who the f*ck--whatever, nevermind,” Red Hood says. He kneels down and helps stabilize Signal’s arm before gently lifting him up on his feet. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

Signal grunts in response, swaying on his feet and leaning hard against the larger man. Red Hood stops to look at Peter and Lou for a moment, his gaze focusing on Peter in particular.

“Thanks,” he says. “That was stupid as hell, but thanks.”

With that, the two heroes leave. Lou and Peter look at each other for a moment and then Lou checks his watch and sighs. “Well, you’re definitely late for school, kid. Come on, I’ll write you a note.”

* * *

“Good of you to join us, Mr. Parker--good lord. What happened to your face?” the teacher asks, stammering out of her snarky remark the moment she sees the bruise on his face.

Peter stops near the door, shrugs, and says, “Uh, a bunch of bat mutants attacked my bus this morning?”

Instead of the incredulous eye roll or smart remark Peter had been expecting, the teacher only sighs. “Great. Those are back. Nice to know. Take your seat.”

“Is this a regular thing here? She took that way too well,” Quill says.

Peter doesn’t take his chances. He drops down into his desk next to Tim and sighs. Tim frowns at him, his expression caught somewhere between intense curiosity and concern. Finally, he reaches over and scribbles a small note onto Peter’s notebook in quick, elegant and decisive handwriting that looks downright professional compared to Peter’s chicken scratch.

Are you okay? You left in a hurry yesterday.

Peter, touched by his friend’s concern, writes out a simple: I’m ok. Just had a bad day.

Tim hesitates, as if debating writing out more, but ultimately decides against it when the teacher moves on with the lesson. She pulls up a Youtube video and puts it on the projector. This is a process that somehow takes up fifteen minutes of class time. Tim pulls out his phone midway through and Peter is vaguely jealous of that. He misses sending trashfire memes at Ned and MJ late at night.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (10:01am): he lied about the bruises at school.

Tim (10:02am): he says it happened when the bus was wrecked by the manbat

Dick (10:03am): I saw it clear as day at two in the morning.

Tim (10:04am): he won’t tell me what happened.

Tim (10:05am): school records list an aunt and a guardian of some sort

Tim (10:05am): can someone start a search on Tony Stark?

Barbara (10:07am): Bruce asked after him already. I’ll let you know if I find anything.

Dick (10:08am): I’d like to pay this Tony guy a visit.

Duke (10:10am): so would I.

* * *

The day is half over when Peter realizes Duke is nowhere to be found. He sits down at his usual spot next to Tim, frowning at Duke'd empty seat./p>

Peter turns to Tim and jerks his head towards the empty seat across the table. “Hey, where is he?”

Tim rubs the back of his head. “He got into a car accident this morning. He’s home with a pretty bad case of whiplash and a mild concussion.”

“Oh,” Peter says, dumbfounded. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in rough shape, but he’ll be fine. The family’s taking care of him right now,” Tim says, shrugging. “I’ll take care of him tonight so my brother and sister can, uh, get to their jobs.”

“Huh. Makes sense.”

“You wanna come with?” Tim asks. “You’re overdue for a visit, and Duke would love to see you.”

Peter hesitates, then shakes his head. He can’t stop his patrols that easily. Not when Gotham is down a hero. “No, sorry. I’ve got some stuff I need to do tonight.”

“Kind of odd how Signal goes out of commission at the same time as Duke, isn’t it,” Fury says.

Peter doesn’t think so. Traffic in Gotham is crazy; car wrecks happen all the time. And between the rain slick streets, Duke’s usual driving habits, and the fact that no one in Gotham knows how to drive like a normal person, it’s probably inevitable that a car wreck happens every now and then.

Peter hears a sigh to his left and has the distinct feeling that someone behind him is pinching the bridge of their nose.

“Oh,” Tim says, frowning. “If you change your mind...”

“I’ll let you know. Promise,” Peter says.

The rest of the day is fairly normal. A few people stare at the bruise on his face, but most ignore him as usual. Peter makes it through the day and ducks out of the school the moment the final bell rings, antsy to get back to the fire house. He spends an hour there, designing and building an upgrade for his suit: a voice modulator.

He adjusts it until it deepens his voice to a strangely mechanic baritone. It’s just deep enough to mask his true voice. He adds it to the suit and starts his patrol.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (04:08pm): so two things.

Jason (04:09pm): Fair warning, Duke is high as balls right now.

Duke (04:10pm): first: I know what bus Peter uses

Duke (04:11pm): and Jason keeps drawing dicks on my cast.

Duke (04:12pm): that’s not the other thing, just a complaint.

Tim (04:14pm): we’re well aware of Jason’s shortfalls.

Jason (04:16pm): bite me

Tim (04:17pm): no one says that anymore

Duke (04:18pm): the second thing I learned is that one of Peter’s ghosts might be a superhero.

Duke (04:19pm): one of them got close enough for me to see. he said his name was Sam, that Peter would protect me, and that I needed to stay awake until help got there

Duke (04:20pm): nice guy

* * *

Peter’s patrol is fairly standard: a stopped mugging here, a thwarted burglar there, a few other things to spice things up. Again, little guy stuff. He still hasn’t seen any of the men with the black masks, but he intends to find them at some point. He’s halfway through his patrol when his senses twinge.

He has a shadow. One larger and heavier than his own. And one that melts into the darkness as if born there. Peter's spider sense kicks in as he swings through an isolated alley deep in Crime Alley. He lands on the rooftop of an abandoned movie theatre overlooking the alley, dropping into his normal crouch. The alley is dingy, long abandoned, though there are small murals and graffiti spray painted on the walls: the most prominent is faded, half covered by dirt with the paint chipped away. He can barely read the words Rest in Peace Thomas and Martha painted across it.

He hears his stalker hesitate for a brief moment before landing quietly in the shadows above Peter. Normally this is a good position; high ground is important in a fight. Peter would usually aim for that himself, but he just wants to get this conversation over with, and he has the feeling this particular shadow would seek out an advantage against Peter no matter what.

"You might as well say something and make this less weird," Peter says.

There's a prolonged pause. The only thing Peter can hear is the distant sound of traffic and the rain. Finally, a voice comes from the shadows above Peter.

“I’d like to know what you’re doing in my city,” Batman says. There’s an idle threat to his words that Peter doesn’t care for at all. "What are you doing in Crime Alley?"

“Cleaning up a mess you left behind,” Peter snaps back, standing up from his normal crouch to face the shadows. He can’t see the man, but he can hear his heartbeat and turns to face the direction it’s coming from. Judging by the slight rise in its tempo, that bothers him. Good. He can be just as creepy as Batman if he needs to be. “You wanna know why things are so terrible here? Because the people here know you won’t come and help. Even if every cop in the city came into this neighborhood and stood guard six feet apart, they still wouldn’t keep things calm here.”

“The rot’s too deep," Batman says after a moment. "There's too much suffering here for one person to handle."

“Yeah, and how do you think these people feel knowing that Batman considers them a lost cause? There’s still good people here who deserve your help. You're not giving it to them, so I will. One person can do a hell of a lot more than nobody.”

Nothing follows that, and Peter's annoyance grows.

“If you’re going to stop me, you’re welcome to try,” Peter says. “If not, then stay out of my way. I’ve got work to do.”

Peter leaps off of the abandoned Monarch theatre and swings through the alley. He doesn’t hear anyone follow him.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

He dreams of a glass tube. He dreams of drowning in a toxic green liquid, choking on it, feeling it seep into his skin. It feels like being drowned in acid. Scorching, smothering heat that fills his lungs, his nose, his eyes. The pain is unbearable, worse than the Dusting. It scalds him from the inside out, and the pain of it is enough to threaten his very mind--

Someone shushes him, soothing him, pulling him out of the nightmare. The dream shifts to red, then to darkness, and then to something else entirely. Peter wakes up in his apartment, sprawled across his couch. He looks around himself in blatant confusion for a moment.

It’s his apartment back in Queens. The cramped two bedroom apartment with too thin walls, nestled near a street constantly busy with truck traffic. It feels like home, right down to the smell of chicken curry May has simmering on the stove and the distant thrum of traffic outside.

"Hey, think fast!" a familiar voice calls out to him.

May Parker tosses a towel at Peter's face from the kitchenette in their apartment. He reaches up and snatches it out of the air, his senses still on high alert from his nightmare. He stares at May, clutching the dish towel in his hand, and has to fight a sudden wave of tears.

"Hey, good catch," she says, grinning at him in that vaguely dorky way he's fully inherited from her.

"May?" Peter asks, his voice shaking.

May's demeanor changes immediately. "Peter? Honey, what's wrong?"

Peter stares at her for a moment, before scrambling up from the couch and stumbling over to her. He practically falls against her, clinging to her and burying his face against her shoulder. She pulls him into a protective hug, shushing him gently, and holds him close.

Peter can hear someone whisper nearby.

“His nightmares are getting worse,” Sam says.

“We can’t hold them off forever,” Strange replies. “Wanda can help switch them over to pleasant memories. That’s the best we can do until he stops ignoring what’s happened to him.”

“That’s not happening anytime soon,” Fury says.

May starts to hum. Peter tunes out the others and focuses on her instead.

* * *

Peter wakes up feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all. His whole body tingles and aches, and it takes true effort to stagger out of his bed towards the shower this morning. Patrol hadn’t been that rough; what is his deal?

“The machine,” Strange says. “There are more side effects than a few strands of grey hair, Peter.”

Peter doesn’t want to think about that. He ignores it, and steps into the frigid shower room instead. Frost covers the outside of the fire station’s windows. Peter isn’t sure of what he’ll do when it becomes too cold to shower in the morning. He showers, bundles up in his school uniform (now a bit looser than before; losing that kitchen job really tore into his calorie intake), and heads to school.

Lou hands him a sandwich as he gets onto the bus. "Rough night?"

"Rougher than usual," Peter says, dropping into his seat. Lou’s been ‘accidentally’ grabbing two sandwiches for Peter on a daily basis.

“Huh,” Lou says. He drums his fingertips against the steering wheel for a moment, then catches Peter’s eye. “If you get hungry at your, uh, second job, stop by the depot. We’ll get you some decent dinner.”

Peter stops, considers that, and then shyly nods. “Yeah. Thanks, Lou.”

* * *

"Hey Peter, Duke, Steph, and I are heading to the movies on Friday. You in? My treat," Tim asks, dropping into his desk seat beside Peter.

"Duke would like to see you," Steph adds. "He's pretty bored at home right now."

"Sorry, I can't," Peter replies. He doesn't spare Tim a glance; he's focused on finishing as much of his homework that he can. The last thing he needs is to fall behind and have some concerned teacher try to call Tony about his failing grades. That’d be disastrous.

"Another time, then," Tim says. He doesn't hide the disappointment in his voice very well. Nor does he hide the worried frown he aims at Steph.

Peter stays focused on his school work.

* * *

Peter’s patrols are pretty normal. Muggings, robberies, fights, lost kids. That kind of thing. Between each of those, he takes a moment to do two things: he starts looking for False Facer hideouts and he starts tracking down the other person from his universe that he can sense. The latter is much harder than he thought it would be. Some nights, he can sense them--whoever they are--right around the corner. His whole body lights up, his senses going utterly mad, sharp enough to startle him and throw off his web slinging. But when he stops to find the source, it’s gone.

He spends an entire night swinging through Crime Alley, and then further into the wider city, chasing the strange sense of other that appears when he thinks of home. He never gets close enough to pinpoint it; it disappears too quickly. One of Gotham’s frequent thunderstorms is at a fever pitch for most of it, hindering his progress.

After spending most of the night on a wild goose chase through the city, Peter drops down on a stone gargoyle overlooking the East End district across the river from the Bowery and Crime Alley. The rain comes down in sheets, and he’s thoroughly soaked. He can barely see the lights and cars on the street below.

He had it. He was so close to catching it and then it disappeared. Literally. It’s as if the thing setting off his senses is teleporting across the city. That should be impossible. That kind of tech just doesn’t exist in this universe. He’s not even sure it exists in his universe, really.

Thunder rolls across the sky, and another onslaught of rain hits him. He sighs, makes a note to waterproof his suit at some point in the future, and is just about to head back to Crime Alley when he sees something climb out of the window of a Wayne Tech office building. They’re wearing a catsuit--a literal catsuit, actually, complete with stubby little ears--and they have something tucked under their arm. They close the window behind themselves, carefully aim a grappling hook towards a nearby building, and then swing away from the office building.

An honest to god cat burglar. Peter’s both amused and very, very curious. He swings after them, keeping low. He just wants to follow them for now. And he does, for a little while; lightning flashes between them, and the cat burglar glances over her shoulder directly at him. He can see her eyes widen behind her mask, and then she’s off. She drops onto a rooftop and begins to sprint across it. Peter’s quick to follow, but another flash of lightning blinds him and he loses track of them. He sprints across the roof, and stops in the middle.

The cat person is out of sight. Peter stands alone on the rooftops. He stops to listen, closing his eyes to try and focus his hearing on any nearby heartbeats or breathing. He hears nothing. The wind and the rain, normally a boon against overstimulation, dampen his sense of smell and his hearing. Whoever they were, whatever they stole, they’re long gone now.

Peter sighs, leaping off the side of the building and swinging for home. What a waste of a night.

* * *

The next night, the bat signal changes from the image of a bat to that of a spider. The same spider Peter’s got stitched into his suit, in fact. He eyes it for awhile, then swings over to the source. It takes him awhile; the source turns out to be Gotham PD’s headquarters tucked away near the library. Peter swings around the building twice before flinging himself up onto the roof ledge and dropping into his regular crouch. James Gordon, the man who helped him figure out his subway route for school, stands near the spotlight.

“Uh. Hi. You called me?” Peter asks.

Gordon turns to face him, squinting at him for a moment, before he nods. “I’ve got an assignment for you, if you’re up for it. You handle things in Crime Alley, right?”

“Yeah. Little guy stuff, mostly. You know.”

“Then this fits the bill,” Gordon says. He walks over to Peter and hands him a camera. “If you’re cleaning up Crime Alley, you’ll need to start with the cops. I’ve gotten reports that they’re dirty as sin, taking bribes from any gang that pays and turning a blind eye to a litany of crimes. I know they’re crooked, they know I know, but they’ve got the whole place scared stiff. No one will lodge complaints against them. Hell, no one will even risk calling me about it either.”

Peter takes the camera, looking it over. It’s a nice one, with a very expensive lens. He pulls the strap over his shoulder. “So you need me to spy on them?”

“More or less. Catch them in the act. Take a few photographs and, if it’s safe, disable them and call dispatch and ask for me. If not, just keep the camera and come back when you’ve finished the film roll. I need hard evidence that they're crooked before I can do anything to them.”

“Got it,” Peter says, a little thrown by the fact that the police are asking him for help. That’s a new and interesting spin on things. The cops in Queens, for example, were at best moderately tolerant of his bullsh*t. The feeling was pretty much mutual. “I don’t have a phone, though.”

“Then just bring the camera back here. And be careful,” Gordon continues. “If it gets too hot, leave. Don’t get hurt over this.”

“Yessir,” Peter says with a jaunty salute before flinging himself off the building. “One order of crooked cops coming right up!”

* * *

Gordon turns to the shadows behind himself after Spider-Man leaves. “You sure about this?”

Batman steps out of the shadows, just enough for his outline to be seen. He blends in well. “I am.”

“You’ll make sure he doesn’t get hurt, right?”

“He’s more than capable of handling himself. I’ve been keeping watch when I’ve got the time.”

“He reminds me of your first Robin, you know. I like him,” Gordon says, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. He’ll catch hell from Barbara if she finds out about this, but he can deal with that later. Between Batman, Red Robin, and Signal’s injuries, things are heating up in Gotham. Add in the Joker running free, and well. That’s a recipe for disaster. “You really need to figure out where this one came from.”

“I’m working on it,” Batman says.

“And maybe give the kid a sandwich,” Gordon adds. He pauses, turns around and sighs when he sees the empty rooftop where Batman once stood. “Do me a favor and don’t teach him that habit of yours while you’re at it.”

There is, of course, no answer.

* * *

Peter takes to his task quickly. The cops aren’t difficult to find in Crime Alley. In fact, they’re usually at designated spots so far from any actual crime that it would be comical if it wasn’t so infuriating. None of them notice him above them, and they definitely don’t notice him taking pictures of every drug deal, every payoff, and every other crooked thing they’ve been doing.

If he wasn’t so low on web fluid, he’d string each one up on a streetlight for Gordon to collect later. That’s not practical at the moment, so he sticks to the plan: take pictures, note down what’s happening and where, and then swings back to Gotham PD with a full camera a few hours later.

To his surprise, Jim Gordon is still there, smoking a cigarette and pacing. He looks up when Peter appears and stops his pacing, tilting his head curiously.

“I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re already finished,” he says, stamping out his cigarette. There are three other similarly smashed cigarette butts on the ground beside his polished shoes.

“Good thing. I definitely earned a gold star for stalking today,” Peter replies, handing him the camera.

Gordon snorts, taking the camera. He clicks through the first few pictures, squinting at the tiny screen. Then he nods and holds the camera close against his side. “This is just what I needed. You’ve got a talent for this, kid. Good work. I can replace the crooked cops with good ones with this evidence.”

Peter gives Gordon another salute, then tilts his head. “Anytime. But hey, speaking of Crime Alley, you know the groups that move around in that district, right?”

“More than I’d like,” Gordon replies dryly.

“Cool. Can you tell me where the False Facers hide out?”

Gordon stares at him for a long moment, nods, and pulls a notebook out of his breast pocket. He flips it open and takes out a pen, writing out a list of addresses with dates and times. He tears the page free and hands it to Peter.

“They’re on the move more often than not, but they always stick to these three warehouses. Check there first.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Mr. Gordon!” Peter says, scanning the paper and committing it to memory before tucking it away into one of his pockets. He shoots out a web at a nearby building, pulling himself away and calling back, “Give a call if you need anything else!”

“Stay safe, Spider-Man,” Gordon replies quietly. He sounds tired.

* * *

It’s getting late, but it isn’t quite late enough for Peter to turn in yet. He swings for the first address on the page Gordon gave him. An old retail store tucked away inside the worst of the urban blight in Crime Alley, its windows boarded up against the outside world. Peter lands on top of some nameless ten storey building nearby and peers below.

Men in black skull masks move inside and out of the abandoned shop, packing up a van and chatting with one another. Peter tilts his head, leaning forward to try and hear what they’re saying--

“Hey,” a voice says behind him. “This is my stake out. Get lost.”

“I was here first, so no,” Peter replies. If he squints, he can just make out what they’re carrying. Crates, barrels, and something else. A machine? Machine parts, at least. “Find your own stake out.”

Peter gets a very annoyed sigh in response to that. The Red Hood walks up beside him and leans against a pipe. His outfit is different today; instead of the red pill shaped helmet, he’s wearing an actual red hoodie with the hood pulled up. The sleeves have been ripped off, and the hoodie hangs open, revealing a suit beneath. A red bat symbol covers his chest, the color matching the mask across his eyes and the face mask beneath it.

“I thought you only handled ‘little guy stuff’,” he says, placing obnoxious air quotes around the phrase. “What are you doing chasing the False Facers?”

“Cleaning house, ideally,” Peter says. “These guys need to go.”

“Yeah, well, that’s our job for tonight. Get lost.”

“Make me,” Peter replies. He squints at the men below.

Red Hood stops, then rolls his eyes. “Not worth the effort. And Batman would probably bitch at me if I swung on you.”

That gets Peter’s attention. He looks up from the gang below and faces Red Hood, tilting his head. “Batman? He’s in Crime Alley?”

“Yeah, you really knocked him on his ass the other night,” Red Hood says. He jerks his chin over towards the shadows near the van the False Facers are stacking crates inside of. “See him?”

Peter doesn’t see him right away. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he can make out the form hidden within the dark. It’s impressive. And incredibly eerie.

“Does he have a stealth suit?” Peter wonders aloud. “T--Iron Man made one of those before. He couldn’t keep the camouflage working when moving at speed, though.”

“Who the hell is Iron Man?” Red Hood asks.

“No one you know, apparently,” Peter replies, half amused, half resigned. “He’s a hero. We’ve worked together. Um, we trained a bit, too.”

Actually, the training was secondary. After Peter’s internship became official--complete with a series of goofy and not-so-goofy pictures--he spent most of his time helping Tony design the next iteration of his suit. Not the Iron Spider, just an upgrade to his Stark Suit. He has some very fond memories of that time.

“So, I guess it's kind of like you and Batman,” Peter adds after a moment. Red Hood scoffs. Hard. “I mean, you are kind of wearing his suit, dude.”

“It’s complicated. I’m here to help him. Maybe.”

“I can’t tell if you want to make sure he’s safe or if you want to throw him off a building,” Peter says after a moment.

“Depends on the day. Sometimes the minute.”

“Bad blood, huh?”

“It’s complicated,” Red Hood says bitterly. “And I’ve been reminded of a few bad memories lately, so the resentment is a bit closer to the surface than normal.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He pauses for a moment. “Wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“I mean, these guys are kinda dumb and they’re not going anywhere, and we’re both staking them out... You seem like you could use a chat, that’s all.”

“Does that seriously work on people for you?”

“Honestly, you’d be really surprised,” Peter replies. “People figure they’re less crazy than the weirdo in the superhero suit running around at night, so they’re kinda open about stuff.”

Red Hood scoffs, turning away from him and going silent. Peter shrugs and goes quiet beside him; some people just don’t like to talk. And maybe that’s for the best. Red Hood seems like an angry man, bitter and obviously nursing some long ago injury. Peter’s met people like that before. He typically avoids them.

“You’ve met him before,” Bucky says.

“You mentioned this Iron Man guy,” Hood says suddenly. “Is he your father?”

Peter blinks, unsure of how he could have gotten that impression. “Um, no, actually. My parents died when I was young. Really young. He just--”

“Took you in.”

Peter’s shocked by the weary bitterness in the man’s tone. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“You guys are close?”

“I mean---well, yeah. Of course.” Well, about as close as someone can reasonably get to Tony Stark.

“When was the last time he hugged you?”

Peter can’t exactly answer ‘When I died, but only sort of by accident because I fell on him’ without making this conversation even more awkward than it already is. “Oh, we’re, uh--we’re not there yet.” A brief pause. “Okay, that sounds worse than it is. He’s not really good with emotions. I’m not sure he experiences them the same way everyone else does.”

Red Hood scoffs. “Yeah, doesn’t that sound familiar. Word of advice, kid? You’ll never be there. Don’t break your heart waiting on it.”

“He cares. Honestly, I think he sometimes cares too much and it overwhelms him. We’ll get there. Eventually.”

“Yeah? How long have you known him?”

“Um, we first met when I was nine. He saved my life--” Even through his mask, the look Red Hood gives him is so pitying that Peter stutters to a stop.

“Good luck with that. In my experience, they just replace you once you’re gone,” Red Hood mutters. He pushes himself off of the pipe and rolls his shoulders. “Listen, unless you want more attention from Batman, you’d better get lost. He’s in a touchy mood these days since some friends of his wenting missing. Find a different hideout to clear.”

With that, Red Hood jumps down from the roof and onto the van below. The False Facers cry out and scatter. Batman moves from the shadows, catching or restraining the gangsters easily. Red Hood handles the rest. He’s not pulling punches. Peter watches long enough to make sure they have things well in hand, then swings away.

The Red Hood has given him a few things to think about.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Gordon’s wrath on the crooked police is swift and efficient; all of the dirty cops patrolling Crime Alley are gone by the end of the week and replaced with a special task force handpicked by Gordon himself. There’s a night and day difference; Crime Alley becomes safer overnight. Peter still stops the occasional mugging and burglary, but he’s no longer stopping four every hour. Just one or two a night. Which is a breath of fresh air. It gives Peter time to visit the bus depot (and grab a free meal or two) and to handle the small stuff.

Such as this evening. The sky is clear for once, the air is relatively warm, and the sun is just beginning to set when a little girl calls up to him from a street below.

“Mr. Spider!” she cries, waving at him as hard as she possibly can.

Peter changes course immediately, dropping down on the sidewalk beside the girl. “Hey, what’s up? Is everything okay?”

“I need help! Mr. Fluffles is stuck in the tree!” the little girl cries, pointing up at a nearby tree. Her finger is pointed squarely at the fattest, angriest cat Peter has ever seen in his life. “It’s been hours! Can you help him?”

Mr. Fluffles glowers at him menacingly from the highest branch in the tree, tail flicking back and forth in irritation. This cat is huge. Peter’s never seen one this big before. Judging by the way its hackles rise when it looks at Peter, it definitely isn’t his biggest fan.

“Er--” Peter starts. The little girl looks up at him, earnest and hopeful, and he sighs. “Uh, yeah, of course. Stay here, okay?”

“This is the best thing I’ve seen all week,” Falcon says.

“T’Challa, commune with your cousin,” Princess Shuri adds.

Peter approaches the tree, slow and easy, making cooing noises at the cat. The cat is absolutely not impressed and hisses at him. Peter climbs up and gently plucks Mr. Fluffles off the branch. It's all claws and teeth, writhing in Peter’s grip. Peter holds it out at arms' length, leaning back to avoid the furious cat's swipes.

"Uh, here's Mr. Fluffles, but he's a little angry so maybe--" Peter starts.

"Fluffle!" the girl cries in relief.

The cat's reaction is immediate. The fury disappears and it begins to purr. It wiggles free of Peter's grip and leaps into the girl's arms, perfectly docile. The little girl hugs her giant evil cat and squeals in joy.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Thank you, Mr. Spider!" the girl says, beaming up at him. Mr. Fluffle eyes him smugly from the girl's arms.

"You're welcome. Please keep him inside," Peter says before yanking himself back into the air with a carefully placed web. He huffs, muttering, "The Avengers never get bullied by cats. Why is my life like this."

For some reason, he can imagine the Avengers laughing at this heartily. He’s just glad none of them are around to see it.

* * *

Peter runs out of web fluid halfway through his patrol and has to call it an early night. Which is probably for the best; without the clouds hovering over Gotham, the night drops to freezing temperatures that his suit just isn’t capable of handling. He dearly misses the heater that Tony insisted on putting inside all of Peter’s suits. And the sensory adjustments. Peter’s been flirting with the ragged edge of a migraine lately, either through stress, lack of food, or lack of sleep. Whichever it is, he’s overdue for one.

But that’s a Future Peter problem. Tonight, his problem is that he’s using up way too much web fluid. Webs are great, but they have their limits, and he can’t use the entirety of his web fluid stock every night. That’s just not practical.

Fortunately, he has an idea. And just enough light left to build it.

Some magnets, a few dodgy electronics, and many crackling snaps later, and his vision comes to fruition. He holds a device in his hands no larger than a hockey puck that bears his red spider emblem. It vibrates against his hand and there’s a low thrumming coming from it. He tosses it from hand to hand, then slings it out across the floor to the other side of the room. It skids across the floor, the LEDs blinking faster, and then a blue force field shoots out of the center, covering a five foot area. The force field pushes the items inside it up to the roof, as if gently plucking them off of the ground and holding them. After thirty seconds, it collapses.

He grins, picks up the puck and tosses it up in the air. “And Tony said my force field idea wouldn’t work. I’m so throwing this at him the next time I see him.”

He admires his work for a moment, then sets the puck aside and goes to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. He taps the Stark radio and, after a few bursts of static, it begins to play Sloop John B. Peter heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth. At least toothpaste and toothbrushes are absurdly cheap.

“That’s very impressive,” Shuri says.

“You built a similar device when you were ten, Shuri,” T’Challa says.

“With vibranium, in a high tech lab, running tests from morning to night. He just put one together in the space of three hours using junkyard pieces and solar panels,” Shuri points out. “Imagine what he could do with our technology? When this is over, I am stealing him. Stark can borrow him when I allow it.”

“I’m sure that will go swimmingly with Mr. Stark,” T’Challa says dryly.

Peter brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas--a set of sweats that are beginning to become frighteningly threadbare--and nestles into his bed. He’s asleep in moments.

* * *

Peter runs into Duke before class the next day, and jogs up to him. Duke’s arm is in a cast and sling, and he’s struggling with his locker.

“Here, I’ve got it,” Peter says. Duke startles, but moves aside for him with a sigh and Peter’s quick to input his locker code. He, Duke, and Tim just treat each other’s locker’s as communal property between the three of them. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Duke admits, rolling his shoulder. He frowns. “And a little frustrated. This sucks.”

“How bad is your arm?” Peter asks, grabbing Duke’s books for him and closing his locker. They start to walk down the hall together. The school is quiet and subdued this early in the day, and it’s a nice change from the overwhelming noise and sights when the day is in full swing.

“Bad. I’m in a cast for at least two months,” Duke admits. “And then there’s the physical therapy.”

Peter frowns. He’s broken his arm before, but it’s always healed within hours. Sometimes it takes closer to a day if the bone is really mangled. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Duke says. They’re standing outside of his class. “Hey, you wanna get some food after class? I’ve convinced Jason he owes me a pizza. Mostly by annoying him until he gave in.”

“Ah, well--” Peter starts. He frowns, rubs the back of his neck, and shrugs. “Can we do a rain check? I’ve got a lot going on these days.”

Duke frowns. “You’ve been working nonstop for awhile, Peter. You’ve got to loosen up sometime.”

God, this is all way too familiar. “Yeah, I know, I know. Soon. Just, not tonight. Okay?”

Duke sighs. “Yeah. All right. Let’s do a rain check. It just can’t be this weekend. Tim and I are going to visit my parents.”

That works out perfectly, honestly. Peter’s excuses to duck out from meetups over the weekend have started to become thin even to his own ears. “That works. Sometime next week, at the latest.”

Duke quirks a brow at him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Peter replies. He’s a little surprised to find that he means it.

“We’re going to hold you to that promise, kid,” Sam says quietly.

* * *

The antigrav puck works like a charm. He can only use it every other day because of how quickly it loses its charge, but it makes his life so much easier. He can simply pin and stick muggers and gangsters to the wall or the ground without worrying about them wiggling free of the webbing or compensating for their struggling with more web fluid than he’s willing to spend.

He's also being watched. His spider sense never goes off, but he does catch sight of someone watching him from afar. Someone dressed as a bat. If the Red Hood hadn’t taught him where and how to look for him in the dark, Peter never would have noticed he was being followed. He keeps his distance. He’d rather stay out of Batman’s radar entirely if he can help it. There's a rather long and intimidating reputation attached to the man, and even though Peter may have drawn a hard line against him, he has no doubt that he’d come out the loser of a fight if it came to that. Peter's fairly certain he's not crossing any boundaries, but who knows. He did call out the guy the other night. Maybe Batman’s just one of those slow anger types that build up their fury like a tidal wave.

Fortunately, Batman never makes a direct appearance. And Peter learns to ditch his bat-shaped shadow when necessary. It almost becomes a game between them, and it reminds Peter of one of his dreams. In his dreams, he’s avoiding packs of panthers and warriors; in Gotham, he’s avoiding only one man. A man who happens to be as challenging to avoid as a literal army. Peter’s been successful so far, but he’s starting to wonder how long Batman will keep up the game before turning serious.

For now, he deals with it.

Peter and his shadow move through Crime Alley, and Peter focuses on his patrol.

* * *

Peter’s weighing his options of swinging by the bus depot for a quick bite to eat when a car speeds past him, swerves towards a building, and doesn’t slow down at all. The car, a gray 90s Honda that’s more rust than color, slams the hood through the glass doors of Lexcorp Labs. The doors shatter inward, and a shrill alarm sounds off. A man in bright blue scrubs staggers out of the driver’s side holding a cooler, and marches into the lab.

Peter tilts his head and swings after him, flinging himself up onto the ceiling and following the man as he storms into the labs and heads straight for a cold storage room in the back. Peter sits back and watches the man open the storage, his cooler, and the nearest cold storage locker. He grabs vials of bright blue liquid, and carefully puts it inside his cooler, handling it as if it were liquid gold.

"So, nurses don't usually break into pharmaceutical companies where I'm from. And they definitely don't do it coming directly from work," Peter says, hanging upside down behind the man.

The man startles, glances over his shoulder at Peter, then turns around and keeps taking boxes and placing them in the cooler. "Yeah. This is definitely a big no-no."

Peter pauses. "Okay, glad we agree? I've gotta be honest, man. Usually I catch people in ski masks armed with guns doing this kind of thing. I think the most dangerous thing you have on yourself is a Spongebob lanyard. This is super weird."

"Yeah, this isn't my idea of a good time either. Stay out of my way. I just finished a sixteen hour shift at work and I’m tired."

"Only if you tell me why you're committing like five felonies right after getting off a sixteen hour shift at a pediatric hospital."

The man glowers at Peter, frustration and rage intermingling. "Because the assholes that run this company just jacked their prices up by five hundred percent and now the kids I take care of will suffer for it. Our hospital is the poor one in Gotham, all right? Their families can't afford those prices. Our whole damn hospital can't afford it! Now those kids are going to get worse or die before they can get the last treatment they need to be cured of the fear toxin they absorbed from the Scarecrow’s attack a few weeks ago." He slams the cooler lid shut. "Well, f*ck that. I'm not standing by and letting it happen. I don't care if I sit in a jail cell the rest of my life. It'll be worth it."

He pauses, frowning up at Peter. "Unless you or that Batman freak stop me."

Peter shakes his head. "I won't stop you, but only if you have proof."

The man scoffs. "Fine." He pulls out a folded piece of paper from a pocket and offers it to Peter.

Peter flicks his hand and snaps out a piece of web to grab the paper and bring it back to himself. He's feeling a tad paranoid these days, and doesn't want to open himself up to attack. He settles in and scans the paper. The letter is pretty damning. The pharmaceutical company outright admits to price gouging, practically mocks the hospital director for calling it out, and then smugly offer a loan in exchange for the medicine. The man is telling the truth.

Peter pockets the letter. "Take the bigger coolers at the bottom of the storage locker. They'll maintain the temperature for longer."

The man blinks, hesitates, then nods stiffly and picks up the cooler, leaving the building. Peter watches over him until he gets back into his car and backs out of the building. Peter makes sure he’s actually heading back to the hospital before swinging up to the rooftops.

He has to make sure the nurse stays free of Batman’s notice. Which isn’t exactly possible since Batman followed him here to begin with.

This ought to be fun.

* * *

He finds Batman sprinting through the shadows of a rooftop, pacing the nurse's car. Peter comes at him from above, flinging a glob of web fluid onto his ankles.

Batman drops, rolls, neatly slices through the webbing with a batarang, and stands ready to fight. The time between falling and jumping back to his feet is near instantaneous, and it’s clear that the only reason Peter hasn’t been punched in the face yet is because Batman doesn’t want to punch him. Not yet, at least. Peter's suddenly glad he's a good guy.

"Leave him alone," Peter says, dropping down on the roof nearby. It’s supposed to be an order, but it comes out as a mild plea. "There's more going on here than you realize."

Batman pauses, clearly surprised to see Spider-Man, and annoyed to be caught off guard, however briefly. "You're helping thieves now?"

Good god, that voice. He sounds like he eats gravel for breakfast. It's somehow more intimidating face to face. "In this case, yeah. Promise you'll hear me out before punching me? You're a lot bigger in person and I’m not exactly at my best these days."

Batman regards him silently for a few seconds. Finally, he says, "You have five seconds."

“Cool. Okay--”

* * *

"I'll make sure the company is investigated and put in a good word for Mr. Lobatse. This should disappear from his record. And if it doesn’t, I have a few contacts in Wayne Tech that would be happy to hire him." Batman pauses, regarding Peter quietly. "Good work, Spider-Man."

Peter gives him a lazy salute before shooting out a web to yank himself back into the sky. He shouts back. "Just looking out for the little guy. Thanks for not punching me!"

Peter isn’t sure, but he thinks he can see Batman smirk in response to that.

* * *

Crime Alley begins to change. People start to come out of hiding. The streets aren't filled with menacing bruisers; they're filled with regular people. Food carts start to appear, cabbies become marginally less surly, people still hurry along on the sidewalks, but there’s less tension in the air. Less fear. A genuine air of community starts to form. Crime Alley earns a new designation: Spider Alley. Graffiti shifts from marking off gang territory to murals of the community coming together. More than a few have at least one web slinging silhouette in the background.

The streets themselves become cleaner. Safer. Brighter, even. Peter dedicates some of his very thin savings and a few patrols towards replacing broken light bulbs inside streetlights along the darker parts of the city. He remembers a cop in Queens casually mentioning that brighter lights have an effect on a precinct's crime rate. Peter isn't sure about the science behind it (he tried to look up the study but it cost far too much money to access) but he's willing to test the theory himself. It’s something to keep him busy when he’s not cleaning up litter from the streets or chasing down low level thugs and False Facers.

That weekend, when Duke and Tim are busy, he clears out a playground near some of the larger tenements. It's full of trash and tires and dead weeds, but the playground equipment looks safe enough. If in need of some cleaning and maintenance. He starts early, clearing off debris and sectioning off trash and potential recycling.

A small, wiry man in a grease covered mechanic's coverall wanders over to him, cigarette in hand, and watches. After a few minutes, he tilts his head.

"The hell are you doing?" he asks.

"Fixing the playground so the kids stay out of the street while they play. People speed up and down the road without looking. It isn’t safe," Peter says, distracted. He tests the see-saw and winces at the screeching sound of metal on metal. "Hey, you got any oil you can spare? I think we can salvage this."

The man watches him flatly for a few seconds, sniffs, then sticks his cigarette in his mouth.

"Wait here," he says.

Peter shrugs, going back to his clean up. His senses never once twinged around the guy, so he isn't worried. He fills two more trash bags and sets them neatly out of the way and starts to work on a pile of wooden debris and rusted car parts.

"Hey! Spidey!" a voice calls out.

Peter looks up from his current project and pauses. The man in coveralls is back, carrying a dented and faded toolbox in one hand and a shop floor broom in the other. And he isn't alone; a dozen people are with him, varying in age, color, and outfits, all of them pulling on gloves and hats.

"I brought you some help," the man says.

"I can see that," Peter says, standing up and stretching. "Awesome. Okay, uh, let's focus on getting this trash taken away first--"

They get to work. By the end of the day, the playground is cleared of trash and debris. By the time dusk starts to fall, it's turned into a block party. A very subdued, very dirty block party, but a party nonetheless. Peter mingles for awhile, but eventually he ducks away to crouch on top of the tenement, content to watch the party quietly disperse as dusk turns to night. The playground is still a bit dingy, but it just needs a new layer of paint; everything else is just fine.

A chill wind hits him as night falls. Peter weighs his options and decides to take an early night himself, swinging back towards the firehouse. His back, shoulders, and arms ache from hours of hard work. He can do an extra long patrol tomorrow night.

He slips inside the fire house, pulling the window shut behind himself as he yanks off his mask and heads for the shower.

He doesn't catch any purse snatchers or mafia men that night, but he feels pretty accomplished anyway. Even the freezing water in his shower can't dampen his mood.

He sleeps deeply and easily that night. Just as he drifts off, he hears someone nearby.

"Excellent work today, Peter," T'Challa says.

* * *

The woman in the black catsuit hits three more buildings in Crime Alley. Peter never gets any closer to catching her. Peter spends the better part of his Sunday evening chasing her around and eventually gives up. She’s fast, and unbelievably clever. She knows every inch of the district and ducks out of his reach. He knows how Batman must feel now, and he’s very annoyed by it.

He’s on his way back to the fire station when his night becomes truly weird: clowns, armed with guns, shove people out of a city bus and into a warehouse. They move quickly, shoving and threatening dozens of terrified people inside. One of them slams the door shut behind the last passenger, and Peter hears them lock it firmly from the other side.

Okay, so for a breakdown of the last day: he chased a cat burglar across the city, and didn’t get any closer to catching her. He skipped two meals (not his brightest move) to make up for his patrol cut short yesterday. And now there's a gang of murder clowns holding people hostage in the middle of a warehouse in Crime Alley.

He can't just leave. This is out of his league by a significant margin, but he can't ignore this.

So he doesn’t. The warehouse is three storeys tall, and all of the windows on the topmost floor are shattered. He swings inside, sticking to the shadows, crawling along the ceiling. He watches, thinks, and looks around to get a wider view of what’s happening. There are twelve clowns. Four stand on the second level and have high powered rifles aimed at the cowering crowd. Two patrol the second level's perimeter, also armed. They walk looping patrols, passing one another every two minutes.

The first floor is just as busy. Thirty terrified people sitting on their knees, hands behind their heads. Two clowns aiming rifles at them, standing on either side of what looks like the main clown. Three other guards are spaced out closer to the entrance. No patrols, but there's better light down on the ground floor; a missing colleague is more likely to be noticed.

“It’s been so long, ol’ Batsy, that I thought I’d make my debut a bit special for you this time!” the main clown says. He’s tall, lanky, and moves with an eerie and manic kind of grace. He’s holding a phone in his hand, taking a video of the terrified passengers. “Look at all these fine people--”

Peter tunes him out and focuses on the task at hand. Thirty hostages, thirteen clowns. If even one person sees him, the hostages will die.

Then they won't see me, Peter thinks. He looks up and sees a catwalk above the second level. One near silent thwip, and he yanks himself onto that catwalk. He moves along the railing, his movements smooth and silent as he stops above the first clown. This guy is furthest from the others. One of the roving patrols passes him as Peter watches.

Timer start, two minutes. Peter stands, balancing on the round hand railing easily, adjusting his web shooters. He fires twin ropes of webs onto the shoulders of the man below him, braces himself, and then yanks the man up and into the air before wrapping him in a webbed cocoon and attaching it to the catwalk.

The whole process takes seconds, and Peter's quick to drop into crouch and silently jog along the railing, repeating the process with the remaining guards. The second floor is full of webbed clowns within two minutes.

He has three minutes to handle the rest. No pressure.

“You got this,” Sam says. He can all but imagine the man kneeling beside him on the railing. “Go for the one on the left. He’s not paying attention to his surroundings.”

“Move quick, kid,” Quill adds. Peter gets the sense that they're crouched on either side of him on the railing. “That creepy clown’s speech is winding up for a grand finale.”

Right. He can do this. He can’t risk yanking the guy up; there’s too much light. He leaps at him instead, pouncing him from shadows and pushing him into the darkness while simultaneously webbing him up. The man lets out a terrified mmph! from behind the web fluid serving as a gag across his mouth, but it isn’t loud enough for his friends to hear.

Now to handle the rest. Peter hesitates, trying to decide where and how to take on the rest.

“Hey! Boss! Something’s wrong--” one of the clowns yell.

sh*t. He was too slow. Now they’re alert; what the hell does he do now?

"Move silent and quick, like I've taught you," T'Challa says quietly.

And the memories flood into his mind. Stalking through the city and the Wakandan homeland, avoiding or hunting panthers prowling the night. Peter crouches low, as he did in the prairie, and moves silently just out of sight of the armed men. He’s relying on muscle memory, letting his limbs and body do the work, and idly wondering how he moves so quickly in the dark. Either way, it’s a blessing: he uses the darkness as a shield, moving through it and around it, yanking the clowns into the dark and webbing them to the floor or walls.

Finally, it’s just the main clown left. And he’s pretty much harmless; no weapons, just a phone. Peter is on him in a heartbeat, and webs him up in seconds, suspending him from the roof to hang upside down, arms and legs secured behind a layer of thick webbing.

“How’d he do for time?” Fury asks.

“He has a minute to spare,” Hill says.

Peter feels pretty good about himself, really. He brushes his hands off, then checks his web fluid. He burned up quite a bit of it just now. He might have to ditch patrol altogether for the week if his current batch doesn’t cook up properly---

“Well, you’re new,” a voice says behind him. “I don’t suppose old Bats has told you about the Joker yet, has he?”

Peter turns and finds himself face to face with the Joker.

"Batsy's latest protégé, hm? I wondered if you were one of his," the clown says. There’s a strange sing-song quality to the man's voice. His sentences start at a manic high and roll into a low, threatening growl. The word his is practically snarled at Peter. "So good to finally meet you. Awfully brave of him to send you in here alone. I thought he had standing orders for all of you to avoid me after last time."

Yeah, Peter’s heard enough. A simple touch of the button along his palm sends a glob of web fluid across the smug clown’s face. That voice is just creepy. The clown glares at him, furious, and Peter briefly wonders if he hasn’t just made a terrible mistake.

"Good work, kid. Dumb as hell, but good work," a heavyset officer says, walking towards him. He’s not a looker; between the scowl, the ill fitting clothes, and the mess of black hair peeking out from beneath the man's trilby, he's not winning any beauty contests. "But tell Bats that the next time he sends one of you in here alone to deal with the Joker, he's gonna deal with Bullock. Got that?"

Peter tilts his head. "Is your name actually Bullock?"

Bullock narrows his eyes at Peter. "Get the hell outta here."

Fair enough. It's far past his bedtime and Peter’s feeling every bit of it. If he hurries, he can swing home just in time to take advantage of his adrenaline crash. Peter makes a quick escape, launching himself up to and then through one of the top windows.

The Joker's eyes follow his every move, unblinking.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Batchat

Barbara (10:12pm): The Joker has been arrested by the GCPD.

Duke (10:13pm): literally how

Tim (10:13pm): like on purpose?

Steph (10:13pm): what?

Dick (10:13pm): Bruce, Damian, and I have been chasing Bane up and down Old Gotham for the past three hours. Where was the Joker?

Barbara (10:13pm): Crime Alley. He was arrested about ten minutes ago. He and his gang hijacked a bus and took it to a warehouse. Joker was apparently planning a massacre to announce his return to the streets.

Jason (10:14pm): How many of them were killed?

Barbara (10:15pm): None. Spider-Man intervened. Hostages, cops, and criminals are completely unharmed. Spider-Man snuck in, disarmed and webbed up all twelve gang members, then suspended Joker from the ceiling wrapped in webs. GCPD came in and cleaned up after him.

Jason (10:16pm): That f*cking idiot went in alone?

Barbara (10:17pm): Yes, he handled all of it by himself.

Dick (10:17pm): We’re heading to GCPD now.

* * *

Peter starts to get the idea he’s done something very impressive and very stupid when he climbs onto the bus the next day. Lou stares at him, half in awe, half in blatant concern. He hands Peter two sandwiches today.

“What’s the occasion?” Peter asks, unwrapping the sandwich. It’s the first warm thing he’s felt since school ended on Friday. Autumn is starting to drift into early winter, and the cold has begun to seep into every facet of his life.

Lou drums his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment, staring ahead. Finally, he cuts his eyes towards Peter through the mirror and says, “The Spider-Man did the impossible last night. He saved my friend and the people on his bus from the Joker.”

“Oh,” Peter says around a mouthful of food. “He does that a lot, though.”

“Not against the Joker,” Lous insists. “Spider-Man did the impossible last night.”

“He’s right, you know,” the young businessman sitting in the seat behind him adds. “That hasn’t happened ever. Not unless Batman’s set some kind of trap for him or something. At the very least, someone gets a face full of Joker toxin or maimed or something.

“What the hell is Joker toxin?” Bucky asks.

Which is a very good question, actually. He’s about to ask when Lou shuts the bus doors and presses on the gas pedal. The bus lurches forward with a hiss, and starts to roll down the road. The rain picks up, and Peter eats his breakfast in silence, wondering what exactly is so impressive about catching a weirdo in clown makeup by himself. The guy was creepy, sure, but no more creepy than any other clown that’s existed since the 1960s.

Except for his eyes, of course. Peter tries not to think about the flat, evil stare the clown had given him while suspended from his webs. Just the memory of it is enough to make his skin crawl.

* * *

“You know what, let’s ask him, then,” Tim says, dropping down into his desk beside Peter. Duke sits down on Peter’s other side, rolling his eyes. “Peter’s smart. He’ll be our tiebreaker.”

“Tiebreaker for what?” Peter asks, looking up from his homework. He’s somehow managed to keep ahead of the tide of homework, and his grades have even gone up. That’s somewhat of a recent development; it feels like the teachers aren’t grading him as hard now that he has friends.

Duke scoots his desk closer to Peter and leans in, his expression deadly serious. “Pineapple on pizza, yes or no?”

“There’s only one right answer,” Tim adds.

Peter stares at them both, amused. “Yes, obviously.”

Duke makes a disgusted face and sighs dramatically. Tim lets out a quiet ha, and smirks at his brother. “Right answer, Peter.”

Peter bumps his fist against Tim’s, shrugging at Duke. “Sorry, man.”

“I should’ve guessed you two would turn against me someday,” Duke says dryly. He grins. “But fine. I guess we’re having pineapple pizza after school today.”

“We are?” Peter asks, frowning. He won’t have time to patrol if he gets dinner with Tim and Duke. He loses track of time around them--

“You promised,” Sam says.

Duke’s eyes cut to Peter’s right shoulder for a brief second. “Yeah, man. Remember?”

Peter tilts his head, then rubs the back of his neck. Crime Alley can do without him for one night, can’t it? “Yeah, I did promise. Sure, let’s do it. Pizza sounds great.”

Duke grins at him. “Good. Because, man, I could use some time with friends after this weekend.”

“I thought you visited your parents this weekend?” Peter says.

Duke smiles, and it’s just a touch sad. “Yeah. I did.”

Peter frowns, confused, and starts to ask what’s wrong when he notices Tim’s warning glare from the corner of his eye. Tim shakes his head very slightly, and Peter catches his meaning. This pizza trip is more than just an excuse for his friends to pay for his meal. Clearly Duke needs some time away from whatever family drama is happening behind closed doors.

“Oh. Family’s rough,” Peter says instead, shrugging. “Pizza’s better.”

Duke smiles. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

* * *

Class passes by in a blur. Peter’s much less stressed now that he knows he’s not rushing home to patrol Crime Alley after school. He actually manages to relax for a little bit, and he’s surprised by it. Maybe he’s been too tense lately, too focused.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Fury says.

Maybe he has. He’s making up for it tonight, at least. Tim and Duke take him to a little pizza shop tucked away in the old market street of Gotham Village. The place wouldn’t be very remarkable on a New York street, but it’s clearly a popular place judging by the crowd. Duke and Peter handle claiming a booth for themselves, and Tim slips off to grab the food.

Peter sticks a straw into his drink and glances at Duke. “Hey, are you all right?”

“Hm?” Duke says, looking up from his phone. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just, you seem pretty withdrawn today,” Peter says, fumbling with his words a bit. “Did everything go okay with your parents? I mean, I get that it’s awkward--trust me, I am super familiar with awkward family stuff--but if you ever need to talk or something, I’m here. If nothing else, I could listen. I’m pretty good at that.”

Duke looks at him for a long moment, and then smiles. When he smiles, it’s warm and gentle. “I’m good, Peter. Things are just a little rough with my parents. They’re, uh, sick. The Joker sprayed this toxin on them and it just--” He pauses, takes in a breath and sighs. “It’s not a death sentence. It’s worse. I’m hoping Wayne Tech finds a cure for them some day. It’s just hard seeing them sometimes.”

Peter frowns, idly swirling his drink with his straw. “Maybe they will. It sounds like they’ve had breakthroughs in a lot of different areas. Kinda like--” He pauses. He almost said ‘kind of like Stark Industries’ but that would mean less than nothing to Duke. “Well, they might pull it off.”

“Yeah, I’m holding out hope for it,” Duke says. He pauses, then makes a face when Tim nudges his way through the crowd to their table and sets a pizza and a giant basket of mozzarella sticks on the table in front of them. "Tim. What the absolute hell is that."

"Artichoke, jalapeno, and pineapple pizza,” Tim replies smugly. He drops into the booth beside Peter and grabs a slice. “It's good."

"That isn't a thing. What the hell," Peter says, horrified. “Pineapple is fine, but artichoke and jalapenos? You don’t do that to pizza.”

"See? Peter's on my side. And also God's. This is a war crime, Tim," Duke adds. This doesn’t keep him from outright stealing two slices, of course.

Tim maintains direct eye contact with Peter and slowly bites his abomination of a pizza.

“You’re a monster,” Peter says, taking his own slice. It’s food, it’s warm, and it’s something he hasn’t had to cook. To his surprise, it’s actually not that bad. He’d rather die than admit that to Tim and let him win, of course. A man’s got to have standards.

Tim smirks at him. “You like it.”

“Lies and propaganda,” Peter says, shoving the rest of the pizza slice in his mouth before grabbing his fork. He idly twirls it in his hand, a flashy bit of showmanship, and then stabs it into the towering pile of mozzarella sticks sitting in the center of the table and forks over three of them onto his plate.

Duke snorts. “That was unnecessary.”

He then mimics Peter’s move with his own fork and grabs the other half of the remaining mozzarella sticks. Tim squints at them.

“Hey, where’s my share?” he asks.

“You’ve got your crime pizza,” Duke shoots back. He does give Tim two of his mozzarella sticks, however.

“Crime pizza is nothing without food I’m going to regret eating tomorrow,” Tim says primly, stealing one more mozzarella stick off of Duke’s plate. Duke narrows his eyes at him.

Peter adds a couple of his own to Tim’s plate, amused. “Right, usually you prefer kale chips.”

“Which are amazing because Alfred made them for me,” Tim says. “And only me. Even though Damian keeps stealing them.”

“He does it to spite you,” Duke informs him. “Damian likes me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone with sense likes you,” Peter says around a mouthful of food.

“Peter’s got you there, Duke,” Tim says.

Duke grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t make it weird, guys.”

After pizza, Duke and Tim take him on a tour through Gotham Village, pointing out other restaurants, shops, and hang outs along the way. Tim still moves stiffly, and Duke needs help with his transit card when they hop on the subway to head to a nearby park. Despite the cold wind, the park is beautiful and full of more people than he expected. Couples wander down stone paths together, groups of students from Gotham University meander towards an ice skating rink in the distance with hockey sticks and ice skates slung over their shoulders, a few older folks haunt the chess and checker boards set out beside an outdoor cafe. The difference between Crime Alley and Gotham Village is almost unbelievable.

Tim leads them straight towards the chess boards. He looks them over, looks at the little kiosk that sells and rents out game pieces, and grins at Peter.

“You up for a game?” he asks.

“Chess isn’t really my thing, but sure,” Peter says, pulling up a chair to the board.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” Tim says.

“I can’t wait to see this,” Duke says, wandering over with a hot chocolate from the cafe. “Peter, if you break Tim’s winning streak, I’ll give you Tim’s car.”

“You can’t give away my stuff,” Tim says.

“Watch me,” Duke replies.

Peter laughs, setting out the pieces with Tim. He loses, of course; even with Duke stepping in to help him (much to Tim’s annoyance), he’s soundly defeated. It doesn’t take long at all. Tim is very good at chess, and eagerly starts to teach Peter moves and strategies during their second game. He gushes about the game, and Peter has as much fun listening to him as he does learning it. Duke chips in every now and then with his own observations, but it quickly becomes apparent that he’s just as impulsive and reactive as Peter when it comes to games. Tim’s the long haul player.

When the sun fully sets, they leave the park and head for the subway.

“We should do this again sometime,” Tim says.

“Soon,” Duke adds. He’s much more at ease now. The tension that followed him around school is all but gone, and the easygoing grin and confident step are back in full force. Peter’s glad for it.

“Definitely,” Peter replies, grinning at his friends. “Thanks, guys. It was fun. I’ll catch you at school tomorrow.”

* * *

Peter resumes his patrols the next day. It’s more of the same; hunt down a False Facer hideout, clear it, swing by the playground to make sure the kids are okay, rescue Mr. Fluffles from a tree again, and finally, chase down the cat burglar that keeps swinging through his territory. Most of those chases end with Peter skittering around a cold, slick rooftop in the dark, completely at a loss. But one rainy night, he gets lucky, and catches her in the act.

“You know, you could at least tell me why you keep robbing every laboratory in the city,” Peter says testily behind the burglar.

“Hiya, Spidey,” the lady says, amused. She doesn’t even look up from cracking the safe she’s working on, and that is far more annoying than it has any right to be. She does glance over her shoulder at him and wink at him through her mask’s goggles. Beneath the mask is deeply tanned skin, and bright green eyes shining with challenge and mirth. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

“You were a little more obvious than usual this time,” Peter says, idly swinging. She’s not much older than him, if at all. Sixteen at the most, like him. “Which means you wanted me to find you.”

“I did,” she confirms. There’s a slight accent to her words, and it takes Peter a moment to realize she’s hiding a Queens accent. She pops open the safe and “Mostly out of curiosity.”

“Isn’t there a saying about curious cats?” Peter says, flipping down from his perch to approach her.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she says, then whirls and sweeps her leg high, aiming her heel for the side of his head. He dodges, but the movement makes him lose his balance and he trips, for the first time since he got the bite, and stumbles to the side, planting one foot firmly inside a wire trash bin. “But satisfaction brought it back.”

She winks at him and sprints for the open window Peter had used to climb inside, leaping out into the night. Peter sighs and shakes his foot loose from the trash bin. He can’t believe he tripped.

What rotten luck.

* * *

Peter meets his first truly weird bad guy the next night. His first inkling that something is wrong is a faint buzzing of his spider senses. The second is when an armored delivery truck with Gotham Biochemical printed across its side is sent flying past his head. He swings after the truck, adjusts his web shooters, and swings around the flying truck, quickly webbing it up to slow its descent. The webs aren’t strong enough to stop it completely--and given the laws of physics, he’d rather not make it stop suddenly--but they slow the truck’s fall until it lands relatively gently on the street. Satisfied the driver in the truck is safe, Peter swings for the monster standing in the street, terrorizing a guard standing near a heavy steel crate.

Well, not a monster. Clearly a man. Just a big one that looks like he’s covered in a thick layer of earth and clay. Peter grabs a trash can lid and flings it at the guy’s head. It bounces off with an echoing clang. It also forces the monster to turn and face him. And boy, it is not a pleasant sight: the guy’s skin--if it is skin--hangs and rolls down his body almost like water. The monster’s two pig-like eyes glower at Peter as he swings out of reach.

“Oh, a dirt based supervillain!” Peter calls out, landing on the street just out of the man’s reach. “You’ve definitely got some kind of villain name. Let me guess, Ground Pounder?”

The man roars at him, swelling up to the size of the Hulk and ripping a streetlight out of the ground to swing at Peter. He ducks beneath it and lobs a ball of webbing straight into the man’s face. He snarls again, his voice like grinding rocks, “Who the hell are you?”

“Spider-Man. Oh, hey, Sandman’s a pretty good name--” Peter ducks beneath another wild swing of the streetlight. “Or! Dirtbag. That might fit you best, actually!”

“It’s Clayface!” the monster roars, finally throwing the streetlight straight at his head.

Perfect. Peter flings a web at the streetlight and whips it over and around, smacking Clayface across the skull. The monster grunts in surprise, stumbles, and then falls face first onto the street. Peter’s quick to web him up while he’s on the ground, practically covering him in a cocoon of webbing.

“Sandman’s cooler,” he says.

“This ain’t over,” Clayface snarls.

“I mean, yeah, it is--” Peter starts, and then he stops. Because Clayface is melting.

Clayface smirks at him, melts like a popsicle, and then slinks into a nearby sewer grate, webs and all. Peter’s utterly dumbfounded.

“What in the goddamn hell just happened,” Fury says. It should be a question, but it comes out so flatly annoyed that it doesn’t quite reach it.

“Why is this city like this,” Sam mutters.

“You’ll get him next time, sweetie,” a nice old lady says from the sidewalk. She adds, helpfully, “Maybe bring a tupperware container when you see him again.”

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (08:48pm): Spider-Man’s made another move. He stopped Clayface from robbing an armored truck earlier tonight. Clayface escaped.

Jason (08:49pm): Hasn’t Bruce talked to him about this sh*t yet?

Barbara (08:50pm): Not yet. He was called away to an emergency meeting at the Hall of Justice. Wonder Woman and Superman are still MIA.

Tim (08:51pm): great

Jason (08:51pm): Fine, I’ll handle it then.

Dick (08:52pm): That’s a good idea. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, and we could use the help while Bruce is gone. He’s got the talent, he’s just new.

Jason (08:53pm): Where was Spider-Man last seen?

Barbara (08:55pm): I’m sending you the coordinates now. Play nice, Jason.

* * *

Peter searches for Clayface for an hour before giving it up as a lost cause, annoyed at the man’s escape from his webs. He heads for one of the quieter alleys in the district, one far from where most people live. He stuck his backpack there and he intends to grab it to pull on a hoodie and jeans over his suit. He drops down to the asphalt and sighs, rolling his neck and shoulders. It’s been a long night. He reaches for the loose bricks hiding the hole where his backpack is stashed--

“You’re an idiot,” a voice says to him from the shadows.

Peter freezes for a moment, then turns to face the Red Hood. The man is standing in the shadows, just as Batman did a few days ago, glaring at Peter. He’s holding a gun in his hand, and he has it aimed squarely at Peter’s head.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it twice over by now,” he says before holstering the weapon and stalking out into the dim light of the alley. Every inch of his body language screams annoyed, as if he’s holding back a lecture of monumental proportions.

Peter tilts his head. “So, why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want to, obviously. We’re on the same side,” Red Hood retorts. “I wanted to see if you noticed me. You didn’t. You got sloppy. That’ll cost you your life one day if you keep it up. Especially now that you’re going around getting into fights with Clayface and the Joker.”

“I didn’t exactly hunt them down and start it,” Peter says, his own annoyance coming through. “Especially the Joker. He was going to kill a literal bus load of people! I handled it fine--”

“You got lucky. Luckier than you know,” Red Hood says, stalking close. He taps Peter’s chest. “You should’ve stayed low and out of sight like you were before, but you didn’t. Now you’ve got a target on your back and, if you manage to stay lucky, the Joker won’t try to take aim for it.”

Peter scowls, roughly shoving Red Hood’s hand away from his chest. His earlier annoyance rises like a tide. He crowds Red Hood right back, actually forces the man to take a step back. “I’m tougher than you think. He’ll be in for a surprise if he tries anything.”

“Peter. Take it easy,” Bucky says quietly.

Peter pauses, takes in a breath to calm himself, and then steps back. Where had that come from?

“Not tough enough, and not trained enough,” Red Hood retorts. “Which is why I came looking for you.”

“What?” Peter asks. He’s a bit more subdued now, half distracted by his sudden anger.

“Your training starts tomorrow. Nine o’clock, at the Wayne Memorial Plaza,” Red Hood says. He doesn’t seem bothered by Peter’s anger in the least. He pins Peter with a stare. “Don’t be late, or I’ll come looking for you. Got it?”

“Yeah. Got it,” Peter says.

“Good,” Red Hood says. He stares at Peter for a moment longer, then turns and stalks back into the shadows.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Peter sits at his desk in the far corner of the classroom. The other students chat quietly amongst themselves, subdued by the heavy rain ticking against the classroom windows and the chill draft seeping from the hallway. He’s frowning at nothing, idly bouncing a knee up and down, distracted. He’s been distracted for most of the day, but during home room, he has time to really think about what happened last night.

He should have sensed Red Hood in that alley, but his spider senses never went off. Why? The guy had a gun pointed at his head. Normally that sets his nerves on fire and makes him twitchy and jumpy on instinct. But not with Red Hood, a vigilante renowned for short tempers and a brutal fighting style. And then Peter’s temper setting off during their conversation. That’s the second time it’s happened. He’s lucky his fuse hasn’t gone off during patrol. If he’d tried to clear out that clown patrol with his temper boiling, they’d be cleaning creepy clown teeth out of the crevices of that warehouse for the next three months.

“Someone’s thinking extra hard today,” Tim says, sitting down beside him. He has two styrofoam cups in his hands with the school’s insignia printed across them. He sets one down in front of Peter. Dark circles hang beneath his eyes, and he looks paler than usual, as if he’s fighting off an illness. “Here.”

Peter blinks, sitting up in his seat. "What's this?"

"Hot chocolate. You look cold."

He is cold. He’s been cold since last night, in fact. Autumn is clinging on by the skin of its teeth during the day, but winter seeps in during the late hours of the night. His shelter isn’t much defense against the Gotham wind. And that’s when he’s not swinging right through a rain cloud. Peter takes the hot chocolate gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his hands around the steaming styrofoam cup. He soaks in the warmth for a bit, then looks around. “Where’s Duke?”

“On his way,” Tim says, stirring his coffee. His hands shake slightly. Peter can practically smell the fever and sickness coming off of him in waves. “It’s Parent-Teacher night next week. Duke and I had to submit a form and let the school know our Dad can’t make it. I think Steph’s doing the same thing.”

Peter freezes. “Parent-Teacher night?”

“Yeah, my dad’s out of town and I’m definitely not asking my older brothers to come,” Tim says. He pauses to take a deep drink of his coffee. “What about yours?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Peter says hesitatingly. “Does the school really care that much if a parent skips it?”

Tim thinks, squinting at the Smartboard hanging on the wall behind the teacher’s desk. “Maybe. I think it’s a requirement of the Wayne scholarship. Something about making sure kids who get it have a stable and safe home life.”

sh*t. Of course it is. He should’ve read the fine print. “Huh.”

“You could always put on a cheap moustache and grab some stilts and pretend to be Tony,” Sam says idly.

Not helping, Sam.

“Did he just think at you?” Bucky asks.

“It probably won’t take very long, if he’s super busy. Your test scores are through the roof. He’d be in and out in half an hour, at most,” Tim says.

“Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll mention that to him,” Peter says.

Tim frowns, goes silent for a moment, and starts to say something when Duke walks into the classroom. He sets his books on the desk beside Peter and sighs.

“Dude, Mrs. Crabapple is ruthless with that paperwork,” he says. He pulls his arm out of his sling with a sigh and sets his cast on Peter’s desk. Peter picks up his pen and idly starts to doodle on his cast. There are a number of crossed out pictures already. “She had me fill it out three times. Steph is arguing with her about her form right now.”

“Are you supposed to do that?” Tim asks, nodding to Duke’s cast.

“I dunno, are you supposed to run with bruised ribs?” Duke retorts, quirking a brow.

“Not really,” Peter says, idly drawing Captain America’s shield and Thor’s hammer on Duke’s cast. “You can make the wound worse, and usually bruised ribs end up being cracked ribs. I actually got pneumonia that way once.”

Duke and Tim pause at that. Peter hears someone sigh behind him. It sounds like Bucky.

“So, yeah, your Dad’s going to come to that Parent-Teacher conference, right?” Tim asks idly.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (05:25pm): Barbara, please.

Barbara (05:26pm): Absolutely not.

Tim (05:27pm): if you don’t go, then I’ll have to ask Dick and I’d rather not

Dick (05:28pm): Hurtful.

Jason (0529pm): What’s the replacement talking about?

Duke (05:30pm): Parent/Teacher night at school. Bruce is going to be out of town, so Tim can’t bother him and ask him to look for Peter’s parents.

Tim (05:31pm): Barbara is being uncharacteristically unhelpful.

Jason (05:32pm): Good. Don’t help the twerp.

Jason (05:33pm): Also Cass and Steph are covering my patrol tonight. I’m running with Spider-Man.

Barbara (05:34pm): Don’t forget his gift.

Jason (05:35pm): He’ll get it when he earns it.

* * *

Peter swings over to Wayne Memorial Plaza, landing on top of a long dried out fountain sculpture for a moment before dropping to the ground. The plaza is empty, abandoned to the elements, with empty and boarded up shops lining the cracked bricks lining the ground. It’s surprisingly well lit for a place so desolate; the lights here are styled after Victorian gas lanterns, though their bulbs are LEDs rather than flickering flames. A few of them flicker regardless, though the effect is less ‘flamelike’ and more ‘dilapidated horror movie set.’ This place was once beautiful, and it’s easy to see how it could still be, despite the dirt, the trash, the graffiti, and the other detritus that seems to wash across every empty building that exists in a city. The drizzling rain just adds to the feeling of abandonment and loss. Peter’s never known a city that can mourn.

“Sorry,” Mantis whispers. “I think you’re picking up some of my thoughts.”

Maybe. But it really does feel---

Something moves in the dark behind him. His senses don’t trigger, but he hears the rustle of cloth, and a shift in the wind. He drops low, barely ducking out of the way of Red Hood’s sucker punch in time. He can feel the swish of air just above his head, and rolls back and away, relying on hard won instinct to carry him away from danger and back onto his feet. He pops back up in a fighting stance across from Red Hood. If he stopped to think about it, he’d realize he’s just matched one of Black Panther’s elegant combat rolls point for point.

Red Hood hops back and gives himself a little bit of distance, assuming a boxer’s stance that Peter’s seen cage fighters use on TV. He tilts his head. “Better than last night. Let’s see if you can keep that up.”

No pleasant exchanges then. Peter’s trained before with Tony, Rhodey, and even Vision every now and then. But all three of them had held back when fighting him in the comfort of the Avengers Compound, testing his reflexes, teaching him a few moves here and there. None had been capable of or willing to test his full limits. Red Hood does not share that philosophy. He comes at Peter hard and fast, keeping up his momentum and shifting from a high punch to a low, sweeping kick aimed at Peter’s head.

Peter leaps back and away, mimicking a move the Winter Soldier had once used to avoid a crippling blow from Steve Rogers. His senses still aren’t setting off, and that’s a problem. Peter’s fighting style is all instinct. Good instinct, with hard won experience, but that won’t get him very far with someone like Red Hood, who fights with as much brutal cunning as Black Widow. The two circle one another in the abandoned plaza.

“So, I have a question,” Peter says, panting a bit. He’s a bit surprised by that; he hasn’t had to put this much effort into a fight in a long time. “What is this place?”

“This is what’s left of the last initiative to clean up Crime Alley and clear up its reputation,” Red Hood says, and then he dives in close, throwing a few high punches as a feint before ducking down to try and drive his fist into Peter’s stomach. Peter dodges all three moves, and he grunts in approval. “It was a joint effort from the Wayne Foundation and the former mayor. They poured in millions of dollars and thousands of man hours to clean up this area and fix the district’s reputation. Draw in more businesses, more regular people, start over with a clean slate and prove it can be redeemed. Bruce Wayne practically went on the campaign trail talking it up.”

This last is said in a low growl, and Red Hood closes in again. Another kick, and high punch, and Peter dodges both. Swerving over and around Red Hood’s strikes like a snake. He doesn’t remember learning this move, but he does remember seeing Loki move like it once in a dream. “It looks like a bomb went off here.”

“You can’t stay on the defensive forever,” Bucky says. “Fight back!”

He knows. He has this. Just give him a minute; it’s hard to fight without his spider senses. He didn’t even know he was that reliant on it, and it's disturbing how hard it is to fight when he doesn’t have that power to fall back on. He can’t go full out in this fight anyway. Even tired and starving, Peter could seriously hurt Red Hood if he had the mind to.

“It did,” Red Hood says flatly. “The three biggest crime lords in the city all tried to stake a claim on the new business district, and it erupted into a three way gang war between Black Mask, Two-Face, and the Penguin.”

“Those cannot be real people,” Quill mutters.

Even Peter’s thrown off by those names. And that momentary distraction is all Red Hood needs to switch tactics. He latches on Peter’s arm, and turns, throwing him over his shoulder in a perfectly executed throw and dropping him hard against the brick floor of the plaza.

Peter grunts, then rolls away from Red Hood, barely dodging a stomp aimed at his chest. He pops back onto his feet and aims a quick punch at Red Hood. To his shock, it actually hits, and it hits Red Hood hard enough to knock the man back on his heels for a moment.

But only for a moment. Peter may have left a fist sized bruise on the man’s chest, but it doesn’t slow him down at all. Their back and forth turns into a boxing match; a game of back and forth between them. Red Hood isn’t trying to win this fight, he’s trying to see how Peter fights.

“What happened?” Peter asks, sidestepping an uppercut.

“The usual,” Red Hood says. He blocks a series of strikes from Peter. “A gang war that went from cold to hot in the space of a few hours. A shootout started at the kid’s playground, and ended with a car bomb being driven into the restaurant behind me.”

The restaurant in question is a half collapsed pile of rubble. Peter can see scorch marks along the facade of the building that’s still standing. There are other, darker stains on the ground and walls that Peter can easily guess at; bodies that have been burned that badly tend to leave marks of their own. There are at least two dozen that he can see. When he spares a glance at the children’s playground, he sees more of those stains. Not all of them are as large as they should be, and that realization sickens and infuriates him in equal measure.

“So my question to you is this,” Red Hood says, suddenly switching out of his boxing stance to charge Peter and fling him over his shoulder again. Peter catches his balance mid air this time and lands lightly on his feet before jumping away. “How long do you think you’ll last here? How long do you think that little playground you cleaned up will stay clean?”

“As long as I’m around,” Peter retorts. He’s on the defensive again, and his frustration is starting to grow. Between his useless spider sense, holding back his enhanced strength so he doesn’t actually hurt Red Hood, and the knowledge of what happened here, he’s fighting a losing battle against the green tinged rage simmering somewhere inside him.

“It’ll last until the first gang in the district sees it and decides to f*ck it up and send a message to you and the people who live in those apartments,” Red Hood says. He drives the point home with a rabbit quick punch to Peter’s face. “And you’ll just be another in a long line of failures when it comes to Crime Alley. I give it a month, tops.”

Peter is getting really sick of Red Hood’s snarky comments. His temper rises in a flash, and he whirls to face Red Hood, ducking under the man's sucker punch. He draws his arm back, preparing an uppercut with his full strength behind it--

"Stop!" T'Challa says. He doesn’t yell; he simply places every bit of royal authority into his voice. It's a tone not meant to be ignored.

Peter stops. Red Hood doesn't. He shifts from his punch to a knee to Peter’s stomach. It knocks the wind out of him and drops him to his knees. He coughs, gasping for breath, the anger knocked clean out of him. Red Hood steps back, looking around as if he’s just heard someone speak before focusing on Peter.

"What the hell just happened? You stopped halfway through that punch," Red Hood says. He’s panting for breath himself, his arms and face are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Peter isn’t the only one who’s putting in work tonight, at least.

"I, uh. I got mad," Peter admits breathlessly.

Red Hood stares at him, confused. He offers Peter a hand up, grasping his forearm and hauling him to his feet. "So? I'm always pissed. Use it. You can do a lot with it."

"Yeah, that isn't a good idea," Peter says. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Instead of the eye roll and ‘Yeah, sure, whatever, Hulk,’ that statement would get him back in his own universe, he gets an eye roll and a vaguely disappointed sigh. “You’re one of those, then.”

“Those?” Peter asks.

Red Hood waves a hand at him. “Nevermind. Let’s pack it in for the night. Follow me.”

He pulls a grappling hook gun out from under his jacket, aims it at the nearest building, and then swings away. Peter pauses to give the wrecked district one last look before following on his webs.

* * *

Red Hood swings deeper into Crime Alley, hopping down onto a roof overlooking the playground. Peter follows his lead, dropping down beside him. Red Hood lands silently, which is a feat for someone as large and burly as he is. Peter’s a bit jealous of that. The playground below is well lit. It's a bright candle against the darkness that covers most of the block, standing out against it almost defiantly.

"Quiz time. What are you going to do when they destroy that?" Red Hood asks, pointing at the playground.

Peter crouches down, considers the playground, then looks up to give Red Hood a baffled look. "You really think they'll tear up some random playground? There’s no money in this. There’s nothing to be gained from tearing it down."

"I know they will,” Red Hood says. He doesn’t sound happy about it; just resigned and bitter. “This is Crime Alley, kid. Nothing good stays here for long. One day someone's going to wreck their car on it, or set it on fire, or even blow it up. Maybe not on purpose, but it'll happen. What will you do?"

"Fix it."

"And if they do it again?"

"Fix it again," Peter says firmly. "I get that things suck here. Trust me, I can see it. But you have to start somewhere and nothing worth doing is easy."

"So you'll wage a one spider war against all this?" Red Hood asks, spreading his arm out towards the rest of Crime Alley riddled with urban blight. "Just you against the night?"

"Yes," Peter answers simply.

"Why?"

"Because the people here deserve it. Because it's working, at least a little. And because I can. And if you can help someone, you need to help them,” Peter says. “I can do this, so I will. I know it won’t solve every problem, I know it probably won’t help most problems here. But it’s helping a little, and that makes it worth doing.”

Red Hood stares at him for a long moment, then lets out a derisive snort. "You actually believe that."

Peter shrugs. He’s stated his piece, and he does believe it. He always has.

After a few moments, Red Hood sits down on the ledge beside him and watches the cars below pass them. Another minute passes, and he says, "For the record, I hope you’re right. And hey, I want you to tell me if I'm going too hard at this. On you."

Peter turns to face him, tilting his head.

"It's just, I don't want you to get in over your head like I did. I know it sounds like I don’t believe it, but you've done a lot of good in the Alley. Gotham has a way of ruining good things more often than not, and I don’t want some rookie suit getting caught up in that like I did."

"It's definitely different from what I'm used to," Peter admits. "But I can’t sit back and do nothing."

Red Hood watches him for a moment, before punching his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, and a little awkward. "I get it. From now on, you don't do it alone, all right? Us Crime Alley guys gotta stick together. That’s one of the rules we play by here: no matter how you feel or what you think, you’re not in this alone anymore."

“Yeah. All right,” Peter grins, rubbing the back of his neck. Red Hood nods, satisfied, and then falls silent again. Peter watches him from the corner of his eye and finally asks, "Hey. How'd you meet Batman?"

"I stole the tires off of the Batmobile when I was nine."

"No way."

"Sure did. How'd you meet Iron Man?"

"At a science expo. A bunch of homicidal robots tried to kill me. He saved my life."

"Huh. You know, I haven't heard of that guy. He must be pretty small time."

Peter grins at the thought of Tony overhearing that remark. "I would pay you five real American dollars for you to say that to his face."

“You’re on,” Red Hood says. “If I ever meet Iron Man, I’ll call him a small time suit to his face.”

“You’re serious.”

“You have no idea what I’d do for five dollars, kid,” Red Hood says. He pushes himself back onto his feet and cracks his neck. “Class time’s over, spider-twerp. Come back tomorrow. Same place.”

Peter tilts his head and nods. Red Hood gives him a lazy salute before leaping off of the building and into the darkness below. Seconds later, he hears a grappling hook deploy, and the sound of someone swinging into the night. Peter sits on the roof alone, sore and shaken and lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (11:22pm): How’d it go?

Jason (11:23pm): He’s got the instinct, he just needs the practice. And his fighting style is a complete mess. It's a big jumble of a bunch of different styles that don’t really work together.

Jason (11:24pm): But he’s got my seal of approval. I’m not that big on this teaching sh*t, though. My style of fighting doesn’t match his. He needs someone else to give him the finer points.

Steph (11:26pm): Cass and I can swing by tomorrow.

Jason (11:27pm): Sounds good. Duke and Tim can go next.

Duke (11:28pm): not happening. Alfred’s grounded us both.

Jason (11:29pm): The f*ck for?

Duke (11:30pm): Tim went to school with a raging chest cold. A coughing fit messed up his ribs again.

Duke (11:31pm): also my arm is still broken, how the hell am I supposed to fight some weird spider-person with one arm?

Jason (11:32pm): That sounds like quitter talk to me. Grow up, Duke.

Dick (11:33pm): If Spider-Man still needs the training or help, I’ll swing by after Steph and Cass.

Dick (11:34pm): I think our styles would work pretty well together. He already moves like a gymnast.

Jason (11:35pm): Then we have a plan. Good. Any word from B?

Barbara (11:36pm): None yet. I’ll keep you guys posted if I hear anything.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Peter wanders through Dr. Strange’s library during his dreams. It’s warm, and peaceful, and a tad moody. Clouds gather outside of the Sanctum, flickering with blue-purple lightning. He can’t hear the thunder yet, but he thinks that’s a quirk of the dream more than anything else. The Sanctum is old, and powerful, and a comfort he takes advantage of in his sleep whenever possible.

He finds Loki in the stacks, still paging through that copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. Peter’s more than a little amused by that. He stops and tilts his head.

“Tolkein was wasted on your people,” Loki says idly. “He should have been born an Asgardian.”

“He probably wouldn’t have liked you much,” Peter says.

“That wouldn’t exactly make him unique, now would it?” Loki replies dryly. He waves a hand at Peter. “You can find the sorcerer brooding upstairs.”

Peter knows a dismissal when he hears one. He shrugs and moves past Loki, jogging up the grand staircase to the second floor. The clouds have turned this floor gloomy, muting the golden light that usually filters through the windows. Dr. Strange stands beneath the largest window, looking up at the stormy sky through the dome glass window. The clouds roll and broil, flickering with lightning, illuminating the stony, thoughtful expression on the sorcerer’s face. His cloak floats above his shoulders, though one corner raises and waves at Peter when he draws close.

“Mr. Parker,” Strange says. His voice isn’t quite subdued, but it’s close. He sounds thoughtful, withdrawn, and as the thunder rumbles above, Peter wonders if he should have left the sorcerer to his thoughts.

“Uh, hi, Dr. Strange,” Peter says, standing near the stairs. He shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly anxious. The sorcerer is pretty intimidating, all things considered. And he can’t help but think of Gandalf's famous line about meddling in the affairs of wizards.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. Usually when I end up in someone’s soul world it’s because they brought me here,” Peter says slowly. “I’m kind of confused why I’m here, though.”

Dr. Strange finally turns away from the storm above, focusing his gaze on Peter. He can see echoes of the storm’s lightning flash behind Strange’s eyes. Peter takes in a deep breath and walks towards him.

“You haven’t talked to me much lately,” Peter says. “I see Wanda when I have nightmares, or Bucky or Sam, and Mr. Fury, Agent Hill, and King T’Challa help me train, but I don’t really see you very much.”

Dr. Strange looks back up at the storm gathering outside. “Mhm.”

“Was it something I said?”

Dr. Strange sighs. “No. You’ve done nothing wrong, Peter.”

“Oh. Good.” He pauses for a moment. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I know what’s coming,” Dr. Strange says simply. “That’s all.”

And then he falls silent and regards the storm outside his sanctum again.

“Do I get to know what’s coming?” Peter asks, tilting his head.

“No,” Dr. Strange says after a moment. “I can’t tell you.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Peter replies. “Okay, so I don’t get any spoilers. Got any advice for me?”

Dr. Strange considers his question, and nods. “Yes. I suppose I can give you some advice. I want you to remember two things. Do you remember what I told you when I gave you the letter?”

“No great thing can be done without sacrifice?” Peter says, half remembering it. “Yeah, I remember that. What’s the other thing?”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Strange says. It’s sincere and heartfelt, and deeply disturbing.

Peter frowns at him, confused.

“The letter is about to reach its destination. You’ll understand more when that happens. Until then, good night,” Dr. Strange says. A simple gesture sends Peter out of his portion of the Soul Stone and into another. Wanda or T’Challa, perhaps.

* * *

Dr. Strange leaves the upper floor of his sanctum once Peter is sent away. He stalks past rows of bookshelves, his thoughts as stormy as the clouds outside. He pauses at the bookshelf where Loki stands reading. He watches the Asgardian god for a long moment before approaching.

“Can I help you, sorcerer?” Loki asks, keeping his focus on the book in front of him.

“You called Peter here. Why?” Strange asks.

“I could say it’s because I wanted to see you squirm, to gain an edge on you, or to gain a bit of revenge for that stunt you pulled on me back in New York,” Loki says. “But you would rightly deduce that I’m lying to you.”

Strange simply stares at him and waits for him to get to the point.

Loki sighs. “You know, you’ve become significantly less interesting over time. Fine. I brought the boy into your soul to see if I could. I have need of him for something, and I wanted to be sure I could borrow him. Really, you should be thanking me for making the attempt where he's relatively safe.”

“If you harm him--”

“You and I both know that would be utterly pointless. You aren’t the only one with the gift of foresight,” Loki remarks dryly.

Dr. Strange has nothing he can say to that.

“I will borrow him for one night. That is all I need.”

“Fine,” Strange says. Perhaps Loki’s meant to do this. He only knows the highs and lows of this timeline; the finer details had eluded him on Titan, and he simply didn’t have the energy or time to waste to learn the whole of it. Regardless, Loki will have his way. “But only one night.”

Loki smiles. He knows Dr. Strange has no way of stopping him if he decides to borrow Peter’s consciousness beyond that. Dr. Strange stares at him for a moment longer, then turns and leaves the God of Mischief to his reading.

* * *

He’s exhausted by the time he reaches the bus stop, and wonders if he may have overdone it last night. His usual fatigue hasn’t faded in the least, and his footsteps feel heavier than normal. Maybe going on a quick patrol before meeting up with Red Hood was a poor choice.

“Extra training isn’t doing you any favors. Not with the amount of food you’re getting right now,” Bucky says. “You’re burning more calories than you’re taking in.”

Which is...well. True. His school uniform feels a bit roomier than it should at the moment. He should start looking for another job. There has to be something, right? Something other than Wayne Enterprises internships, anyway. Peter isn’t eager to take a job from a man he’s stolen from, and he’s already an intern for a rival company. Technically. Kind of. And anyway, he can’t pay back the money he stole with money he earned from the same guy. That doesn’t accomplish anything.

If he gets much hungrier, all bets are off, though.

Lou hands him a couple of sandwiches as he climbs onto the bus and Peter takes them both gratefully. He drops down in his usual seat with a sigh, scooting out of the way of the businessman who usually follows him onto the bus.

The guy has a breakfast burrito in hand, and fumbles with it while paying his fare. He drops it and sighs as it splatters across his shoes and the floor. “Ah, crap.”

He kneels down and cleans it up as quickly as he can, using his copy of The Daily Planet to clear away his mess. Peter sets aside his sandwiches and ducks down to help, and the guy smiles at him gratefully. Peter realizes the business man isn’t much older than he is. Maybe three years at most, but the guy has the kind of face that makes him look younger than he really is.

Lou holds out a small trash can for them, squinting at the paper. “The Daily Planet?”

“I like to keep up with things,” the man says, sitting down at his usual seat behind Peter. “So much for today’s copy. And my breakfast. I haven’t had anything since lunch yesterday.”

“Sounds like they’re working you like a dog,” Lou says, closing the bus doors and putting it into gear.

“You have no idea,” the man replies.

“Here, take one of mine. I can spare it.” Peter offers the man one of his sandwiches, and the guy brightens.

“No, you can’t,” Fury says.

Peter pointedly ignores him.

“Hey, thanks,” the man says, taking the offered sandwich with one hand and holding out his hand with the other. “I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Olsen.”

Peter takes his hand. “Peter. You aren’t from Gotham, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Jimmy asks with a wry grin while unwrapping the sandwich. “Guess it would be. Gotham knows their own on sight. No, I’m from Metropolis. Born and raised.”

“Oh. What brings you to Gotham?"

"Doing research for the Planet," Jimmy says, shrugging. "Just some background stuff for one of the reporters back home."

“Yeah? What’s the big scoop?” Peter asks. He likes Jimmy; there’s an earnest air about the guy that just clicks with Peter.

"That new truancy law, mostly. I'm almost done with it. In fact, my ticket home is slated for tomorrow,” Jimmy says around a mouthful of sandwich. “And, no offense, thank god for that. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Usually I follow one of the investigative reporters around while they do the research, but my regular guy is off sick or something. He’s been out for awhile, actually.”

He pauses, frowns, and considers that for a moment. Peter finishes up his sandwich, bracing himself when the bus slows to his stop, and grabs his backpack, standing up. Jimmy perks up when he sees Peter start to leave.

“Hey, if you’re ever in Metropolis, swing by the Daily Planet so I can pay you back for the sandwich,” he says.

“I’ll do that,” Peter says, tromping down the bus steps and through the doors.

He has no intention of taking Jimmy up on that offer, no matter how sincere it sounds. What on earth would Peter be doing in Metropolis anyway?

* * *

Tim is withdrawn, pale, and intensely focused on his phone and notebook for most of the day. To the point of only sparing Peter a brief nod when Peter sits down beside him in class. Peter leaves him be, worried by the fevered pulse of his friend’s heartbeat. He takes notes for both of them during their classes, and confronts him during home room.

“Hey, are you sure you should be here?” Peter asks. “You look, uh. Bad.”

“You’re a regular poet, Parker,” Bucky says.

Shut up.

“I’m fine. Just focused. I get like this sometimes,” Tim says, distracted. He picks up his coffee cup--a new one, not the one he had at the start of the day, Peter notes, with some despair--takes a deep drink.

“Should you be drinking coffee with a fever that high?” Peter asks, frowning.

“Probably not, no,” Tim says, before taking another deep drink. Peter reaches over and takes the cup from him and he huffs. “Hey. That’s mine.”

“No more coffee, you’re going to blow up your heart,” Peter retorts. He pauses, then squints at the phone and notebook on Tim’s desk while keeping Tim’s cup of coffee well out of his reach. “What’s this?”

“Spider-Man,” Tim says, dropping back into his chair with a huff when it becomes clear that Peter won’t let him have his coffee back. “He’s a new guy on the superhero scene. Nobody knows who he is or where he came from.”

“So you’re, what, studying him? Your chemistry notes aren’t this exhaustive,” Peter says, amused. And a little disturbed. There are sketches of Peter’s nightly patrols, with dates, times, and places neatly marked on the notebook. Not even Flash had been this detail oriented with Spider-Man’s habits.

“Yes. I keep track of all of the superheroes in town. And this guy came out of nowhere,” Tim says simply. He picks up his pen. “”Right around the time things started getting weird around Gotham, too. That’s a little odd.”

“Maybe he just has bad timing,” Peter tries.

“Maybe. Or he’s connected to the weird stuff happening. You know I heard the Bats don’t know who he is? That won’t last for very long.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks, a tiny bit wary.

“Batman is literally the greatest detective in the world,” Tim says, offhandedly. “He knows everyone’s secret identity. Or he learns it eventually.”

“Huh,” Peter says idly. Is that why Batman followed him awhile back? “I haven’t seen Batman around lately.”

“Well, you aren’t a criminal, so that’s not a big surprise,” Tim says, amused. “And rumor is he’s busy somewhere. Nightwing’s running the show right now.”

“Good choice. Nightwing’s cool,” Peter says. “Hey, where’s Duke?”

“At home,” Tim says. “He’s got the worst of my cold right now.”

“Shouldn’t you be at home, then?” Peter says, eyeing the coffee in his hand warily. His immune system is worlds beyond what it was before the bite, but he really can’t afford a cold right now.

“Yeah, probably,” Tim says. He reaches for the spot where his coffee normally is on his desk, pauses, then squints at Peter. “Hey. Can I have my coffee back?”

“No,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “If you get any more flighty, I’m carrying you back to your fancy mansion.”

“That’d be one way to get you there,” Tim mutters under his breath.

Peter politely ignores that.

* * *

Peter drops into Wayne Memorial Plaza, but he keeps to the shadows this time, wary of another attack from behind. He stalks the shadows of the mournful shopping area, moving silently and quickly. He avoids the playground, the restaurant, and the years old bloodstains that cover both. He doesn’t want to get too close to those, not even to get a jump on Red Hood. And that’s what he plans to do tonight: catch Red Hood off guard. Peter wants to show him that he may have been on the defensive last night, but that won’t happen tonight. He isn’t the best at hand to hand, but he’s a quick learner, and he knows better than to just drop into plain sight without scoping out his surroundings this time. Red Hood had driven that particular lesson home quite handily last night.

It’s raining tonight; one of those steady soaking rains that’s pleasant to listen to when inside with family, and utterly miserable to be caught outside in. Peter’s suit isn’t quite waterproof, but it keeps him dry enough, and when he skitters up and under an awning, the rain is no longer a problem. Bonus: he’s perfectly hidden, snuggled among the shadows out of sight.

Now all he has to do is wait for Red Hood to arrive. He settles in. He can stay still for a long time if he needs; it helps if he’s upside down, too. He’s not sure why. It just feels natural.

Time passes. The rain eases up. No sign of Red Hood. Where the hell is he? Is this one of his tests? Or is he hurt somewhere? Peter’s seen him swing through Crime Alley every now and then. He’s in and out within an hour, usually. Maybe he’s hurt--

A young woman in a dark suit with a purple cloak drops down in the center of the plaza. She’s not trying to be stealthy. She barely even gives her surroundings a second look, perfectly at ease. Peter tilts his head, and prepares to swing out of the shadows--

Someone grabs his shoulder from the darkness, right behind him.

His reaction is a startled shriek, flail, and then a wholly undignified flop onto his back. He finds himself staring up at the Black Bat, who blends into the darkness absurdly well. And who is also immune to his spider senses, apparently. Maybe he has gotten too reliant on them.

Black Bat stares down at him with a curious tilt to her head. Spoiler saunters over and kneels down above him, smirking through her mask. “Hi, new kid.”

Her voice is electronic at the edges, masking her true voice, whatever it may be. It sounds much cleaner than Peter’s own modulator. Peter stares past her and up at the sky for a moment before looking at her and then the Black Bat. “Hi. You guys aren’t Red Hood.”

“Nope, we’re way cooler,” Spoiler says. Black Bat offers one gauntleted hand to Peter. “Red’s busy tonight, so you get to hang out with us.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He takes Black Bat’s offered arm and stands up with her help. “He, uh, didn’t mention that.”

"He's big on surprises."

"I gathered," Peter says, brushing himself off. “So are you two, apparently.”

“It’s a Bat thing. If it makes you feel better, no one is better at sneaking around than Black Bat.”

“Usually no one can sneak up on me,” Peter says ruefully. “It’s happening more and more often these days. Not a fan of that.”

“We’re a sneaky bunch,” Spoiler says. “Are you up for a little detective work tonight?”

“Uh, sure,” Peter says.

“Cool. First things first, your gift.”

He tilts his head when Black Bat approaches him and holds out a small box with a post-it note on top of it with the words ‘A gift for the new guy’ and the Batman symbol drawn beneath in a flowing, feminine hand. He takes it, looking it over for a moment, before opening it up.

It’s an earpiece. Small, elegantly made, and clearly very powerful. Peter takes it out of the box, and turns away from Black Bat and Spoiler, examining it closely. Peter’s seen headsets like these before. He’s built them into his own suit in Tony’s lab. He knows what they should look like and what they should feel like, even in a universe that hasn’t been invaded by aliens. And he knows it should only be half as large as it currently is. There should be a seam along the back--Ah. There it is.

He gently pops off the back half of it and crushes it in his hand before rolling his mask up to put it into his ear. Spoiler seems amused by his actions. Black Bat merely tilts her head to one side.

A very amused, and slightly exasperated voice greets him. “Hi, Spider-Man. I see you’ve found your gift. And broken it already.”

“I didn’t break it, I just took off the tracker you tacked onto it,” Peter says calmly, rolling his mask back down. “I don’t trust you guys enough to have you follow me home, sorry.”

“Fair enough. I’m Oracle. I act as a one woman support network for all of the heroes in Gotham City. You’ve just been given the green light from Red Hood, which makes you a part of the team.”

Huh. He must’ve impressed Red Hood last night. More than he expected. “I didn’t think he had that many friends.”

“He likes to pretend he doesn’t,” Spoiler says. She and Black Bat pull out grappling hook guns, take aim, and launch them into the sky. “Come on, we’ll fill you in on tonight’s job.”

With that, they leap into the sky, swinging back up towards the rooftops of Gotham. Peter is quick to follow them. To his surprise, they don’t stick to Crime Alley. They move away from it completely, heading towards the southern end of the island. Mist and fog obscure some of the taller buildings, and Peter is forced to be much more careful than he usually is while swinging. He knows Crime Alley’s buildings by heart, but he’s not as familiar with buildings outside of that district.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Peter asks, swinging between Black Bat and Spoiler.

He isn’t used to swinging with people. On his few team ups with the other Avengers, he’d simply stick a web to one of his teammate’s boots and hitch a ride. Rhodey, Tony, and Vision all have the ability to fly, after all. It’s just quicker to hitch a ride from one of them. It takes a few moments, but he finds his rhythm and swings with them easily. Black Bat gives him an approving look once he hits his stride.

“We’re checking out a place Nightwing and Robin found during their patrol last night. A lab of some kind. Some mutant creatures attacked one of our own a little awhile back and hurt him pretty badly. Nightwing says they came from the lab he found,” Spoiler says.

“The manbats,” Peter says.

“Exactly. Well, not exactly. There’s only one Manbat that exists, and Dr. Langstrom is currently serving out his prison sentence in Blackgate,” Spoiler says.

“The creatures that attacked Signal weren’t anything we’ve seen before, but most people call them ‘manbats’ anyway. I guess they think of it as a joke. I guess they do kind of look like bats from afar,” Oracle says, cutting in.

“Right, I heard Signal got hurt. Is he all right?” Peter asks

“He’ll heal, but it’ll take some time,” Oracle says. And god, her voice is familiar. “He heals a little faster than the rest of us. A benefit of his powers.”

“I thought Batman had a rule about that,” Peter says after a moment, his tone wary and questioning. “You know. The whole ‘no metas in Gotham’ thing.”

“With Batman, there are exceptions to every rule,” Spoiler remarks. “Otherwise he would’ve run you out of town a long time ago.”

“Comforting.”

“That rule is mostly meant to keep Justice League members from coming in and ‘fixing’ Gotham,” Oracle says. “They mean well, but they don't know Gotham, and they aren't capable of handling things here.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “So, Batman doesn’t hate metas.”

“No, Spider-Man, he doesn’t,” Oracle says, and there’s a touch of sympathy in her voice. “Is that why you avoided him for so long?”

“Among other reasons, yeah,” Peter mumbles. They move in silence after that, and Peter mulls over this new information. It doesn't last long; they're covering a lot territory in a short amount of time.

“We’re here,” Spoiler says. She motions towards a foreboding building set near the southern dock yards.

The fog hangs heavily over the dark building, adding to the ominous air surrounding it. Its windows are dark, and it seems to shrug off the paltry light glowing from the street lights below. Rain runs down its sides in steady streams, and Peter wonders how any of the buildings in Gotham manage to stay so dingy and depressing under all of this rain. The three of them drop down on top of the roof. No alarms sound off, and there are no guards that Peter can sense nearby. Though that doesn’t prove anything, given his recent track record.

“I’ve had an eye on this place all day. No one’s gone in or out,” Oracle says. “But be careful going inside.”

“Got it,” Spoiler says.

Black Bat pops open the door on the roof in seconds, and heads inside. Spoiler motions for Peter to follow her, and the three of them duck inside and down the dim stairwell leading into a laboratory.

The lab is strange, dark, and silent. Strange, soot gray machines with odd buttons line the walls and a part of the floor. There aren’t any monitors in sight, but there is a series of black tanks in the far corner. Fluorescent lights shine uncertain light across the scene, and Peter’s thankful for his enhanced sight. Without it, this place would be nothing more than dark shadows and shapeless machines.

Black Bat and Spoiler split up from him and begin poking around the strange room and stranger machines. Peter hangs back, looking over the room, and fights back an unsettling wave of deja vu. A few months ago, he woke up in a room not unlike this one, and that thought sets off a low hum of unease in the back of his mind. There’s a click in the comm link; Oracle is isolating his channel from the others.

“Gotham’s been in a state of low grade emergency for the past six months. Between the bat creatures, the Scarecrow’s new fear gas, the Arkham breakout, and the Justice League calling on Batman constantly, things have been tense,” Oracle says. “It started with the bat creatures. At first, it was just one or two, but they started to flock together. Never more than six at a time, which is good for us. If there were more of them, we wouldn’t be able to hold them off.”

Peter moves away from Black Bat and Spoiler, heading for the dark tanks in the far corner. “What happens when they show up? I haven’t seen them in Crime Alley.”

“Usually they ignore people. They’re looking for something--or someone--and don’t pay any attention to people or things that get in their way. Until they attacked Signal, at least,” Oracle says. “He followed them to a city bus and tried to draw them away from it.”

Peter stills for a moment, then keeps moving. “Why did they attack that bus?”

“Signal thinks they found what they were looking for, whatever it was. The bus was packed with early morning commuters, so we can’t narrow down who or what they wanted,” Oracle says. “Not that it matters. He and Red Hood have been hunting the things down ever since they showed up. We’re pretty sure those three that attacked the bus were the last ones.”

Thank God, Peter thinks. He remembers the bat creature’s eyes focusing on him through the bus’s windshield all too clearly. They were looking for him. But he wasn’t even here six months ago. Why would they start looking for him before he got here?

“And none of the people on the bus seemed suspicious?” Peter asks quietly. He stops near one of the black tanks and idly taps one of the controls. It accomplishes nothing, which isn’t surprising. Makes him feel better though.

“Not at all,” Oracle says. “Everyone on that bus is painfully normal. Minus the brave kid that ran out to fight the things with his backpack. Signal’s been singing his praises for awhile.”

Peter perks up at that, smiling beneath his mask. He taps one last button on the black tank, prepared to give it up for a lost cause. It slides open. A bat creature falls out of the tank and onto the ground.

Peter leaps back, trense and prepared to fight--and then stops. The creature doesn’t move. It isn’t breathing. He can’t hear its heart beating. It’s dead. He straightens up and approaches it slowly, looking it over. This one died awhile ago, judging by the smell, but it hasn’t started to rot. Peter crouches down to get a better look at it.

Its wings are batlike, but that’s where the comparison to natural life ends. Everything else about the mutated and misshapen thing is distinctly other in a way that makes Peter’s skin crawl. There are two beady eyes set in the skull, but no nose, and no ears. Just a row of needle sharp teeth that match the three massive claws that make up the creature’s hands.

Out of curiosity, he reaches out and touches the creature. It feels soft and slick and wrong, like a tomato that’s smooth and ripe on the outside, but a rotten black beneath. It isn’t from Earth. He knows that on an instinctual level. But it also seems familiar somehow, in a way he can’t quite reckon with his own memories.

“Outrider,” Loki hisses in the back of his mind. Others murmur in agreement or aggravation when he speaks.

Peter doesn't know what he means. He's never seen one of these before.

There are bits of metal embedded into its skin. Too small to be armor. Something electronic, maybe. He kneels down to take a closer look, tracing the outline of one beneath his finger. Definitely electronic, he decides. A transmitter or something like it, though he doesn't see how it could be turned on or off or even controlled. Maybe this thing is half robot?

"Find anything?" Spoiler asks over his shoulder.

"No, not really," he answers, though the word outrider almost slips out. “Just a dead monster. You?”

“No,” Spoiler says with a sigh. “But that isn’t surprising. This place is abandoned. Whoever made these things are long gone, and they weren’t nice enough to leave a forwarding address.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Peter says. Outrider is still echoing inside his mind. He can’t understand the significance.

“Probably. Looks like your first detective detail ended in a bust,” Spoiler says. She shrugs. “Sorry.”

“In this case, I’ll take it. I don’t want to be anywhere close to whatever made this thing,” Peter says.

“We should clear this place out and send what we find over to Batman to look through,” Oracle says, half to herself. “Spoiler, Black Bat, can you standby while I get that figured out? I think I can have Red Robin there in thirty minutes or less.”

Spoiler looks over at Black Bat who nods. “Yeah, Oracle, we can definitely hang out in the murder lab for a little while.”

“Thanks. Spidey, feel free to hang out. Red Robin would love to meet you,” Oracle says.

“No thanks,” Peter says, heading for the stairs. Normally, he’d skitter up the wall, but he’s not eager to touch the strange machines covering the wall. “No offense to Red Robin, but I’m not hanging out here any longer than I need to.”

“That’s fair,” Spoiler says. “Clocking out for the night?”

“More or less.” His exhaustion from this morning never really went away, and it weighs on him heavier than ever. “I’ll probably do a spot check around the Alley and turn in.”

“Be safe,” Oracle says as he walks out onto the roof. “Call if you need anything. You’re not in this alone anymore, remember that.”

“Got it,” Peter says. And then he turns off the headset. He knows how easily those are to trace, too.

* * *

Spoiler watches Spider-Man leave and turns to look at Black Bat. She tilts her head after a moment and says, “You recognized him.”

Black Bat is silent for a long moment, and then raises her hand and makes a so-so motion.

As always, Spoiler understands her meaning. “You have suspicions.”

Black Bat nods.

“Are you going to share with the class?” Oracle says.

Another pause, and then Black Bat gently shakes her head.

“Guess I’ll just have to wait until Tim finds out, then,” Oracle says. “He may be grounded from patrol, but he definitely hasn’t been grounded from the Batcave, and he’s taken interest in our new spider friend.”

Spoiler laughs. “Spider-Man might as well say goodbye to his secret identity, then. How long do you think it’ll take before Tim figures it out?”

Black Bat considers the question, then makes a few quick signs. She’s much more comfortable with sign rather than speech, and she, Batman, Oracle, and Spoiler have developed their own private language. She shares another version with the rest of the Bat crew, but only Batman, Oracle, and Spoiler know this one.

“A month? Really?” Spoiler says.

“Mm, I could see it. Spider-Man’s crafty, and he doesn’t want us trailing after him yet. He might even give Tim a run for his money,” Oracle says. She taps a few keys on her keyboard. “All right, Tim and Duke are on their way with a truck.”

* * *

Felicia Hardy tucks the blueprints of LexCorp’s latest weapon into the satchel across her shoulder, somewhat bemused by Lex Luthor’s utter obsession with Superman. The man’s technology is impressive, and useful for her needs, but the fact that he’s wasted all of his engineers on designing weapons to fight a single guy is exasperating. At least in her universe Tony Stark eventually used his technology to better society. She doubts LexCorp will follow in Stark Industries footsteps. Which makes all of his stuff free for the taking as far as she’s concerned.

She slips out of the twentieth floor window and leaps into the foggy night, shooting off her grappling hook gun. She starts to swing back towards Gotham’s East End district, careful to avoid areas where the Bats have been patrolling. She’s run into Nightwing and Red Hood briefly, and she’s not eager to repeat the experience.

She’s halfway home when the clouds above flash with lightning, illuminating a figure in blue and red. Spider-Man. She doesn’t know how long he’s been tailing her, but he picks up his pace once he realizes she can see him. Dammit. She doesn’t need this. Normally she wouldn’t mind a good chase, but not tonight.

She changes direction, swinging low and into the alleys at the edge of the Bowery. He gives chase, because of course he does. She tries to lose him in the towering skyscrapers that cover the Bowery, changing angle, direction, and speed, and can’t quite manage it. It isn’t surprising, but it’s very aggravating.

She makes a split second decision, swinging between two hulking skyscrapers and above an usually wide alley. She recalls her grappling hook, aims it, and shoots. It jams, clicks, and shoots on a delay, the hook wobbling off target.

And suddenly, Felicia is in free fall. The grappling hook fell short, and she doesn’t have enough time to recall it or aim it or, really, do anything to save herself. She can only fall and watch her rapidly approaching death. To think, she survived the Decimation only to end up here with Spider-Man. And here she is, about to splatter across the ground in front of him. She cringes, raising her arms to shield her face, as if that will do anything more than shatter her arms first--

Something flies past her and bounces onto the ground. A small thing, barely larger than a hockey puck, with small LEDs blinking across the top of it. It blinks once, twice, and then a wave of blue-purple light erupts from it, catching the rain drops from the sky and suspending them in mid air.

Felicia hits it hard, but instead of shattering every bone in her body, she merely gets the wind knocked out of her. It feels like falling into a giant beanbag; the force of her fall is spread out and away from her, causing the blue field around her to ripple and undulate like water. Felicia gasps for breath, flopping back into the field. Her hands are trembling and her heart is beating hard enough that she can hear it echoing inside her ears. That had been close.

“Well, that’s one way to catch a cat burglar,” Spider-Man says. He’s perched on a thin ledge above her. His hands are shaking too, just a bit. “Good thing I’m good at inventing things and have a decent throwing arm, huh?”

“You haven’t caught me yet,” Felicia gasps. She tries to sit up. And doesn’t move. The force field didn’t just break her fall and save her life. It’s a trap. Oh, that son of a---

“I mean, yeah, I kind of have,” Spider-Man says. She can hear the smugness in his tone even through that ridiculous voice modulator.

Felicia locks eyes with him through his mask, narrows her eyes, and thinks in that special way that always shifts her luck from bad to good. The bricks beneath Spider-Man’s feet suddenly shift by a miniscule degree before falling off of the building. Spider-Man flails, scrambles for purchase against the slick wall of the building, and then falls directly into the dumpster below. He lands inside with an echoing thunk! loud enough to make her teeth rattle. At the same time, the force field shrinks and collapses, allowing her to stand on her own two feet easily.

Okay, that had worked too well. What the hell is with Spider-Man’s luck?

“Are you dead? You legally have to tell me if you’re dead,” she says quietly, snatching up the small hockey puck device and approaching the dumpster. She didn’t mean to hurt him, for god’s sake. She peers into the dumpster, makes a face at the smell, and reaches down to check Spider-Man’s pulse. She finds it easily; a strong and steady beat. “Did you just pass out?”

No response. If he’s faking, he’s doing an obscenely admirable job at it. Felicia Hardy bites her lip, unsure of what to do. She can’t just leave him in a pile of cold garbage after saving her life. That’s just uncalled for. Plus, she kind of enjoys their little game of cat and mouse. Or cat and spider, in this case.

And, well, he is her hometown hero. Just in a different universe.

“--check for head wounds--” something hisses nearby.

Felicia startles, looking around the alley. Something stirs in the shadows, but a closer look reveals nothing more substantial than an empty styrofoam cup rolling across the cracked asphalt. She shakes her head; she’s been staying out too late this past week and it’s clearly taking its toll.

She reaches into the dumpster and hauls Spider-Man out of it. He groans, leaning back against her until she can lay him out on the cold ground. She crouches beside him, hesitates, and then sighs.

“Okay, so, don’t hold this against me,” she mutters, gently rolling up his mask. She stares at Spider-Man’s face for a moment, frowning in confusion. “Spider-Man is the nerd from history class? Are you kidding me?”

Spider-Man--Peter Parker--has nothing to say to that. Which is probably for the best. She checks him for head wounds, gently running her hand through his hair to check for breaks in his skin or a massive lump indicating a concussion. She finds neither; just that streak of premature white hair above his right temple. She’d always been fascinated by that during class. Peter melts into her touch and snuggles into her hand. Which is admittedly cute.

She rolls his mask back over his face and contemplates what to do from here. She can’t just leave him out here, in the depths of Crime Alley, unconscious. That’s tantamount to murder, and she’s no murderer. She could find one of the Bats; Nightwing and Red Hood have been showing up in the Alley more and more often lately. They would help. She could also, theoretically, take him home with her and try to explain his presence to Selina. That probably won’t go anywhere productive. Selina is beyond patient with Felicia, but she probably won’t let her drag some idiot from the Bat crew into her apartment uninvited. Felicia considers her options, weighing the small device Peter used to save her life in her hands.

Peter stirs, sitting up with a low groan. “Wha’ happen--”

“You fell,” Felicia says, backing away to give him some space. “Are you okay?”

Peter staggers up, and shakes his head slowly. He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, fine. I’ve fallen much further than that before.”

That’s a horrifying thought. “Good thing you’re tougher than you look.”

“That’s me. The toughest guy in Gotham City,” Peter mutters, rubbing the back of his head with a wince. She can recognize his voice now, even with the voice modulator. “So, are you going to return the blueprints you stole or--”

“Nope. And I’m totally keeping this, too,” Felicia says, holding up his antigrav device. “Thanks for the souvenir, Spidey!”

“What---hey! I only have one of those--”

Felicia smirks, aims her grappling hook gun above her head and shoots it. She winks at Peter and launches herself into the Gotham night. She swings back towards Selina’s apartment, half expecting Peter to follow her, but he doesn’t. She’s disappointed by that, but the guy did give himself some potential brain damage saving her life. Maybe she should cut him some slack.

She’s definitely paying him a visit during class tomorrow.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up with an absolutely killer headache. Actually, he went to bed with it. It just followed him into the morning, through his morning routine, his subway ride, bus ride, and into school. He sits at his desk in class, half of it covered by Tim’s frighteningly obsessive notes and theories on Spider-Man, massaging his temples and trying to force back an oncoming migraine by sheer force of will.

It’s not really working. A steady frustration is starting to build inside of himself, and he has to clamp down against it. Hard.

“You okay, Peter?” Duke asks. His voice is a bit froggy, but he’s on the tail end of whatever sickness Tim is still struggling through himself. The three of them are a sight: Duke with his arm in a cast half covered in doodles, Tim radiating fever and all but shaking from drinking too much coffee, and Peter, pale and withdrawn, squinting at everything as if being awake is the worst mistake he’s made in his life. No wonder everyone in school is avoiding them today. Even Steph is keeping her distance from them, though she does walk with them between classes.

“Headache,” he murmurs. “Maybe a migraine. We’ll find out if I start seeing static again.”

“A fascinating description for a concussion leading into unconsciousness,” Dr. Strange remarks.

Duke gives him a sympathetic look, then digs into his backpack and hands him a bottle of ibuprofen. “Take a few of these. They usually stop my migraines cold.”

Peter takes eight. He needs to; anything less, and it just wouldn’t work for him at all. And that’s probably half of the dose he really needs.

Duke stares at him. “Uh. Maybe don’t take anymore today after that.”

“We’ll see,” Peter says, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

* * *

His headache does fade after he takes the medicine, much to his own surprise. That’s a lucky break. Usually he needs something much stronger to chip away at his headaches. He’ll take it. He’s overdue for some good luck, frankly. By lunch time, the pain is gone, and the simmering anger from the morning has ebbed away, melting back into the background of tension that’s followed him since he first came to Gotham.

He piles his tray high with food and sits down with the rest of the Wayne Club. Steph is texting someone on her phone, Duke is dozing above his own lunch, but looks up and smiles at Peter when he gets close. Tim is surrounded by books, notebooks, his phone, and--for some reason--a map of Gotham. Peter sits down next to Tim, frowning at him.

“Uh, hey, Tim,” he says. “What’cha got there?”

“Spider-Man’s movements and patrols since he first came to Gotham,” Tim says, distracted. He hands Peter one of his notebooks. "He doesn't stick to a particular pattern, and he seems to know where and when a crime is going to occur. Normally I'd dismiss that with a police radio, but most of the time he gets there before the police are even called."

“Where are you even finding these extra notebooks?” Peter asks, paging through the notebook with a small amount of alarm. “I’ve seen your locker. There’s nothing there. And your backpack is practically empty.”

“Bought them from the school store.”

“Those things are like ten dollars a piece,” Peter says, aghast. There are at least five on the cafeteria table. Peter would sooner die than spend money like that. Literally; he wouldn’t be able to feed himself if he did.

“Yeah,” Tim says, blinking up at him. “I need them. This is important.”

Peter shakes his head and starts in on his lunch. Tim shrugs and goes back to whatever it is he’s working on, and the table eases into a comfortable, companionable silence. Despite the general noise and ruckus in the cafeteria, Peter feels himself relax; part of it is the food, sure, but a larger part is the company. Patrol is a little less lonely these days, but he can’t actually call someone like the Spoiler or the Red Hood his friend. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever.

The peacefulness lasts for about five minutes before Peter is shaken out of his thoughts by a sudden arrival at the table.

"Hi," a beautiful girl says to him, appearing beside him seemingly out of nowhere. Her hair is pure blonde, nearly white, her skin is a deep golden brown, and her green eyes sparkle with intelligent mirth. "I'm Felicia."

"Uh, I’m sorry?" Peter replies, half panicked, wondering why on earth she's talking to him. A second later, his brain fully engages and he’s quick to correct himself. "Peter! I’m Peter. Hi."

Felicia raises her eyebrows at him, surprised, but her smile only seems to grow. Peter wants to crawl under the cafeteria table and die. Forget starvation, freezing to death, Tim’s stalking, or getting killed while on patrol: he’s going to actually die of embarrassment right here in the middle of Gotham Prep.

“Jesus, kid, you literally took down a crime syndicate last week. The lady just said hi to you,” Bucky mutters.

“This is kind of adorable,” Hill says.

“Don’t tease him, he is already nervous,” Wanda adds.

“What are you doing tonight, Peter?” Felicia asks, somehow determined to continue a conversation with him despite his utter failure at communication. If anything, she seems charmed by it. At the very least, she’s amused.

Peter blinks at her, confused. “Um, nothing?”

That’s not true. He probably has some kind of Bat training set aside or something. The Bat crew are very cagey about telling him what they’re up to; it’s almost as if they want him to figure it out himself, as if they’re leaving little clues out for him to find. For right now, he doesn't have anything planned.

She takes his hand, snatches Tim’s pen out of his fingers, and uses it to write out an address on Peter’s palm. “Swing by my place at seven, then.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says dumbly. “Seven.”

“It's a date," Felicia grins at him, then hands the pen back over to Tim. She pauses to look at his notebooks and hums. “Spider-Man, huh? You know, he was always my favorite back home.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, quirking a brow at her.

“Yeah. He saved my life once,” Felicia says idly, tapping one of Tim’s notebooks before walking off.

Peter frowns. He doesn’t remember saving Felicia. And he would. She’s drop dead gorgeous, and doesn’t seem the type to live in Crime Alley. She doesn’t have the perpetual scowl or pinched, stressed look of the sort of people who live in that area of town, at least. Or she’s very, very good at hiding it.

Felicia leaves, winking at him before moving off. Peter stares after her, baffled. When he turns to face the Wayne Club kids, all of them are smirking at him. With the exception of Steph, who is beaming at him with both thumbs up.

"What just happened?" he asks.

"You just got a date with one of the most beautiful girls in school," Duke answers. “But, honestly, it almost looked like a kidnapping.”

"Congrats," Tim adds. "You're the only person she's shown interest in since she started going here."

That makes absolutely zero sense. What on earth could she possibly see in him? The only girl that's given him a second look is Steph, and she doesn’t even eat lunch with them half the time.

“We’re going to have to work on your game, kid,” Sam says.

"Also Edison Bright has a total crush on her," Steph says helpfully.

Great. Just what he needs. Peter glances over at Edison Bright’s table. The teen is scowling at him, fists clenched, practically scarlet with fury. Peter sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and deeply considers faking his own death and fleeing Gotham entirely. Why is his life like this?

“Wonderful,” Peter mutters.

Tim absently pats his shoulder comfortingly.

* * *

The rest of the day passes by quickly. Peter hauls himself into the fire house and idly tosses his backpack over in the vague direction of his bed. And then he begins to pace, first along the floor, then along the wall and ceiling.

A date. Right. Okay. He can totally do this. Except the last time he went on a date, he ended up getting her dad arrested and sentenced to life in prison. So that’s not a great track record.

“You did what,” Bucky says.

He’s caught somewhere between nervous excitement and vague panic. The first thing he does is check his savings. He has around twenty dollars he can spare for the date; they’re not exactly going to eat like royalty during this, apparently. He can’t even afford two tickets to a movie with that much. He crouches on the wall, thinking.

There’s Gotham Park over in Old Gotham, where Tim and Duke had taken him after their pizza party. He knows there’s an observatory there, a concert hall, and a skating rink. Maybe she’d like to go skating? The tickets won’t be too expensive, and he’d have left over for hot chocolate at the nearby cafe afterward. That wouldn’t be bad, would it? Not thrilling, but not terrible.

“That sounds perfect,” Shuri says. “She’ll like that.”

“Don’t forget flowers,” Bucky adds.

“Dude, no one does that anymore,” Sam says.

“Nobody has class anymore, you mean," Bucky retorts.

“Which of us has successfully dated in the 21st century again?” Sam asks.

Peter paces, half listening to some far away conversation. There’s a flower shop on the way. May always went on and on about Ben bringing her flowers on their first date. And she’s the smartest person he’s ever met. So really, the decision is already made. Hopefully it doesn’t make him look like a massive dork.

Although, frankly, if Felicia thinks he’s cool then someone needs to stage an intervention for her. Nobody even thinks Spider-Man is cool, and he’s the best part of Peter. Peter on his own just oozes geek aura.

“Gross,” Quill says.

Well, decision made. He showers and gets dressed. Jeans, a faded band t-shirt he picked up from the thrift store--it looked vaguely like something Tony had worn around him at some point--a sports coat from the same thrift store run, and the sunglasses the man on the subway had given him a few weeks ago. Peter’s not sure a migraine will hit tonight, but he’s not taking the chance. He runs a hand through his hair, frowns at the length, and sighs. He checks to make sure the mice in the firehouse haven't chewed holes through his clothes, and starts for the door.

“Looking good, Mr. Stark,” Fury says.

Peter pauses, then turns to face the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. He does look like Tony. Or, at least, like a very pale imitation. The AC/DC shirt, the sport coat, the sunglasses and jeans, all of it is exactly what Tony would pull out of his own closet when he needs to make a public appearance somewhere. Peter can practically hear Tony preening over Peter’s accidental mimicry of his style. Right alongside that is Rhodey’s teasing. He smiles a little in spite of himself, and then leaves for the subway.

* * *

Felicia lives in Old Gotham, at an apartment complex in one of the nicer, quiet parts of the city. The kind of apartment that caters to middle to upper middle class workers; doctors, lawyers, high level office workers. The 'working class' rich, basically. That surprises him a little; it isn't precisely normal for the type of kids who go to Gotham Prep. Although he's living in an abandoned fire station in the middle of Murderville, Gotham City, so maybe he shouldn't be so quick to judge.

He finds a little flower shop near the subway and picks out a simple bouquet of lilies, roses, and orchids. They're not in the best of health, but they smell nice and look fairly pretty.

Felicia's apartment is located inside an older gothic style building, well maintained, and clean. Peter jogs up the stairs to the top floor, finds the right door, and then hesitates.

"Take a deep breath and relax, Peter," Shuri says, amused.

That's a tall order. Peter takes in a deep breath and gently knocks on the door. It opens immediately, revealing a tall, beautiful woman with short black hair and brown skin dressed casually. A black cat winds around her ankles, purring loudly.

“Uh, hi,” Peter says, nervously sticking his free hand into the pocket of his sport coat. “I’m here to see Felicia?”

She looks him up and down for a moment, makes a quiet hm sound, and then steps aside, motioning for him to enter. The apartment is warm, fashionably decorated, and playing host to at least three cats. Peter steps inside, but stays close to the door, wary of becoming too comfortable.

"Felicia, your date is here," the woman calls out. She turns to Peter and offers him one elegant hand. "I'm Selina."

"Peter. It's nice to meet you," Peter says politely.

She smiles slightly. "And you, Peter."

Peter can’t really tell what Selina thinks of him. She’s too composed, too careful with her body language and expressions. So long as she doesn’t pull a gun on him during their one-on-one time, it’ll be a massive improvement over his last date, at least.

Felicia strolls into the living room, running one hand through her platinum hair as she walks towards him. She’s dressed casually, like him, and smiles when she sees him. When she sees the flowers, that smile grows.

“Oh, a traditionalist,” she says, taking the bouquet from him. She sounds touched, if a little taken off guard. Maybe the flowers had been too much. “Hang on, let me go put these in my room.”

She admires the flowers for a moment, then leaves again. Selina tilts her head, considering him. “You’re one of Wayne’s kids, aren’t you?”

“I’m, uh, in the Wayne scholarship program,” Peter says. “So, yeah, kinda. Tim and Duke kind of made it sound like that.”

Selina hums and nods, seemingly in approval. “You haven’t met Bruce then.”

“Ah, no. Not yet. Frankly, I’m trying to stay out of his notice.”

That makes her pause. Selina watches him for a moment, then smirks, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Good luck with that, Peter.”

Felicia comes back out, grabbing her purse and a leather jacket draped across the back of a dining table. “All right, I’m all set.”

“Call if you need me,” Selina says, squeezing Peter’s shoulder briefly before releasing him. She aims a look his way, raising one elegant brow. “And don’t stay out too late. It is a school night.”

Felicia rolls her eyes, but smirks. “Noted.”

Felicia takes his arm and leads him out of the apartment with one last wave to Selina. Peter dutifully follows her out into the hall and down the stairs, jogging ahead a bit to get the door for her.

“Your mom is--”

“Not my mom,” Felicia says casually. “More of a guardian.”

“Oh. She seems nice,” Peter says, holding the door open for her. And mentally cringing at his social faux pas. He’s been on the receiving end of the same kind of comments for most of his life. He should know better.

“She likes taking in strays,” Felicia says after a moment. “So, where are we headed?”

“I was thinking the park would be nice? It’s not raining for once, and it’s actually kind of nice out, and, uh, it’s just a quick bus ride there from here so...” He trails off, suddenly out of words.

Felicia grins. “Sounds perfect.”

The bus stop is nicer than the ones Peter sees out in Crime Alley. There’s a little shelter, a bench, and a digital map marking off wait times, weather, and news updates. Not that Peter has much time to appreciate the differences. The bus rolls up to the stop within seconds of them reaching the stop.

He’s surprised to find Lou sitting behind the wheel of the bus. The big man grins at him.

“Hey, Peter. Thought you’d be at your, uh, part time job around this time,” he says.

“I’m stealing him for myself,” Felicia says. “Gotham can survive without him for one night.”

Lou raises his eyebrows, then smirks. “That it can, miss.”

He grins at Peter and gives him a thumbs up and then pulls the doors closed. Peter gives him a weak, nervous grin back.

* * *

The bus ride is mercifully quick; within minutes, they’re at the park. It’s still early in the evening, early enough that the temperature hasn’t dropped much, the outdoor cafe is pulling in brisk business, and the chess and checker tables are crowded with people, and the ice skating rink is similarly busy. He’s a little surprised by that. Gotham is a crime ridden hell hole by almost every statistical measure, but people still go out at night. It’s impressive.

“So, uh, what would you like to do?” Peter asks, looking around the park.

“Ice skating,” Felicia says, smirking up at him. “You up for it?”

“Sure, that sounds like fun,” he says, walking over towards the ice skating rink with her. “I’m surprised it’s even open. It’s not really cold enough for anything to freeze over like that.”

“They’re using Mr. Freeze’s technology,” Felicia says. “It’s frozen solid even in summer.”

Peter has no idea who that is. He doesn’t have a chance to ask, however, as they’re suddenly at the rental kiosk. A tired man standing behind a register looks up at them and plops down two pairs of ice skates on the counter alongside keys to the shoe lockers lining a nearby wall.

“Ten bucks for an hour,” he says.

Peter inwardly cringes at the amount, but hands over his twenty regardless. Good thing he gets paid tomorrow. They take their skates, change into them and lock up their shoes. Peter wobbles unsteadily on his feet for a moment before catching his balance.

Felicia notices that and grins. “Have you gone skating before?”

“No. But I should be pretty good at it,” he says. He should, right? His balance is perfect, after all. He can orient himself while backflipping from a ceiling to a wall. That should carry over to something as simple as ice skating. He’s Spider-Man, after all.

It doesn’t.

He barely makes it a foot out onto the ice before flailing, but he manages to keep from falling. He’s certainly not graceful about his movements. Unlike Felicia, who skims across the ice flawlessly, idly circling him and giving him gentle pointers and tips as he moves. He does try to listen, but he’s fallen flat on his back within five minutes of hitting the ice, and stares up at the cloudy sky above. Maybe if he’s lucky, Thor will strike him down here and now.

“If the goal is to frighten the girl away by sheer incompetence, then you are doing an amazing job,” Loki says.

Felicia leans over him, braces her elbow against her knee and her chin in her palm and regards him with a slight smirk. She balances on her ice skates perfectly, and Peter is envious of her grace. And more than a little appreciative of it.

“Okay, so I might not be good at this,” he admits.

“I might have noticed,” Felicia says dryly, holding her hands out for him. “You should have asked for help.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m not very good at that?” he asks, sitting up. He takes her hands and stands back up on his skates. She manages to pull him up easily, and he’s surprised by her strength.

“Oh, absolutely,” she says, steadying him when he’s back on his feet. She takes hold of his hand and tugs him along after her, moving slowly.

Peter shakily skates after her, focusing on his balance. He will get the hang of this--

Felicia lets go of his hands and skates ahead of him. She twirls, turns to face him, skating backwards. She reaches out and takes both of his hands, gently tugging him forward.

“You’re overthinking this way too much,” Felicia says. “Loosen up! Stop trying to control the blades and move with them. You can't control everything."

“Watch me,” Peter says.

But he also listens to her. He’s trying to stick the blades to the ground the way he sticks to the ground on his own two feet. It’s a subconscious habit, and one he often forgets about. Usually that isn’t an issue. Unless he happens to be ice skating, that is.

Felicia keeps hold of his hands until he starts to move on his own, matching her movements a little stiffly. She gives him an encouraging grin and gently knocks his shoulder with her own when he starts to get the hang of it. Peter is nothing if not a quick study, after all.

By the end of the hour, they’re skating beside each other, hand in hand.

* * *

After they finish skating, they start to wander around the park, walking along one of the wide cement trails crossing the park. The sun has set by now, the air has become a bit colder, but the park is well lit and still full of people.

All in all, Peter thinks this isn’t a bad date. He’s definitely had worse, at least. There’s no special spark between them exactly--not that he’s sure there should be one after a single date--but it’s nice. Calming. And Felicia is clever and strong, and full of gentle teasing, and Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t like that.

Felicia walks alongside him in silence for a few minutes. She looks at him from the corner of her eye. “So, where were you during the Battle of New York?”

“At home with my aunt,” he replies. It’s an automatic thing; everyone knows where they were when aliens invaded New York and the Avengers came to save them. It’s the standard New York icebreaker when you’re well and truly out of topics to discuss with someone. It’s not something you’d ask a person on the street, but it might be something you’d bring up with someone you knew well. “My uncle was a firefighter, so--”

He stops mid sentence and turns to face her, standing in the middle of the walking path. He blinks at her.

“Yeah, I started to wonder if you were from back home during history class a couple of months ago,” Felicia says. She takes his hand in hers and tugs him along. “Come on, you’re blocking traffic.”

Peter stumbles along with her, staring at her incredulously. She's from his New York. He has to fight off the sudden urge to cling to her the way a drowning man would to a life saver thrown out to sea.

“How do you--” he starts.

“I was at my dad’s apartment when the first aliens zipped by our window. The Hulk used my jerk neighbor’s car as a battering ram on live TV. I’ve never seen him so mad before. It was great,” Felicia says. “Hulk was my favorite after that. And the Black Widow, of course.”

Peter walks alongside her, baffled and excited and worried. “Felicia, if you’re from my universe, how did you get here?”

“Dunno. Everyone started falling apart and then this weird flash of gold hit me. I think I fell asleep? I had a dream that some guy in a red cloak talked to me. He apologized, said I was needed in a different part of the multiverse, that there was some kind exchange happening, promised me I'd go home eventually, and then he disappeared. I woke up in the middle of a street here. You?”

Peter thinks of the green tank. “Were you getting all dusty when the flash hit?”

“Nope, I just had to dive out of a cab before it crashed into someone. The cabbie disappeared in the middle of changing lanes,” Felica says, and then she pauses. “Did you ‘get all dusty’?”

“Yes,” Peter answers.

“Oh,” Felicia says. She pauses for a beat. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” he says again, softer this time.

She frowns. “I’m sorry.”

Peter doesn’t have a response to her pity. He should have something to say to it; he’s heard it plenty of times in his life, after all. Instead, he simply walks with her. A part of him is in shock, and a larger part is beyond grateful that she’s here. There are so many questions he wants to ask her that he doesn’t know where to start.

“So, how did you--I mean, you must’ve woken up in the middle of nowhere, right?” Peter asks.

“Kind of. I was on my own for a week before I got desperate and hungry. I ended up breaking into the first apartment I found to get some food. I was starving, and desperate. It was like breaking into Fort Knox. I love a good challenge, though, so I kept at it. Even forgot I was hungry for awhile there. Of course, it wasn’t as empty as I thought it was.”

“It was Selina’s apartment?”

“Yeah. Luckily, she was impressed enough to take me in, which has worked out for me pretty well,” Felicia says. She tilts her head and regards him quietly for a moment. “You don’t have a Selina, do you.”

It isn’t really a question. He rubs the back of his head. “I’m kind of doing things on my own at the moment.”

“That’s stupid,” Felicia says.

He frowns. “It’s easier.”

She tilts her head. “Judging by how tightly you’re holding my hand, I don’t think you believe that.”

He drops her hand as if he’s been scalded and sticks his hands in his sport coat. Felicia sighs, then threads an arm through his. He doesn’t shake her off, but he does sulk.

“Listen, it’s probably not my business--”

“It isn’t.”

“---but you can’t survive Gotham on your own,” Felicia says, pointedly ignoring his interruption. “It’s--this isn’t Queens. This isn’t New York. Iron Man won't come out of the clear blue sky to save you. Gotham is a completely different ball game.”

There's something pointed about the way she says that last part. "I'm not exactly swimming in options."

"Yes, you are," Felicia says. "Tim and Duke would take you in tonight if you asked them. And you know it."

"I can't get them mixed up in all this," Peter says.

"That's an excuse and you know it."

"I like her," Shuri says.

"Felicia--"

"Spider-Man might have been able to handle most things in New York by himself, but he still had the Avengers as back up,” Felicia says, stopping to face him fully. “Spider-Man doesn’t have that here.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, frowning at her.

Felicia sighs. “Nevermind. Come on, let’s go.”

She leads him further down the path. A slightly awkward silence falls between them. Peter covers her hand with his as they walk. She squeezes his arm in response, clearly trying to decide on what to say next.

After a few moments, Felicia glances at him from the corner of her eye. “You know, I always thought Spider-Man would be taller in person. And quicker to pick up on hints.”

“She knows,” Bucky says flatly. “Quit playing dumb.”

Peter pauses, then facepalms. “How do you know I’m Spider-Man?”

“You fell into a dumpster while chasing me and knocked yourself unconscious. I peeked under your mask.”

Ah. The cat burglar. He stares at her for a long moment, flashing back to her conversation with him at lunch, and the night before. “Your first impression of me is finding me unconscious in a dumpster and you still wanted to ask me out?”

“Mostly as a pretense to have this conversation, but yes. You’re kind of cute in a dorky way.”

“Great. You’re really helping out my ego here. Also you’re a thief and I want that antigrav puck back, thanks.”

Felicia smirks, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Finders, keepers.”

“You stole it--”

“Found it,” she corrects.

“Stole it off of my unconscious body,” Peter finishes, ignoring the correction completely. “Why do you need it?”

“It’s useful for leaping off of buildings and landing quietly,” Felicia says. “I’ve broken into three different labs with it so far. Doesn’t keep a very good charge though. Let me know if you ever design a better one. I could use it.”

Peter huffs. His date is a cat burglar that robbed him blind while he was unconscious. This is unbelievable.

“Yeah, about that. What’s this weird obsession with breaking into labs? I’ve chased you out of at least ten in the past three weeks.”

Felicia stops them at the end of the path. The path opens up to the outdoor cafe and chess board area. Firepits and string lights dot the area, keeping it relatively warm and well lit in the gathering dark.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to find a way home,” she says after a moment. “There’s no Tony Stark in this universe, no Wakanda University of Science doctors, no alien tech for us to steal and build a portal back home. But since you’re here, that means there’s a chance--”

“Me?” he asks, thoroughly confused.

“Yes, you,” Felicia says. “You were Tony Stark’s, like, pet genius or something--”

“Wow, okay, that’s completely wrong--”

“--and you build things like the antigrav puck out of pure junk. If I find you the right tools, the right designs, you could build us a way to get back home.”

Peter stares at her. He’s been trying to do that, of course; he still has those notebooks stashed away inside his room at the fire station, but he’s been working on it less and less lately. “What?”

“After I got here, I thought I’d never see my dad again. I gave up. Barely ate, barely slept, just laid in my room for days on end. Selina was starting to worry about me,” Felicia says. “But then I started hearing about Spider-Man. At first I thought you were just an alternate universe version of yourself, but no, it was you. My Spider-Man.”

Peter frowns, tilting his head.

“Sure, we’re kind of on opposite sides of the law, but I always liked you. You always helped out the people who needed it the most. And right now, we’re in the same boat,” she says. “Iron Man’s Spider-Man. Everyone knows he wouldn’t give you the time of day if you weren’t at least as smart as him. If anyone can get us back, it’ll be you.”

Peter stares at her, then looks past her at the cafe kiosk. His mind is a whirlwind; clashing emotions--shock, confusion, relief, and disbelief--shake him to his core. He’s speechless for the moment, trying to sort through it all.

“Don’t you want to go back?” Felicia asks after a moment, frowning at him.

He pauses, and gives voice to the fear that’s haunted him since he first appeared in that strange machine. “What if there’s nothing to go back to?”

Felicia stares at him.

“We lost,” he says. Admitting it hurts worse than he expected, and while he feels strangely detached from their conversation, he’s surprised by the hollowness of his own voice. “We lost bad. Worse than you can imagine. Whatever hit us on Titan must have hit Earth too, if you started seeing people disappear. You might have been lucky getting thrown into this universe.”

“You don’t believe that,” Felicia says after a long moment.

No, he doesn’t. Not yet. But the seed is there.

Felicia sighs, gently taking her hand off of his arm. She gives him a closer look, then leans up and kisses his cheek. It’s feather light, and surprisingly tender. He leans into it for a moment, then remembers himself and clears his throat, leaning back away. Peter hasn’t exactly been swimming in physical affection since arriving at Gotham. He shouldn’t embarrass himself in front of her. Worse than he already has, at least.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says, automatically. “Sure. See you at school.”

Felicia gives him one last thoughtful look before walking towards the bus stop at the edge of the park. Peter watches her, lost in his own thoughts.

Well. At least he’s not alone in this universe anymore.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

BATCHAT

Dick (06:03am): I’m calling it. Spider-Man was a no show tonight.

Barbara (06:04am): He probably forgot to turn on his headset. Or deliberately avoided it. We can still track him through the cell towers in the city if it’s on and he knows that.

Barbara (06:05am): And we’ve already seen how paranoid he is about being tracked. Avoiding Batman and then destroying the tracker Bruce put on his headset.

Jason (06:07am): He’s not going to trust easily. He’s from Crime Alley.

Dick (06:08am): I’ll try to find him tonight.

Barbara (06:09am): Afraid not. Bruce is going to pay him a visit tonight.

Barbara (06:10am): You missed your shot this week, Dick.

Dick (06:12am): I thought Bruce was out of town?

Barbara (06:13am): He’s back. Dad called him for help. Something big is happening in the underworld.

Tim (06:14am): which means he still can't make it for parent-teacher night, probably.

Barbara (06:15am): Afraid not, Tim.

* * *

The morning starts cold, dreary, and carries with it the first true winter wind of the season. Peter wakes up cold, takes a freezing cold shower, and doesn’t warm up fully until he reaches school. He stuffs bunched up plastic grocery bags into his pockets for the extra insulation, and is mildly surprised by how well it works. Gotham Prep uniforms are ‘all season’ clothes which means they aren’t particularly comfortable in any given season; too drafty in winter, and too stuffy in summer.

Peter drops his books onto his desk and plants himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. Tim waves at him, but doesn't look up from his research; he's laser focused on his current project. Duke smiles at Peter.

“Hey, Peter. How’d the date go?” Duke asks.

Peter pauses for a moment. Finally, he says, “Technically, it’s not the worst date I’ve ever had.”

Duke winces. “Ouch. That bad?”

“Yeah, kinda. Felicia’s nice, but...” Peter trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, complicated.”

“How did you manage to form a complicated relationship with someone over the course of one date?” Tim asks, looking up from his research. There’s no bite to his words, just genuine curiosity.

“Talent,” Peter replies with a helpless shrug. “I’m not exactly the best when it comes to dating. Or talking.” He pauses for a moment. “Or people.”

“Too bad,” Duke says. “Steph thought you guys were cute together.”

“What?”

“She was at the park with Cass last night,” Tim says. “She said she saw you two walking together.”

“Huh,” Peter says. “I didn’t see her.”

The first bell sounds off. The teacher, half asleep up until that moment, startles awake and starts to speak as if he had been awake the entire time.

“Don’t forget, guys, we have a half day on Friday,” the teacher says. An older gentleman, with a thick Louisiana drawl, it takes Peter a moment to fully understand him. “We’ve got the dreaded parent-teacher conferences that night. Mr. Parker, I still don’t have an appointment with Mr. Stark.”

Crap. “Ah, yeah, sorry. I’ll remind him tonight.”

Which should be interesting, since Tony Stark isn’t even in this universe. Fortunately, he still has three days to come up with something. Whatever that ends up being.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (09:21am): so what are you doing on Friday night, Dick

Dick (09:22am): Tim, it is day time, I am trying to sleep.

Tim (09:23am): and I'll let you sleep when I get the answer I want

Tim (09:24am): hey, unrelated to anything, does anyone want to see Dick’s disco and mullet phase? I found this absolute treasure trove of pics

Barbara (09:25am): I do

Steph (09:25am): yes, absolutely

Duke (09:25am): lmao his what?

Jason (09:25am): Send it right now and someone give me Bruce’s credit card. There’s a billboard for rent in Crime Alley that needs a new star.

Tim (09:26am): your move, Grayson

Dick (09:26am): God, FINE, I’ll come to your parent-teacher conference, Tim. But only if you promise to destroy those pictures.

Tim (09:27am): it's been a pleasure doing business with you.

Dick (09:27am): I hate all of you.

* * *

School is school, and lunch is still undeniably the best part of it. Peter sits down across from Duke and nods to his cast.

“How much longer do you have to wear that thing?” he asks, pulling out his pen. He starts to add yet another series of doodles to the cast. An arc reactor, Falcon’s wings, Dr. Strange’s cloak friend.

Duke shrugs, clearly amused by Peter’s doodles. He shifts his arm closer so Peter can reach it easier. “It’s healing better than the doctor expected. Two more weeks, and then I get to do physical therapy for a couple of months afterward.”

“You’ll lose your favorite canvas in a couple of weeks,” Tim remarks. His voice is finally losing that gravelly tone that comes with a bad cold, and the bags under his eyes seem lighter than usual.

“I’ll start over in your overpriced notebooks then,” Peter replies.

Tim narrows his eyes at Peter. “Touch my notebooks and we’re going to fight, Parker.”

Peter smirks. “I’m definitely gonna win that fight.”

Tim quirks a brow at him. “Oh, are you?”

“You eat kale chips and tiny cucumber sandwiches, Tim. Rule of Cool means I’ve already won,” Peter declares, capping off his doodling and turning to his lunch.

“He’s got you there,” Duke says helpfully. When Tim narrows his eyes at him, Duke only grins.

Gentle, feminine laughter nearby grabs Peter’s attention. He turns and finds Steph and Felicia chatting together like old friends, walking towards their table with their own trays. Steph sits down next to Tim, lightly bumping him with her hip to get him to scoot over. Felicia sits beside Duke, facing Peter. She gives him a quick wink.

And suddenly he’s very worried. She knows who he is. She could tell the entire school, or the city---

“And who would believe her?” Fury asks.

That---is an amazing point, actually.

Duke blinks up from his lunch, frowning at some point behind Peter.

She nudges him with her foot under the table. “Hey, you. I had fun last night. We should do that again sometime.”

Peter stares at her blankly until Tim gently nudges him with an elbow and breaks him free of the shocked expression that’s clearly on his face. “Oh, uh. Yeah! Of course.”

She smiles at him sweetly, winks, and then turns to talk to Stephanie, leaning across the table. Steph grins at Peter briefly.

Tim leans in and murmurs, “Guess it’s not as complicated as you thought.”

Except it kind of is. Felicia’s more interested in going home than going on any kind of a date. Not that he blames her, of course; if he hadn’t seen the Guardians turn to dust, he’d be feral over the idea of getting back home to May. He started out that way when he first got to Gotham, but he’s less eager now.

Peter shrugs back at Tim. And tears his uniform blazer at the shoulder seam. Great. “Aw, crap.”

"You should talk to Tony about that," Felicia says idly, and much to Peter’s absolute horror. This is somehow worse than having her blurt out his secret identity to the world. "He can afford to buy you a new one. Or a thousand."

Peter sighs. "Yeah, well, he's out of town. I’ll handle it myself after school today."

"Oh? Where’d he go? Usually I hear about that sort of thing," Felicia asks, perfectly innocent. He’s tempted to throw a pen at her. Sure, she’d dodge it and probably fling it right back at his face, but still. The temptation is there.

"Yeah. Business trip." Why is she doing this to him?

"But he has a phone," Felicia continues.

"And I don't."

"Your dad skipped town for a fancy business trip and didn't bother giving you a phone?" Steph asks, tilting her head.

"He doesn’t know it’s broken or he would’ve flown back and thrown one at me,” Peter says irritably, and then he leans in to whisper to Felicia, too low for anyone else to hear, “Why are you the way that you are?”

"I can’t get home if you’re starving to death on the streets. Learn to ask for help," she whispers back.

He'd sooner learn to walk on water. And only partly out of pigheaded spite.

Tim, Duke, and Steph all share one of those looks they often do when they’re together, as if they’re having some kind of silent, telepathic conversation with one another. Peter starts to respond, but is saved, quite literally, by the bell. He sighs, grabs his tray and leaves the table completely, annoyed.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (12:31pm): that was weird

Tim (12:31pm): very.

Steph (12:32pm): is Peter okay? I feel like he just went through a whole spectrum of emotions near Felicia during lunch

Tim (12:33pm): he’s okay. Back to drawing on Duke’s cast.

Steph (12:33pm): oh, good

Duke (12:34pm): sorry, couldn’t add anything after that message.

Duke (12:35pm): i was talking about his ghosts

Duke (12:36pm): one talked about a ‘crime syndicate’ the other day, and one said, verbatim, ‘and who would believe her?’

Tim (12:36pm): i keep forgetting our friend is deeply haunted

Steph (12:37pm): are his ghosts evil?

Duke (12:38pm): the only one I can see clearly is Sam and only every now and then

Duke (12:39pm): i know he isn’t evil

Duke (12:40pm): the rest? Dunno

* * *

Peter is antsy and fidgety for the rest of the day. He needs to figure something out for that damn parent-teacher conference, and he needs to figure it out now. It’s a requirement for his scholarship, and he can’t afford to get kicked out of school or lose the stipend that comes with it. Not now. He considers the problem during the last half of the day, half hearing the teachers, and only occasionally joking with Tim or Duke.

He could ask Lou to stand in. He might do it. Peter considers going that route and immediately tosses it out. He doesn’t want to drag anyone into a web of lies of his own design, especially not someone who would feel obligated to lie on his behalf. That doesn’t feel right. It’s too...transactional. Peter didn't save Lou's life just to use him as a pawn in some scheme. That's not his style.

“Unless your style is starving in the streets, I suggest you figure it out,” Loki remarks dryly.

Shut up, he’s thinking.

The final bell rings. Peter packs his things, and all but flees the school.

Maybe a night of patrol will clear things up.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (03:02pm): i think Felicia knows something about Peter

Tim (03:03pm): i’m going to try and talk with her after class

* * *

Felicia knew it was coming, but she’s still mildly startled when she looks up from her locker and finds herself the sole focus of Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, and Stephanie Brown. She looks at each of them for a moment, measuring them the way she measures everyone, then goes back to her books.

“You know Peter’s dad?” Tim asks.

“Everyone in New York knows Tony Stark,” Felicia replies. “That goes double for anyone in Queens.”

Tim pauses. “Is he a good man?”

Felicia hesitates. That’s a loaded question. She knows what Peter’s answer would be, of course, and he might even be right. But Tony Stark is a complicated subject and a controversial one at that, and he sits at the heart of so many different issues back home that it’s almost ridiculous.

“He is to Peter,” Felicia says finally. “And he’s trying to be better. He is better, if you want a more objective opinion. Personally, I still think he’s kind of an asshole. No one that self obsessed ever becomes tolerable, in my experience.”

Well, she’s definitely not being fair in that regard. She doesn’t entirely care. Sure, everyone that works for his company seems happy, healthy, and glad to be there, but that somehow irks her more.

“Where is he?" Duke asks. "Peter doesn’t talk about him much, and it doesn’t seem like he’s really around.”

“He really is out of town. Which also isn’t surprising," Felicia says after a moment. She's interested in dropping hints for now. If she outright tells them Peter is alone, she'll lose him completely. She doesn't want that; she needs him to find a way home for them both. And she needs that connection to home that comes from talking with him.

“Peter was quick to defend him earlier,” Tim says.

“Tony is his personal hero.” Felicia pauses, then admits, “He’s a hero to a lot of people, really. I’m not being fair to him, but I also didn’t grow up with Tony Stark coming to my rescue at a moment’s notice.”

“You're saying his name like we should know it,” Duke points out.

“Where we’re from, it’d be weird if you didn’t," Felicia says.

“When was the last time Peter saw him?” Tim asks.

“I’m not sure.” Not technically true; she knows Iron Man followed Spider-Man up into that spaceship in spring back in their universe. She can’t just say ‘probably May’ without opening herself up to more questions.

Tim seems to realize she’s lying. His eyes narrow slightly.

“So, why isn’t he here?” Duke asks.

Felicia pauses, drums her fingers against the locker door, then shrugs. “I don't know.”

But she suspects. She thinks Tony is dead, or hurt, or ‘dusty’ and that Peter’s isolated himself out of guilt or shame. That would be so painfully typical of a hero like Spider-Man; all angst, and no sense. She turns back to her locker, speaking without looking up.

“Just try and be there for him, okay? You guys are friends with him, and I’m worried. He’s not the Peter I knew back home.”

In more ways than one.

* * *

Peter swings through the alleys of Crime Alley, trying to cover as much of the district as he can before the dark clouds hovering in the sky open up in earnest. He can smell the rain in the air, can feel the air pressure shift, and he knows it’ll start soon. That should chase most of the low level thieves and muggers off the streets, at least. He idly adjusts the ear piece Black Bat and Spoiler gave him, contemplating turning it on. He should at least check in with Oracle at some point tonight.

He spots a dark form standing on a gargoyle far above the playground Peter helped clean up a few weeks ago. Peter adjusts his swing, changing angles, and leaps over to Batman, sticking to the wall beside him. The man doesn’t startle, but Peter can see tension in his shoulders; apparently he hadn’t been expecting Peter to just stick to a wall near his head.

“Hey. This is my brooding spot. Get your own,” Peter says, dropping down on the ledge beside Batman. He glances around warily. “Where’s Red Hood and Spoiler? Black Bat? Usually someone in the shadows pops out to scare me when I show up.”

“Busy. You’re working with me tonight,” Batman says simply. He’s watching the park below. His expression is dour, as always, but his voice isn’t quite as intimidating as usual.

“That’s news to me,” Peter says.

“This is your part of the city,” Batman says, checking a small computer screen built into his gauntlet. Peter thinks the guy desperately needs some holo projectors; it can’t be safe having that much glass near major arteries in the wrist. “And I need your help. People may die if I don’t have it.”

Of course, he’s thinking this with heavy glass goggles shaped into his iconic teardrops over his own eyes, but whatever. His eyes will grow back if something happens. Peter tilts his head. “Well, if you put it that way, how can a guy say no? What’s going on?”

Batman turns to look at him. “What do you know about Black Mask?”

“Not much,” Peter admits. “Red Hood said he’s out of my league and to avoid him. He’s said that about most of the big names in Gotham, really.”

Which is advice he's been pretty good at following. Frankly, the last thing he needs is a Scorpion situation in Gotham. That’s more heat than he can afford to handle at the moment, and he’d rather not deal with it when he’s got his hands full trying to survive and also figure out a way back home.

“Unfortunately, you’ve been sending most Black Mask’s foot soldiers to jail during your regular patrols. He’s sending his heavy hitters into the neighborhood to set up shop in the warehouse district of Spider Alley. Possibly a drug operation, judging by information Oracle has found.”

Peter’s a little amused and oddly touched that Batman’s calling Crime Alley by that name. It feels significant somehow. “Any idea what they’re making?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Batman says, pulling out his grappling hook. “Turn on your earpiece. Let’s go.”

Despite his size, Batman swings through the air just as easily as Peter. Peter is quick to follow, hastily flicking on his earpiece as he moves.

Guess he’s working with Batman tonight.

* * *

It doesn’t take them long to find the warehouse in question. It’s the only one surrounded by men in masks armed with rifles, after all. The men in question are taking turns either guarding the perimeter or unloading barrels of some unknown chemical into the warehouse. Several box trucks back into loading docks or park within the guard’s perimeter. The sun has disappeared by now; swallowed by rain and the night, and thunder echoes distantly.

Batman and Peter drop onto the roof of an office building just north of the warehouse district, high enough for a good view of the warehouse and far enough that the men below won’t notice them. A stake out ensues, with Batman and Peter switching off between watches and Oracle filling them in on other things happening in the city. Peter, full of nervous energy and more than a little bored when he’s not on watch, attempts to balance himself on two fingers the way Nightwing did so long ago.

He fails. After the third time he falls on his back, he sighs.

“Make your left arm parallel to the ground,” Batman says, his eyes never leaving the men below. “Hold it like that until you find your balance.”

Peter tilts his head, shrugs, then gives it one more try. He manages it, barely, for a few seconds, then pushes himself back onto his feet. “Huh. Did you teach Nightwing that?”

“No, he learned that on his own.”

“Oh,” Peter says, leaping up onto the stone gargoyle next to Batman. He settles into his normal crouch. “Nightwing’s cool.”

The slightest smile forms beneath Batman’s mask. “He is.”

Peter watches the men below for a moment. He doesn’t need binoculars at this distance; his eyesight is sharp enough to make out details, even in the rain and dark. “Why do they keep switching places like that?”

“To keep the guards sharp and mentally stimulated,” Batman says. “Most people can only maintain the kind of awareness necessary for a security detail for so long. The cut off point is two hours. The guards switch places with the men unloading the trucks to keep from getting bored.”

“He’s right,” Bucky says.

“Makes sense,” Peter says. A thought occurs to him. “Hey. You make me switch off every twenty minutes.”

“Some people have varying degrees of focus,” Batman says politely, and after a significant pause.

Oracle snickers in his headset. Peter huffs. “How long are we going to watch?”

“Until they finish unloading the trucks. This looks like their main supply. If we can take it out of their hands, it’ll set them back by months. Longer, if we’re lucky.”

“And it’ll give us a chance to see exactly what it is,” Oracle adds. “We still aren’t entirely sure. The rumors we’ve heard don’t make any sense.”

“Good idea,” Peter says, half to himself. He would have swung in and knocked out the whole crew within seconds of arriving. Which would have given the remaining trucks time to scatter to the four winds before he could catch them. Tony always did hint that he needed to slow down, to consider the big picture. Peter hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time, but...

Well, maybe he was right.

* * *

Hours pass. Evening ticks over into night. Trucks are still arriving and being unloaded below. The rain shows no sign of stopping. It’s Batman’s turn on watch. He’s kneeling on top of one of three stone gargoyles jutting out from the corner of the roof ledge, as still as the stone lion beneath him. He has a small pair of binoculars held to his eyes.

Peter crouches on top of his own gargoyle--a screeching gryphon--to Batman’s right and goes still. He keeps perfect balance on the gargoyle, despite shivering from the rain. Why is Gotham so rainy? He’s never seen so much rain in his life; it’s like the planet is trying to drag the whole city back into the ocean. Peter’s gotten used to standing still in the rain, but he’s not comfortable with it. Once the rain chill sets in, it doesn’t disappear until school starts the next day. A hard wind drives the rain down harder, and he huffs in irritation.

The rain suddenly stops. Peter looks up and sees a black fabric stretched out above his head. He turns towards Batman and blinks. Batman has one hand on his binoculars, focused on the trucks below. His other hand is holding his cape out and over Peter, sheltering him from the rain and wind. Peter considers making a smart remark about it, but decides against it. He simply rests under the cape.

And then he dozes, caught somewhere between true sleep and resting his eyes. It’s a strange kind of half sleep he’s done on the subway and bus in Gotham. After a few moments, he hears Batman's radio click on.

"Looks like your partner is sleeping on the job," Oracle says.

"Hm.”

"We should bring him home."

"He won't go. He doesn't trust us yet,” Batman says, keeping his voice low and quiet. “There’s a standing offer for him. He won’t take it.”

"We have to try.”

Batman is silent for a moment. "I'll ask Nightwing to discuss it with him. He’s always been better at this sort of thing."

“Sounds like a plan,” Oracle says. “As a side note, the roads are clear. You’re looking at the last of the trucks below. And they’re taking most of the guards with them, apparently. Time to get to work.”

Batman draws his cape away from Peter, then grips his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to pull him out of his doze.

“Follow my lead,” he says.

* * *

Batman sneaks into the warehouse through one of the windows near the roof of the warehouse. He has to rely on careful jumps and swings with his grappling hook whereas Peter simply scurries into the warehouse and along the wall closest to Batman. The man does a double take when he sees Peter crawling on all fours along the wall, but quickly regains his focus.

The warehouse is bisected by a wall, separating it into two halves. The room they’re in is empty of people, but stacked to the brim with crates and barrels. They move around them, scouting the room. Peter keeps to the shadows, moving smoothly in the dark while Batman looks over the items the men had spent so much time unloading.

“This is definitely something chemical. From the smell, I’d say it’s something toxic. And acidic. I bet this stuff isn’t even the worst of it, though. That stuff will probably be in the next room,” Peter says quietly. “Ned, can you tap into---”

“Who’s Ned?” Oracle asks, politely curious.

Peter freezes. “Nothing. No one. Oracle. Can you tap into the security network? I saw the cameras outside, but I’m not sure if they’re on or not.”

“Already done,” Oracle answers. “And you’re right. They’ve got fifty barrels piled up in the middle of the next room, and they’re being very gentle with it.”

“I found three crates full of blue poppies. There’s a good chance those barrels are full of the liquid form of fear toxin that Scarecrow uses,” Batman says.

“It smells like burning diesel and rotting lavender,” Peter remarks, skittering across the ceiling towards Batman. The man is still vaguely disturbed when he sees Peter moving in ways humans don’t, and honestly, it’s kind of funny.

“You can smell it from there?” Oracle asks.

“I’ve got super senses,” Peter says casually. “I can smell everything in a mile.”

“I do not envy you that super power,” Oracle says. “Okay, test time: how many people can you hear in the warehouse?”

Peter pauses, closing his eyes. “Seven--no, eight--heartbeats.”

“I only see seven on my camera.”

“Check the far northwest corner. He’s asleep, judging by his heartbeat,” Peter says, dropping down to crouch on a crate beside Batman.

There’s a moment’s pause and then Oracle laughs. “Yeah, you have excellent hearing. I also don’t envy you that. Okay, eight guys, one asleep, and fifty barrels of what is very likely to be a concentrated form of liquid fear toxin.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Peter mutters.

Batman ignores his very clever and very cool commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Contact GCPD, Oracle. Spiderman, stick to the shadows. You take the north side, I’ll handle the south.”

“Yessir,” Peter says, shooting out a web and yanking himself up into the far corner of the warehouse. He slithers into the vent effortlessly and skitters through it to the other side, slipping out of the other end above the sleeping guard.

"That will never not be creepy," Sam mutters.

Peter makes a mental note to be as spidery as possible at Sam Wilson the next time he sees him. He’s not sure why. It just seems like fun.

"Great," Sam says, annoyed amusem*nt threading through the word.

Peter webs up the guard. It doesn’t take much; two shots of his webshooter pins and gags the man. The guy doesn’t even wake up. Too easy. Peter doesn’t even leave his perch on the ceiling.

Batman takes a much less subtle approach. He drops from the ceiling into a group of three men. All three are unconscious before he hits the ground. The rest rush him with pipes, clubs, and knives, skirting around the barrels fear toxin.

“He’s good,” Bucky says.

Peter has to agree with that. He watches Batman take on the remaining guards, shuffling along the ceiling. So far, he seems to be handling things on his own just fine. The first three men he attacked are already handcuffed, and two more are shaking their hands and cursing vehemently after Batman throws something dark and sharp that bounces between them and leaves their weapons on the ground.

And then there’s that unmistakable twinge of his spider senses, like a feather tickling the inside of his ear. Back and left, behind Batman, a man is sneaking through the shadows with a revolver. He stands up from behind a crate, and aims at Batman’s head.

Peter is already moving. He flings out a web and yanks the man’s arm aside, throwing off his aim just as he pulls the trigger. The shot goes wide, striking one of the barrels. A thick, oily substance begins to pour out of the perforated barrel. Peter leaps over the trail of toxin, using his web to sling shot himself over to the man before laying him out with a single punch.

Batman spares him a quick look and approving nod, before turning to face the remaining guards. Peter moves in to cover his back, and Batman shifts his fighting style slightly, working with Peter, covering him and trading foes in equal measure. It’s almost a dance more than a fight, and if Peter didn’t know any better, he’d think Batman had fought alongside Peter for years. Peter’s style is more acrobatic than anything else; flips, jumps, and misdirection. Batman fills every gap in his defense. It’s impressive.

“He’s fought alongside someone who moves like you before,” Fury says idly.

That explains it.

The fight ends quickly. Peter idly webs up the guards while Batman stalks and searches the rest of the room for anyone hiding in the dark.

Peter taps his chin, leaning over the gangsters curiously. “These are False Facers, right? They don’t normally work with this Scarecrow guy, do they?”

“No. Black Mask works alone. He’s too selfish and too narcissistic to care about anyone but himself, and Scarecrow is off-putting enough that he’s never managed to gather any kind of following,” Batman says looking over the scene. “This is new.”

He doesn’t sound pleased by that. “Do your supervillains usually work together?”

“Never,” Batman says. “They’ve never shown any kind of coordination beyond the occasional and very brief team up. This is too organized, too well thought out.”

“Guess they’ve decided to switch things up,” Peter says, half to himself.

“So it seems,” Batman says. He pauses for a moment, then turns to Peter. “Good work earlier.”

It sounds like the man is pulling out his own teeth while saying that. Compliments clearly don’t come easy for Batman, and it makes his poor attempt to do so seem even more sincere. Peter gives him a lazy salute. “Just doing my part. Oracle, what time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” she says, distracted. “Police are en route with a HAZMAT team. ETA, five minutes.”

“Yeesh. Way past my clock out time,” Peter says. “I’m outta here--”

He starts to step towards the barrels to get a better angle at one of the high windows. He stops when a black gauntlet grips his arm iron tight and yanks him over to the side. Peter, thrown off by Batman’s grip on his arm and the fact that his senses didn’t trigger again, stumbles towards Batman and nearly runs into the man.

“Hey, what--”

“You almost stepped in it,” Batman says tightly.

Peter blinks up at him, then turns towards the area Batman is focused on. A shallow pool of that oily toxin has formed on the floor, inches away from his foot. The smell of diesel and lavender is almost overpowering. Peter isn’t sure how he missed it.

“Exhaustion. Stress. Starvation. The usual for you, in other words,” Hill remarks.

“Is it that bad?” Peter asks him. “I mean, to even step in it?”

Batman watches him for a moment, letting go of his arm. “It’s designed to incite anxiety, fear, and stress to a level that forces people into a near fatal psychosis. Exposure is ill advised, to say the least.”

“Good to know,” Peter says, edging away from the pool.

“Stay for a bit. I know it’s late, but you can come back with me to my headquarters,” Batman says. “You can rest there.”

Peter starts shaking his head before he even finishes the word ‘headquarters.’ He shoots a web towards the ceiling and yanks himself up and away from the barrels of fear toxin, calling down to Batman.

“Sorry, Bats, not gonna happen. I’m a Lone Ranger kinda guy. And I’ve got stuff to do anyway. This was fun, though! We should do it again! See ya!”

He’s through the window and gone before Batman can respond. Just to be safe, he flicks off his headset so Oracle can’t track him.

* * *

School the next two days is almost a total blur. Peter spends so much of the day focused on and stressed by the idea of losing his scholarship that he doesn’t notice Tim, Duke, Steph, or Felicia. He does confirm Tony’s appointment with his teachers, however. That earns him quite the curious look from Felicia. He doesn’t comment on it.

And after school lets out at noon on Friday, he skips patrol, focusing instead on pacing around the fire station, hands in his pockets, trying desperately to think of what to do. If he loses the scholarship, will they expect him to pay back the money they’ve given him? Would they consider it theft that he got the scholarship at all? That’s definitely a felony amount; he’d be in prison by the end of the month--

There’s a flash of green in the corner of his eyes. He turns and finds himself face to face with the ghostly version of Loki.

“I have an offer for you,” Loki’s ghost says.

“Uh,” Peter says, flabbergasted. “Okay?”

“You help me--which is really a help to all of us--and I will help you stay a homeless orphan, free of the control of others, as you so clearly desire.”

Peter stares at him. “How do I help you? You’re a ghost.” A beat. “No offense.”

Loki smiles, and though Peter knows he doesn’t mean it to be--how he knows he isn’t sure--it comes across as condescending. “Simple. Promise you’ll walk with me in your dreams tonight.”

What. Peter stares at him, confused. “Uh. Sure. I guess?”

“Excellent. Now, for the second step.” He holds out one ghostly hand. “Take my hand.”

Peter’s senses tingle ever so slightly when Loki stretches out his hand. He considers the Prince’s hand for a long moment, and then reaches out and places his hand in Loki’s.

There’s another bright flash---

And then Peter is suddenly not the one in control of his own body.

* * *

Loki sighs, stretching his borrowed arms and legs. It’s good to be alive and embodied again. Even in a form this small and weak. He paces around the boy’s hovel, getting a feel for physical movement again. He is matched step for step by two others: Nick Fury and Bucky Barnes. Both walk on either side of him, glowering hatefully.

"What are you doing, Loki?" Fury asks. He does manage to look suitably threatening, even as a ghost, and a Midgardian at that. Loki is mildly impressed.

"I fail to see how that's any of your business,” Loki says. He can feel the child hovering in the back of his mind; not fully aware, but not fully asleep either.

"Get out," Bucky snarls. He’s furious. More than that, he’s scared. He knows all too well what it feels like to have one's body usurped, Loki supposes. “Get out of his goddamn body!”

That's the downside of this little adventure: everyone’s souls and memories rub off on another. For some, like the Guardians and the Wakandans, this isn't much of an issue. For Loki, it's like living in a room made of sandpaper. He can feel himself change, feel their influence on him into his mind and heart. He hates it.

"Or what?" Loki asks. His voice sounds odd coming out of the teenager's body.

"Or you will have to deal with us," T'Challa says, appearing in front of Loki so clearly that he almost seems physical himself. His voice is calm, but carries with it an unmistakable threat. “And that is not a fight you want.”

Loki pauses, bows slightly to T'Challa, and grins widely at him, making sure to show all of his teeth. T'Challa narrows his eyes.

"A point well made," Loki says, keeping his tone courtly and polite. It’s odd to hear himself using this voice. The little spider could never manage to maintain proper manners. Not with that gutter drawl of an accent and permanent slouch. He can tell such niceties annoy the Wakandan King and makes a mental note to keep it up when possible.

He grabs one of Peter’s pens and a piece of paper on the desk and quickly writes out a set of runes on it, enchanting it as he goes. When he finishes, the paper disappears in a flash of smoke and he sets the pen down where he found it. He never intended to steal the boy's body, anyway. Not really. He'd considered it, of course, back when the boy first stole the soul stone, but the idea of it has become less appealing over time. It had even seemed cruel to him, and he is loathe to do anything that would outright harm Peter. The idiot has started to remind him of Thor as of late, and that’s all but sealed the child’s fate in Loki’s mind. Despite everything, he still loves his brother and he always will, and idiot children who mimic his brother seem to earn some kind of vague feelings of protectiveness from Loki. He isn't used to caring about others who aren't his family. He finds this forced empathy as irritating as it is irresistible.

The other ghosts circle him like wolves. Even if he did decide to stay in Peter’s body, he would be literally haunted by the vengeful dead, robbing him of any moments of peace he could hope to have. Time to prove he isn’t as much of a monster as they assume he is, then.

"You’ll have difficulty remembering this, but you will pay attention here: When I snap my fingers, you'll lay down for a nap. When you wake up, you will ask for help and then draw the runes I’ve just shown you." There's no need to make the child rest, there’s no need to show this kindness. But he does it anyway. The places within his own soul rubbed raw by the others demand it. And besides, the rest will do the child some good. If nothing else, Loki won’t have to hear the boy’s constant worry and guilt for a few hours.

Loki snaps his fingers. Peter shuffles for his bed, head slouched forward, leaving Loki's soul behind as he moves away. The others seem to breathe a sigh of relief. T’Challa and Sam Wilson stand beside each other, watching Loki with almost matching glares. The Guardians look on with vague disapproval.

Bucky grabs his collar and yanks him close. His eyes are bright and furious. "Do that again and I’ll make every moment we’re stuck in here a personal hell for you."

"So very little trust," Loki says dryly. “Believe it or not, what I’m about to do will serve all of us equally well.”

“Don’t. Do. It. Again,” Bucky growls before roughly shoving him away.

Loki rolls his eyes, but smiles and backs away from the snarling wolf.

He’s gotten what he wants, anyway.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, it happens all at once. One moment, he’s in a deep, restful sleep and the next he’s wide awake and on his feet. His stomach clenches painfully; a half day at school has robbed him of the largest meal of his deal, and the sandwich Lou gave him this morning is long gone apparently. He runs a hand through his hair, attempts to smooth out the wrinkles in his uniform, and checks the time. And then groans.

The conference starts in an hour and he’s still no closer to figuring out a solution than he was before his sudden nap. He sighs, grabs his notebook and a pen, and starts to doodle. Doodling helps him think, calms him down. He lets the pen move on its own, frustrated and hungry.

If he had help maybe---

There’s a flash of gold. And suddenly, Loki of Asgard is standing in the middle of the room. Peter stops midstep, staring at Loki blankly.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember,” Loki says.

“What the f*ck,” Peter says.

“Mind your language. Do you remember our agreement?”

Peter stares at him blankly, and then it comes back. “You’re going to help me?”

Loki smiles at him. “Indeed.”

A flash of green light hits Loki, changing him. One moment he's there, the next he’s been replaced by a mirror perfect image of Tony Stark. Peter stares at him, then amends that statement. Sure, he looks like Tony, but this is a younger version of Iron Man. There’s no hints of grey in his goatee or hair, and the worry and laugh lines are gone completely.

"Consider me the superior version of Iron Man," Loki says, using Tony’s voice. It doesn’t quite sound right to Peter’s ears. "You will hold up your end of the bargain, and I will hold up mine."

Peter watches him for a long moment. Finally, he says: "This is a very bad idea."

“Mind our agreement, spider,” Loki says, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’m loathe to compliment your people too much, but I will say your idea of formal wear is rather nice. In a boring sort of way.”

Peter rolls his eyes, pauses, and sniffs the air. “What is that smell?”

“A part of the illusion. Cologne masking alcohol. It was a rather persistent thing for Tony during the invasion and afterward. I don’t exactly have a frame of reference for anything more recent than that,” Loki says, adjusting his cufflinks. “Let’s be off.”

His mimicry of Tony’s voice is perfect, except for the speech cadence. Tony’s never used such a casually mocking tone towards Peter. Not even when he’s screwed up or pissed him off. In fact, the longer Peter’s known Tony, the gentler the tone has become. This version of Tony is all cutting barbs and defensive snark, and Peter can say with certainty that he doesn’t like it.

But this might work.

Is it worth it though?

“Of course it isn’t f*cking worth it,” Sam says sourly.

Peter sighs. “Fine. In and out, and you only talk to my teachers long enough to satisfy the scholarship. And then you're going to tell me how you're even able to do this. Got it?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Loki says, clapping Peter’s shoulder fondly.

“Do not make this weird, please,” Peter says, shrugging off his hand.

Loki smirks, turns and leaves. Peter sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and feels the start of a headache. A gentle throbbing behind his eyes.

“This is a horrible f*cking idea,” Peter mutters, walking after Loki-as-Tony.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

BATCHAT

Barbara (05:45pm): Bruce is out of town. Again.

Jason (05:46pm): God, now what?

Barbara (05:47pm): Another emergency meeting at the Hall of Justice. Something to do with the Green Lanterns, I think. Things will get tight tonight with you guys at the school.

Tim (05:48pm): if you need us, we can come back. my cold is almost completely gone.

Steph (05:48pm): and make you miss your opportunity to snoop on peter? never

* * *

“In and out, quick as you please,” Loki says behind Tony Stark’s face and voice. He demonstrates this with a flourishing snap of his fingers that’s close to the sort of thing Tony would do. “As soon as I’m done with your teachers, we’ll pull a disappearing act back to your little hovel and I’ll leave you to recover. You’ll need it.”

Peter follows Loki on the sidewalk leading up to the school, one step behind. It’s full to the brim with students, parents, and faculty, bustling in a way that’s out of place in the fog. It’s strange seeing a school busy at night. It feels wrong, somehow.

Or maybe that’s just Peter’s potential headache talking.

“So how are you able to just appear?” Peter asks Loki quietly. “I know there are others, but I don’t hear them sometimes. It’s hard to think of them. They get fuzzy. Like dreams when you first wake up. You can remember them, but then they’re just gone. Can I make them appear like you?”

“No,” Loki replies immediately. “I’ve died several times. I know the paths back to this realm like the back of my hand, and I’m borrowing against your own life force to be here. The others don’t have that ability, save for the witch.”

Peter pauses. “Okay, that sounds bad.”

“There won’t be any lasting harm. I’m rather dependent on your continued survival, after all,” Loki says, distracted. “But you will feel like you’re dying. As will I, for the record. I’m not fond of putting myself at risk. You should be honored.”

“Oh, good. As long as I only feel like I’m dying, I guess,” Peter says dryly. “This is a bad idea, we should turn back--”

“Too late,” Loki says. “We’re already here. And your friend has spotted us. We can’t exactly flee into the night now, can we?”

He’s right. Tim and a tall, brown skinned man with dark hair and blue eyes are watching them walk towards the school. Tim’s focus is almost entirely on Loki, but the blue eyed man is watching Peter closely. It seems like he recognizes Peter from somewhere, but Peter’s not sure how that’s possible. He’d recognize Tim’s dad. Or, he amends, his older brother. The man is maybe ten years older than Tim, maybe a little more or less. He’s built like a champion gymnast, which isn’t unusual for the rich and well to do who have time to dedicate to rigid gym routines. But like Tim, he doesn’t carry himself the same way the other parents or students do.

Peter is again struck by how stupid this whole plan is when Loki smiles at Tim and claps his shoulder. “Tim! The kid’s told me all about you. It’s good to see you face to face.”

Tim manages a polite smile despite being obviously startled. Maybe he was expecting someone similar to Peter. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Stark. This is my brother, Dick."

He motions towards the athletic man standing beside him. Dick Grayson is dressed casually, a simple button down shirt, khaki pants, and black, polished loafers. Nice, but simple and comfortable. He almost looks shabby compared to Loki’s suit. A Kiton bespoke, Peter realizes he's seen Tony wear one before. Not often. Just the once, really, when Peter almost signed the Accords.

Dick Grayson looks Loki up and down. He doesn’t seem overly pleased by what he sees, but he holds his hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stark. Peter is a great kid from what I’ve seen.”

“Of course he is, he’s mine after all,” Loki says, shaking Dick’s hand. His grin is indulgent, as if he’s doing Dick a favor by speaking to him. It’s not at all like Tony’s real smile, and the difference irks Peter.

“Right,” Dick says, drawing the word out. “Here, let me show you where we’re supposed to wait.”

“Lead the way,” Loki says.

The two men step into the school. Dick holds the door open behind himself for Tim. Loki does not extend that same courtesy for Peter. The door slams shut in his face and he pauses, rolls his eyes, and pulls it open before following Loki into the building. Much to his horror, this does not go unnoticed by Dick and Tim, who share matching frowns in his direction.

Time to distract them, then. He turns to Tim. “Where’s Duke?”

“Getting some stuff from his locker,” Tim says, the frown disappearing. “Come on, the students are supposed to wait in the gym. Let’s go find him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says. He spares a look at Loki.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Loki says. “Shoo. Have fun.”

Peter aims a flat, unamused look at Loki and leaves with Tim. He feels like he shouldn’t leave the literal God of Mischief alone with his teachers, but he can’t figure out a way to stay and babysit him either. He has to trust Loki actually has his best interests at heart.

Which, now that he thinks about it, is a terrible f*cking idea.

* * *

Loki watches Peter and the other boy leave, and lets out a small sigh of relief. Peter’s constant suspicion and worry was starting to grate on his nerves. Better that he’s gone for the moment. The sigh catches Dick’s attention, and he focuses on Loki, his expression unreadable.

"That's a very nice suit, Mr. Stark," Dick says.

"You like? I picked it up during my last trip to Italy. There’s a lovely little shop in Rome I visited," Loki says. “Almost forgot to bring it home. Remind me to give you his information. He’s booked for the next six months, but I think I can put a good word in for you.”

“It seems like you can afford a lot of nice things,” Dick says after a long moment, breezing past Loki’s offer.

“I’m sensing a bit of judgement in your tone,” Loki says, idly brushing off one of his sleeves.

“I’m just curious about a few things. You’ve got a new suit, nice sunglasses, a pair of shoes that I know cost more than my car,” Dick says, still with that casual tone, though there’s an edge of anger entering it. “But Peter is in second hand clothes fresh off the rack of a thrift store.”

“He’s an independent soul. He prefers it when I don’t help him too much,” Loki says casually. He’s not exactly wrong, of course. The best lies are those that are mostly true.

That answer, oddly enough, doesn’t seem to endear Loki to the man at all. “You’re his father?”

“Guardian,” Loki says in that casual, grandstanding tone Tony Stark used around him so often in the days before Loki was taken back to Asgard. “But we do share the same eyes, I always thought. Brown eyes run in the family.”

A surprising pause follows that.

“His eyes are hazel. Almost green,” Dick states simply after a long moment. The look he gives Loki is cool and considering.

Loki blinks in genuine surprise. The boy’s eyes are brown in the soul stone; his true color as far as he knew. When had they turned green? He frowns in thought, then realizes that Dick is watching him for a reaction.

“Guess I’ve never noticed. Hey, thanks for showing me where everything is. I appreciate it.” Loki plasters on a press ready smile, pushing past him and into the cafeteria where the rest of the students and their parents are lingering.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (06:00pm): so how’s it going?

Dick (06:03pm): This guy is Peter’s family?

Tim (06:04pm): as far as we know, yeah

Tim (06:10pm): judging by your typing, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume the talk you guys had went poorly

Tim (06:14pm): okay, wow, it must’ve gone really bad, what happened?

Dick (06:15pm): Peter deserves better. I’m tempted to just grab him and take him home. We can get away with it. We’re Waynes.

Tim (06:16pm): two things

Tim (06:17pm): first, you’re probably right

Tim (06:18pm): second, peter won’t come willingly and kidnapping is still HIGHLY illegal. I’m pretty sure Bruce will call a Family Meeting if we commit prosecutable felonies in his absence

Jason (06:19pm): Please commit a felony so I can watch the old man try and explain how it’s different when you do it.

* * *

Tony all but flees from Dick the moment he steps inside the cafeteria, apparently eager to put some distance between them. Dick is both annoyed and relieved by that; something about the man just rubs him the wrong way, even without the casual and very obvious neglect. There’s a tension between Tony and Peter that bugs Dick, and he can’t quite figure out what it is.

He pours some distance of his own, leaning back against the wall of the cafeteria and pulling out his phone to text Tim.

“Well, fancy meeting you here, little bird.”

Dick looks up from his phone, startled, and stares at Selina Kyle. She slides over to his side and leans against the wall beside him, nursing a wine glass half filled with something red and expensive. Because of course Gotham Prep serves wine at a parent-teacher conference. This is like being at one of Bruce’s galas without the benefit of being able to leap out of a window or slide into a wall as a way to avoid insufferable guests.

“Please tell me you’re not here to scope out potential victims,” Dick says tiredly.

“Hardly. Your father has rubbed off on me in more ways than one---”

“Oh my god, gross,” Dick says, mutely horrified.

Selina continues, smirking slightly at his reaction. “Not in that way. I’m here for the conference, believe it or not.”

Dick stares at her, confused.

Selina holds up a class schedule. “I’ve taken in a young lady recently. She’s a student here. I’ve just finished meeting with all of her teachers, in fact. Most of them seem like functional alcoholics.”

“You adopted someone?” Dick asks, curiosity briefly scattering his dark mood.

“Mmhm. She’s tight lipped about where she came from. The girl’s a puzzle, but she’s clever, and she has quite a lot of potential. With the right guidance, she could be my match easily.” Another pause. “Better, maybe. I don’t say that lightly.”

That’s honestly fascinating. Selina had always been a loner, save for the brief times she’s come to help Batman, which were often brief, passionate affairs. Dick vividly remembers Bruce and Selina’s enemies-to-rivals-to-lovers dance when he was a kid; that same heated thread winds its way through their conversations even now, though they’ve both calmed down from their early days. And thank god for that.

“No offense, but you don’t seem the type,” Dick says after a moment.

Selina smiles at him. “I didn’t think I was either. Like I said, Bruce’s bad habits are rubbing off on me.”

“Please stop saying that.”

She smirks, but mercifully changes the subject. “Who are you here for?”

“Tim and Duke,” Dick says. “Tim strong armed me into it and I’m already regretting it.”

“It should go quickly for them, at least. They’re clever boys,” Selina says.

“Yeah, I’m not worried about that part,” Dick says. “I’m more concerned with keeping my cool around these kinds of people.”

His eyes follow Tony Stark around the room. The man has a glass of wine in one hand and is using the other to make some grand, intricate gesture in the air while a group of the rich and famous watch on fascinated. Tony says something, and the men burst into laughter, with one clapping his shoulder. Every last man in that group, save for Tony, has invested in, funded, or otherwise used their wealth and influence to make Gotham a worse place. The man is clearly much more at ease with them than he is with Peter.

Selina follows his gaze and hums quietly. “He seems charming.”

“He’s an arrogant asshole,” Dick mutters darkly.

“If you start disliking everyone here based on that criteria, you’re in for a long night,” Selina says, fighting back a small smirk. She checks her smart watch. “Fortunately, I won’t have to suffer alongside you. Good luck, little bird. Try not to have too much fun.”

“Yeah, see ya, Selina,” Dick says. He doesn’t hear Selina leave.

Tony is on the move again, and Dick follows him with his eyes. It’s the way he moves, Dick realizes. This is a man who doesn’t walk often, despite keeping in shape. There’s a stilted quality to his movements that he hides well when he’s being watched, but which become all too apparent when left alone. He ducks into a crowd and seems to disappear.

“Mr. Grayson?” a prim woman says beside him. “You’re next on the list to speak with the faculty.”

“Oh, right,” Dick says, distracted. Damn, he lost sight of Tony. He sighs. “Okay, lead the way.”

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:01pm): How’s it going?

Dick (07:02pm): Normal. Tim, you forgot to turn in a ten page history report last week.

Tim (07:03pm): wow announce it to the whole chat.

Dick (07:04pm): You can turn it in by Friday for half credit.

Tim (07:05pm): pass

Dick (07:06pm): Do it or I ground you from patrol. Steph, your teachers love you and your grades are perfect

Steph (07:07pm): lmao, of course they are

Tim (07:08pm): dick wtf.

Duke (07:09pm): hahaha

Dick (07:10pm): Duke, you’re literally at the top of your class. Awesome job!

Duke (07:11pm): damn right I am

Dick (07:12pm): In other news, Selina Kyle apparently has a daughter enrolled in your class.

Tim: (07:13pm): what

Duke (07:13pm): what

Steph (07:14pm): what

* * *

The gym is full of students, hastily laid out tables, and several very bored teacher chaperones more interested in their phones than their jobs. Peter sits alone, in the dimmest part of the room, head buried in his arms on the battered table. What had started as a brief tickle of pain in the fire station is rapidly becoming a roaring river of fire pounding against the back of his eyes. He looks miserable enough that most of the other students leave him alone.

Someone sits beside him, on his right. Another person sits on the other side of him. Peter sits up and blinks up at his visitors. It’s Tim and Duke, of course. Tim is watching Peter closely, while Duke digs through his backpack, quietly cursing to himself.

“You look terrible,” Tim says. There’s a wary gentleness to his tone that hadn’t been there before, and Peter fights back a fresh wave of annoyance at Loki.

“It’s just a headache. I get them sometimes,” Peter mutters, rubbing his eyes. He blinks at his friends and starts to say something when he notices Duke staring at him intently. Or rather, staring around him intently. “Uh.”

“You’re alone,” Duke says, as if in revelation. “It’s just you.”

Peter stares at him, confused. “What?”

“Uh, nothing. Nevermind,” Duke says. He sighs, getting up and slinging his backpack over his good arm. He jogs for the doors. “I’ll be right back. I forgot something.”

Peter makes a small noise of acknowledgement, caught somewhere between a grunt and ‘yeah, okay’ before massaging his temples. Tim watches him for a long moment.

“Peter, are you alright? Is everything okay at home?”

Peter sighs. He should have seen this coming. Of course Tim is going to be worried about him after that little performance in the hallway. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. You’re not seeing Tony at his best, for the record. At all.”

“I thought I smelled alcohol on him earlier,” Tim says after a long moment.

Peter’s headache gets just a bit worse. And with it, his temper. “Yeah. Look, I’m not interested in talking about it. Drop it, all right?”

He’s never used a sharp tone on his friend, and he regrets it immediately. Tim blinks at him in surprise, but nods. “Okay. I’ll drop it. Let’s just chill for a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Peter mutters, putting his head back into his arms.

* * *

Duke rifles through his locker, searching for his missing notebook. It has all of his homework in it for the week and he’d rather not go back and do it all over again if he can help it. He finds it, finally, and sighs in relief, shoving it into his backpack and then slamming the locker shut. He turns, walking past a half open utility closet, and starts to head back to the gym.

Duke stops dead in the hallway. There’s a man with two faces standing in the hallway in front of him. Duke never heard him approach. He’s half translucent, with the edges of his face and body fuzzy at the edges. Well, that’s not quite right: the face and body he’s standing near is as real as can be, but the face behind the face very much isn’t. It’s as if a man’s face and body is being used as a bodysuit by another.

“What the f*ck are you?” Duke asks. The man inside the man reminds him of Gnomon, his biological father. Who also happens to be an evil god that tried to kill him.

“Right now, I’m a friend,” the man says. There’s an odd accent to his words that Duke can’t place; it’s old and dignified and very condescending. “Did you know that you were fated to die tonight?”

“What?” Duke asks, warily taking a step back. If a fight starts, he’ll be at a disadvantage with his arm in its sling, but he can work around that. Hell, he can fight with both hands tied behind his back if it comes to it.

“I couldn’t make out the shape of the threat, of course. I would’ve had to borrow the boy’s body to do it. The others get so very touchy if I do that,” the man says. He trails off, thinking, then shrugs. “No matter. I want you to remember this: the letter is a lie, and death is coming for you all.”

Duke frowns at him, confused. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to--”

The man snaps his fingers. A bright green flash illuminates the hallway, blinding Duke and overwhelming his meta senses. He staggers back and away from the man, blinded, but still ready for a fight. He’s Signal, Batman’s day time guardian; fighting blind is a requirement to wear the bat symbol. But when he was fighting blind before, he could at least hear his opponents breathe or move. He’s fighting a ghost who does neither.

To his eternal credit, he manages to get one good hit in. It’s like hitting steam, except the vapor is freezing to the touch, chilling him both body and soul. The man huffs, apparently unhurt, and suddenly Duke is lifted into the air. He hears the utility closet door swing open behind him.

“Striking me does nothing. It does, however, hurt your friend. A pity you won’t remember that until much later, too.”

“What the f*ck are you--”

Another blinding flash. Duke’s thrown unceremoniously into the utility closet. The door slams shut behind him. A third flash knocks him out cold, his memory is blasted clean of the past five minutes.

Loki hums quietly to himself before walking back down the hall towards the gym, adjusting his cufflinks.

Amazing what the wrong man at the right place can do to a timeline.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (07:32pm): duke where are you?

Tim (07:33pm): it’s been like twenty minutes

Tim (07:36pm): Dick, is Duke with you?

Jason (07:37pm): Tim is officially worried if he’s using proper grammar.

Dick (07:38pm): No. Why?

Tim (07:39pm): Something isn’t right.

* * *

Peter is quietly suffering in agony when he suddenly jumps in place, gasping for breath and clutching his side. It feels as if he’s just taken a solid punch to the ribs. Not enough to really hurt him, but enough that he can feel the start of a bruise. The skin grows taut and tender, and he amends that statement. It feels like he just got popped by Cap; hard enough to hurt, but not enough to leave last damage.

Tim, naturally, is highly f*cking concerned. He drops his phone down on the table and shifts closer, gripping his shoulder. “Peter? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just a muscle cramp,” Peter mutters, sitting up. His headache is getting steadily worse, and this new mystery bruise isn’t going to do him any favors. He winces, sucking in a careful breath.

Tim frowns at him, and starts to speak when a voice cuts through the crowd.

“Kid!” Tony yells from the doorway. It sounds so much like him, that Peter actually perks up, momentarily forgetting who is using that voice. “Over here, come on!”

Peter stands, relief flooding through him, turning to face Tony. He’s here. He found him. He’s---

He’s Loki. Loki quirks a brow at him from the doorway, waving at him impatiently. Dick Grayson is standing behind him, looking at Tim. Peter clamps down on a sudden wave of disappointment, takes in a deep breath, and walks over to him, keeping his back straight and stiff to avoid the mysterious bruise that’s forming under his shirt.

Loki slings an arm across Peter’s shoulders the moment he’s within reach, and Peter tenses immediately, briefly glaring daggers at him as the man pulls them up the hallway, past a utility closet and a row of lockers. His pace is just short of too fast, and he puts distance between them and Dick and Tim.

"Try not to make a scene," Loki mutters quietly. “Your friend and his brother have been watching us like hawks all night.”

He can see Dick watching them from the corner of his eye, and takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. His hands are still clenched, and it takes a surprising amount of effort to tamp down on his frustration enough to loosen his fists.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” Peter asks.

“I only have one more meeting,” Loki says, guiding Peter away from Dick and Tim. “Which is fortunate for you. You’ve been getting paler by the minute ever since we got here.”

“It’s just a headache,” Peter mutters, reaching up to rub his eyes. Loki quirks a brow at Peter, and Peter fights back the urge to punch him, frustrated. He raises his voice, just a bit. “Just make it quick so we can leave before you embarrass me anymore, all right?”

“Someone’s a little touchy,” Loki says idly, pulling his arm away as they stop outside the door. He turns to face Peter, quirks a brow, and points a finger in his face, half an inch from his nose. In a stern, quiet voice, he says, “Try not to pass out. I’ll disappear if you do and then you’ll have more than just a scholarship to worry about. Harness your strength just a little while longer.”

Great. Peter scowls, batting his hand away hard and glaring up at him. “Make it quick.”

Loki is about to make a retort when he freezes, looking past Peter and frowning. The lazy arrogance in his eyes is gone in an instant, replaced by sharp awareness and cunning. A second later, Peter’s senses go utterly mad, filling him with an electric sense of wrongness in an instant. He can feel the hair on his arms stand straight out.

The hallway has a skylight running the length of it. Peter often ignores it--what’s the point of a skylight in a place as dreary and rainy as Gotham?--but right now it has Loki’s full focus. A second later and Peter joins him.

Something is watching them. Something almost as big as the Hulk and just as green, with glowing red eyes. It looks as if a crocodile stood up on two legs, shrank its head down to match that of a man with a particularly large underbite. His eyes flash yellow in the dim light of the hallway, his gaze flickering back and forth between Dick and Peter. He snarls when he realizes he’s been spotted, revealing rows of jagged fangs. He raises one clawed fist and smashes through the glass and frame as if it had been made of tissue paper, raining metal and glass down into the hallway, bringing with it the steady rain and fog outside. A sharp, twisted length of steel slams into the ground near Tim. In another time, Duke Thomas would have been standing beside his brother, as always.

The lizard man leaps into the hallway, dropping to the ground with enough weight to crack the fine marble tiles covering the hallway. Dick and Tim leap out of the way in smooth, almost identical jumps, acting on pure instinct. Part of the ceiling collapses in front of them, dropping a pile of metal, brick, and glass in the hallway. It puts them on one side of the lizard man and Loki and Peter on the other.

“Killer Croc,” Dick hisses from the other side of the hallway. “sh*t. Tim, your phone--”

“Peter, run!” Tim shouts over the rubble.

Killer Croc’s eyes flash dimly in the dark, a bright vibrant blue, then yellow, and he whips his head back and forth between Dick and Tim and Loki and Peter, clearly considering his targets. He’s gripping a glass vial in one hand. Peter can smell the fumes leaking out: burning diesel and rotting lavender.

Fear toxin.

“Man, it’s good to be back,” Killer Croc growls, stalking towards Loki and Peter. They back away from him, practically in lockstep with one another. Peter’s head is starting to throb, his headache worsening. Whether from the fumes, the stress of manifesting Loki, or dealing with the parent-teacher conference is anyone’s guess. Maybe all three. “Years in Arkham, locked in that dank cell with doctors poking around in my head for fun, and then this weirdo in a dark suit comes in with this blue rock and starts talking to me. I get my freedom, and all I gotta do is find someone at this school.”

He holds up the vial and grins. “This is gonna make it easier. Who gets the first dose?” He sees where Peter’s focus lies and grins, mean and ugly, all teeth and sad*stic glee. “Guess you’re a good start.”

He pops open the vial with one clawed thumb, and stalks towards Peter. Peter stumbles back, disoriented by his headache, his exhaustion, and the giant man lizard coming towards him armed with a substance that even Batman is wary of.

“Then come and get me,” Peter shoots back, whirling around and sprinting down the hall.

He can hear the monster’s snarling laugh, and the crunching pounding of its feet as it begins to chase him. This side of the school should be essentially abandoned, at least. Thank God Tim and Dick ended up on the other side of the rubble. He can fight this guy here if he needs--

Killer Croc suddenly screams in pain. Peter skids to a stop and turns to look behind himself. A twisted piece of broken steel is sticking through Killer Croc’s thigh, the sharp end of it coated in dark red blood. Loki stalks down the hall towards him, lifting up another hefty piece of steel in both hands. Killer Croc whirls around to face this new threat, flinging the toxin at Peter and aiming a heavy swipe of his claws at Loki. Peter staggers back and away from the toxin. The vapor hits him hard and he coughs, covering his mouth and nose.

Loki ducks under Croc’s arm before slamming the steel bar hard across his jaw. The lizard man is rocked back onto his heels and his wounded leg, letting out another one of those startled, furious screams.

Loki stalks past him, grabs Peter’s arm, and hauls him bodily towards the nearest fire exit. “We need to leave now.”

“We need to help everyone here--” Peter protests. He tries to pull his arm free, but he’s shocked to find that his hands and arms are trembling. His heart rate is steadily rising and with it, the headache and a vague sense of panic.

“No. You’re in no condition, and it’s about to get much worse for you. We need to get you back,” Loki says. He steadies Peter, annoyed and frustrated, and starts to haul Peter towards the nearest bus station.

Peter, shivering from fear and panic, stares at the buildings towering over them in the street, certain that they’re about to collapse on top of him. “I didn’t think you could fight like that.”

Loki sniffs. “Then you have not seen an Asgardian prince at war. Move.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Peter, trembling with anxious fear, can’t find the strength to fight him. They leave the school grounds just as the first squad cars skid to a stop outside the school.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:50pm): Guys, what’s going on at the school? Every cop in the city is on the way there.

Dick (07:51pm): Killer Croc armed with fear toxin

Dick (07:52pm): Duke’s MIA, Tim and I are on it, we need help.

Barbara (07:53pm): Cass and Steph are on the way.

* * *

Loki hauls Peter into the fire station, and over towards his bed. Peter is drenched in fear sweat, twitchy and panicked in a way that he can’t explain. The adrenaline chases away his headache a bit, but he knows that’s only a brief reprieve; the moment his fear dies down, the pain will return tenfold. He staggers for the bed and the blankets, burrowing into them like a child fleeing monsters in the dark, as if the blankets offer any kind of sanctuary.

Maybe they don’t, but it’s the best he has. He curls into a fetal position, fighting back waves of anxious fear, certain that his death is moments away but he’s not sure why he thinks that. If his head was clearer, he’d recognize the symptoms of a potential panic attack.

He hears footsteps approach. Loki keeps his distance, setting a water bottle on the floor beside Peter’s head. “You will want to drink that before you collapse. It will help with the headache.”

Peter peers out at him from within the blankets. He’s not wearing Tony’s face anymore. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because I intend to collect on our bargain, and I can’t very well do that if you’re dead,” Loki replies. He nudges the water bottle with the toe of his boot. “Drink. Ride out the fear. You weren’t truly exposed. You’re merely experiencing what I am.”

Peter snakes out a hand to grab the water bottle, draining it in one go. He pauses, frowning up at Loki. “You’re this scared?”

“No. Yes. Somewhere between. What happens to one of us, happens to both of us. I know what you’re feeling, at least to a muted degree,” Loki explains. He backs away. “My end of the bargain is complete. Yours will follow soon. Rest.”

He disappears in a flash. And suddenly, Peter can feel the others around him again. He wasn’t aware of their disappearance, of how empty the fire station felt a few seconds ago. There’s murmuring concern, snarling accusations, and finally, a red hand that reaches out and gently taps his forehead.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (08:30pm): Status update, guys.

Dick (08:36pm): The parents, staff, and kids have all been evacuated.

Barbara (08:37pm): Good work. Where’s Tim?

Dick (08:38pm): Helping Duke. He’s really out of it.

Barbara (08:39pm): Fear toxin?

Dick (08:40pm): Maybe. He was going on about letters and death and ghosts. He wasn’t making a lot of sense.

Jason (08:41pm): Sounds like fear toxin to me. I’m on the way. I can get him somewhere safe.

Barbara (08:43pm): Got it. Any sign of Killer Croc?

Dick (08:44pm): Croc is MIA. We found a lot of blood and an empty vial of toxin in the hallway where he had Peter and Tony cornered.

Barbara (08:45pm): Any sign of them?

Dick (08:46pm): No. We did hear a lot of screams in the hallway after we got separated, but with the fear toxin, that’s to be expected.

Dick (08:47pm): Tim’s having a rough time with it.

Barbara (08:48pm): I’ll keep an eye out.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

His nightmares find him quickly after he falls asleep. And he sees them clearly, as if living in them.

Or in this case, living them again.

He's on Titan, helping Tony struggle against the gauntlet on Thanos's hand. Peter alternates between prying the titan's fingers back and pulling against the gauntlet itself. Tony is helping, but he stops to look at Quill.

“Okay, Quill, you gotta cool it right now, you understand?” Tony says. He takes a second glance at Quill and tries again, speaking louder and with no small amount of desperation. “Don’t engage! We almost got this off!”

Quill is beyond all reason at that point. And Peter can’t blame him, finding out his friend was just killed by her own father. If he found out May or Ned had been killed, he’d be worse. No, he doesn’t blame Quill for what happens next.

He blames himself.

Quill screams, and starts to slam his gun across Thanos’ face, completely lost to his own rage and grief. He strikes once, twice, three times, wrecking Mantis’ hold on Thanos, and waking the Titan. Thanos growls sleepily, stirring.

His hand goes slack. The gauntlet starts to slide off easily, and Peter cries out in shock and victory, “I got it, I got it---”

And he does. He has the gauntlet and all of its stones in his grasp. It’s as good as done; with his powers, he can stick to anything---

He’s distracted. He doesn’t stick to the gauntlet. It’s ripped out of his grasp and a second later, he’s sent flying. He catches Mantis on instinct, deploying the legs to break their fall and protect her from the jagged rocks covering the ground. He curses, trying to protect her while Tony fights Thanos, alone, because he got so excited he forgot to do the one thing that’s basically instinct to him: stick to things.

And because of that, Thanos gets the gauntlet. Then the Time Stone. And then he leaves, and finds Vision.

Vision, who was Peter's friend. Who must have died moments after Thanos found him. He hopes it was quick for Vision. He can’t stand the thought of him suffering. And then Guardians start to disappear in front of them, one by one.

The memory plays out. He starts to crumble away. He can barely manage a weak apology to Tony before he fades completely. The pain is muted compared to the real thing, but it’s sharp enough to shock him awake.

All because he couldn’t do the one thing Tony asked him to do. A whole universe, gone. It must be the whole universe, right? If someone survived, they would’ve found him by now. They would’ve found Felicia.

He sits up with a groan, stuffy and sweaty, and sore all over from curling up tight into a ball. He feels wrung out and exhausted, the way he does after every migraine. He’d described this feeling to Tony once, who had scoffed and simply said, “Kid, you’ve got a hangover.” He remembers preemptively swearing off alcohol altogether after hearing that. Tony had pointed at him and simply said, “See, I knew you were smart.”

His head’s drifting. He needs clear air. He pushes himself up and stretches, carefully working out the kinks in his arms and legs as he heads for the fire escape, peering outside. It’s still night out, maybe four or five hours since he left the parent-teacher conference with Loki. The night sky is mostly clear for once, glowing with the ambient light that comes from any metropolitan area at night. A few high clouds scuttle across the sky.

He pulls himself out onto the fire escape and heads towards his usual night time hang out.

* * *

Peter sits on the ledge, idly kicking his feet and watching the moon peek out behind the clouds above. The cold actually helps him; migraines are stuffy, overheated affairs for him that leave him tender and feeling as though he's been baking out in August heat. His migraine is gone, but the hangover effect is dragging at him fiercely. Patrol is completely out of the question. Unfortunately.

He sighs and flops onto his back, arms thrown to either side, soaking in the cool air. At least he’s going to keep the scholarship. Assuming Loki really did speak with his teachers and didn’t stab them or something. He does seem to like knives.

He hears two feet land on the tarred rooftop somewhere behind him, and near silent footsteps approach. Peter recognizes the steps--and the heartbeat associated with them, strong and steady, even when leaping across buildings-- and contemplates sitting up and greeting Nightwing directly. He ultimately decides against it.

Nightwing sits down beside him, subtly shifting his stance in case he needs to stop Peter from falling over the edge. Or jumping, Peter supposes. The man doesn't say anything at first. He simply sits beside Peter and provides a kind of silent support Peter hasn’t experienced since the last time he saw May. His heart clenches at the thought, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

“Hey, Pete,” Nightwing says. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

“A lizard man armed with a bioweapon tried to kill me,” Peter replies tiredly.

“Yeah, that definitely counts as rough.” Nightwing says after a long moment. He briefly leans over Peter to take a closer look at him, and Peter can see the worried frown lines crossing his forehead. “You don’t look hurt, but we found a lot of blood in one of the hallways."

“Tony beat the lizard guy with a pipe and got me out of there. I still caught a few drops of whatever that stuff is,” Peter says, reaching up to rub his eyes.

If anything, Nightwing looks even more alarmed. “Peter, if you were hit with that toxin, even just a drop--”

“I slept it off,” Peter says. “It was barely one drop, Nightwing. I’m fine. Just had a really bad dream.”

Nightwing doesn’t look convinced, but mercifully drops the subject. “I just got back from your school. It’s shut down for the next week while they clear out the toxins.”

And there goes his lunches for the week. Peter sighs. “Yay.”

Nightwing considers him for a long moment. “You’re lucky.”

“You are literally the first person in my life to ever say that to me, I want you to know that,” Peter says. “How am I lucky?”

“You must have some kind of natural immunity to the fear toxin Killer Croc had. Most people lose their minds just breathing that stuff in.”

Probably his enhancements. God, if that’s what natural immunity is like, then what does a normal person go through? “Why didn’t Killer Croc?”

“Scarecrow gives his lackeys antidotes to counter the effects caused by exposure. Killer Croc probably got a dose of it before heading to the school,” Nightwing guesses, shrugging.

"Makes sense," Peter says. He pauses. "Did anyone else get hit with it?"

"One person. A guy named Duke."

Peter shoots up, staring at Nightwing in horror. "What? Is he okay?"

"He’s fine," Nightwing says, holding his hands out. "His brother took him home. He's safe, he has the antidote, he'll feel a little tired for awhile, but he'll be okay."

He shouldn't have let Loki drag him out of the school. "I should've stayed and helped."

"You were smart to get out," Nightwing counters. “That’s the best thing you can do whenever someone tries to use fear toxin: get the hell out and let the professionals handle it.”

Peter frowns, but drops it. He should have stayed.

Nightwing watches him for a long moment. Finally, he asks in a carefully neutral tone, “Tony left you alone after you were exposed to that toxin?”

“He had somewhere else to be,” Peter says. “He wasn’t going to be in town for long, and I’m better off on my own anyway.”

Shockingly enough, that enough does not seem to soothe Nightwing. “You shouldn’t have to deal with anything like this alone. Why not ask your friends for help? They’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Peter starts to shake his head before Nigthwing even finishes his sentence. "I'm not dragging them into my f*cked up life. I don’t belong here and I'm enough of a burden as it is. The last thing I want is to be a drag on Tim or Duke--"

"Peter, listen to me," Nightwing says, cutting him off, his voice firm and insistent. He grips Peter’s shoulder, waits until Peter is looking him in the eye, and continues, "You are not a burden. Okay? Not to anyone. Definitely not to your friends."

Peter’s taken off guard by the sheer sincerity in Nightwing’s voice. He’s equally surprised when his eyes blur with tears. He takes a moment to sniff and clear his throat.

"You make it sound like you know them," he says, trying to make his tone light and joking. It comes out paper thin, likely to break at a moment’s notice and cracking at the edges.

"If they’re your friends, I know they're good people," Nightwing says earnestly.

Peter scoffs, glancing away. "You barely know me."

"I know enough,” Nightwing insists. He pauses, as if coming to a decision. “Peter, listen, I--”

The power goes out. The city falls into darkness, lights blinking out ahead of a wave of shadow that falls over the entirety of the city. The city is plunged into full darkness, and Peter tenses. Gotham at night is already dangerous. Gotham in the shadows is much worse. He can hear distant shouting, laughter, and cursing as drunken men spill out of the nearest dive bar, their night of fun ruined. There are probably hundreds of similar scenes playing out across the whole of Gotham. Maybe thousands.

“Dammit,” Nightwing says quietly. “How the hell did that happen? The power grid was reinforced by Wayne Industries.”

“No grid is perfect. There’s always a weak point. You can’t out engineer natural disasters and multi point failures. There’s only so much you can protect against,” Peter says, pushing himself up to his feet. “This is bad. There are probably people trapped in subways. Or hospitals. And without the lights, cargo ships heading for the harbors will be in danger.”

The city is suddenly much quieter without the electric buzz of power running through it. He can still hear and see cars in the distance, winding uncertainly through pitch black streets. The moon is out, and it’s providing some light, but not nearly enough. There are going to be car wrecks, traffic jams, confusion and road rage. The stop lights aren’t even blinking red.

Nightwing stands up and presses two fingers to the ear piece resting in his right ear. He tilts his head, listening to Oracle, then sighs. “All that and more, I’m afraid. Peter, stay here. This is safer than the streets, and I want to keep talking with you when this is fixed.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says, blinking up at him. He can see fine in the dark. Well, kind of; his spider senses kick in fully in the dark, and guide him.

Which means he sees the moment Nightwing realizes he’s lying. “Promise me you’ll stay where it’s safe tonight, Peter.”

His tone is firm, almost paternal. Peter hesitates, then sighs. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” Nightwing says, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk again soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Nightwing walks towards the ledge, stops to look over his shoulder at Peter one last time, and then leaps into the darkness below. Peter stays until he can’t hear Nightwing’s grappling gun anymore, then climbs down the building on all fours, heading for the fire station.

He should put on the suit and go and help Nightwing, but his limbs are heavy and slow, and the night seems much colder without Nightwing nearby to talk with. He opts for his bed instead. He falls asleep soon after.

This time, he dreams of dust falling down his throat, of choking on something green and sharp like acid, and of lizards with flashing blue eyes.

* * *

Peter’s migraine is a thing of the past the next day. He wakes up feeling vaguely out of sorts, and then it simply becomes too cold to feel much of anything. He showers, changes into the warmest clothes he can find, and then heads out into the city. The walk to the post office is long and cold, but the traffic lights work, and there’s power in the buildings lining the street. Nightwing must have handled things after Peter fell asleep. Thank goodness.

His weekly stipend is there, as well as a massive bonus: an extra five hundred dollars for his grades. The letter that accompanies it is plainly boilerplate; no personal signature this time. That’s probably for the best, really. Peter would like to imagine he’s still somehow under Bruce’s radar.

The money is nice; he spends it on a huge breakfast at a diner, and then portions out half for necessities and extras for his suit. Most of the day is spent on chores, buying warmer clothes, better fabric for his suit, and a few odds and ends. Most of that money is spent in a thrift shop. He wanders through the shop, not quite ready to brave the cold again, then stops at a shelf tucked away in the back.

It’s a cluttered mess of religious symbols, books, and objects of varying faiths. Tucked away in the back is a menorah. Peter considers the menorah on the shelf, idly shifting back and forth on his feet. His relationship with religion is complicated at best; his parents and Uncle Ben were Jewish, May is a self described ‘lapsed Catholic’ and Peter is...well, he’s not entirely sure. Somewhere in between, maybe. Aunt May is nothing but supportive, asking if he’d like to speak with a rabbi during the deepest parts of his grief after Ben’s death, offering to take him to various religious gatherings. He’d never taken her up on the offer. His faith hasn’t died, exactly; it’s just complicated. Like most things in his life.

He and May had kept Ben’s menorah, and quietly celebrated Hanukkah even after Ben’s death. It’s more family tradition than religious meditation at this point. It seems oddly sad to celebrate it by himself. In his hovel.

But it would be a reminder of home, and he has precious few of those these days.

After a moment’s contemplation, he gently picks up the menorah and pays for it alongside various electronics, books, candles, and candle holders.

He might as well hold onto at least one family tradition in this place.

* * *

He decides on an early patrol, and starts out early. He spends a few hours doing the usual; checking in on the kids at the playground, stopping a few muggings, giving directions. The usual friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stuff. The afternoon edges into evening, bringing with it the usual evening traffic jam. He’s swinging above a line of stalled cars, heading towards the bus depot to take a brief break and check in on Lou and the bus drivers when he hears a voice call for him on the street below.

“Spider-Man! Hey! Down here!” a man in an EMT uniform calls out. He’s standing next to an ambulance whose front end is crushed against a light pole. The pole is tilted at a slight angle, but the ambulance’s engine compartment is crushed.

Peter snaps out of his drifting thoughts and adjusts his swing, dropping down on top of a bus stop near the crashed ambulance. He looks over the paramedic quickly; the man’s heartbeat is normal, he’s breathing fine, and he doesn’t look like he’s bleeding, so he must be okay.

“Hey, what’s up?” Peter asks. “Is someone hurt? That’s a nasty crash.”

“We’re fine! We’re fine,” the man says. “But we need your help. Do you know where Drake Memorial Hospital is?”

Peter pauses, pulling up a mental map of Gotham in his mind. “Yeah, over in the East End. I know it.”

“Good. We need you to take a heart there,” the paramedic says. He ducks around the back of his ambulance and rips open the doors.

“I’m sorry, you what,” Peter says.

“Listen, there’s a ten year old kid at the hospital that needs this. The traffic jam is keeping another ambulance from reaching us, and we’re on a time limit here,” the driver says. He pulls out a hefty red container with the words ‘Human Organ: For Transplant’ stamped across it and holds it out to Peter.

“Uh, right,” Peter says, dropping down to gently pick it up. “And it’ll survive being swung around?”

“That’s a Wayne Tech box,” the driver says. “It’ll withstand a bomb. Just get it to the hospital. There’s a team waiting at the ambulance entrance.” He stops and looks at his watch. “You’ve got forty minutes.”

“Got it,” Peter says, webbing the box to his back in a makeshift backpack. He checks and double checks the webbing before launching himself back into the air.

The East End is forty minutes away by car. He can cut that down by half if he’s generous with his webs. Peter sets off for East End, swinging down the main thoroughfare with none of his usual showmanship.

* * *

He makes it halfway to the hospital when his luck runs out. He swings from building to the next, raises his left hand to shoot out a new line, presses the button on his palm--

And nothing comes out. He’s forced to abandon the swing, dropping down onto the nearest roof with a muttered curse. He pops out the empty pellets, then pats down his pockets. They're empty. Typical.

He’s out of web fluid. Normally that isn’t much of an issue; he can just hop on top of a bus until he’s close to the fire station and take it from there. Except he doesn’t have time for that right now; that’s twenty minutes in the opposite direction. He mulls over what he should do next and then sighs.

Well, there’s no hope for it. Peter turns on his ear piece. It clicks on instantly, and he can hear the faint background static that indicates a connection has been made.

"Hi?" he says, feeling more than a little foolish.

“Well, hello, Spider-Man,” Oracle says, her tone surprised. "What's up?"

“I need help,” he says. “I’m playing delivery guy for a couple of EMTs I found in Crime Alley. They gave me a heart to take to Drake Memorial Hospital. And, uh, I sort of ran out of web fluid.”

“You don’t have a grappling hook?” Oracle asks.

“No. It’s just me and my questionable parkour skills right now.”

“I’ve got it, Oracle,” Nightwing says. “Spider-Man, give me your cross street. I’ll meet you there."

Peter peers over the edge of the roof, squints down at the nearest intersection, and rattles off the names. "I'm on the roof of the Queen Industries building. The, uh, one with the obnoxious green sign."

Nightwing bites back a laugh. "I know the one. I'll be right there."

He isn't kidding. Peter can see Nightwing swinging towards him right now. He's a few blocks away and closing fast. Close enough that Peter briefly wonders if the man had been following him.

He doesn’t have time to wonder for long. Nightwing drops down on the roof beside Peter with a careless grin and slight flourish. He has two utility belts on, and opens the pouch on one, pulling out a small, sleek grappling hook gun and tossing it over to Peter. Peter catches it, then looks it over. He's a little amused to see a small Batman symbol etched into the dark metal.

"Here ya go, Spidey," he says. He nods to Peter's hand. "Have you ever used one of those before?

"No, not really," Peter admits.

"It's easy, just like riding a bike. Or swinging on a web in your case," Nightwing says. He steps close and gently adjusts Peter’s arm. "Loosen up your arm a bit. You don’t want it to be stick straight.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says, forcing the muscles in his arm to loosen up.

Nightwing continues. “Use it like your webs, but recall the hook at the highest point of your swing so you have time to aim and shoot for the next building."

That sounds simple enough. Peter steps up to the rooftop's edge, preparing to aim the grappling hook. It looks simple enough. He hesitates and looks at Nightwing.

"What if I screw it up?" Peter asks.

"Then I'll catch you," Nightwing answers, clapping Peter’s shoulder. "Come on, let's get this heart to its rightful owner. Think you can handle a little leap of faith?”’

Peter tilts his head, considering Nightwing for a moment. He grins under his mask, aims the grappling gun, and then shoots. The recoil is a surprise, but he counters it, and the hook finds purchase on a gargoyle leering over the street on the next building.

Peter leaps.

Nightwing follows.

* * *

“There’s a rhythm to it,” Nightwing says, swinging alongside Peter. “Recall, aim, shoot, swing.”

“Right,” Peter says. He’s sweating under his suit despite the chill afternoon. If he misses with the grappling hook, there’s nothing stopping him from hitting the ground. He’d probably survive a fall from this height, but the heart strapped to his back wouldn’t.

He calls back the hook, aims, shoots, and swings. It’s a rough and jerky affair; Peter is too used to yanking himself along with his webs. He can’t exert that kind of pressure on the grappling gun without cracking it.

“Easy,” Nightwing says patiently. “I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath and find the next target. Just like you do with your webs.”

It takes a few more tries, but Peter finds his rhythm with the grappling hook gun. It’s not as instinctive as his webs, and he doesn’t like that there’s a limit to how far the hooks can reach, but he’s a quick study and adjusts. Within fifteen minutes, he’s swinging from building to building easily enough that Nightwing stops hovering. Peter glances over at the other hero and finds it hard to not stare.

Where Peter swings, Nightwing flies. He moves through the air effortlessly, as if he was born with grappling hooks for hands. Peter’s both impressed and highly envious; his skill with webs comes mostly from his enhanced senses and a few hard knocks early on in his Spider-Man career. Nightwing isn’t enhanced; he simply has a lifetime of hard work and experience behind every movement.

They close in on the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare, landing near the Ambulance entrance of the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses swarms them, waiting impatiently while Peter shrugs off his web backpack and dissolves the webbing around the container. The moment it melts away from the cooler, the doctors snatch it out of his hands and sprint inside.

“Not bad. You’re not as strong on your left arm swings, though,” Nightwing says. “If you’re not busy tonight, I could give you a few tips.”

“Dude, yes,” Peter says eagerly. “Teach me.”

Nightwing grins.

* * *

Peter practices with the grappling hook gun under Nightwing’s careful eye for a few hours after that. He doesn’t come close to Nightwing’s smooth glide through the air--not without his webs, at least--but he does become much more comfortable with the gun. Enough that it meets Nightwing’s standards, at least. He motions for Peter to follow him to the nearest building, a towering skyscraper at the edge of Crime Alley, and drops down on the roof. Peter’s right behind, landing a little stiffly. He recalls the hook and sighs. The air is crisp up here, uncomfortably so, but the night sky is clear again. This high up, Peter can see the faintest pinpricks of stars past the light pollution. Nightwing claps his shoulder.

"See, I knew you'd get into the swing of things," Nightwing says, grinning at his own pun.

Peter laughs in spite of himself. “Dude, that’s terrible.”

Nightwing caps it off with a dorky finger gun aimed at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s secretly amused by Nightwing’s dorky jokes and friendly attitude.

“Oh, hey, while I’ve got you,” Nightwing says, motioning Peter closer. He unclips one of the utility belts strung across his hips and tosses it over. “Courtesy of Batman.”

“A utility belt?” Peter asks, catching it. It’s blood red, and the buckle has the image of a spider across it; the legs are elongated and sharp, at odds with the fat red spider across the back of his current suit. He actually likes that design. He checks it for trackers first, and idly crushes six of them then and there. Come on, if he can find all of the trackers in a suit built by Tony Stark, he can find whatever Batman has hidden on a belt.

Nightwing, for his part, is highly amused by this. “It’s useful. First aid kits, extra batteries for your headset, spare grappling hooks and ropes, smoke bombs, batarangs--”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Batarangs. You know.” Nightwing flicks his wrist, and a small black object appears in his palm, flicking out into Batman’s symbol. The wings are wickedly sharp; Peter can see their keen edges even from this distance.

“Oh my god,” Peter says. “That is simultaneously the coolest and dorkiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Hey, they’re way more useful than you’d think,” Nightwing says, pointing the batarang at Peter before flicking it closed and pocketing it again. “Anyway, you’ve got five in the belt.”

“Huh. Neat.” Peter takes one out and flicks it open, considering it. It’s perfectly balanced, of course. “And smoke bombs?”

“Good for a quick getaway. Check the last pouch.”

Peter tilts his head, flicking the batarang closed and putting it back into its proper place on the belt before checking the last pouch. He pauses, then reaches in and pulls out a thick grey pellet, staring at it in shock.

“Web fluid,” Nightwing says. “Batman put that together after you first met him. I guess he got a close enough look at your web shooters to figure out what you needed. He wasn’t sure how much you’d need, and the chemical formula isn’t exactly like yours, but it should work.”

“He figured that out just by looking at my webshooter?” Peter asks, astonished.

“And testing your webbing before it dissolved. That took some effort on his part. Batman’s pretty clever,” Nightwing says, amused. “Hopefully you don’t mind your webs turning grey.”

Peter quickly slips the grey pellet into the web shooter on his right hand. He shoots a web at the nearest building and clasps it in his hand. There’s a bit too much give in the line when he tests it; if he has to catch anything heavy, he’ll have to use twice as much as he usually would. But it holds, and the extra spring might actually be useful in certain situations.

“Huh,” Peter says, idly flicking the line with his free hand the way he would a guitar string. It wobbles.

“So, does it pass inspection?” Nightwing asks. “Batman and Red Robin were losing some sleep over the formula.”

“It does,” Peter says after a long moment. “The grey webbing might be better suited for Gotham’s weather, too. This city is a lot damper than New York. Tell Batman he gets a solid ‘B’ grade for his work.”

Nightwing smirks. “Only a ‘B’?”

“He doesn’t get a perfect score for stealing my intellectual property,” Peter says. He pauses. “Hey, if you had these, why didn’t you give them to me earlier?”

“Because you needed to learn how to use a grappling gun sooner or later,” Nightwing says, shrugging. “And everybody knows that the best way to learn is under intense, mind numbing pressure.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, then says, with no small amount of exasperation, “No, it isn’t!”

“It is in Gotham,” Nightwing laughs, walking towards the roof ledge. “Hey, I’m overdue for a thing. I’ve got someone I need to check in on in Crime Alley. Call if you need anything, all right?”

Peter rolls his eyes again, but nods. “Sure. Thanks, Nightwing.”

Nightwing grins, then casually backflips off of the building and swings away into the night. Peter rolls his eyes at the needless showmanship, then makes a note to do a double backflip the next time they meet. Just to prove he can, of course.

Peter puts on the utility belt, adjusting it until it rests comfortably across his hips. It’s comfortable, and it is useful. He’s not sure what he’ll use the batarangs for exactly, but everyone else seems useful enough.

Time to test Batman’s webs.

He leaps off of the building and shoots out the first web, swinging for Crime Alley. He still has a few hours of patrol left.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (11:29pm): any luck finding peter?

Dick (11:30pm): Not yet. I’ll give it a little more time. He might show up again.

Oracle (11:31pm): Sorry, Dick, but you’re needed at GCPD. Joker broke out during the power outage last night. It looks like Killer Croc and Clayface helped him.

Tim (11:32pm): since when did Clayface and Killer Croc help the Joker?

Oracle (11:33pm): Since this week apparently.

Dick (11:34pm): I’m on my way. I’ll just have to try and find Peter tomorrow.

* * *

Patrol moves along quickly after that. More of the usual, thankfully, and nothing approaching the surprise heart delivery he had to do earlier in the day. He hauls himself into the fire station with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as he heads for the shower. It’s a quick one; the water is freezing. He shuffles out in clean clothes, heading straight for bed. He pauses just outside of his makeshift room and tilts his head.

It’s been oddly silent lately, he realizes. No half whispered conversations, no comments, nothing. He frowns, considering that, sitting down on his bed.

“You aren’t hearing them because I’ve pushed them away from you,” Loki says.

That seems bad.

“Go to sleep. It’s time you paid your end of the bargain,” Loki says.

Following that is a wave of exhaustion that hits him so suddenly that Peter sways in place. He frowns, confused, and then lays down on his blankets. He’s asleep in seconds.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Peter’s dreams are, as usual, vivid affairs that he won’t remember clearly. He’s walking on top of a nearly invisible bridge suspended in the air. He’s walking alongside a dead god, following him into a black storm. Loki is thoughtful and withdrawn, and Peter is confused. This isn’t like his usual dreams at all. Most of his dreams these days involve him sneaking through alleys and across rooftops, evading panthers or falcons or wolves. He’s not even sure that’s right; dreams seem to function more on symbolism than the real thing sometimes.

“Have you thought about what’s happened to you?” Loki asks finally, breaking the silence. His words cut through the wind and rain.

“What?” Peter asks.

Loki aims an unamused look at Peter. “You’ve died. A few times, in fact, though I don’t think you remember them well.”

“Well, yeah,” Peter says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He pauses, frowning. “Wait. A few times?”

“I believe the final count was four, though I admit I lost count after a certain point. It was becoming rather tedious. Your captors were incapable of handling the machine they created,” Loki says. “We all witnessed it.”

Peter isn’t sure what to make of that. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to think about it much, and shoves away at the half remembered nightmares of a machine full of green liquid that linger at the edges of his mind. He focuses instead on following Loki across the flickering rainbow path, taking in the sights and sounds of this strange place. The air is frigid; cold in the way the air becomes just before a storm rolls in. The clouds above rumble threateningly, swirling violently, with distant rumbles of thunder following brief flashes of light within them.

Loki is watching him from the corner of his eye, clearly waiting for Peter to respond. Peter sighs. “So?”

“There are consequences for that. You are not allowed to die and come back the same. I certainly haven’t been the same after every death,” Loki explains, using a tone one would save for a particularly slow child. Peter frowns at him, annoyed. “That goes double for a mortal creature like yourself. Were it not for the Stone and the others, you would be nothing more than a wounded, maddened beast.”

Peter considers that. Is that why his temper has been so touchy lately? Is it going to get worse? Has it been getting worse? He can’t tell.

Loki pauses for a moment, and then adds, “Well. With the exception of the Panther, perhaps. Kings are almost always the exception, aren’t they? And he seems like a good King. One that nurtures rather than conquers. I would have loved to see him meet my father.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter says. “Where are we going?”

“To visit my brother,” Loki says, as if that’s possible in the slightest. "He has prophetic dreams. Flashes of things to come. A gift from our mother, and one wasted on him, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Peter says.

“You’re in my soul, spider, you don’t get to counter my opinions,” Loki replies dryly.

Peter rolls his eyes, but stays silent. He might as well be polite.

The thunder grows louder, sharper, all encompassing. The storm reaches a fever pitch of violence, and the wind hits them fully. Loki withstands it just fine. Peter is soaked to the bone immediately, bending against the wind and rain, shielding his face against hailstones buffeting around him. Without the subtle glow of the rainbow path beneath his feet, he would be lost to the storm.

“Thor’s mind is a stormy place these days,” Loki remarks. He stops then, standing on top of the rainbow bridge suspended in the storm and looks at Peter. “We’re here. If you get lost, find the red thread and follow it back to your body.”

Peter can barely hear him over the storm. “What?”

“Good luck, spider,” Loki says. “You won’t remember this in the morning, I’m afraid.”

The rainbow bridge disintegrates beneath Peter’s feet, and he falls into the storm with a startled yelp. He’s tossed by wind, rain, and hail, and lands in a heap on a smooth city street. The wind is knocked out of him, and he struggles to stand against the storm. He’s standing in a city he doesn’t recognize, one that shines even in the dark storm. He’s taller, stronger, and wearing a suit he doesn’t recognize; a sleek black thing with blue accents and a red and gold spider etched across the chest. Captain America’s shield rests on the ground beside him, gleaming even in the dim light of the storm.

A terrified scream breaks through the storm. Peter’s head snaps towards the source of it and finds himself staring at a blue-black tear in reality in the middle of the street. Demons and darkness pour through it, leaping for innocent people standing nearby. Most of them don’t stand a chance and die before they realize they’re under attack.

Peter snatches up the shield and charges into the fray. He flings the shield at the nearest demon, leaps into the air, and then kicks it towards another demon closing in on a terrified teenager. He switches off between fists, kicks, and shield throws, drawing the monster horde’s attention towards himself so people can escape. He somehow manages it, but he can’t keep this up forever.

His lungs are on fire. His arms are trembling with the effort it takes to keep them up, and every time he catches the shield, it seems to grow heavier. His hits become sloppy, and once the first monster hits him, the rest pile on like starving wolves. If not for his suit--made from materials he definitely doesn’t have available at the moment--he’d be torn apart. The most he can do is brace himself against the tide of fangs and claws.

A roar like thunder cuts through the din, and white blue lightning follows, blinding Peter as it flashes above and across him. It incinerates the nearest monsters, violently throws back others, and then Thor is there, wielding an axe as big as Peter, crushing three unlucky monsters that get too close in one massive swing.

“On your feet!” Thor orders, fighting back the horde to give Peter room.

Peter scrambles onto his feet, hefting the shield up and taking up a place back to back with Thor. The monsters recover from their shock and charge in again. Peter is clumsy with the shield now. His exhaustion is overwhelming, as is his confusion.

Which is why he doesn’t see the goblin faced creature wearing the armor of Thanos’s Black Order until he feels the spear pierce his heart. Peter doesn’t even have time to scream. His vision goes dark at the edges as he stares at the spear and the creature wielding it in blatant confusion.

The dream, or vision, fades with Thor’s furious scream as he’s left alone to fight the oncoming horde. Peter wants to apologize, to stay and help, but his vision fades to black. He’s left in a black void, alone save for a single red thread leading into the dark.

He stands in the dark, then picks up the red thread.

It yanks him into the void.

* * *

Thor Odinson snaps awake, landing on his feet with a full throated snarl. He grips Stormbreaker in one hand and summons a roll of lightning across the other, clenching his fist tight enough to crack his knuckles. His body tenses, ready to face the nearest foe--

There are no foes here. Not in the Avengers Compound. Only the others, who stare at him in shock or with concern.

He blinks, lowering Stormbreaker.

“Thor,” Natasha says, her stance wary. She’s standing beside Steve, Clint, and Rhodey, the four of them looking at him from the holographic table projecting an image of the galaxy. A blood red blob covers a significant portion of it. The army Thanos has been gathering ever since he devastated the universe. “Are you all right?”

Thor is quiet for a long moment, bringing himself back from the blood tinged dream and forcing his breath to even out. Finally, he says, “I think I’ve just had a vision.”

As he says that, an orange red portal rips itself open at the far end of the room, and a blonde haired man in a brown trenchcoat falls through with a litany of curses. He lays on the floor for a long moment, then sits up, groaning in pain. He looks exhausted, as if he’s just been dragged across storm tossed seas behind a tugboat; his coat is singed in places, torn in others, and utterly wrecked. Cuts and bruises cover every bare inch of skin visible to the naked eye, and thin trickles of blood trail down his face. He aims a wide eyed, shaken look at the others.

"'Follow the red thread', he says. 'It's the best time to cross over', he says. 'You won't get torn apart by the void storms separating universes!' Bullocks. I am never doing a favor for your bloody sorcerer ever again," the man says in a thick British accent, his voice wavering. And then he sways in place, grows pale, and collapses back onto the floor, unconscious.

For a moment, no one moves, and the next, chaos. Rhodey and Steve are at the fallen man’s side in an instant, checking his vitals. Natasha leaves them to it, alerting the medical staff in the Compound before queing up a call to Wong in New York City on her personal holophone. Wong answers after the second ring, and Natasha steps into her office to speak with him in relative privacy.

Thor and Clint are left to themselves, at a loss as Steve and Rhodey grab the man and bodily haul him towards the elevators, leaving the two men alone. A prolonged silence follows.

Finally, Clint rubs his eyes and sighs.

"What the f*ck just happened?" Clint asks.

* * *

Peter wakes up cold, stiff, and weak. It takes him a long time to recognize where he is, and even longer than that to realize how thirsty and hungry he is. He blinks up at the tarp hanging above his bed and then rolls over to look at the alarm clock he built, tapping at it with a hand that only half feels like his own. The STARK lights up, followed by the time. He squints, then sighs. He’s been asleep for a little over sixteen hours. He staggers up, moving drunkenly, as if he’s not fully aware of his own limbs. He tilts to the left, then to the right, and catches himself against the wall.

"Easy, Peter," Bucky says. "You’re trying to move too fast."

"Take it slow," Shuri says.

Right. One step at a time. Peter steadies himself, then walks slowly towards the bathroom, taking each step with the same level of caution one would use while walking across an ice covered parking lot. He finally makes it to the bathroom and staggers inside to deal with all of that nonsense. The murmured conversations are back, and he’s unbelievably grateful for it, listening to them through the wall while he showers.

“Where’s Loki?” Hill asks.

“In his own soul,” Wanda answers. “He’s diminished. Not as strong as he was. I think he needs to recover.”

“Dr. Strange is off in his own world, too,” Fury notes.

“Like always,” Quill mutters.

“He was the one who pulled Peter back to his body,” T’Challa says.

“He was doing more than that. Something followed Peter and Loki, and something else came back with him. Bucky and I saw it,” Sam says.

Peter walks back into the main room after his frigid shower, toweling off his hair. Despite sleeping for most of the day, he’s exhausted, and sore, as if he’s fought off every mugger in Gotham City twice over without a break. He stops and considers his suit, debating going out on patrol.

“No.”

So many people say it that Peter can’t tell who says it first. He decides to listen to them, however, and settles for a night in with his tattered copy of Watership Down and half of his food stores. He’ll buy more food tomorrow before patrol.

This time when he sleeps, it’s peaceful and dreamless.

* * *

He’s back in full form by the next day, and swings out for an early patrol. He makes a habit of swinging by the playground whenever he can. He just hovers nearby, occasionally using a web to catch a ball bouncing into the street to sling it back to the kids playing basketball or kickball. He doesn’t stay long, usually, but he does check in when he can. Most of the kids wave or shout his name when he swings by (and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t preen a bit at that), but usually they’re too busy playing to notice when he drops down on top of streetlight or balances himself against the wall of the building.

Today, he swings by early in his shift. And finds Nightwing showing off to a group of kids in the basketball court. He’s teaching them how to do a handstand or a cartwheel, much to the kids’ delight. Peter drops down on his usual spot, a light pole near the center of the playground, and watches. Nightwing catches sight of him, grins, excuses himself from the group of kids, and effortlessly launches himself up onto a ledge near Peter.

"Hey, Spider-Man! I hoped I'd find you here," he says.

Peter grins. “Trying to steal my turf, Nightwing?”

“Hardly. I came looking for you. I could use some help tonight if you’re free,” Nightwing says.

Peter tilts his head. “I’m free. What’s up?”

Nightwing motions for Peter to follow him, and then leaps into the air, swinging towards the Bowery. He waits until Peter catches up to him and says, “We’re going to take a look at Gotham Power’s headquarters to figure out what caused that power outage the other day.”

“Do you have any leads?” Peter asks.

“A few, but I’d like to see what you find out,” Nightwing says. “It never hurts to have an outside perspective.”

* * *

Nightwing takes him to a few substations on their way to the power station. Five of them, in fact. Every last one is damaged in some way; one torn apart as if by massive claws, one blown apart, one expertly sabotaged, another destroyed by a hail of bullets, and the last one melted by acid (Peter could smell that one from three blocks away). The method is different for each one, and if the timeline Nightwing gives him is right, then all five substations plus the main station went out at the same time in a perfectly coordinated attack. After briefly looking over each one, Nightwing takes Peter to Gotham Power’s main station, slipping inside.

It’s little more than a fancy warehouse filled with silent machinery at the moment. The station has been touted as one of the most advanced in the nation, but it’s at least five years out of date by Peter’s standards. At least, until he sees the main reactor. It’s huge, taking up most of the room, with giant batteries, regulators, and monitoring stations taking up the rest.

“Is the station nuclear?” Peter asks. “I didn’t see any cooling towers outside.”

“No, not nuclear. Cleaner and safer than that, but the idea is the same. It’s a very powerful energy source created by Wayne Tech. The details are a little sketchy for me, but the elements involved just dissipate if they’re not kept stable,” Nightwing says. “It’s still ultimately a steam engine, though.”

Nightwing is standing back while Peter looks around the ruined station. Unlike the substations, this one looks completely intact. Peter can’t hear the faint buzz of electricity anywhere in the building. If it wasn’t for his enhanced vision, he’d be in the dark. He can see Nightwing’s outline in the far corner of the room, and the faint glow of his eyes through his mask, and leaps over to stick to the wall next to him. Nightwing, unlike Batman, is more curious than anything else by his wall crawling tendencies.

“So what do you think?” Nightwing asks.

“I think you’ve got a very well coordinated team of enhanced terrorists running around,” Peter says.

Nightwing tilts his head. “Enhanced?”

“Sorry, I meant meta. I forget you guys call them that here.”

“Huh. Never heard that term before,” Nightwing says. “Okay, so we have the who. What else?”

Peter looks around the room, looking over the giant steam turbine that sits silent and still, the pipes, the work stations. After a moment, he says, “This was a heist.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They wanted something in the reactor,” Peter says, half to himself. He goes quiet, then uses a web to yank himself across the room to the empty reactor. He crawls across the surface of it, looking over every nook and cranny. He even pokes his head inside to take a look at the system of wires and cooling rods. “Huh. They stole something from inside here. What was it?”

He pops his head back out of the reactor to aim a curious look at Nightwing. The man shrugs. “The reactor is the heart of the system. There was a sort of focusing crystal inside that kept the system stable.”

“Like the quartz in a computer’s motherboard,” Peter says thoughtfully. “They used alternating current to vibrate the crystal and create a constant signal. And without it, the system falls apart. Not the best failsafe.”

“Maybe not, but it sits at the heart of a reactor channeling enough power to keep Gotham City running. Even if the station is fully powered down, there’s enough energy running through the crystal to vaporize anyone dumb enough to touch,” Nightwing points out. “Not that it stopped this crew, of course. But now we know what they were after.”

Peter squints, thinking. “Why would anyone need a giant crystal?”

“That’s the question we need to find out--” Nightwing starts.

Someone knocks something over with a muttered curse in the dark, and Nightwing and Peter go silent.

“Who’s there?” Nightwing calls out. “Show yourself--”

A crackling blast of electricity cuts off the rest of Nightwing’s words, illuminating the dark reactor room. Peter catches sight of a big man in an armored suit and oversized metallic gauntlets standing between two batteries at the far end of the room. His eyes are startlingly blue, almost unnaturally so. Nightwing dives out of the way of the energy blast.

“Hey, I think we’ve found our guy,” Peter calls out. “East end of the room, behind the batteries!”

The man screams, electricity tracing crackling lines across the surface of his suit. He draws one hand back before snapping it forward to send two deadly arcs of energy at Peter. Peter dodges it; leaping over to the opposite wall.

"He calls himself the Electricutioner," Nightwing adds helpfully.

"Gee, I wonder what his gimmick could possibly be," Peter says dryly.

"It's a mystery for the ages. Move high, I'll swing around and blindside him."

“You got it!” Peter says. He swings high, drawing the man’s attention to himself with a few shots of web fluid across the man’s gauntlets. It sticks wetly to his gauntlets. “Hey, ugly! Over here!”

“I am not ugly,” the man cries out in rage. “I am a harbinger of glorious purpose---”

“Where have I heard that line before,” Fury asks dryly.

The Electrocutioner doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Nightwing comes from the shadows, swinging low. He drives both heels into the larger man’s side, sending him flying across the smooth cement floor and into one of the hulking batteries resting on a cement slab in the middle of the room. Nightwing lands near the man, walking towards him.

“No!” the man screams, pushing himself up. He presses one of his electric gauntlets against the side of the battery. Lightning crawls across the surface of his suit and into his gauntlet and the battery it’s pressed against. “I won’t fall here! I won’t disappoint him! Not until I’ve fulfilled my purpose!”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Bucky asks.

Peter’s spider senses go wild. The battery starts to glow with power, turning orange with heat and pressure. If that battery is made of any of a number of rare earth metals, this whole place will be full of toxic fumes on top of dangerous shrapnel in a matter of seconds. The Electrocutioner grins at Peter viciously, and then sprints away, leaving the ticking time bomb of the battery behind himself.

He makes a split second decision, shooting a web at the ceiling and then swinging down. He lowers his arm, calling out, “He’s going to blow it up! Grab my arm!”

Nightwing’s reaction is immediate. He grabs Peter’s arm and lets himself be carried away from the battery. He even helps Peter gain momentum with his swing, expertly adjusting his weight and adding his own swing to give them that last bit of speed they need to reach the exit. They swing through the double doors and slam them shut just before the explosion hits. The building rocks on its foundation but holds steady.

Peter looks at Nightwing. “So, that was fun.”

Nightwing sighs. “Looks like Gotham’s going to be connected to Metropolis’s power grid for a bit longer than initially thought. But at least we know who did it, even if the why is a mystery. Come on, let’s get out of here. HAZMAT and GCPD can handle the rest.”

* * *

Nightwing and Peter swing back towards Crime Alley. Peter doesn’t pay much attention to where they’re going until Nightwing leads them towards the fire station.

“Do you patrol this part of Crime Alley much?” Nightwing asks, landing on the rooftop near the fire station.

Peter drops down on the roof, looking around. “No, not really. This place is basically abandoned. I stick to the more populated areas.”

Nightwing nods, looking around the rooftop for a moment. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says.

“Try and check in on this rooftop for me,” he says. “There’s a kid that comes up here sometimes. He’s going through something, but he won’t ask for help. He’s started avoiding me, too.”

“How do you figure?” Peter asks.

“He stopped coming to this roof right when I started making it a habit,” Nightwing says. “I’ve checked in on this roof every night since I first met him. Not at the same time, and only when I wasn’t being dragged all over Gotham, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to him much.”

“More than you’d think, pal,” Bucky says wryly.

“Uh, sure. I’ll talk to him if I ever see him up here,” Peter says.

“Thanks, Spidey. I appreciate it.”

They sit on the rooftop. Nightwing rests against the old HVAC system and Peter perches on top of it. He’s a little uncomfortable sitting on this rooftop as Spider-Man. This place is his favorite spot to sulk as Peter Parker, and it feels wrong to stand here with Nightwing. He lets his eyes roam across the roof, idly throwing out a web at something shining in the moonlight. He yanks it back and catches it in his hand, tearing it free of the webbing to look it over.

It’s his driver’s license. It must have fallen out of his pocket the other day. Peter is annoyed with himself for losing track of it. It's not really a valid license, not in this universe, but it still comes in handy every now and then.

"What's that?" Nightwing asks, peering over his shoulder.

"A driver's license. This guy must’ve dropped it up here at some point," Peter says, holding it up so Nightwing can see it. "I'll take it to a police station later."

Nightwing is laser focused on the driver's license. He takes it from Peter, looking it over, and squinting down at the picture. It isn’t one of Peter’s best pictures, but the puzzled frown on Nightwing’s face makes Peter nervous.

"Uh. You okay? Is this guy trouble or something?"

"Brilliant acting, Parker," Fury says.

Look, he’s trying, okay.

"No, no, he's not trouble," Nightwing says, distracted.

"Oh. What's so interesting about his driver's license?"

Nightwing is quiet for a moment, and then he says, "He has brown eyes in this picture. And his hair is different, but the picture is messed up. I can’t get a clear look at the color."

The way he says it is odd. "So? DMV cameras aren't the best. Especially in that part of Queens."

Nightwing considers the license for another moment, then pockets it. "I'll keep hold of this. I know a few of his friends. I can get this back to him."

Awkward. Peter can't argue against that without looking suspicious as all hell, though. "Sure, it's all yours."

Nightwing is about to say something more when thunder cracks across the sky. Some bright furious thing lances across the sky, red and gold. It casts a dim, ominous light across the city before disappearing over the horizon.

Nightwing sighs tiredly.

Peter says nothing. His senses are going mad, and the fear has him rooted to the spot. But he can’t quite articulate why.

“I better go find out what that was,” Nightwing says. “I’ll catch up with you later, Spider-Man.”

* * *

BATCHAT

Steph (11:30pm): did anyone else see that falling star? it lit up half the sky.

Tim (11:33pm): that’s weird. the next meteor shower isn’t due until next week

Oracle (11:38pm): Something just fell out of the sky and landed outside of Metropolis.

Oracle (11:43pm): Bruce is investigating.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Diana’s memories are fuzzy things, the shape of which can’t fully see. One moment she’s near a traumatized child, battling a sorcerer. A bolt of blue strikes her. Darkness. And now she’s in a cell, chained to every surface imaginable with a material that does not crack against her strength. She’s practically wrapped in a metal cocoon. A blindfold is wrapped tightly around her eyes. Unlike the chains, it’s simple cloth. There’s no need to become extravagant when she can’t free her hands to remove it.

“I see they’ve been forced to use rather extreme methods for you,” a prim voice says somewhere in the dark.

Diana scowls. She feels sluggish, slow. Drunk and weary.

“Who’s there?” she asks. The words are heavy and slow, completely lacking the commanding snap to her tone she intended to use.

“And they’ve bespelled you on top of it. I suppose I would do the same in their place if I were foolish enough to anger a warrior goddess,” the man muses. He hums. “Pardon the intrusion. This won’t take but a moment.”

The blindfold is removed, and something green flashes behind her eyelids, chasing away the weariness. Diana’s eyes sting at the sudden light, but they adjust quickly and she focuses her attention on the source of the voice. A man with shoulder length black hair stands in front of her. He’s wearing fine leather armor, marked out in Nordic runes, and he’s watching her curiously and expectantly. A red thread is wrapped around one finely made boot. Her sword, lasso, and shield are neatly stacked at his feet. There are signs of battle in this tiny cell, and she recalls fighting--something. Someone. Monsters. Creatures with bat shaped faces and deadly claws.

“Who are you?” she growls, straining against the chains. They creak, but do not break. Not yet. She’ll need time to tear free of them. “What is this place?”

“This is one of the Black Order’s prison planets. The one where Thanos keeps his most promising and most dangerous potential slaves. You meet that criteria, I suppose. As for who I am? Right now, I am the nearest thing to a friend you’ll find here,” the man replies, light and lofty. He raises one hand, snaps his fingers, and the chains fall away from her as if neatly cut. Diana staggers forward, then catches her balance and uses her forward momentum to snatch up the sword and shield at his feet.

She tests both, finds their weight satisfactory, and then grabs the lasso, clipping it to its proper spot on her belt. She eyes the man warily. “I was with two others.”

He takes a few very prudent steps back when she grabs her weapons, keeping his empty hands in view. “They are both far beyond your reach at the moment, I’m afraid.” He hesitates and then adds, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

She watches him for a moment, then nods.

“When you meet my brother, tell him that I intend to keep my promise. And that Asgard will shine once more,” he says. And then he taps the red thread with the toe of his boot.

A flash of red and gold fills the room, blinding her. When her eyes recover, she finds herself standing inside a cell alone, clutching sword and shield in hand. She is confused. She is lost. More than that, she is furious that someone would think to kidnap her. That they would do the same to Superman, a dear friend, and Peter, an innocent she had tried and failed to protect. With the fury comes knowledge and memories hidden by their foul magic. Memories of what they tried to do to her. Memories of what they did to Clark. The fury chases away the rest of her confusion and exhaustion, and fills her with an icy determination.

The Black Order does not yet know what a great and terrible enemy they’ve made.

They are about to learn.

* * *

Clark Kent knows three things.

The first is that he’s laying in a field outside of Metropolis, in full costume, at the bottom of a crater the size of a small house. He must have fallen from a very great height to carve a hole this deep into the earth’s crust. He makes a mental note to fill it in later when he’s feeling better. And to leave an apology note to the farmer for damaging his field.

The second is that time has passed since he was last here. The fields outside of Metropolis had been the golden yellow color typical of late summer when he was last here, and the trees had been a verdant green, with the air thick with the smell of summer. The field he’s in now is a dull brown, the tree limbs are bare, and the air smells of icy rain. He’s lost several months of his life to...something. Somewhere.

And that’s the third thing: his head is absolutely throbbing. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and his memories are even worse. He feels uncharacteristically weak and off kilter, as if he’s been strapped to a kryptonite mountain.

No, not straps. Chains. He vividly remembers chains. And a dark place. Flashes of multicolored stones, glowing and pulsing with power. Someone calling his name. Someone important, a friend, one bound in chains, one he raced to help--

The half formed memory glows red and crumbles like ashes in his mind before he sees the full shape of it. The pain in his head grows sharper and threatens a migraine, something he hasn’t experienced since he was a child growing into his powers. He struggles to retain the memory, to pull it back.

It doesn’t come. Something else does instead; a half remembered thing more dreamlike than anything based in reality: Diana asking him to help her look into a death cult stealing items of power from her museum. He had agreed, of course, and right away. And they---

His eyes flash blue, though none are around to see it. His migraine raises into a sharp crescendo, overwhelming him. And he struggles again with the memory that crumbles like sand in his grip.

No, he hadn’t agreed. He was busy. With something. He can’t recall it now, but it must have been vitally important if he had pushed aside a request for help from Wonder Woman. Someone else asked him for help. Then he had a pleasant conversation with them, and they asked him for a favor, though they would not tell him what it was when he asked. Only that he would know when he saw it. They needed help finding someone with a Stone. Capital ‘S’ stone. He isn’t sure what they mean.

But he had promised to help the man with the golden glove. The memory around that feels sandlike and crumbles at the edges as well. In his mind, he sees a pleasant conversation between two godlike beings who understand one another. But his body trembles with unremembered torture and pain and fruitless rebellion.

After that, he met a man with a red cloak, who said something earnestly important to him before wrapping a red thread around his hand. Blinding red and gold light filled his vision after.

And now he’s here.

Odd.

Something to consider another time. He can’t stay here.

He pushes himself up with a groan, shocked at how heavy his limbs feel, and lifts himself into the air with a thought. He rises slowly, unsteadily, and then collapses back into the dirt, breathing hard. The ground sways beneath him, and he tries to push himself up again. He hears the familiar sound of Bruce’s jet close in and land, and feels a sudden wave of relief. The relief only builds when he hears Bruce gracefully leap over the side of the crater and slide towards him.

“Clark?” he asks, dropping beside him. He takes in the sight of Clark and hesitates. “You’re hurt.”

“Head feels like it’s been torn open and scrambled like eggs,” Clark rasps. “Hurts. Help me.”

And then he collapses into the dirt, unconscious before he fully hits the ground.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:12pm): So good news, bad news time, guys.

Duke (06:13pm): it’s never good when you put that into the chat

Tim (06:14pm): agreed

Steph (06:15pm): what’ve you got for us, Babs?

Barbara (06:17pm): Bruce found Clark. That’s who fell out of the sky last night.

Dick (6:18pm): But?

Barbara (06:19pm): He’s hurt. Bruce didn’t say how bad, but he’s staying in Metropolis for awhile.

Dick (06:21pm): If he isn’t giving us details, it’s bad.

Jason (06:22pm): What the f*ck is going on lately? The bat monsters, the Arkham break out, gangs working together, the f*cking Joker getting friendly with every other big name in the criminal underworld, Superman and Wonder Woman disappearing, then Superman comes back f*cked up bad enough that Bruce won’t talk about it.

Jason (06:23pm): It all feels connected somehow and I don’t like it.

* * *

Peter swings by the playground during his patrol, pauses mid swing, and then drops down beside the Red Hood on a rooftop looking over the playground.

“You know, I’m starting to think you guys are following me,” Peter remarks. “A guy could get nervous when a bunch of weirdos in bat costumes follow him around.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. We know you come by here to keep this place safe,” Red Hood says. He pauses and then adds, “We all switch off looking after the playground when you’re busy, too.”

“Oh. Huh.” Peter doesn’t know what to say about that. He’s touched, honored even, that the Bats would go out of their way to help keep this little piece of Crime Alley peaceful. Especially with how busy they’ve all been.

“Anyway, this isn’t a social call. I need some back up, and right now, you’re the only one available,” Red Hood says, turning to face Peter. “Black Mask is moving his people around en masse, and I’d like to squash a few of his hideouts. You in?”

“Sure, why not,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Try to keep up,” Red Hood says before launching himself off of the roof, swinging down into the alley below where a red and black motorcycle sits in the shadows. He practically lands on top of it, dropping into the seat with practiced ease before turning it on and revving the engine.

Peter scoffs at the dramatics, but grins at the implied challenge. Red Hood wants to see if he can keep up? Fine. He can do that.

Red Hood revs his engine once more before tearing out of the alley and down the street. Peter swings behind him, keeping pace despite the speed.

* * *

Peter peers through the window of the hideout--a dingy old dive bar tucked away into one of the back corners of Crime Alley--taking stock of the situation inside. Red Hood stands in the shadows of the alley beneath him, sheltered from the wind and rain that cuts through Peter’s suit. He watches for a few minutes, then leaps across the alley to the other wall and skitters over to Red Hood. Like Batman, Red Hood is deeply disturbed by how spidery Peter can be.

“Okay,” Peter says quietly. “There’s twelve guys, all of them big and mean, and a lot of high powered rifles between them.

He shoots out a web, sticks the gun in Red Hood’s hand, and casually flings it across the alley where it lands with a clatter. “No guns.”

“Hey. Do you know how much money I stole from Bruce Wayne to customize that?” Red Hood asks.

“Does everyone just steal from Bruce Wayne in this city?” Peter asks, tossing a metal pipe Red Hood’s way. “No murdering anyone. Got it?”

Red Hood snatches the pipe out of the air and somehow manages to give off the impression he’s rolling his eyes at Peter behind his mask. “No promises. Stick with me and don’t get killed. I don’t need Nightwing giving me sh*t for getting his sidekick’s ass kicked.”

He’s through the doors of the old dive bar before Peter has a chance to be offended.

* * *

Twelve guys is nothing, really. Peter’s taken on higher odds than that before, though it was by accident and earned him a scathing lecture from Tony (“think before you act!”) and a grounding from May (“Peter, you could have gotten killed.”). And that was back when he was new at this sort of thing. He’s not new anymore, and Gotham is basically superhero Hard Mode, so he can handle this.

Except he can’t. Because he and Red Hood aren’t fighting run of the mill bad guys. Peter’s first indication that something is wrong occurs when one of the biggest men presses one meaty thumb against a button. The next three indications follow: Peter notices the thin, nearly invisible translucent tubes weaving into the man’s flesh. The tubes fill with a blue tinged liquid. And then the man grows in size and bulges with muscle, snarling ferally at Peter, ripping a knife out of his pocket.

The next thing Peter knows, he has a knife sticking through his right arm and roughly two hundred pounds of rabid henchman pounding him into the dirt. The guy isn’t pulling any punches either; each strike to his face and chest hits him like a hammer, stunning him.

“Get out from under him!” Bucky orders. “Web him!”

Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea. Peter’s right arm isn’t responding thanks to the knife, but sets loose a massive glob of web fluid into the big man’s face. The man yells in frustration, reeling back off of Peter to claw at the web fluid covering his eyes. Peter takes the opportunity to hit him with more webbing, trapping his hands against his face before driving both heels into the man’s midsection to send him skidding across the ground.

Peter rolls back onto his feet, webbing up a few more of the henchmen. Red Hood is handling the fight much better than Peter; it looks like the man is used to going up against unfair odds and coming out the winner. Still, Peter makes sure to web up the men sneaking up behind him. He leaves the last two to Red Hood and considers the knife sticking through his arm.

“That needs medical treatment,” Shuri says. “Leave the knife in--”

Peter rips the knife out and idly tosses it across the room. He can feel the horrified silence that follows that, as well as the aching, burning itch when his healing factor kicks in. He has to fight the urge to scratch at the wound like a dog; the itch is always sharpest when it first starts to heal.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice one of Red Hood’s foes has shifted his attention to Peter until the man’s fist lands squarely in Peter’s face, knocking him back down. Red Hood is on the man with a furious snarl, beating him with the metal pipe Peter gave him just outside. His strikes are hard enough to bend the metal, though they seem more annoying than anything else to the man.

Peter webs the man’s arms and feet up from his position on the ground. The man curses a blue streak at Red Hood and Peter both until Peter sends another glob of web fluid across the man’s mouth. Red Hood idly kicks the man when he’s down and stalks over to Peter.

"Man, those guys hit way harder than usual," Peter says with a groan.

"Venom," Red Hood says sourly. He reaches down and hauls Peter back onto his feet, not quite hovering protectively. "Bane must be sharing his secret recipe with Black Mask. Which makes no f*cking sense."

"What's venom?" Peter asks. He checks the stab wound in his forearm and is thoroughly annoyed to find it still there. It should have healed.

"Think steroids, but super powered," Red Hood says. He pauses. "You got hit."

"Just a stab wound,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Yeah, through your forearm. All of the tendons controlling your fingers are there, genius. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine, mom,” Peter replies, digging out a pen and sticky note pad from his utility belt.

“The hell you are, mouthy punk,” Red Hood mutters. He stares at Peter. “What the f*ck are you doing?”

“Leaving a note for the cops,” Peter says, pulling a sheet free and sticking it to the wall near the door. He clicks his pen open and starts to do exactly that. With a few bonus doodles.

“You can’t be serious,” Red Hood says.

“Serious as a heart attack,” Peter replies, quickly scribbling out a note for GCPD. He adds a small doodle of himself and Red Hood for good measure. “Commissioner Gordon likes ‘em. He says they help. Also he likes the doodles. Who am I to deny my adoring audience their joy?”

Red Hood looks over his shoulder and scoffs. “I look way cooler than that.”

“You aren’t allowed to look cooler than me on my post-it notes to the police, Red,” Peter replies, adding stink lines to Red Hood just to be petty.

“Whatever, spider-dork,” Red Hood says, lightly shoving the side of Peter’s head before guiding him towards the exit leading back into the alley. “Let’s go. We need to get that arm looked at.”

“I’m, uh, a little short on cash these days--” Peter starts.

“You won’t need cash,” Red Hood says. straddling his motorcycle. He pulls off the spare helmet hanging off the back of his bike and tosses it Peter’s way. “Dr. Thompkins has an arrangement with Batman.”

“Right,” Peter says, catching the helmet. He hesitates, briefly considers fleeing into the night, but decides against it. He pulls the helmet on and sits on the bike.

Red Hood waits until he’s settled, revs the engine, and then darts out onto the Gotham streets, winding a labyrinthine path through the streets.

* * *

“Oh, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was,” Dr. Leslie Thompkins says over Peter’s arm. She’s a thin woman in her mid thirties with long brown hair and thick rimmed glasses, and she’s apparently quite used to superheroes stumbling into her clinic and bleeding all over her floors. She had taken one look at Peter and Red Hood and ushered them both into the exam room.

“Not bad at all,” she says idly. She cleans off the blood around the wound and presses a clean bandage to the wound. It doesn’t even count as a stab wound now; the extra food has kicked his healing factor into overdrive, and the wound is nothing more than a large cut. “We won’t even need stitches. Just a good cleaning and a bandage.”

The clinic is small, but very well maintained. The polished floors gleam in the bright light, and the exam room is full of supplies. Which is a strange sight to see in Crime Alley; most of the clinics Peter’s seen in Crime Alley are far more run down and sketchy looking.

“I told Red Hood this was nothing to get upset about,” Peter says. “He’s a worrier.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to get Nightwing’s mini-me killed,” Red Hood retorts.

“Nightwing wishes he was as cool as me,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins fights back a smile. “Boys, behave.”

Red Hood and Peter resort to flipping each other off behind Dr. Thompkins’ head for a few moments before Peter resumes looking around the clinic room. His eyes fall on a row of bright orange packets marked with a clown face and a red circle with a diagonal line crossing over it. They look like needles meant to treat allergic reactions. Dr. Thompkins glances up from her work to see what has his interest.

"That's the antidote for the latest version of the Joker's toxin," she says, wrapping a tight bandage around Peter’s arm. "It’s fully effective as long as the victim is given the antidote within the first half hour. After that, it's still effective, but there might be side effects."

“Side effects?”

“The side effects are different for each person,” she says with a sigh. “Even some antidote is better than none, but if twenty four hours has passed, there’s nothing that can be done.”

He files that away for a later date. “Oh. Good to know.”

“Has Batman given you any?” she asks him, looking up from her work.

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter admits. “I haven’t seen him that much.”

“Batman’s working a case in Metropolis,” Red Hood says. “He hasn’t been able to outfit the newbie yet.

“I also don’t need him to do that,” Peter adds.

Dr. Thompkins hums to herself, ties off the bandage around Peter’s arm, and stands up. She grabs one of the packets and holds it up. “Tear open the packet, press the tip of the syringe against the outside of your thigh, and hit the plunger. And hold your hand in place. It takes time for the antidote to deploy. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter says.

She tosses the packet over to him. “Good. Now get out of there. I’ve got a hot date with the inventory sheets in my office.”

“Later, doc,” Red Hood says as he and Peter head for the door.

“Be safe,” she calls out after them.

* * *

Peter and Red Hood are back to the rooftops after their little trip to the clinic. Peter is perched on the wall near Red Hood, idly poking his stab wound, much to the man’s disgust and annoyance.

“Quit that,” Red Hood says.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to annoy you,” Peter retorts.

“I will throw you off this building,” Red Hood says.

Peter is about to respond when a grappling hook latches onto the building ledge. A few seconds later, Black Cat flips herself up onto the roof. Her eyes are well hidden behind the opaque yellow goggles of her suit, which looks insulated and more than capable of handling the frigid Gotham air.

“What the f*ck,” Red Hood says, staring at her.

“Hi, I need to borrow your sidekick,” Felicia says to Red Hood. The man looks between Peter and Felicia, then snorts.

“Gross,” Red Hood replies. “Have fun, use protection.”

And then he leaps off of the building. Peter glowers at Felicia. “Sidekick?”

“What? I’m not wrong. You’re the unofficial sidekick for all of the bats in town. Everybody knows that,” she replies. She holds up a manilla folder that’s been tied shut with a black ribbon. “And focus. I need you to look at this. I found it in the Joker’s hideout.”

“What the hell were you doing in the Joker’s hideout?” he asks, horrified.

“I didn’t know it was his hideout. He doesn’t plaster a clown face on all of his places, you know. Just the ones he wants Batman and his crew to find. And, again, focus,” she replies primly, lightly bapping his nose with the folder before handing it to him.

He huffs, but takes the folder, opening it up and taking a look inside. He pauses, frowns, and squints down at the paper. He trails a finger along one page, the eyes of his mask narrowing as he squints. “These are blueprints, but I don’t recognize what they’re for. They’re using the focusing crystal that was stolen from the power company, and materials that I don’t recognize.”

“Yeah, but what is it?” Felicia asks, peering over his shoulder, bracing herself against it for balance. The warmth of her hands and presence is a welcome break from the freezing wind, and Peter fights against leaning back against her.

“A dispersal device,” he says finally. “For a gas? Maybe? It’s supposed to release a chemical into the sky that will mix with the clouds. The rain will dilute whatever it is--maybe, I’m not sure, I need to see what they’re trying to release--and spread it across the city.”

“So I’m going to go ahead and guess that it’s not good that Joker has these blueprints, huh,” Felicia says.

“Not at all, no,” Peter says with a sigh. “Can I keep these? I can hand them off to Nightwing. He’ll know what to do with them.”

“Sure thing, sidekick,” Felicia says, winking at him through her mask before leaning back to give him space. “I’m going to head home.”

“Try not to rob anyone on your way home,” Peter remarks dryly, closing the folder and tying it shut again with the ribbon.

“You’re in luck, I’m giving up the criminal life for the rest of the week,” Felicia retorts. “There’s a blizzard coming in a few days. I’m not interested in dealing with all of that.”

“A blizzard?” Peter asks.

“One of the big ones,” Felicia says, strolling towards the roof edge and pulling out her grappling gun. “They cancelled school for next week, so it must be bad. Later, spider!”

She leaps off of the building and swings away into the night. The bitter winter wind hits Peter full force again and he sighs, flipping on his ear piece.

“Oracle? I’ve got something for Nightwing,” he says.

* * *

“I’d love to come meet with you, Spider-Man, but I’m a little busy,” Nightwing says. He does sound apologetic. And the sound of shouting, gunfire, and vague explosions proves that isn’t a lie.

“This is important,” Peter says.

“Give me the details,” Nightwing says.

“Are you sure? It sounds like you’re getting shot at.”

“That’s not really new for me,” Nightwing says. “Go on.”

Peter gives Nightwing a brief overview of his night, and the plans Felicia brought him. For a moment, Nightwing is silent, busy as he is with dealing with several heavily armed men. Three solid, meaty thumps fill the line, followed by a pained groan, and Nightwing speaks again.

“Okay, yeah, that’s weird. I want to look at that. Listen, I’m going to be busy here for a little while, but we’ve got an apartment safehouse set up in Old Gotham. Can you take the file there?”

Peter looks up at the sky. The clouds are gathering for another round of freezing rain, his arm hurts, and he’s really starting to get hungry. But this is important. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Awesome,” Nightwing says. He rattles off an address to Peter. “Oracle will let you in. Let me know when you drop it off, all right?”

“You got it,” Peter says.

* * *

The apartment is actually a penthouse at the top of Wayne Towers. It’s also locked up tight, with a fully engaged security system. Peter, tired and thoroughly soaked by the rain, waves up at the security cameras when he gets close. Oracle unlocks the door for him and he steps inside, glad to be out of the rain. He pauses and looks around the room. It’s sparsely decorated.

Actually, it’s not really decorated at all. It’s mostly empty, and looks more like a lab than a penthouse. One of the strange machines he, Spoiler, and Black Bat found a few weeks ago rests in the middle of it. Peter eyes the machine warily as he walks past it, setting the manilla folder Felicia found on a nearby table.

“This place is. Something,” Peter says. “What’s with the giant thing in the middle of the room? The machine.”

“That’s a Lazarus Machine. It’s broken. Red Robin’s been taking it apart and trying to figure out how it works in his spare time,” Nightwing says. He doesn’t seem entirely pleased that Red Robin is doing this, judging by his tone.

"What's a Lazarus Machine do?" Peter asks, peering into the tube. The smell of the green liquid, sharp and tangy, hits him, and he reels back as if struck, fighting off a wave of memories more felt than seen.

“Ground yourself,” Bucky says quietly.

"Lazarus pits bring back the dead. Someone built a machine that does the same thing. And they used it, which is something of a problem," Nightwing says.

Peter stops to consider the ramifications of such a machine. “Is it? I mean, as long as the person who was brought back isn’t evil, it’s good news, right?”

"There are side effects,” Nightwing says.

"Yeah?"

"You can come back wrong. Usually the mind doesn’t survive. Victims suffer from insanity, depression, memory loss, uncontrollable anger, all to varying degrees," Nightwing says, distracted. "There are also physical changes. They're more subtle, but not by much."

"Like what?" Peter asks, looking over the machine. It sets off his spider senses; a constant electric buzz that crawls across the back of his neck and the inside of his ear, agitating him.

"The eyes, for one. Your eyes will turn slightly green and your hair--" He stops. The line goes dead silent.

Peter looks up. "Nightwing?"

"Your hair," he says, as if in realization of something. "Green eyes. A white streak of hair. Depression, anger, and confusion. How did I not notice--" He curses. “I know who came out of the machine.”

Peter suddenly notices the time. "If I see anyone who matches the description of a season one anime villain, I'll let you know. But it's way past my bedtime. I'll catch you later, Nightwing.

"Spidey, wait, I need you to go by that rooftop I showed you--"

Peter clicks off his headset. He considers turning it back on--Nightwing sounded oddly upset--but he’s exhausted. Oracle will be more useful.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (11:38pm): I know who came out of the Lazarus Machine.

Dick (11:39pm): Everyone meet up at the cave ASAP.

* * *

Peter strolls into the fire station just as the rain begins to turn to sleet, pulling off his mask and wringing it out over the floor. A depressing amount of water falls from it and Peter sighs. He really needs to make this suit waterproof. What he wouldn’t give for five minutes alone in FRIDAY’s lab.

He changes out of his wet suit and leaves it out to dry inside the bathroom. He pulls on every warm piece of clothing he can find and crawls into his bed, sore and exhausted, but in a way that follows a good workout. He stretches his arms and legs,

He did some good tonight: he helped Red Hood clear out a hideout, he met a new ally, he delivered some important information to Nightwing, and now he can relax. His bed starts to warm up, chasing the chill out of his bones. He starts to close his eyes in a half doze, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly--

A flash of green light wakes him.

A thick piece of parchment, more cloth than paper, gently drops onto his chest. Peter picks it up, confused, and then the memory comes to him. The letter. The one Dr. Strange gave him and told to keep hold of for safekeeping. God only knows where it’s been this entire time, but it’s here now. It could be instructions on how to get back home or a way to even talk to home.

Peter sits up, his heart thumping against his chest, exhaustion forgotten. He flips the letter over in his hands and then pops the wax seal, unfolding the parchment with trembling hands. He starts to read.

Peter,

I am writing this while standing behind you on Titan. There is much I wish to say to prepare you for the things to come. Time is, unfortunately, too short for that. I will be as brief as I can. The letter will not survive in this universe for long. It will crumble into ash when the spells maintaining it begin to fail. I must be careful with what I share with you. Please know that I am keeping some things to myself, that I have my reasons, and that it is for the best of both worlds.

If you are reading this, then I am dead. Thanos has won and our universe is lost to you. There is no going back. Not for you. It is very likely that your aunt, your friends, and most of the Avengers did not survive his use of the Infinity Stones. I cannot tell for sure. In most of the timelines I witnessed, they died quickly, if not peacefully, and did not suffer. I know this is a cold comfort, but it is all I can give.

By all rights, you should be dead as well. I used a very powerful spell to change your fate, one that has not been used in millenia, and the consequences of its use are not fully understood. There is a chance you’ll arrive near good people who will help you. There is a much larger chance that you will not. I apologize for the pain this will and has caused you. There was no other way.

Find a home in this universe. You are an Avenger, one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. You can do a lot of good in this world. Do so. You need to marshal your strength.

There will be an unequal exchange in your future. You will suffer a great loss and make an even greater sacrifice. This is true in every future I witnessed.

I am sorry.

-Dr. Strange

PS: As the Red Hood has undoubtedly already told you: You are not alone. Remember that above all else.

Peter sets down the letter and stares straight ahead. His mind is a whirlwind of mixed emotions--confusion, followed by disbelief, mostly. He stares at the letter, reading and re-reading it, over and over, until the edges of it begin to curl and crumble into ash. A cold wind blows the ashes away, and Peter is left to stare at nothing.

He does not move for a long time. And then it hits him full force: most of the Avengers are dead. His friends are dead. Aunt May is--

That's what breaks him. He feels a lump form in his throat, and his sight blurs with tears.

They failed.

Ned, MJ, all of his classmates are gone.

The Avengers are dead. No one is coming for him.

Aunt May is gone.

That above all else is what breaks him. He crumples, just like he did at the police station after Ben was murdered, covering his face. May, the one steady influence in his life, gone for good. Because they failed. Because he failed. And now he’s alone, trapped in a universe not his own.

He wails. He clutches his hair and screams. He sobs. He loses his mind to grief and pain and rage and the unfairness of it all.

All it does is exhaust him.

He falls asleep sometime after midnight, curled up in a ball on his bed, quietly weeping, even in his sleep.

A flash of gold briefly illuminates the room, and a hand outlined in red energy reaches out to grab his blanket. It gently pulls the blanket over Peter’s sleeping form before fading away.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:02am): Okay, guys, time to clock off soon. What’s everyone’s status?

Steph (06:05am): Cass and I are getting medicine for Damian. He definitely caught Tim’s cold.

Jason (06:06am): I’m in bed. Do not call me or I will set this entire city on fire.

Tim (06:07am): sitting with duke.

Jason (06:08am): How is he?

Tim (06:09am): better. still disturbed by what happened at the school, but he’s back to himself

Jason (06:10am): Good.

Barbara (06:11am): Dick?

Dick (6:14am): Eating ibuprofen like candy. That was a rough fight last night. I’m not going to be at my best for a few days.

Jason (06:15am): That’s what happens when you run off without your sidekick.

Dick (06:16am): Yeah, well, someone snatched him up before I could find him yesterday.

Barbara (06:17am): Speaking of which, Spider-Man's earpiece turned on earlier this morning.

Tim (06:18am): Can you track it?

Barbara (06:18am): No. The storm is making it difficult.

* * *

Peter doesn’t go to any one particular place in his dreams. Not this time. He’s alone in the dark, drifting, considering all that he’s lost. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, he finds himself in the Wakandan ancestral homeland. There isn’t as much tranquility and peace here as before; it exists, and he can even feel its presence, but it doesn’t pierce his grief. He curls up beneath the great tree, under the watchful eyes of the panthers hidden among its branches. They hover nearby, protective but aloof. Peter hugs his knees and buries his face against them. He doesn’t weep; the sorrow and pain is too deep for mere tears. It's filled every part of him, glowing like an ember. He stays like that for some time.

T'Challa sits beside him on the warm grass. He says nothing. He simply watches the stars above and the glittering city below. Peter eventually looks up at him.

"Grief is a heavy thing to carry," T'Challa says after a long moment. "And you have been forced to carry more than your fair share. That does not mean you need to carry it alone."

"I can't come crying to the King of Wakanda," Peter says.

"Why not?" T’Challa asks, facing him now. "Do you think I will not listen?"

Peter doesn’t have an answer to that question. Or, rather, he does, but he knows the answer will only make him sound more pathetic: because he doesn’t deserve it.

The King seems to sense it regardless. T'Challa presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "You are not alone in this, Peter. We are here for you, even if you cannot see us. Remember that. Promise me."

Peter hesitates, but nods. "I promise."

T'Challa smiles at him, both sad and relieved. "Thank you."

Peter can’t manage a smile back, but he does feel a tiny bit better. Not many people can say that the King of Wakanda has their back, after all.

“You cannot stay here forever. You must push forward,” T’Challa says. It isn’t quite an order. “Walk with me, Peter.”

Peter hesitates, then pushes himself back onto his feet. He and T’Challa walk through the Wakandan Homeland together.

* * *

At some point, T’Challa disappears. Sam takes his place, walking beside Peter. The landscape around them shifts into that Louisiana coast. Peter finds himself momentarily pulled out of his grief, looking around. Peter walks with Sam through his family's property, fascinated, in spite of his grief. He’s never been to Louisiana, and he’s struck by how different the trees are, how humid the air is, and the strange calls of the birds above. Sam is perfectly at ease, relaxed and calm as he walks beside Peter.

"I feel like I've been asleep forever," Peter says, looking at Sam. "Shouldn't I be awake by now?"

"Yeah, normally you'd be awake," Sam says, walking beside him. "Wanda and Mantis are keeping you asleep."

"Why?" Peter asks, frowning up at him.

“Because we know what you were planning to do when you woke up,” Sam says.

His words hit like a truck. Peter looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly ashamed and sick. Sam sighs, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter walks with him like that for a long moment.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” he says quietly. “Not really.”

“I know,” Sam says. “But none of us wants to take that chance. You’d do the same in our position.”

Peter frowns, but doesn't argue the point. Sam is telling the truth, after all.

“The best thing you can do is wait it out,” Sam says. He sounds as though he’s speaking from experience. And maybe he is; Peter has avoided looking too deeply into the minds and hearts of the souls attached to him. “You find a reason, any reason, doesn’t matter how big or small, to ignore that impulse. Wait until the darkness goes away, then get help. ”

"Who do I go to?" Peter asks. His own voice sounds small and raw and wounded.

"Duke. Nightwing. Tim. Red Hood or Felicia. Hell, any of the Bats, maybe even that cop you talked to weeks ago," Sam answers. "You have options. Take them. All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, all right," Peter says. He pauses. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam nods. He keeps a protective arm around Peter’s shoulders.

At some point, others walk with them, offering their own silent support. Bucky. Shuri. The Guardians of the Galaxy. Dr. Pym and his family. Even Nick Fury and Maria Hill join them. Some speak to him, but mostly they simply walk beside him.

Gradually, the darkness in Peter’s mind retreats. The others seem to drift away when this happens. Peter keeps walking. The landscape shifts and changes as he walks. Peter finds himself inside the Avengers Compound. Memories of the other Avengers play out across the grounds, ghost like, and muted. Peter is less paralyzed by his grief now; he stands up and walks through the halls of the Compound's residence wing. A door is open, golden light spilling across the hall, and the canned laughter of a sitcom echoes out into the hall. Peter walks towards the door, peering inside curiously. This room had been closed off when he visited the Compound.

Wanda Maximoff sits on her bed. A flatscreen TV is playing a rerun of Friends. She looks up and silently waves him inside. Peter hesitates, then walks into Wanda's room and sits with her.

They say nothing.

Somehow, Peter knows she understands his grief more than the others. He watches cheesy sitcoms with her until the pain lessens, and he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

He wakes up gradually, as if someone is gently pulling away a blanket. The grief and pain are still there, but it isn’t overwhelming like it was last night. And other, darker thoughts haven been pushed away. They haven’t disappeared, but they aren’t as close and tantalizing as they were before. That gives him a shaky sort of relief he doesn’t want to think about too much. He rolls over in his bed and checks the time.

It’s almost six o’clock in the evening. It’s dark and dreary outside, with a chill wind that smells of snow and ice cutting through the drafty building. He’s almost slept the entire day away. Maybe that’s for the best. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything worthwhile with his day. He sits up, stretches, pushes himself to his feet. He paces, grabbing three breakfast bars and eating each one mechanically as he moves. He’s starving, but even that feeling is oddly muted. The breakfast bars will keep him going for awhile yet.

He thinks about his current situation, pacing through the chilly fire station. ‘You are not alone.’ Dr. Strange had written it larger than the rest of the letter, as if to emphasize the point. In the back of his head, he hears Felicia say Learn to ask for help! and T’Challa and Sam. Their words swim around the back of his mind, and the obvious conclusion strikes him.

There’s no going home, and no one is coming to save him. He’d somehow held out hope that one of Dr. Strange’s portals would just pop into existence in front of him and take him home. He knows that it was stupid to hope for that, especially after all this time, but it would have been nice. Reality has set in, however, and Peter knows he can’t go it alone anymore.

His headset lets out a quiet ping from inside his suit. He pulls on the mask, engages the voice modulator, and turns up the earpiece. “Yeah?”

“Good evening to you, too,” Oracle says, a little taken off guard by his tone.

“Oracle. Hi,” Peter says. He changes out of his pajamas and into the suit. It’s mostly dry by now, but freezing. He puts on the utility belt and double checks his webshooters. “Sorry, I’ve had a day. What’s up?”

“Nightwing could use some back up for his patrol tonight. You in?”

That’s perfect. Peter’s answer is immediate. “I’m on my way.”

“Glad to hear it,” Oracle says. “Head to the East End. Nightwing will wait for you there.”

A quick patrol will help clear his head. And by the end of it, he’ll ask Nightwing if Batman’s invitation is still open.

* * *

The storm clouds thicken, and snow flurries start to fall by the time Peter reaches Nightwing. He drops down the roof ledge beside Nightwing and looks out over the streets below. The city seems darker than usual; more worn down, more hopeless than before. The shadows are deeper, the cold sharper, and Peter wonders if he’s just seeing the city for what it truly is for the first time.

“Hey, Spidey,” Nightwing says, focused on his phone. “Easy work tonight. I need your help finding someone.”

“Sounds good,” Peter says, his tone flat and uninterested.

Nightwing notices the change immediately. He looks up from his phone, frowning at Peter. “Hey. You alright?”

Peter sighs, reaching back to rub the back of his neck. Maybe he should just come clean now instead of waiting until the end of their patrol. “No. I just got some bad news from back home.”

Nightwing gives him a sympathetic look. “Let’s go talk--”

“Not yet, guys,” Oracle cuts in. “Black Mask’s men are moving in on Lexcorp’s labs. They’re heavily armed. And someone just called in a fire at an apartment tower on the other side of the Bowery. Details are sketchy on that one, but the company who owns the building doesn’t have a stellar record with the fire marshal.”

“When it rains, it pours,” Nightwing says with a sigh. “Back in my day, we only had one crisis per night.”

“You’re like eight years older than me, if that,” Peter points out.

“Hey, that’s like twenty in superhero years,” Nightwing points out. “Okay. Spidey, you go check out the fire, I’ll head to Lexcorp. We’ll meet up again afterward.”

“Right,” Peter says, standing up straighter. “Be careful, Nightwing."

* * *

Peter swings through the Bowery, keeping his head on a swivel. The apartment tower doesn’t look like it's on fire, but it could be an internal fire that hasn’t yet breached a window. Peter reaches the tower, sticks to the wall and crawls around the entirety of the tower. No fires, no alarms, not even the smell of smoke. The brick walls are damp and cool under his fingers, and the only sounds he can hear coming from inside are the usual noises one would hear in any apartment complex: laughter, annoying bass boosted music, chatter, and clattering noises in kitchens.

“Oracle, I’m here, but I don’t see anything,” Peter says. “I can’t even smell smoke.”

A lengthy pause follows that.

“Oracle?” Peter says, louder this time. He says it loud enough to startle a man standing on a balcony outside his apartment, holding a cigarette. Peter awkwardly waves at the man who returns the wave, just as awkwardly. “Hey, you there?”

“sh*t,” Oracle says quietly. “That was a false call. Someone hacked into the 911 system and filled it with bogus calls. I’ve got two dozen bomb threats, one hundred fires, and four bank robberies on the screen right now. None of them seem legitimate.”

Gunfire cracks across the comm line, and Nightwing says, “The Lexcorp robbery isn’t! I could use some back up!”

“I’m on the way,” Peter says. He launches himself off of the apartment tower and swings back towards the Bowery.

Even through the clouds and snow, he can see the giant L shining through. The Lexcorp building isn’t the tallest one in the district, but it’s close. Peter uses his webs to throw himself across the district. He crosses it in no time at all, using a crane settled across the roof of a nearby building to swing around the rooftop and get an idea of what’s happening below.

Nightwing is facing off against twelve opponents and holding his own. The men have translucent tubes burrowing into their skin like the men he and Red Hood fought last night. One man aims a punch for Nightwing, misses, and cracks the cement wall where Nightwing’s head had been seconds before. They’re enhanced, then.

Peter finds his opening and swings down towards Nightwing and the men he’s fighting. Warning bells start to sound off when Peter starts his swing, and the full alarm hits him three seconds before the red dot of a laser appears on Nightwing’s back. Nightwing doesn’t notice; he’s too busy fighting back a dozen frenzied False Facers.

It’s just enough time for Peter to adjust his trajectory. He switches direction on a dime, yanking himself hard to the left, and swings low and fast. He lands a shoulder against Nightwing’s side, hard enough to send the man flying across the roof with a startled, breathless grunt just as the crack of a gunshot rings out.

Things slow down for him after that.

He sees the red dot hover over his side. Peter’s swing isn’t as fast as it should be. He can’t dodge this, and if he tries to turn or shift into another maneuver, he’ll just slow himself down and make himself a bigger target for the next shot. He tenses, his senses going absolutely wild.

He sees the blood when the bullet strikes home, but all he feels is a sharp, burning sensation, as if he’s been bitten by the spider from Oscorp again. It pierces deep, smoldering inside his guts, setting his ribs on fire, and adding a strange, wheezing sensation whenever he breathes in.

He sees Nightwing roll back onto his feet, staring at Peter in confusion that shifts to horror.

The force of the bullet interrupts his swing, throwing him off balance, and sending him over the side of the building. He lands on a lower roof with a sickening thud, cracking his head against the tarred roof hard enough to send stars in his vision. He rolls over onto his hands and knees, frustrated by his slowness, and tries to catch his breath. There’s a stitch in his side--

“There’s a bullet in your side,” Bucky hisses.

Right, that too.

Two more red dots appear on his hands, tracing jerky lines up towards his face. He launches himself off of the roof blindly, swinging away in a drunken, hasty arc that has none of his usual grace as two loud cracks echo across the evening sky. He swings from building to building, ducking between alleys and putting the larger buildings between himself where the snipers are.

Naturally, his headset is absolutely exploding.

“Nightwing? Someone is throwing a lot of interference into the line,” Oracle says. “Report. What’s your status?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Nightwing snaps. Peter has never heard him this upset before. “He just--Spidey pushed me out of the way of a bullet. He’s hit. I’m in cover, but I can’t leave. They have me pinned down. God, there must be a dozen of them in the buildings around us.”

“Stay low, help is on the way,” Oracle orders. Three more thundering cracks shatter the air and Nightwing curses. She’s typing furiously on her end of the radio. “Help is coming as fast as they can--”

Peter lands hard on the roof of a bank some distance away from the Lexcorp building, standing in the shadow of the crane. His side throbs in agony, sharp enough to make his knees wobble and his breath come out in sharp gasps. This is much worse than his normal gunshot wounds. He’s never been shot with a sniper rifle before; normally it's a smaller caliber, if it happens at all. A little .22 bullet would be far more preferable to the absolute slug buried in his side. And it is still there, he can feel it. He prods the wound and hisses in pain, biting back a sudden wave of nausea. Flashes of white light creep into the edge of his vision, and his breathing becomes ragged. Blood is pouring down his side in a constant cascade, growing stiff in the cold, damp air.

At least he pushed Nightwing out of the way. This probably isn't a fatal wound for Peter, but it definitely would've been one for Nightwing. A bullet this large would’ve shattered his spine. It might have blown him in half entirely. Better the bullet hit him than Nightwing. Now for the fun part: getting the bullet out of himself. He can’t heal while it’s still there, and there’s only so much blood he can lose before it becomes troubling.

“Spider-Man, what’s your location?” Oracle asks. Peter has never heard her sound so tense. “I can get an ambulance to you--”

And then she cuts off. A muffled explosion in the distance sends smoke and debris into the air near the base of the crane, and the main cell tower in the neighborhood begins to topple over to the street below. Distant echoing pops in the neighborhood around him sound off, and Peter has the sinking realization that someone has just taken out every cell tower and repeater in the district.

“Someone just neutered the communication network,” Fury says.

“This is too organized,” Hill says.

Peter has to agree. The 911 hack, the snipers, the cell towers. This is connected. But god, it’s hard to think right now.

“Yeah, I f*cking wonder why,” Bucky snaps. “Get to cover--”

The crane creaks ominously. Peter’s senses, already at high alert, shoot up to a low alarm when the massive machine is hit by a gust of wind. It creaks, then tilts, and then starts to fall to the streets below. The same streets that are currently packed full of cars and people. When it hits the ground, it’ll pancake anyone or anything it lands one.

He can’t let that happen. Peter pushes himself up, looks for any lingering snipers (he spots two), and then moves. He sprints across the slick rooftop, moving over and around each obstacle, using the parkour tricks Nightwing taught him weeks ago, adjusting his webshooter as he goes. If he does this just right---

He leaps into the air and shoots a wide web at the crane, swings below and then around it, connecting the web to the nearest building. It holds, creaking ominously. He keeps going, repeating the process down the length of the crane. It's a process that takes less than a minute and eats up almost all of his web fluid. He can feel blood pour out of his side with every leap, every swing, and every breath. It slows him down, but he pushes through it. He can’t stop now, and he’s not going to. Too many people are counting on him.

The final web, swing, and stick takes place barely twenty feet above ground. Peter succeeds in suspending the crane mid air above the busy streets of Gotham just as the crane brushes against the tops of a few buildings below.

He tries to land on the crane, misses by centimeters, and instead lands hard on the cold asphalt of another building. The wind is knocked out of him. He wheezes, staring up at the crane in a daze, blood gently pouring out of the wound in his side. The crane dangles from its web cocoon above him, creaking in the wind. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the very real bullet wound in his side, Peter feels relief.

God, that had been close. Was it not anchored properly? Was it rigged to fall? How did it---

Danger.

Peter freezes. His senses are going haywire. He can hear footsteps. And the sound of a coin being flipped, over and over.

"You know, kid, you chose a really bad time to drop in. That trap wasn’t meant for you," a low, gravelly voice says. Peter doesn’t recognize.

"Stupid do gooders are all alike," another voice says, sibilant and snarling. This one smells like a reptile. Killer Croc. "Instead of Nightwing, we get a Spider."

"Hang on there, pal," another says, and this one sounds like he's talking through a mouthful of mud. Clayface. "He ain't our mission. We don't need to kill him, right, Two Face?

Two-Face says nothing for a moment. And then that first gravelly voice speaks and Peter puts a name to it. "Everyone deserves a chance. Fifty-fifty. That's the best anyone can ask for."

Another coin flip, the smack of one hand catching a coin against another. Silence, and then, "Looks like the odds weren't in your favor."

“Oh, I was hoping it would go that way,” the Joker says, laughing. “Let’s call this a team building exercise, hm? Nothing brings friends together like a good beating. I even brought my favorite crowbar!”

“Leave him alive enough for me,” a voice hisses, low and echoing. The body it comes from smells of Fear toxin.

“If he survives this, he’s all yours, Scarecrow,” Joker says. “Just leave him somewhere for the Bat to find.”

“Get up,” Sam says urgently. “Get up!”

Peter Parker, grievously wounded, exhausted, and rocked by the knowledge that he’ll never see his friends or family again, pushes himself to his feet to face his foes.

Alone.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:01pm): Nightwing and Spider-Man need help, sending coordinates now.

Message Failed; No Signal

Barbara (07:01pm): Emergency, everyone get to Nightwing.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

So he has a bit of a situation here.

From left to right: Killer Croc, hunched low for a pounce, flexing his meaty claw tipped fingers, watches Peter hungrily, breath steaming in frigid air. Beside him stands Clayface, a man with skin the color of white clay, muscles gradually growing thicker by the moment; when he sees Peter glance at him, he grins, revealing rows of jagged, stone-like teeth, and clenches fists the size of small boulders. Next to him, front and center to the whole group is the Joker in his purple suit, gripping an old crowbar covered in the rust like stains formed from dried blood, teeth bared in a wide slasher’s smile. To his right is a man in a simple two toned suit, one half white, the other half black, matching the wildly different halves of his face. One normal, the other horrifically scarred, as if freshly scorched from some massive fire, lips peeled back in a sneering snarl. Two-Face. He regards Peter coldly, idly flipping a coin in one hand. And beside him is an absolute nightmare: a spindly man standing well over six feet tall wearing a leather mask over his face. The eyes and rictus grin mouth shelter a hellfire red glow within, as if there isn’t a man behind the mask at all. In his hands rests a scythe with a trailing chain welded to the handle. Peter can hear the clink of bottles inside his tattered coat as he moves. The Scarecrow.

Five of Gotham’s worst, and all of them looking right at him. He definitely isn’t cutting an intimidating figure here: all of them tower over him, wild eyed and grinning at him cruelly. They stalk towards him, wolves circling wounded prey. The distant crack-crack of sniper fire echoes across the air, at odds with the snow gently falling from the slate gray sky above. That gunfire means he’s well and truly on his own; Nightwing can swing fast, but he can’t swing fast enough to avoid snipers. It also means that Nightwing is still alive. There’s no need to shoot a dead man, after all.

Peter hunches into a fighter’s stance, thinking quickly. His left side is stiff; the skin around the bullet wound is already growing tight from the no doubt massive bruise forming across the length of his torso. He takes a moment to shoot a glob of web fluid across the wound to stop the bleeding. He has to bite back a sudden shout of pain; holy sh*t, that hurt.

He’s at a massive disadvantage, to put it lightly. He slowly backs away as the others approach, considering his options. He doesn’t have many: he could run away, but that just means these assholes will find and kill Nightwing. Not an option. But he sure as hell can’t fight Gotham’s worst on his own.

Can he?

Peter blinks behind his mask. Maybe he can. Oracle had said she was calling for help. He doesn’t have to win the fight. He just has to keep them busy long enough for back up to arrive. And the longer he keeps from fighting, the better off he’ll be.

Okay. So stall. Put up a tough front. Don’t let them see how drained he is. Peter straightens his back and faces the approaching gang, chin held high. Even doing that much pulls at his wound, but he pushes through the pain.

Time to bluff.

“Okay, this is how it's gonna go,” Peter says, slowly shifting in place to keep them all in view. He manages to keep from sounding breathless and exhausted, but only barely. "Right now, every Bat in the city is on their way. The whole crew. Plus the GCPD, maybe the Justice League--"

"Hardly," Joker says dryly. "The only bats in this city are right here. Nightwing up there--” He points to the building above, and the steady cracking thunder of sniper rifles. “And you, down here. With us.”

“He’s hurt,” Scarecrow says, pointing his scythe towards the bloodstain that covers Peter’s side. His voice is gentle, even, and unnervingly calm, at complete odds with his appearance. “Look at the blood.”

“He won’t last five seconds,” Clayface remarks. He sounds annoyed and bored. “Get it over with.”

“Croc? Tear his arms off,” Two-Face says.

Killer Croc laughs, lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His nostrils flare at the scent of blood, and Peter can see the feeding frenzy forming behind the monster’s eyes. He moves with a heavy limp, favoring the leg that Loki impaled at the school.

So much for stalling. Time to show them he means business.

Peter aims both web shooters at Killer Croc and fires. Twin tendrils shoot out. One tangles up Croc’s good leg, forcing him to land too heavily on the wounded one. He lets out a startled snarl when it starts to collapse beneath him. The other tendril sticks squarely to his scaly chest, holding as tightly as any of the buildings Peter would swing from on a normal night. He still intends to swing, but the method is a bit stranger tonight.

Peter braces both feet on the ground, enabling his sticky powers, and pulls, putting his strength behind it. He yanks Killer Croc right off of his feet and into the air, twisting his body around to swing the confused and frightened lizard man in a wide arc that ends at Two-Face. The two men crash into each other with thunderous force, cursing and crying out in pain as they’re bodily flung across the roof to land on the far side ledge. He hears Two-Face’s arms and ribs break and knows he won’t be a problem after this. Peter wouldn’t normally use that much strength, but he needs to send a message to the rest, to make them second guess their plan.

The others stare at their comrades, then face him, stunned. Peter stares them down, fists clenched, doing his best to keep from swaying on his feet. He can feel a trickling warmth seep out of his side.

“Who’s next?” he asks.

The others hesitate. Peter considers that a victory. Every second they aren’t trying to kill him is one second closer to help reaching him.

He just has to hold the line. Just long enough for help to reach him.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:05pm): If anyone can see this, respond.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Peter says when the Joker, Scarecrow, and Clayface start to move towards him. Adrenaline is numbing the pain in his side and chasing away the exhaustion. “And you don’t want the hard way. So if you’d all just line up with your hands out so I can web ‘em up, that’d be great--”

“Oh,” Joker breathes. “I’m going to have so much fun with you, little spider.”

Peter points at him without missing a beat. “Okay, wow, creepy. You’re definitely next in time out--”

Clayface swings one massive fist at him from halfway across the roof. His arms lengthens, stretches, and flies straight at Peter with enough speed that Peter barely has enough time to turn with the punch. He still catches a rock hard set of knuckles to the side of his face, but the force is mitigated. Instead of losing several teeth and breaking his jaw, the punch merely rattles his mind and flings him off the side of the building.

He enters free fall, sailing towards the ground alongside thick, fat snow flakes. After losing two precious seconds of awareness while in free fall, he raises one wrist and engages his web shooter.

It clicks. Nothing comes out.

Empty.

Peter doesn’t have enough time to reload them. He thinks, for one panicked second, I need help!

Something gold flashes above him, and the sound of wings follows. Not natural wings. Falcon’s wings. Moments later, strong hands grip Peter’s outstretched arm and slow his descent. It’s hard work; the snow storm is picking up speed, and Sam has to fight against a rising wind that keeps trying to slam them both into the building. He manages it, wings braced against the wind snow like an angel’s.

“I’ve got you!” Sam yells. “Don’t let go!”

Peter clutches Sam’s hand, confused, hopeful, and desperately relieved by his sudden appearance. He even helps Sam move them away from the building and into a controlled fall towards the ground.

And then Sam disappears. One moment he’s there, lowering Peter safely to the ground, and the next, Peter is in full free fall again. He barely has enough time to register that Sam is gone before hitting the ground.

* * *

To: Bruce Wayne

Barbara (07:10pm): Dick is in trouble. He needs you.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

Peter lays on the ground, catching his breath. He can feel the burning itch of his healing factor kick in along his ribs. He must have cracked one or two with that last fall. He’s damn lucky he didn’t crack his back. He lays still, catching his breath, and lets his healing factor work as much as it can. Horrified motorists and pedestrians stare at him. They’re quick to make a hasty retreat when Clayface slithers down the side of the building with Joker and Scarecrow in his arms. He sets them down on the sidewalk some distance from Peter.

Peter groans. So much for letting his healing factor kick in.

“Why did it push me back here?” Sam asks, furious.

“Because the boy needs to use the Stone to summon you. He doesn’t know how to do that consciously, and when you appear, you are borrowing against his own life force,” Loki explains, his tone short. “Something he is rather short of at the moment.”

“So every time we appear, we drain him,” Bucky says.

“Then we better make our appearances count,” Fury says.

“Aw, the little spider survived the fall. Good. I was worried,” Joker says.

Peter clenches his eyes shut. He can’t fight them all alone. He needs help.

The Joker takes a few steps towards Peter, raising his crowbar. And then freezes.

The flash of gold is subtle this time. The form above him is real for only a moment: the black silhouetted figure of the Black Panther, standing in a fighter’s crouch above Peter, staring down Gotham’s worst. An eerie stillness comes from the King of Wakanda, and Gotham’s villains pause in genuine terror at this stark reminder of their own worst fear made manifest.

A moment later he disappears. He’s bought Peter time, nothing more. But that might be enough. Peter’s head is clearer now, sharper, and cycles back to the stall portion of his plan.

“So, hey, guys,” he says, pushing himself back onto his feet. That landing had been one of his rougher ones, to put it lightly. “While you’re all here, I’ve got a question or two.”

“Oh?” Joker asks, grinning at him.

“I might have stolen some plans from your hideout,” Peter says. A blatant lie, but he can protect Felicia with it, at least. He can do that much. “What’s with the machine? What’s it supposed to do?”

“Oh, that,” Joker says, his grin stretching wider. “That’s a gift for him.”

“Him?” Peter asks, taking a few more steps away.

“Yeah, him. He can’t bring his army here, so we’re gonna make one for him,” Clayface laughs, lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His eyes are opaque stones, glittering darkly in the snowy night.

“You’re being annoyingly cryptic right now,” Peter remarks, flexing his arms. His hand aches where it was broken when he first came to Gotham. And his arm flashes with pain from his stab wound; the swinging hasn’t been good for it.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about it too much,” Joker says idly. “Scarecrow? Your turn.”

The spindly man’s eyes flare red, the grin on his mask growing wider somehow. He idly swings his scythe on its chain. He’s unnervingly fast, and Peter has no doubt that the man is whipcord strong despite looking like a toothpick with a Halloween fetish.

His suspicions are confirmed when his spider senses flare and the scythe is suddenly in his thigh; Scarecrow had thrown it so quickly Peter had been unable to track it. Peter curses his lapse in attention and yanks the scythe out of his flesh. Blood pours out of the wound, but it’s already starting to slow; the wound is shallow, and is well on its way to healing. The biggest victim of that attack is his suit; a ragged tear traces the length of his thigh, letting in the cold and snow.

Scarecrow yanks back the scythe and traces its bloodied edge. The infernal glow within his mask grows brighter.

Peter quickly reloads his web shooters using the pellets Batman made. He pours some more distance between himself and Scarecrow, limping on his wounded leg.

This is gonna suck.

* * *

The Titans Network

Oracle (07:13pm): This is Oracle from Gotham City. Titans, Nightwing needs you.

Message Failed; Signal Lost

* * *

The Scarecrow is frighteningly efficient with his scythe. Without his spider sense and years of experience (short as they may be), Peter would’ve been sliced into pieces seconds after the fight began. As it is, he can barely dodge out of the way of most of Scarecrow’s attacks; the snow has grown heavier, obscuring his vision. Add to that general exhaustion, a mad sprint to suspend several tons of steel and metal between skyscrapers above, and an honest to god bullet wound and Peter just isn’t at his best.

The Scarecrow lands three big strikes against Peter; once across his chest, once in his bicep, and once down the length of his back. Every last one oozes blood into his ruined suit. Peter is starting to feel woozy. He tries to aim his web shooters but his arms are just a hair too slow. All three shots of web sail harmlessly past Scarecrow. After the last one misses him, Scarecrow stops advancing.

It occurs to Peter, far too late, that the Scarecrow’s goal isn’t to kill him. It’s to exhaust him. Which he’s done beautifully.

“Do you boys mind if I go next?” Joker asks, strolling up to Scarecrow, crowbar held loosely in one hand. “I’d like to get some licks in.”

Scarecrow stands aside, but produces a small vial from within his tattered coat: the liquid is a milky orange color, holding it out towards Joker. “Make sure to spray this on him before you land the killing blow. I want to study its effects.”

Joker’s face positively lights up. He beams, grabbing the vial and holding it up. “Oh, our little project together! I’m honored you brought it with you, dear boy!”

This is really going to suck.

Peter tries to push himself back onto his feet. His arms tremble with the effort, and he’s starting to feel dizzy. Where the hell is that back up? He can still hear sniper fire. It’s distant, muffled by the steadily falling snow.

“Ask for help,” Bucky says.

Help isn’t here yet, though. Who is he going to ask? Nightwing is closest, and he’s on a rooftop a block away

“Just ask for help!” Wanda snaps.

Okay.

He needs hel--

The crowbar strikes him across the back, sending him to his knees.

He needs--

The next blow strikes his head. Stars fill his vision, and a white roaring noise fills his ears. He becomes confused. For some reason, he can hear Ben, distantly, repeating an old ad from TV after a particularly rough shift at the fire station where he worked: Don’t worry May. I can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’!

“Focus!” Fury snaps. “Ask us for help!”

Right. Right, he needs---

The Joker raises the crowbar for a third blow and Peter’s mind becomes overwhelmed with panic, interrupting his thoughts.

The blow never comes.

Two things happen instead: the rev of a motorcycle engine, and the snap of a pistol. The motorcycle, red and black, with the Batman’s signal painted across it, sails down the slick, snowy street and right into Clayface and Scarecrow. The rider, Red Hood, leaps off of the bike and aims his pistol at the Joker, firing three more times as he stalks towards Joker. The bullets strike home, all of them burying into the arm holding the crowbar. It falls from Joker’s thoroughly demolished arm and lands on ground with a rattling clatter, snow sticking to the bloodied surface. Red Hood holsters his gun and swipes the crowbar off the ground, closing in on the Joker.

What follows is one of the most brutal beatings Peter has ever seen. Red Hood does more than just put Joker on the ground; he destroys the arm the Joker used to wield that crowbar only seconds before. First his shoulder, then his elbow, then the delicate bones of his hand. All of them crushed and nearly flattened by a series of heavy, meaty thumps fueled more by rage than the pragmatic efficiency he’s seen Red Hood use in every fight up to this point. Either Red Hood really likes him or this is a bit personal for the guy.

The creepiest part is that the Joker just laughs during it.

Peter stops to catch his breath, to let his healing factor kick in, and then stands up. “Red, that’s enough.”

Red Hood stops and does a double take. “How the f*ck are you even conscious right now?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Peter says, feeling anything but. “They’re trying to kill Nightwing. They ambushed us.”

Red Hood stiffens, and his grip on the crowbar tightens. “Where is he?”

“Up top,” Peter says, bracing himself against a car. His hand smears blood across the window, and a horrified driver stares up at him through it. “Snipers have him pinned down.”

Red Hood stops, listens, and seems to relax when he hears the steady crack-crack of gunfire from above. “If they’re still shooting at him, then he’s alive.”

“You need to go up and get rid of the snipers. I can’t make that swing right now, but you can--”

“He can handle himself. Nightwing is the best of us,” Red Hood snaps. “And like hell am I going to leave you alone to handle the worst Gotham has to offer.”

Peter blinks, momentarily thrown by Red Hood’s protective anger.

Which is a moment he should’ve used to warn the man about Clayface. The shapeshifter swells up and off of the ground, and then skids across it towards Red Hood’s open back. He slams into the Bat from behind, gripping his neck and slamming his head against the frozen ground. Red Hood’s helmet cracks under the first strike. The second shatters it. After the third, blood begins to seep through the ruined helmet.

* * *

Hall of Justice Network

Oracle (07:20pm): This is a general distress call from Gotham City. If anyone can see this, we need help.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

Red Hood is unconscious. He’s not fighting against Clayface anymore; that last strike to the head was too hard, too well placed. Peter is at a loss of what to do.

Think, think, think--

Peter can’t fight Clayface. If he was at full strength, he could make a go of it, but he’s not. He can’t wrench Clayface off of Red Hood, and he can’t fight him even if he could. So he needs to think outside the box. Which is a shame, because thinking is starting to become very, very difficult. He can hear Red Hood gasp and weakly struggle against Clayface’s weight, can hear his pounding heartbeat, and how his lungs begin to deflate from lack of air.

Peter’s panic is starting to climb. How the hell do you fight clay? It’s dirt you can’t just--

Peter’s eyes lock onto a bright red fire hydrant half covered by snow. He sprints over to it in a lumbering, shuffling gait, slipping across the ice and slush. He drives his heel across the lid covering one of the outlets. His strength hasn’t failed him yet; the lid cracks under his heel and water shoots out of the side of the hydrant. Peter braces himself, and then cups his hands over the water. It hurts and stings, and the cold numbers his hands within seconds, but he’s able to guide the water blast. He aims it right at Clayface’s chest.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Clayface is pretty damn big, and he falls harder than most. The water strikes him with enough force to send him flying off of Red Hood. It cuts right through him, making him roar in pain and fury. Peter doesn’t let up; he uses the water to chase Clayface away, forcing the monster towards a sewer grate. He melts down and slithers inside it, cursing Peter vehemently.

Peter is just about to let out a sigh of relief when someone flings snow and ice into his face. It blinds him, temporarily, and he backs away from the hydrant. He starts swiping at his eyes, clearing them just in time to see the Joker standing in front of him, grinning madly, holding that vial of milky orange liquid in his one good hand. His other arm, crushed beyond all recognition, hangs limply at his side.

"You may have won this one, kiddo, but I’ll make sure you don’t savor the victory," he says, in that same manic sing-song.

He slams his fist into Peter’s face, crushing the vial against his nose. An explosion of heat and pain sears his mask. He smells burning diesel and lavender for a brief moment, mixed with something else, and then he starts to laugh. It’s a strangely terrified, manic sort of laughter that hurts. And the fear that comes after is overpowering and all consuming.

Using strength he didn’t think he had left, Peter launches himself back into the Gotham sky, swinging away from the Joker, Two-Face, Clayface, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, and Red Hood. The fear toxin takes hold of him completely, and his terrified laughter echoes off of the buildings as he flees in a blind panic.

* * *

BATCHAT

Signal Restored; Messages Delivered.

Duke (07:25pm): what’s going on?

Tim (07:25pm): just got the message, suiting up

Steph (07:25pm): Cass and I are suiting up, too. We need the location, Babs.

Barbara (07:26pm): Sending now. Confirm that you got the coordinates.

Tim (07:26pm): Got them

Steph (07:27pm): confirmed, on our way

Duke (07:27pm): Confirmed.

Tim (07:28pm): Where’s Jason?

Barbara (07:29pm): Standby. I’ve finally got the news feed back.

Barbara (07:31pm): Witnesses are saying Spider-Man and Red Hood fought Joker, Killer Croc, Two-Face, and Scarecrow. Casualties unknown.

Tim (07:32pm): What the f*ck?

Barbara (07:32pm): Jason’s suit isn’t responding to my pings. Spider-Man has been shot and is currently MIA. Nightwing is unaccounted for.

Barbara (07:34pm): Get there and find out what the hell happened. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to take.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

Peter is being chased.

He swings through Gotham in a blind panic, moving faster than he has in his life. He practically flies, propelled by adrenaline and fear and something else, something that forces helpless giggles of terror out of himself with every turn. He hears murmuring around him, voices that he vaguely recognizes but can’t quite place in his panic. He flees from those, too.

He doesn’t know what’s chasing him. But he can hear its laughter, see the shadow of its giant metallic wings fly overhead, and hear the skittering of legs crawl across the walls of the buildings looming above. Buildings that tilt precariously, swaying back and forth in the frigid wind, threatening to fall and crush him beneath their weight. There’s a strange unreality to his surroundings, as if he’s seeing things through a veil, and some part of him recognizes the hallucinations for what they are. But his senses are rattling him apart from the inside, a constant stream of dangerdangerdanger.

Something is chasing him.

He can feel the destruction behind him, racing to meet him, swirling around him. The thing Thanos did that dissolved half of his universe and killed his family and friends. The dusting. The ashes. They’re everywhere. Stinging his face, falling from the sky, some large and fat, others small and stinging. Ashes that used to be people--

“Peter!”

A voice. He recognizes it. Someone important.

“Peter, you need to get somewhere safe,” Shuri says, keeping her tone even and gentle. It cuts through the panic, but not by much.

Safe. What’s safe? There’s nothing safe here! Thanos won, the Vulture is circling above, the buildings are starting to crumble--

The building nearest to him shifts, twisting like a vine, the bricks cracking and crumbling; it’s going to fall. Right on top of him. He can’t get trapped like that again. The crushing pressure, trapped alone--The memory forms unbidden. It’s as if he’s there again, buried alive and left for dead. He bites back a giggling scream.

He has to get away from the buildings. Peter yanks himself over to the side, swinging hard for the riverfront. Something warm runs down his side, and a fresh wave of anxiety follows that thought, but he can’t recall why. It isn’t important; what’s important is getting away from the buildings. He swings along the outside edge of them, keeping to the riverfront. The snow (ashes) becomes thicker, the wind becomes stronger. He’s swinging right into the teeth of the storm now.

A gale force wind hits him as he’s swinging from one building to the next, throwing his swing off balance. It pushes him out and over the river. His panic freezes him in place, and he tries too late to shoot a new web. The wind pushes him over the river, stretching the web line he’s connected to much too far; if it was his formula, there wouldn’t be enough give to pull him this far. It isn’t his formula; it’s Batman’s. Good, but not built to snap back the way his webs would allow.

The line snaps.

He falls into the water, the icy cold a shock to his system that cuts through the panic completely. Most of his suit, torn and bloody, is ripped away from him by the currents. The utility belt is ripped away in the torrent. His mind is just clear enough to realize how close he is to dying.

He thinks, Someone help me!

There’s a flash of gold, and a strong arm wraps around his middle. Peter Quill lifts Peter Parker out of the frigid river and into the sky, carrying him towards Crime Alley. He makes it as far as the fire station before flickering out of existence again, cursing. Peter lands hard on the icy alley next to the fire station.

He lays there, shivering and giggling, surrounded by ghosts. He starts to crawl for the fire station wall. He climbs up the wall, teeth chattering, down to just his boxers and socks. The fire station is safe. He knows it is. Uncle Ben worked at a fire station, and Uncle Ben is (was) one half of his security blanket against the world. It’s safe.

The hallucinations around him shift at the thought of Ben. He hears gasping below himself, in the alley. It’s all too familiar to Peter, and he bites back a laughing sob. He can smell the gunpowder. The singed flesh. The blood. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he’s been shot close to where Ben was hit during that fateful night.

“Jesus, what has this kid been through?” Quill asks.

Uncle Ben gasps in pain behind him, back in the alley. Going back down there is a death sentence, but he can’t leave his uncle alone--

“Keep climbing,” T’Challa orders, insistent and reassuring. Peter gets the idea that T’Challa is hovering behind him, as if he intends to block Peter’s view if he turns around. “There is nothing for you to see. Keep going.”

Peter hesitates, and then keeps climbing. He hauls himself in through the window with herculean effort, and starts to laugh.

He’s not sure when he started crying, but he’s doing that, too.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:40pm): Status update, guys. Bruce is on the line and he needs to know what’s happening.

Duke (07:41pm): Cass and Steph took out the snipers. Dick’s safe. I have Jason. He’s hurt, but he’s awake. Concussion. How are things on your end?

Barbara (07:42pm): Fielding calls from Bruce and the Titans. Bruce is on his way, but the storm is going to delay him.

Barbara (07:43pm): Any word on Spider-Man?

Duke (07:44pm): Not yet.

Barbara (07:45pm): Keep me updated.

* * *

“Snipers are down,” Spoiler says, her voice made tinny by the speaker of his earpiece. “We just took out the last one. What’s your status, Nightwing?”

“Not hurt,” he says, snapping out of cover and sprinting for the roof ledge as fast as he can.

He leaps off of the building within seconds, fires his grappling gun, and almost burns out the brake as he lowers himself to the ground. Snow stings his face as he falls, and he wipes at it irritably when he drops to the ground, looking around. The scene in front of him is one of chaos and confusion. Blood covers the icy sidewalk, gradually disappearing beneath a layer of snow. Cops are waving in cranes and work crews to disassemble the massive crane suspended between buildings above, all of them moving as quickly as they can before the blizzard makes it impossible to work. Red Robin is speaking with a crowd of people huddled up together; more than a few are speaking animatedly, pointing at the rooftops, the crane, the blood on the ground.

Two-Face and Killer Croc have been retrieved from the rooftops and are sitting on the curb, still bound in thick webbing, cursing at one another viciously as they try to break free. It won’t work, of course. Spider-Man’s webs are unbelievably tough. Batman had even been impressed by them, and that is no easy feat, as Nightwing well knows.

“Well, if it isn’t the party guest,” Killer Croc drawls. “You’re swinging in fashionably late, kid.”

Nightwing stares at him impassively, but the grip on his grappling hook gun grows tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. “Why?”

“I never got the real reason,” Two-Face says, grunting in pain as Killer Croc elbows him while struggling against the webs. “It was supposed to solve a few problems for our employer and keep Batman busy dealing with your death. Win-win.”

“Since when did you work for someone, Two-Face?” Nightwing asks. “Let alone with the Joker and Scarecrow?”

“Since--” he pauses, actually stammers, frowning in confusion before scoffing. “Since none of your business. Results are results.”

Killer Croc chuckles lowly. “Just us and four of our best friends working to put you Bats into place. We didn’t get you but we got someone.”

Nightwing stares at them coldly for a moment, his temper fraying. He almost does it. He almost beats them both into paste then and there on the sidewalk. They tried to kill him. They shot Spider-Man. They beat the hell out of Red Hood. And now they’re going straight to Arkham, where they’ll stay for a few months or years and then break out again.

Red Robin seems to sense it. He looks up from the group he’s speaking with and then quickly shoos them away before walking towards him, calling out. “Nightwing!”

“What have you found?” Nightwing asks, turning away from Killer Croc and stalking towards Red Robin. It comes out as a demand, actually. He’s antsy, practically thrumming with repressed fury and energy.

Red Robin closes the distance between them with a sigh. He rubs the back of his neck. “Witnesses are all over the place. Half of them say an angel caught Spider-Man falling from the sky, half say Batman showed up to scare off the Rogues Gallery, and a third say they saw Spider-Man take a direct hit across the back of his head with a crowbar and shrug it off no problem. After being shot, stringing up a crane, and falling from a skyscraper.”

“That’s wilder than usual,” Nightwing admits, tense. “What have you heard from them that we can trust?”

“Only a few things. The general consensus is that Spider-Man stopped the crane and then took on all of Batman’s worst enemies at the same time before getting saved by Red Hood. And then, well, things went poorly for both of them,” Red Robin says.

He nods to Red Hood, currently getting bundled into a Batmobile by Spoiler and Black Bat. He tries to fight them off, to get up and walk over to Nightwing, but he’s too exhausted, too rattled from the fight. Nightwing isn’t looking forward to the conversation they’re going to have in the future.

“How is he?” Nightwing asks.

“The way he always is after he’s hurt. Pissed,” Red Robin says. “The one thing all of the witnesses can agree on is that he saved Spider-Man from the Joker and then Spider-Man saved him from Clayface. They said Joker poured or threw something into Spider-Man’s face. Spider-Man left after that. Panicked. Joker and Scarecrow made themselves scarce afterward, too.”

A long pause follows that. Nightwing clenches his fists tight enough for the leather of his gloves to creak. He looks at the sidewalk. Splotches of blood have frozen and mixed with the snow and ice, turning it pink.

“Joker’s toxin?” Nightwing asks. “That doesn’t explain why he left. Most people hit with that are too busy laughing to run.”

Or killing people. Nightwing refuses to think of that; it’s so utterly not like Spider-Man that he can’t even imagine it.

“A few of the people I talked to said Joker used a vial that Scarecrow gave him,” Red Robin says after a moment. He jerks his head over towards Two-Face, and Killer Croc, sitting on the sidewalk with their hands and legs bound in chains. “Scarecrow confirmed it. He said it was a new recipe, but he hasn’t had a chance to test it. He wouldn’t tell me if it had any of Joker’s toxin in it.”

“A new version of fear toxin at the very least,” Nightwing says. He can’t afford to think of what that particular concoction is capable of doing to someone. Particularly someone already pumped full of adrenaline from a fight. He knows people who’ve died from fear. “We have to find him before he hurts someone. Or himself.”

"Time isn't on our side, Nightwing," Red Robin says quietly. "The storm is here. We’ll have white out conditions within the next twenty minutes, and temperatures will hit rock bottom not long after. The only benefit we have is that there won’t be very many people outside."

Your friend is going to die of either blood loss or exposure to the cold, but at least he probably won’t kill anyone before he dies, in other words. Tim wouldn't say it like that, but that's his meaning regardless.

"Then we'd better find him in the next twenty minutes," Nightwing snaps.

He says it loud enough that Spoiler and Black Bat’s heads snap up to look in his direction. They can count on one hand how often they've heard Nightwing use that tone. Red Robin blinks, but otherwise only nods, pulling out his grappling gun.

“Witnesses said he was heading north,” Tim says. He has to speak louder now; the snow and wind are starting to pick up in earnest. “We might get lucky and find a trail. This way.”

He launches himself into the air. Nightwing is right behind him, swinging behind his brother.

* * *

Voices. Far away voices that suddenly seem too close or too far. It’s hard to hear them over the laughter that robs him of his breath and tears at his side.

“His emotions are becoming harder to control,” Mantis says, her voice wavering. “He will hurt people unless we stop him.”

“How is that different from normal?” Hank Pym asks. “You’ve been keeping the kid from going apesh*t since he woke up in that tube.”

“This is worse. Much worse,” Mantis says. “I am barely keeping his rage away.

“We need to get that toxin out of him,” Fury says. His voice becomes louder, clearer. It feels like the man is right beside his ear, yelling at him. “Parker, get the needle the doctor gave you.”

The needle. It takes his scattered mind a moment to remember what that is. The red packet is near the first aid kit, stacked neatly on a makeshift shelf near his bed. He leaves a trail of blood behind himself as he crawls towards it, giggling helplessly. The laughter is becoming a problem. So is the cold. Peter’s teeth chatter violently as he bumps into the shelf, groping for the packet. He tries to tear it open with numb fingers, and sobs when he can’t manage it.

“Call for help!” Fury orders.

“Helpmehelpme--” Peter chokes out between giggles.

A flash of gold. And suddenly, T’Challa and Bucky are on either side of him. Bucky grabs the packet and tosses it to T’Challa before grabbing Peter in a bearhug, trapping him against his chest. Peter, confused by this sudden attack, starts to fight against him, panicked.

“Easy!” Bucky says, gritting his teeth. “I’m holding you still so T’Challa can hit you with that antitoxin. And warming you up. You’re freezing, kid.”

“How--” Peter starts.

T’Challa tears open the packet and presses the tip of the autoinjector to the side of Peter’s leg. He hits the plunger. Something sharp stabs Peter’s leg, followed by twitching heat that traces its way through his veins. Peter gasps and whimpers. Bucky’s hold loosens a little.

“Keep it in place,” Bucky says. “Remember what the doc said. Has it been more than thirty minutes?”

“I have no idea. Time does not work for us the way it works for him. We will simply have to hope not,” T’Challa says. He keeps the autoinjector steady with one hand and reaches over to grab Peter’s first aid kit with the other, tossing it over to Bucky. “White Wolf--”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Peter’s focus wavers and disappears when the heat traveling through his body reaches his gunshot wound. Without Bucky to support him, he flops back onto the cold ground with a pained moan. The autoinjector falls beside him, rattling against the cold floor.

* * *

“I’ve called the Coast Guard,” Red Robin says, he has to shout to be heard above the wind. “They can’t send out anybody right now. The storm is too violent. If he’s there...”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. The river is starting to freeze; icy shards of water clumping together and breaking apart in the tide. Falling into the waves on a good night would be dangerous. Falling into it during a violent storm, while already injured and panicked from fear toxin is a death sentence. They won’t know for sure, of course. The body won’t wash ashore; Gotham’s river never gives up its dead in winter. The frigid temperature affects decomposition. Bodies just sink.

It’s possible he made it out somehow. Maybe with his web slinging. But even that’s a thin hope. Spider-Man would be disoriented and confused from the frigid water. Nightwing’s fallen into the river once before, and if Batman hadn’t been able to pull him out of it, he would’ve drowned. That was during a relatively peaceful night during the summer, the polar opposite of the rough waves and brutal wind cutting through the city right now.

Nightwing stares at the bloodied suit swirling in the water’s turbulent surface. He says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Red Robin says after a moment.

"He was only here because I asked for him," Nightwing says quietly. "It was--it wasn't supposed to go like this! If I had just gone by myself, like I planned--"

"Then you would’ve taken a bullet to the back of the head without realizing how much trouble you were in," Red Robin says, voice thick and weary. The cold is wearing on him. "He saved you. And then he saved Jason and who knows how many other people."

Nightwing sighs, weary. “Yeah. He did.”

“Nightwing?” Oracle asks. “You’ve got a visitor heading your way.”

Nightwing frowns, reaching up to key up his earpiece. “Who?”

“Starfire. I tried to contact the Titans when I couldn’t reach the rest of the crew,” Oracle says. “She’s on her way to you right now. My message might have upset her. I’ve managed to head off most of the Justice League, but the Titans...Well.”

Nightwing winces. He’s seen the Batchat. He can only imagine the kind of panic that would inspire in the Titans. He’d be a furious wreck himself if the positions were reversed and someone set up an elaborate assassination attempt on her.

“Got it, Oracle. I’ll wait for her here,” Nightwing says, sitting at the edge of the bridge. He sounds tired, even to himself.

Red Robin glances at him for a moment, and then sits beside him. They watch the turbulent waters pull the bloodied suit beneath the waves in silence.

* * *

The panic leaves Peter gradually. The confusion drains away bit by bit after that. He doesn’t fully come back to himself until the fire in his veins lessens to an uncomfortable heat, and his laughter dies down to rough, chuckling coughs. He has no idea how much time has passed. In fact, he’s not entirely sure of what’s happened to him. His memories are all jumbled together. One minute, he’s swinging through the city in abject panic and fear, and the next he’s laying in the middle of the firehouse, confused, mostly naked, and trembling from blood loss and exhaustion. His side is white hot agony. His skin is drenched in half frozen blood. He’s rocking in place, as if trying to comfort himself, confused and upset, and weak. Something important happened--something bad--

"The gunshot wound." Sam hisses at him. Peter can almost see him. It’s like looking through a transparent pane of glass. He can see Sam, but also see through him to the other side of the room. There’s a faint trace of gold outlining his body. "You need to get that taken care of!"

Right. The gunshot wound.

"Stop the bleeding. Get some clothes on. Go outside, try to flag someone down--" Bucky starts.

Peter grabs his first aid kit. Well, actually, he crawls for it. He doesn’t have to go far for it. It’s resting right beside him.

"What the hell are you doing?” Bucky snaps. “Go outside! Find a bat! Find a goddamned cab--”

He holds the first aid kit, frowning at it. His mind is spinning, and he’s having trouble making connections between things. He knows he has a bad gunshot wound. He knows it needs to be taken care of. He knows he’s holding a first aid kit that can help. But those three ideas are separate things, and he can’t string them together into any kind of action. Whatever was in that autoinjector is strong. It's like a house with the lights turned off inside. He giggles to himself every so often, jarring his wound, and he can't figure out why. He's laughed nervously before, but not by himself. And it isn't just laughter. There's a jerky, twitchy movement to his limbs when he laughs. It’s going to make this DIY surgery--already a sketchy decision, considering his trembling hands--even riskier than usual.

“He can’t be serious,” Bucky says. “If he tries to take care of that gunshot wound himself, he’ll f*ck it up and die.”

“If he asks for help, Mom and I can handle it. I can shrink the bullet, and Mom still has some power left. Quantum healing should be able to handle all of those wounds,” Hope says.

“He can’t focus long enough for any of us to stay longer than a few seconds,” Hill says. “Even if he manages to use the Stone to summon us, we won’t be able to stay long enough to help.”

“There might be a way to work around that,” Loki says, as if reluctant to mention it at all. “It will come at great cost to us. Me, in particular, which I’m not personally thrilled about.”

“Do it,” Fury orders.

“I’m not sure you understand--” Loki begins.

“I understand what I’ll do to you if you don’t do as I goddamn say,” Fury retorts. “Do. It.”

“Fine,” Loki spits. “The consequences will be on your head, then.”

“I can live with that,” Fury replies dryly.

Loki curses, but goes silent. Peter stares at the first aid kit, then at the packet that held the antidote to Joker’s toxin. A small warning is printed along the side of it: May cause confusion and hallucinations. Do not administer alone except in dire circ*mstances.

Huh.

“Peter, you need to ask us for help again,” Shuri says, drawing him out of his confusion.

That’s a good idea.

"Help me," he gasps, to no one in particular.

Peter is blinded by another flash of gold, this one mixed with tendrils of red and green. Sam flashes gold for a moment. He turns from a strange, orange translucent color to something far more solid. He reaches his hands out, and he puts hard pressure over the wound. Sharp enough to make Peter gasp and wince beneath his hands.

“We need to get you to a goddamn hospital,” he snarls, putting on yet more pressure. His tone is by turns furious, heartbroken, and terrified. “What the hell were you thinking taking on all of those fools by yourself--”

Peter stares up at him dumbly. “Are you real?”

“Yes, goddammit! Stay awake. I need to get you stable,” he says. Several more flashes of gold flare to life around them, but Peter can’t see what’s happening. Sam is hovering over him protectively. He glances over his shoulder for a moment. “Janet, Hope, if you’re going to do it, do it now.”

“We’re all set here,” Janet says, somehow maintaining a calm and pleasant tone despite everything. “Hope?”

“Keep him still,” Hope says to Sam, flipping her helmet down before disappearing. There’s no flash of gold this time; she’s just gone.

A second later, Peter hears the telltale buzz of a wasp’s wings and Sam pulls his hands back just a bit. Something flies between Sam’s bloody fingers and into Peter’s gunshot wound. That’s enough to make the blind panic return. He doesn’t want something inside him--

“Easy, easy,” Janet says soothingly. “Hope is going to get the bullet out. Just lay still.”

Something shifts inside the bullet wound; a pressure and stiffness disappears completely, if the bullet’s been plucked out of him. Something flies out from beneath Sam’s fingers and Hope reappears behind Janet and Sam. She flicks something out from between her fingers; a tiny metal pebble by the sound it makes when it pings off of the floor.

“Shuri? We need you, switch off with me,” Hope says.

Another flash, and two others appear near him. Princess Shuri and Dr. Strange. Hope disappears.

"Princess--" Sam starts.

"Hold him steady," Shuri orders, plucking a bead off of her bracelet. "Move your hands when I say."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says. He glances at Strange. "Doc? We good?"

"Make it quick. Loki, Wanda, and I can't keep this up for long. Death isn’t meant to be cheated like this," Strange says quietly, gently gathering golden energy between his palms. They tremble from the effort and sweat stands out against his brow. Ashes begin to fall from his hands. "You have five minutes. Tops."

“We’ll only need one,” Shuri says confidently. Sam pulls his hands back again, and Shuri presses in the sides of the bead, spraying something into Peter’s wound. It’s cold, whatever it is, sharp enough to make Peter grunt in pain. “Dr. Van Dyne?”

Janet kneels beside her. “I don’t have a lot of power left. Most of it went to help Ghost.”

“But you do still have some?” Shuri asks.

Janet nods, rolling up her sleeves. “Yes.”

“Every little bit helps right now,” Sam replies, pressing hard against Peter’s wound. Whatever Shuri did slowed the bleeding, but Sam isn’t taking any chances, apparently. “Do your thing.”

“Right. Okay. Peter, you’re going to feel warm for a bit,” Janet says, keeping her tone calm. Her hands glow, and she cups his face. “I need you to promise me something, okay?”

Peter startles at her touch, and then leans into it. Janet’s face softens. “Okay.”

“You need to rest and then you need to go find help,” Janet says. “You’re going to feel tired, and it’ll be hard to wake up, but you have to get up. Promise me you’ll do it.”

As she speaks, a gentle golden light flows from her hands and across Peter. It covers him like a warm blanket, drying him off from his dip in the river, and spreads across him, hovering over the cuts Scarecrow left on his chest and legs, the blue black bruises Joker’s crowbar left behind, and the bullet wound. The bruises lighten and disappear and the cuts seal shut, but the bullet wound takes more. The skin closes and seals, but it doesn’t heal completely; Peter can feel his healing factor kick in to help.

“Okay,” Peter mumbles, relaxing into the warmth. “Okay, I promise. After I sleep.”

Sam pulls his hands back for a moment, and sighs in relief. “It’s closed. He’s going to have a nasty scar, but I think we did it.”

Janet’s shoulders slump and she pulls her hands back. “That’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry, I have to go back.”

“Go ahead,” Shuri says. “Sam and I can do the rest.”

Another flash of gold, and Janet disappears back into the Soul stone. Dr. Strange is pale, shaking, and struggling to maintain the spells keeping them corporeal. Sam takes one look at him and then starts to move.

“Get his bed ready. I’m going to get him dressed, and then we need to get the hell out of here before Doc, Loki, and Wanda burn out their souls doing this,” he says.

“Will he be warm enough to survive the night? The blizzard is gaining strength,” Shuri says, already moving.

“Maybe. I don’t know. We’ll just have to hope so,” Sam says helplessly. “There isn’t a damn thing we can do to help him after this. I feel like I’ve been swimming through molasses, and it gets worse the longer I’m here.”

Peter feels himself being manhandled into his warmest clothes. Jeans, shirt, socks, his coat, shoes. If he was more awake, he’d be mortified by this, embarrassed that he needs help at all. But he’s too out of it, too warm, too exhausted to complain. Strong hands carry him over to his bed where he’s wrapped up and tucked away beneath his blankets and spare clothes.

Peter blinks up at Sam and Shuri from under the blankets, and then drifts off to sleep. His side burns and itches by turns, but even that isn’t enough to keep him awake.

“I can’t hold it much longer--” Dr. Strange warns. Most of his lower half is gone, flaking away into smoldering ash. He’s pale and shaking from pain. “Loki isn’t faring much better. Are you--”

“We’re done,” Shuri says hurriedly. “Break the connection, Dr. Strange.”

Dr. Strange clenches his fists and dismisses the spell, disappearing with Sam and Shuri in another flash of light.

Peter sleeps, unaware of the world outside of his fire station.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

Peter rests through the night. He doesn’t sleep, and therefore doesn’t dream; it’s far too cold to do that safely. The blizzard hits Gotham hard and fast. The world outside the fire station is a blanket of white, with snow and ice blasting the windows. Frigid wind slips through the drafty building, causing Peter to shiver and groan, keeping him from reaching true sleep for longer than a few minutes at a time. There’s an unsettling, rattling, watery sound to his breathing, that forces him to cough and startles him awake the few times he starts to drift off. He’s buried under his clothes, blankets, and backpack. It barely keeps him from freezing.

He forces himself to consider his situation, to try and plan. He has nowhere to go. He just has to wait one more day before the stipend hits his account. If he bankrupts himself, he could use all of it to rent a cheap hotel room for the week. He’ll be stuck without food, but right now his shelter is becoming a bigger hazard than starvation. Maybe he can beg some food off of Felicia? She’d help him. Probably. Almost definitely, actually. She is his friend, at least.

He’s tired. It’s hard to think. He needs to sleep, at least for a little while. He can wait one more day.

“You can’t stay here,” Fury says.

“Get up,” Quill says, frustration and worry thick in his voice. “You have to find help, man!”

Peter grunts, burying himself further in his nest. It’s just warm enough that he can sleep. He closes his eyes and starts to drift off--

Something shoves him. Hard.

“Kid, stay awake,” Bucky snaps. “If you fall asleep, you’ll die.”

No, he won’t. He has a healing factor. He can rest just fine, thank you.

“This isn’t working,” Mantis says. “He is very stubborn.”

“I have an idea,” Wanda replies. She sounds tired. Scratch that, she sounds like how Peter feels; one foot firmly planted in her own grave.

“Are you sure that’s smart? You, Doc, and Loki aren’t exactly at your best,” Bucky says. “We haven’t even seen Strange or Loki. They’re stuck in their own worlds.”

“You’d be amazed what a soul can endure,” Wanda says. “This will not take much effort.”

Everything falls silent after that, finally, and Peter huffs out a quiet sigh before closing his eyes. A nap will help. It’ll fix his gunshot wound, if nothing else. He starts to relax despite the cold, drifting off to sleep.

The radio he built clicks on across the room, at full volume. Hit the Road, Jack echoes across the empty room, loud enough to blow out the relatively tiny speakers in the radio. Peter startles awake, jars his gunshot wound, and groans in frustration, pulling his backpack and pillow over his head. Why is that thing on? How is it on? It’s an analog switch and he turned off the alarm function last week!

A burst of static startles him out of his thoughts. These Boots Were Made For Walking starts to play at a truly obnoxious volume.

“Hey, this one’s pretty good,” Quill says.

“Focus, Spaceman. Peter, get the hell up,” Sam says. He sounds sleep drunk and worn down, as if he’s two steps away from falling asleep himself. Something gold flashes, and half of his blankets are suddenly gone.

“What the f*ck are you doing, Sam?” Bucky snaps. “You just ashed half of your arm doing that!”

“If he doesn’t get up, it doesn’t matter how much of myself I burn up,” Sam says.

Peter sits up with a frustrated groan, flailing at whoever stole his blankets. The meager warmth he’d built up is gone and he shivers. He’s half tempted to lay back down and fall asleep again. It’s so hard to get up and move. His side throbs in agony, and his back and shoulders are stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. The effort is almost enough to rob him of his strength entirely.

“Think if we play it loud enough one of the Bat people will hear it?” Bucky asks.

“Not unless one of them has super hearing,” Nick Fury replies. “And that’s assuming they decided to frolic across Gotham’s rooftops during a blizzard.”

Another burst of static, this one louder than the rest. Highway to Hell starts to play, loud enough to echo into the alley below. Peter is suddenly struck by nostalgia; this one is on Tony’s workshop playlist. He hasn’t heard it in so long. He forces himself awake to listen to it.

“That’s got his attention,” Hank Pym says.

“Get up, Spider-Man,” T’Challa says.

And go where?

“The library,” Hill says. “It’ll be warm there, at least.”

Well. That’s an idea, yeah. Peter isn’t looking forward to the trip, but it’ll be worth it to stay out of the cold for the day.

“You promised me, Peter,” Janet says gently. She’s tired, too.

That forces him awake a little more. He did promise he’d get help, and the library is as good a place as any. Peter sighs, and begins to push himself onto his feet and towards the fire escape.

The snow has shifted to freezing rain. It makes for an utterly miserable walk. Every movement is torture, but the gentle, murmuring encouragement that surrounds him keeps him going.

* * *

The library is closed.

A hastily written sign is taped to the door: Closed due to weather. Sorry for the inconvenience!

There goes that plan. Peter buries his hands into his pockets and walks back towards the street, heading straight for a bus stop. A huge pool of icy water surrounds the stop and he has to carefully navigate it to avoid slipping or falling into it. He needs to find help. A place to stay. Something. It's so hard to think in this cold. The bus stop is full of snow drifts, so Peter stands outside of it, near the street curb. He wracks his brain, trying to think of where to go from here. If the library is shutting down, then everywhere is going to shut down, sooner rather than later. There’s a cheap hotel at the edge of Crime Alley he could rent a room at---

A red sports car slows near the bus stop, and then speeds past, the driver deliberately swerving into the puddle and dowsing Peter with half frozen road water. Peter startles, shivering, too shocked to even yell. He stares at the car in confusion and shock.

The window rolls down. Edison Bright points and laughs at him before speeding off.

Peter stares after him, baffled.

“I’m gonna murder that kid,” Quill mutters. “What a prick!”

This is bad. Peter's only set of warm clothes, already unsuitable for the freezing weather, are now an active danger to his health. The wind cuts through his shirt, and he can feel his jeans start to freeze in place. He needs to get out of these clothes, into a place that's warm--

"Hey, Peter!" a voice calls out behind him.

He turns around and nearly slumps in relief. “Tim?”

Tim smiles, jogging over. He moves through the ice and snow as if it isn’t there, effortlessly keeping his balance over the treacherous sidewalk as if it were bone dry.

“Hey. I was just heading home,” he says, lifting up his car keys. There's an odd expression on his face, caught somewhere between relief and shock. He takes in Peter’s condition and tilts his head. “You want to come over? The whole city’s shutting down because of the storm.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother. And I’m kinda soaked--”

“Kid, buddy, I will throw you into his car if that’s what it takes,” Quill says irritably.

“Get in the motherf*cking car, Parker,” Nick Fury orders.

“---but I wouldn’t say no. I mean, as long as you don’t mind?”

Tim scoffs. “Forget about that. You’re almost the same size as me. You can borrow some clothes until yours dry out and stay until the snow dies down tonight. You in?”

“Yes,” Peter says immediately. “Absolutely.”

Tim’s smile returns, relieved. “Cool. Come on, my car’s around the corner.”

Tim motions for him to follow, practically jogging over to his car, a sleek black sedan that Peter can't even imagine ever owning. He unlocks the door for Peter and hops inside, turning the heat on full blast for Peter as he carefully settles into the passenger seat.

Tim glances at him. "Man, you look rough, Peter."

"It's been a really sh*tty week," Peter says earnestly, thumping his head against the passenger side window. “A really, really sh*tty week.”

"Well, Duke and I will have to fix that for you," Tim replies, pulling the car out of park and carefully driving out onto the icy Gotham streets.

"I'd like that," Peter says.

* * *

Peter drifts off. He can’t help it; the car is warm, the rain is soothing, and Tim is nearby, so he knows he’s safe. Even with his wet, cold clothes, he’s comfortable enough to close his eyes and relax. He dozes for awhile, flirting with the edge of true sleep before stirring awake when the car makes a wider than usual turn, the back end slipping just slightly. The movement is smooth, but unusual enough to pull Peter out of his nap.

“Hm?” Peter says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His side itches terribly; his healing factor has fully kicked in. Judging by the rough edge in his voice, it’s left his cold alone. Great. Hopefully spending some time somewhere warm will help him fight that off, too.

“Sorry,” Tim says, shooting him an apologetic look. “I hit an ice patch. We’re okay, though. You can go back to sleep.”

“No, no, I’m up,” Peter replies, stretching. He tugs against his gunshot wound and bites back a cry of pain. He sucks in a breath and slowly lets it out. Okay, so his wound is healing, but not yet fully healed. Not for awhile yet. Good to know. “Um. Where are we going anyway?”

He glances at Peter from the corner of his eye, frowning. He must have seen Peter flinch. Hopefully he doesn’t ask about it. Peter’s not exactly in the right headspace to lie. Tim clears his throat. “Wayne Manor, just outside of the city.”

Peter freezes. Wayne Manor? As in Bruce Wayne’s Wayne Manor? The thought shakes him free of sleep. “What. Why?”

“Because I live there?” Tim answers, amused. “Bruce is my dad. I thought you knew that? Everyone at school does.”

"Your dad is Bruce Wayne?" Peter asks, feeling himself go pale.

"Yeah, he adopted me. And Duke, Dick, Jason, Cass--well, we all live here," Tim says, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry, he knows you’re coming over. I called him while you were asleep. He’s cool with it.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He’s definitely not cool sleeping in the house of the man he’s stolen from. “Uh, if he’s sure...”

“He’s busy. You probably won’t even see him,” Tim adds. “Alfred’s waiting for us.”

“Alfred?”

“Our family butler. Alfred Pennyworth. But he’s more like family than anything else.” Tim shrugs. “You’ll see when you get there. I think he’ll like you.”

“Hope so,” Peter says, rubbing his throat. Now that he’s awake, he can feel a burning ache in his throat. Talking is starting to become an issue; it feels like he’s speaking around a pile of jagged rocks.

Tim drives slowly and carefully up a winding road covered in a rapidly thickening layer of snow. Wayne manor is built on top of a waterfall, and its brooding hulk towers above the pristine winter landscape. It’s grimly majestic, and looks intimidating even with the snow softening the hard edges of it. Peter’s first thought, above all else, is that Tony would hate Tim’s home. The mansion is huge, austere, and steeped in old world architecture that, while beautiful, is painfully outdated. It looks more like a modern palace rather than a mansion, as if it houses a grim knight rather than a playboy billionaire like Bruce Wayne.

Yeah, Tony would mock every inch of this place. Too dark, too closed off, too old. And Tony would know old, considering he lived through the turn of the millennium and actively threw an ‘Anti-Y2K’ party on New Year’s Eve. Peter had feigned ignorance of the Y2K scare and relished in the despairing, boggled expression on Tony’s face before the man caught onto his teasing and threatened to throw him off the Compound roof.

The thought of the memory, of Tony’s reaction to this place, makes him smile.

Tim brings the car to a stop in front of a set of stairs leading up to two massive doors. He turns off the engine, and the steady sound of the heater is replaced by the sound of the icy rain tapping against the roof. He steps out of the car, pocketing his keys. Peter takes a moment to brace himself, carefully unbuckles his seatbelt, and just as carefully stands up out of the car. The rain hits him hard; after the steady warmth of Tim’s car, it feels that much colder, and the wind outside of the city is sharper.

“Here we are,” Tim says, appearing beside him as if by magic. He eyes Peter worriedly, pauses as if he’s about to comment on it, then presses on. “Come on, let’s get out of this cold.”

He jogs up the steps, paying no attention to the ice covering them. Peter follows at a more sedate pace, wary of jarring his wounds. The door swings open before Tim can put the key inside, revealing a tall, balding man in a well tailored suit. There's a steel gray moustache covering his upper lip and threads of silver streaking thinning black hair. He holds himself in perfect posture. Alfred Pennyworth takes one look at Peter Parker and seems to adopt him on sight. One moment Peter’s standing outside the door with Tim, the next he’s been swept inside and wrapped inside a very thick, very warm, and very expensive looking blanket. The change is done so quickly and smoothly that Peter’s barely aware of it happening at all.

“Master Tim, you didn’t tell me our guest is in need of warm clothes,” Alfred says, a hint of gentle reproach in his tone.

Tim rubs the back of his neck, walking inside and shutting the door behind them. “Yeah, sorry, Alfred. He can borrow some of mine.”

“An excellent idea,” Alfred says, guiding Peter through a grand entry hall and towards a staircase tucked away inside a guest parlor just past the hall. “Please retrieve them for me.”

“Got it,” Tim calls out.

Peter walks towards the stairs, fighting back the urge to gawk at the polished marble floor, plush red carpets, and portraits that line the hall. This place is wealth incarnate and Peter feels more than a little out of place. Tim jogs ahead of them, taking the stairs three at a time and leaving Peter behind with Alfred.

“I’m Alfred,” Alfred says pleasantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Master Peter.”

“Oh, uh, you know about me?” Peter stammers out. He’s shivering hard now, harder than he did at the bus stop. The cold is always worse for him, and the manor is a little drafty. Alfred adjusts the blanket around Peter’s shoulders, holding it in place for him when his shivering hands fail to find purchase.

“Of course. You are Master Duke and Master Tim’s best friend. They’ve told me all about you. Even Master Richard has mentioned you to me a few times,” Alfred says. He stops at the top of the stairs with Peter. They’re standing inside the living room, inside the northern wing of the manor. Alfred guides him further inside the manor, leading him through a series of hallways until they reach one lined with doors.

“Oh. Huh. I guess that makes sense,” Peter says idly. He hasn’t been surrounded by this much wealth since he visited Tony’s Malibu home over winter break. It’s a different flavor of billionaire playboy, but it’s essentially the same thing. He tries not to think about it too much.

Alfred hums for a moment considering the hallway. “I believe the room across from Master Richard’s is open. Let’s check, shall we?”

He guides Peter over to a door in the middle of the hallway. He opens it for Peter and then steps back into the hallway when Tim comes out of a room next door, holding a set of clothes. Peter peers into the room and blinks. It’s a bedroom suite with a private bathroom, a king sized bed, and a closet that looks big enough to park a car inside of. It's half the size of his apartment back in Queens.

“Make yourself at home, Master Peter,” Alfred says, handing him the clothes Tim brought out of his room. “I’ll prepare a lunch for you momentarily.”

“Uh, right, thanks,” Peter mumbles. He hesitates outside the door, then steps inside the room and closes it behind himself.

* * *

“I’m not sure how long he’ll stay,” Tim says quietly, walking with Alfred down the hall. He glances over his shoulder, frowning. “I said he could stay until the storm passes, but only because I’m pretty sure he would’ve said no if I said he could stay longer.”

“He isn’t one to ask for help, then,” Alfred says.

“God, no. Never,” Tim says with a sigh. “Duke can usually talk sense into him. Maybe he’ll convince Peter to stay. I would’ve suggested Dick handle it, but...”

He trails off, pauses, and then glances around the manor, as if realizing something.

“Hey, where’s everyone else?” Tim asks. “I know Steph and Cass are busy trying to find the Joker, but I thought everyone else would be home by now.”

“Master Duke is with Master Jason in his home. Master Damian is resting in his rooms. His cold is on the upswing, I believe” Alfred says.

“Huh. Has anyone been able to call Dick?”

“No, he hasn't been answering his calls,” Alfred says, a frown evident in his voice.

“Yeah, that figures,” Tim says. “Listen. I’m going to go visit him and make sure he’s okay.”

“Of course, Master Tim. Be safe.”

* * *

Peter spends half an hour in the shower, mind blank, relaxing under the heat and steam. He checks his gunshot wound and is relieved when he finds tender, pink skin where a ragged hole had been. The scar is thick and ugly, and it’s undeniably a bullet scar, but it looks as if he was shot years ago rather than yesterday. He takes care to clean it anyway, and finally ends his shower feeling bone tired and rejuvenated. He leaves his dirty clothes in the hamper, dresses in the clothes Tim gave him; sweatpants, a black and red Superman t-shirt that is far too large for Peter or Tim, and thick socks. Dressed, he shuffles back into the bedroom.

He sits on the bed, stretches, and lays down. He’ll get up in a moment and get lunch. For now, he just wants to lay on something soft for once. He melts against the mattress, snuggling into it with a pleased sigh. His back and shoulders finally unclench, and the stiffness in the muscles there slips away. The room is silent except for the sound of the furnace, the gentle drumming of the rain against the window, and the ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Another benefit over the fire station, where he can hear every mouse's heartbeat within the building. He revels in the warmth and comfort, allowing himself one small moment of relaxation.

He’s asleep in seconds.

Fifteen minutes later, Alfred taps on the door and pushes it open. “Master Peter, I’m afraid Master Tim was called away to--oh.”

Peter's response is a gentle snore. The souls attached to Peter’s presence watch the butler carefully, ready to shout Peter awake at a moment’s notice.

Alfred takes in the scene for a moment before walking silently into the room and carefully pulling the blanket over Peter. He tucks Peter into bed with the casual movements of an old pro before dimming the lamp on the nightstand and stepping away. Before he leaves, he frowns back at Peter, blatant worry crossing his features, breaking through the politely neutral expression that he usually wears. He stays like that for a moment before shutting the door behind himself as softly as possible.

The Avengers spread out across the room and stay silent, letting him rest.

Peter sleeps, and for the first time in a long while, his rest is deep and peaceful.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Steve Rogers sits in the main conference room in the Avengers Compound. He’s tired, freshly dressed in a simple shirt and worn jeans, and he’s staring at the shield resting on the table in front of himself. His thoughts drift, shifting from memory to regret to discovery, and finally ending at an emotion that’s a mix of nostalgia, shame, guilt, and mild confusion.

He isn’t alone for long. James Rhodes walks into the conference room, holding a Starkpad in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He glances up at Steve, sees the shield and pauses for a moment before setting his tablet down.

“I was wondering when you’d find that,” Rhodey says.

“I just found it today. It was tucked away in the closet.” Steve holds the shield in front of himself, frowning at it. “It’s been in my room this whole time?”

"Tony left it there in case you and everyone else came back,” Rhodey says, shrugging. “I thought you knew. You’ve been staying in that room for awhile now.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t gotten around to cleaning the place up until now?” Steve asks.

“Given the sorts of missions we’ve been putting time into lately? Yeah. Definitely. If I never hear the word ‘food riot’ ever again, it’ll be too soon,” Rhodey mutters. Steve shares the sentiment.

The shield’s been polished, Steve notes. It looks good as new. He runs his hand over the surface of it, conflicted. On one hand, he's glad to have it back. As much as he hates to admit it, the shield is as much a part of him as the uniform. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel right to hold this shield. Not anymore. It feels like it belongs to someone else.

"Oh, you found it,” Natasha says, walking into the room and past him. She looks up at him, catches his eye, and says, “Good. Keep it with you. You're at your best with that thing, and people could use the morale boost."

Steve isn't so sure. He's at his best when Sam and Bucky are nearby. But he also knows Tony, and he knows what refusing the shield would mean to the man, even if he isn’t on Earth to hear about it. He won’t do that to him; this is a kind of olive branch from him, delivered in his usual odd way. And there are worse things to carry than the shield. Besides, Natasha just used her Command Voice on him, and he’s fallen into the habit of listening to her more and more often.

“It could be useful,” Steve admits, putting the shield on his back. It settles against his shoulders just as it always has; both a comfort and, oddly, a responsibility. One he didn’t think he would be carrying with him into the 21st century. “Assuming Thanos decides to make a return visit.”

“Let’s not even joke about that,” Rhodey says quietly. Clint trickles into the room, and he nods to them as he walks in and takes his place.

Fair enough.

The Avengers settle into place around the conference table. Holograms of Okoye and Rocket pop up at the empty spots of the table. Well, two of the empty spots. The rest are left empty out of respect (for the Dusted) and hope (for Tony and Spider-Man). Speaking of which....

"Our interdimensional friend is still dead asleep in the infirmary. He’s waking up each day, but it’s just long enough to eat, shower, and use the bathroom. The doctors say he’ll need a few days to recover before we can get a conversation out of him," Natasha says.

“That’s a shame,” Okoye says idly. “I’d like to know how he spoke to a dead man. Wong knows your Dr. Strange is dead, does he not?”

“He knows. He says Strange’s presence in this reality disappeared the same time everyone else did,” Natasha says. She frowns. “Where's Thor?”

"Asleep," Clint says, rubbing the back of his head. "Which translates into nightmares which means I didn't want to get too close. His nightmares make him sparky."

"He fried half his room during the last one," Rhodey mutters.

"We'll let him sleep," Natasha says. "Since I'm not going to wake him up. Let's get started. Steve?"

“Have we heard anything about Tony?" Steve asks.

Rhodey sighs. “No. Carol went off to look for him and now she’s gone MIA, too. He could be out in space with Peter, hiding from Thanos, or trapped or...”

Rhodey trails off. The ‘or’ is self explanatory. Or they became dust. Or they died fighting Thanos. Or they’re on their way back. Or-- The possibilities are endless and infuriating.

“Peter’s pretty smart, right?” Clint says, half to himself. “I mean, if he and Tony were left alone on a ship together, they’d figure out a way to contact us by now, right?”

“Peter’s brilliant,” Rhodey says bluntly. “At least as smart as Tony, probably smarter. If those two were stuck in a ship together, they’d have tricked it out in red paint and discovered three different types of space travel by now. Assuming they had the resources.”

Steve frowns. He never had the chance to meet Peter, but his absence is felt everywhere inside the Compound. Tony’s office, which has recently been repurposed into Natasha’s office, still has the odd picture or note strewn about. Natasha leaves them where they are, and the others politely ignore them. Steve’s caught Rhodey looking at them more than once during the few meetings they’ve had since the decimation. The man’s expression can only be described as haunted.

He ignores that, too. They’ve all gotten pretty good at ignoring each other’s ghosts these days.

“That's a pretty big assumption, pal. Resources are hard to find these days. Half of the stuff people are making is taken by Thanos. There’s a real fuel crisis out here,” Rocket says, scratching one furry cheek. “And sending messages is dangerous with Thanos gathering his army up for whatever the hell he plans on doing. If your friends are half as smart as you say, they’re staying low, moving slowly, and keeping quiet until they get out of his reach.”

Rhodey nods, conceding the point. “If we’re lucky, they’re both on that donut ship and heading back to us. With Carol."

Which is probably too much to hope for, Steve thinks. He keeps it to himself.

“Speaking of Thanos, he’s got trouble at home,” Rocket says. He gestures, and a holographic map pops up in the center of the table. Seven golden orbs are marked in the center of Thanos’s territory. “These are planet sized prisons right in the middle of his territory. They’re so far past enemy lines that you can’t hope to break anyone out. People who end up there just don’t come back. For obvious reasons.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, frowning. “I’m surprised he keeps prisoners.”

“One of ‘em was used for his kids,” Rocket says. At the horrified looks that earns him, he scoffs. “You think that big purple bastard was a good father? Anyway--” He waves a hand. Two of the golden orbs turn red. “--someone’s been tearing them apart from the inside.”

“Who’s strong enough to pull that off?” Rhodey asks.

“Dunno. Maybe your missing friends, maybe someone else,” Rocket says, shrugging. “I’m still getting more information. “I should have something by tomorrow.”

“Then we’re going to have another talk tomorrow,” Natasha says, staring at the map with interest. “If it is Tony, he’ll find a way to turn it into a message.”

“This is about as subtle as he would get,” Rhodey says cautiously, obviously trying to fight back a surge of hope.

Steve pauses, thinks, and smiles for a moment. “That would just be like him, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, we’ll find out more tomorrow,” Rocket says. “That’s all I got.”

“Okay,” Natasha says with a sigh. “Moving on to things much closer to home--”

She leaves the holographic map up. Rhodey stares hard at the red orbs floating inside it.

* * *

It’s easy to learn about the things you destroy. Diana knows she’s not in her home universe. She knows that she’s deep within the heart of a territory belonging to a creature called Thanos, the Mad Titan. She knows that she’s inside one of his specially made prisons. She doesn’t find Clark or Peter in her prison, so she destroys it and moves to the next one. And destroys that one, too.

Diana is halfway through the third prison when she hears someone groan in pain inside one of the cells beyond the sound of battle. She rips her sword free of a strange, four armed batlike creature and begins to cut her way through the mob towards the cell door. By the time she reaches it, there are no more guards left to kill; only a pile of hewn bodies and a floor sticky with blood.

She pushes open the door; it protests at first, but she puts a bit of strength into it and the door folds like paper, screeching and bending out of her way as she steps inside. In the room, a blonde woman is bound in chains as heavy and thick as the ones that had kept Diana trapped in her own cell not very long ago. Some small alien device is attached to her head, pulsing an odd purple light. Diana gently removes it, idly crushes it in one hand and tosses the remains to the floor. She tears the chains apart like tissue paper, bracing the woman against herself so she doesn’t fall and strike her head. The chains shatter, and the woman’s eyes clear. She blinks up at Diana, wary at first, but then relaxes when she takes stock of her situation.

“You’re a prisoner too, aren’t you?” the woman asks as Diana lowers her to the floor. She sits hard, leaning back against the wall.

“I was. I’m not anymore,” Diana says. “You’re the only other prisoner I’ve found since I broke out. They took pains to keep us out of reach of each other.”

“Probably smart of them,” the woman says. She tries to stand, becomes visibly pale, and drops back down, reaching up to rub her temples. Her voice becomes less weak, a bit less thready. “Hoo boy. I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds with the Supreme Intelligence. Ugh.”

“You don’t look well,” Diana says, frowning. “We need to get you out of here. Is there somewhere you can go?”

“Yes, but I won’t. Not yet,” the woman says, steel in her voice. She pushes herself back onto her feet. Golden energy flashes along her forearms and hands, and she meets Diana’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“I am called Wonder Woman,” Diana says.

“Call me Carol Danvers. Captain Marvel, if you feel like getting fancy,” the woman replies, rolling her shoulders.

Diana quirks a brow. She knows a Captain Marvel, and a Kara Danvers. She stops and looks at Carol once more. The stance, the blue and red suit, the golden symbol across the chest. She smiles. Perhaps this universe has its own version of Kryptonians after all.

"How did they capture you?" Diana asks, backing away to give the woman room to recover.

"I was on a search and rescue mission. After Thanos wiped half the universe, I came home to Earth and got the full story. Two of the Avengers and most of the Guardians of the Galaxy were still missing. Unlike everyone else, I can fly through space, so my job was to find them with a rescue kit. Food, water, medicine, supplies to fix a ship in case they were stranded in space. I found them drifting in space, gave them everything, and started to help them get things put together. And then a Black Order fleet found us."

Carol goes quiet, rubbing her forehead and frowning, as if fighting off a migraine. Diana frowns.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, my memory's just jumbled. I don’t remember..." She trails off, then shakes her head. "I know they're alive. Tony and Nebula. Everything else is a blur. I’ve been here for a long time."

"We can discuss it later. Right now, we need to move," Diana says.

"Agreed," Carol says. “And I have an appointment with the people who run this place.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” Diana replies, moving for the door. “Follow me.”

Behind Diana’s back, Carol winces.

And her eyes flash blue.

* * *

BATCHAT

Bruce (03:09pm): Status update.

Barbara (03:10pm): Dick, Tim, and Starfire are at his apartment. Duke is with Jason. Cass and Steph are wrapping up an investigation in Crime Alley. Joker hit the Alley with his new toxin before the storm picked up, but casualties are low.

Bruce (03:11pm): No one is allowed in the field until I get back. Bring them in.

Barbara (03:12pm): Roger that. Guys, you heard B-man.

Steph (03:13pm): We’re headed to Jason’s safe house. ETA fifteen minutes.

Bruce (03:14pm): Report in when you get there. I’m on my way to the manor. Do we still have our guest there?

Tim (03:15pm): yeah, he’s been asleep in one of the guest rooms since I left this morning, so he probably won’t notice the plane

Bruce (03:16pm): Noted.

Bruce (03:17pm): Check in every thirty minutes until I get back.

Bruce (03:18pm): This is not a suggestion.

* * *

“--Peter.”

"Nngh?" His mind isn't working at full capacity. Peter knows three things: he is very tired, he is in a bed that is far too big and soft to be his own, and someone is waking him at an ungodly hour if he’s this exhausted.

He must be at the Avengers Compound. Vision must have found something fascinating to talk to him about, or Tony had a breakthrough in the lab and is paging him to come down and help. Normally he’d be eager to talk to one or both, but not right now. His head is pounding, his side aches painfully, and the bed is right at that perfect temperature, where it’s warm, but not too warm.

But he is also a guest.

He groans. "Five more minutes--"

“Lunch was quite some time ago, Master Peter," Alfred says gently. "Normally I wouldn't mind letting you sleep through it, but I think you need it."

Peter freezes in place and then slowly tilts his head until he can see Alfred out of one eye. The man is standing beside his bed, half illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand. "How long have I been asleep, sir?"

"Call me Alfred,” he replies, checking his watch. “And you’ve been asleep for three hours.”

Oh god.

His mortification must show, because Alfred is quick to continue. "It's quite alright. You needed the rest. Clearly."

"Yeah, but I came here to hang out with Tim, not sleep," Peter mutters, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. The curls have gone wildly out of control as they tend to do when he falls asleep with wet hair. He probably looks like hot garbage. He certainly feels like it. Beyond the embarrassment, at least. There’s a heat in his body just above comfortable, and a gravelly tone to his voice that’s gotten worse since he first spoke with Tim this morning. Those jagged rocks have turned into a mountain, smothering his voice. "I kind of feel like a tool."

"You needed the rest and Master Tim certainly doesn't hold that against you." Alfred repeats. "He’s running an errand for one of his brothers at the moment regardless."

“Duke?” Peter asks. He frowns. “Is he all right?”

“Master Duke is with Master Jason at the moment. He’s quite all right. Master Tim is visiting Master Richard,” Alfred says. He pauses, watching Peter closely. After a moment he reaches out and presses the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead.

“Um,” Peter mumbles.

“You have a fever,” Alfred says.

“Oh.” He does. He can tell. But he also can’t afford a trip to see a doctor, or medicine. “No, I just run warm--”

“And you sound ill. Is there someone I can call to take you home later when the storm passes? I don’t want you walking home in this cold.”

“Uh, no. Not really,” Peter mumbles.

“Surely a parent--”

“No, there’s--it’s just me. I live alone.” He knows he should think of something to say. If only to keep Alfred from calling child protective services on him. He can’t. He’s just too tired.

Alfred goes silent at that, his expression softening. “I see. Then you’re staying here.”

It takes Peter's feverish mind a moment to understand him. That’s also a bad idea. He can’t just stay in Bruce f*cking Wayne’s house. "Oh, no, that’s okay. I-I don't want to impose--"

"You aren't," Alfred says simply, tucking Peter back into bed. Peter is so tired and the bed is so warm that he doesn't put up a fight as Alfred deftly folds the blankets back over him."Stay here, please. I'll be back with your meal in a little while. We’ll discuss further arrangements after you start to feel better."

“That sounds like a supremely awkward conversation,” Peter mumbles.

“Not as much as you would think,” Alfred replies, his tone dry and amused. He dims the lamp on the nightstand and moves towards the door. “Good night, Master Peter.”

Peter makes a quiet noise back, melting back into the blankets. The room falls back into silence as he sleeps.

Unseen and unheard, the dusted Avengers rest alongside their comrade, nursing their own wounds.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (05:13pm): something’s been bothering me

Tim (05:13pm): croc said it was just him, Two-Face, and four of his friends who took the hit on Dick

Duke (05:14pm): witnesses only saw five attack Spider-Man. Killer Croc, Two-Face, Clayface, Joker, and Scarecrow.

Tim (05:15pm): which means the last one is out there and probably gunning for Dick

Barbara (05:16pm): Keep an eye out.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson paces the perimeter of his one bedroom apartment in Blüdhaven. It’s a barren mess of a place; clothes, books, and his utility belt are strewn across the well worn couch and part of the floor. Starfire is sitting on the arm rest, cross legged, perfectly balanced, and watching him with deep concern. He glances at her and sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m safe now.”

“That remains to be seen,” she says quietly. “In my experience, assassins are not so easily chased away from their intended target.”

“Kory--”

“I am not leaving you,” she says, her tone calm, warm, and final.

Despite everything, despite the pain, and grief, and guilt, the warmth that follows her words makes him smile. It’s brief, and small, but it’s there. “Right. Okay.” He pauses for a moment and says, quietly, “Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and starts to say something when someone knocks on his door. Dick is instantly tense and alert, stalking towards the door warily. Starfire stands and then floats towards the high corner of his apartment, wreathing her hands in silent flame. She hovers in a spot that gives her a clear shot at the door, but limits the view of whoever is standing in the hallway. Dick waits until she gives him a little nod--essentially saying I’m here, I’ll protect you--before he opens the door.

It’s Tim, rosy cheeked from the cold, and shivering in the breezeway outside of Dick’s apartment. He brushes the ice and snow out of his hair and visibly relaxes when he sees Dick.

“Hey,” he says, his words tumbling out in a rush. The air is cold enough to steal his breath, and Dick can hear his teeth chatter. He blinks at the apartment behind Dick, squints, and then relaxes before adding, “Hi, Kory.”

“Hello, Timothy,” Starfire replies warmly.

Dick grabs Tim’s arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him. “Jesus, Tim, you just got over a cold. What the hell are you doing out here? You should be at the manor.”

Tim pulls off his scarf and coat, tossing them over a dining chair in Dick’s kitchenette. He shrugs. “I wanted to check in on you. You haven’t been answering your phone. We’re all a little worried about that. Including Alfred.”

That last gets him a side eye. It’s a rare Batkid that doesn’t immediately buckle under extreme guilt when someone points out how their actions are upsetting Alfred. Including Bruce himself. Dick sighs, rubbing his eyes.

“I needed some time away from Gotham. I think I’ve earned that, considering everything,” Dick mutters.

Tim gives him a sympathetic look. “Yeah, I know. But you know Bruce, too. He’ll come get you when he realizes you aren’t at the manor. Jason, too.”

“God, that’s going to be a disaster,” Dick mutters. He pauses. “How is Jason?”

“He’s barely said more than three words to Duke. He blames himself,” Tim says with a sigh, dropping down on top of the clean laundry pile on Dick’s couch.

Starfire resumes her earlier position on the couch, dismissing the flames around her hands with a casual flick of her wrists. She offers Tim a folded up blanket from the back of the couch, and he takes it gratefully, bundling up in it.

“That makes two of us, I guess,” Dick mutters. He resumes his earlier pacing. “What I don’t understand is why they’ve become so focused now. I’ve been doing this for literal years. And I’ve been in Blüdhaven more often than not lately. Why am I a target now?”

“Let’s take a look at the facts,” Tim says, calm and even, the way he gets when he’s found a problem to solve. “Start from the beginning.”

Dick wonders if Tim knows how much he sounds like Bruce when he speaks like that. “What beginning? This came out of nowhere.”

“Let’s start with the weird stuff. It’s been going on for awhile,” Tim suggests. He offers a brief shrug. “Weirder than usual, at least.”

He takes a deep breath. “Right. From the beginning of the weird stuff: Earlier this summer, weird bat mutants show up and attack different parts of the city, looking for something. Most of them are killed or disappear within two weeks. Late summer and early fall, Bruce is called away from Gotham because of Justice League business. Superman and Wonder Woman went off the grid--”

“Maybe just Gotham stuff,” Tim suggests. “I doubt Superman or Wonder Woman have anything to do with Gotham.”

A fair point. They’ve always been very localized. Superman and Wonder Woman barely even visit Gotham. “Okay. The bat mutants disappear, the gangs start getting riled up, and then someone blows up the docks trying to smuggle in kryptonite.”

He pauses. That was the first night he met Peter. He can still see the scene: Peter, standing on a roof ledge, looking down into the city with a frighteningly focused expression on his face. His startled jump when Nightwing spoke to him. He’s not sure if Peter was going to jump or not--the kid’s legs were braced for a jump, at least, so there was a good chance of it happening--but he’s glad he ran into him before it happened.

“Kryptonite, which we still haven’t found,” Tim remarks.

“Which we still haven’t found,” Dick confirms, pacing again. “I hope you warned Connor about that.”

“Of course I did. Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around much?” Tim replies dryly. He pauses and frowns for a moment. “Actually, he still hasn’t answered that message I sent him about it. That’s not like him.”

“Maybe he’s been busy trying to help Clark?” Dick suggests.

“No, he would have told me,” Tim says firmly. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck; a sure sign of his anxiety. Conner’s silence is definitely bothering him. “I’ll have to find him when things calm down around here.”

Fair enough. Dick is about to continue when Starfire speaks up.

“Would the kryptonite not be a concern for Superman?” she asks, frowning.

“Normally, yes, but he was missing when it showed up at the docks,” Tim says. “Connor’s the only Kryptonian that shows up in Gotham. And even that isn’t exactly on a regular basis. It’s way more likely that the kryptonite is being used as a power source.”

“Oh,” Starfire says. She doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press on. Merely frowns in thought. A crease forms between her eyes. Dick’s always thought that crease is adorable.

“Right,” Dick says, pacing again. “Bat mutants. Explosion at the docks. Traces of kryptonite in the explosion. Then the break out at Arkham Asylum while Bruce is out of town handling League business. All of the escapees immediately start to work together and coordinate plans. Not just spur of the moment alliances, either. Active cooperation.”

“Focusing on physics labs, energy sources, and destabilizing Gotham. More than usual, that is,” Tim says. “Spider-Man found some plans. They’re trying to build something.”

“Which is also massively weird,” Dick mutters. “Someone breaks out most of Batmans’ worst enemies and manages to get them to agree to work for them. On top of that, they convince them to work together. Not even Bane managed that.”

“And they were all aimed at you,” Starfire says quietly.

Tim frowns at the name, squinting at the far corner. “Actually, are we sure they were aiming for you and not Spider-Man?”

Dick stutters, almost stumbles. In an instant, he sees it all again, hears it, feels it. His own breathless grunt when Spider-Man drives a shoulder into his side, the feel of the gravel when he rolls back to his feet, the shaky green of the laser dancing over Spider-Man’s side, the thundering crack of the sniper rifle--

Kory is suddenly there, holding his hand. She murmurs softly, “Richard.” and he comes back to himself with a start.

“They were aiming for me,” Dick says. “Spider-Man wouldn’t have gotten hit if he hadn’t pushed me out of the way.”

Tim starts to say something else, pauses, and then nods. Dick can all but see him put ‘Spider-Man’ as a topic directly into a box labelled ‘don’t talk about this.’ He clears his throat.

“Okay, but this didn’t start tonight,” he says.

“No, it started with Bane,” Dick says. He keeps his hand in Kory’s, intertwining their fingers and idly drawing a thumb across her knuckles while he thinks. He freezes. “sh*t. Bane. Have we heard anything from him?”

“No,” Tim says. He pauses, then snatches up his phone. He unlocks it and starts to tap away at the screen. “We last saw him in Old Gotham with Joker and Scarecrow. That was before Killer Croc attacked the school. He’s been a secondary concern ever since--”

“And isn’t that a little weird?” Dick asks. Silence follows his question and he turns to face the couch, still holding Starfire’s hand. Tim is frozen in place, pale and stiff and terrified. “Tim? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t connect to the Manor’s servers,” Tim says, staring at his phone.

“What?” Dick asks, his grip on Starfire’s hand growing tight.

“Someone’s cut off the network. Babs can’t get in. Neither can Duke or Jason or anyone else. We were cut off twenty minutes ago,” Tim says. He grows more agitated by the second, shifting from one app to the next on his phone. “The BATCHAT is offline. I can’t pull up the manor’s security system. That isn’t supposed to be possible, at all.”

“Suit up,” Dick orders, snatching his own suit off of the couch.

“Will you be able to make it there in time?” Starfire asks, frowning.

“Probably not, no,” Dick answers. “Can you--”

“I’ll carry you,” she says.

* * *

Something happens as Peter sleeps. There’s a distant clunk, and the lights go out, along with the furnace. The manor is suddenly filled with the peculiar sort of silence that only comes from a home deprived of power. A few seconds later, Peter starts awake with a weak and startled cough. His senses are going haywire. It takes him some effort to get up, and he gets the strange feeling that there are nearly a dozen people standing around him, yelling at him to wake up, to move, to defend himself. They fade away as dreams often do shortly after waking.

But the electric buzz of his spider senses does not. In fact, it only grows stronger and louder until a shot of adrenaline chases away the fogginess of his half asleep mind. He shoves the blankets away, stands, sways, and catches himself against the bed. His borrowed Superman shirt clings to his chest and back from sweat, and he’s absolutely freezing. He fights back a shudder as he pushes sweaty hair out of his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He nearly bends over from the effort to keep from coughing. There’s a distinct rattling sound to his lungs that wasn’t there earlier. How did he manage to get sicker while sleeping? He muffles a coughing fit against the inside of his elbow. The coughs sound suspiciously like chuckling. He decides to not think about that. Not right now. Something is very wrong at Wayne Manor.

The manor suddenly seems too large without light. The darkness is held at bay by the snow outside, but the interior is dim and shadowy. Peter tenses, falling into a light footed crouch as he moves towards the door, pressing his ear against it. He can hear voices, but they’re muffled by distance and the dark. One deep, and hard, and cold. Another, much younger, with a slight accent that Peter can’t place. And then Alfred’s, raised in alarm.

The deep voice speaks, and Peter’s danger sense spikes hard. He braces himself against the wall, closes his eyes, and manages to get control of his breathing before slinking down the dark hallway and over to the stairs. It’s hard to place where the voices are coming from; the manor is soundproofed well, and it carries echoes in such a way that he can’t place them. The damn place is designed like a medieval fortress in some respects.

So he relies on his senses instead, and finds himself in a shadowy hallway, just outside of a parlor. He’s crouched beside an end table, peering into the room from behind a massive marble bust of Bruce Wayne. A kid, no older than eleven, who could be Bruce Wayne’s clone were it not for the deep brown of his skin, is tied to a chair, reeling with sickness and, judging by his heartbeat, two seconds away from a total freakout. Alfred is sitting across from him, also tied to a chair, clenching his jaw, staring up at the third man.

And the third man---

Jesus Christ, he’s the f*cking Hulk. Peter finds himself staring up at a man nearly seven feet tall and absolutely bristling with muscle. He’s wearing combat boots, cargo pants, a tank top that strains against his muscles, and a luchador helmet. The helmet’s eyes glow dimly in the dark, letting out a gentle red light over the man’s captives. A thick tube protrudes from the back of it, snaking down the length of the man’s back and into a small pump clipped on the man’s belt. Bright green fluid flows through the tube; Peter can see the man’s muscles throb in time with the pump.

He’s the f*cking Hulk on steroids.

“There is nothing personal in this, you understand,” the man says. He settles his massive hands on Alfred’s thin shoulders. “But someone in this city has a particular item that my new friend deeply desires. An ancient thing. He told me I would know it if I saw it. I know Mr. Wayne has quite the artifact collection.I intend to find it. And to leave him a message.”

He raises his hands and grips Alfred’s head. The old man looks shockingly frail in Bane’s grip. “I will start with you. It will be quick. The people of Gotham need their spirits broken, and I will start with their favorite playboy and his family.”

“Please. Not in front of the boy,” Alfred begs.

Okay, Peter’s heard enough. He grabs the marble bust, rears back, and then launches it at the Hulk-like figure looming over the old man. It strikes the side of the man’s head with a heavy thump, making him stagger back and away from Alfred with a snarled curse. It doesn’t seem to do much more than that, which is probably a bad omen for the rest of the fight.

Whatever.

“Pick on someone your own size, asshole!” Peter shouts. Well, the first half is a shout. He rapidly runs out of breath by the end of the sentence and barely chokes out the last word before smothering a cough.

The kid’s head whips around to face Peter, his dark eyes widening in shock for a moment before he begins to shift in his chair, wriggling against the tight restraints tied around his chest and middle. Alfred spares a glance at Peter, his face pale.

“Peter--”

The large man faces Peter, flexing his hands, nostrils flaring in rage. The pump at the man’s waist is working overtime, and Peter can all but hear the guy’s massive heart thumping.

“You aren’t one of Wayne’s children. You idiot. You could have survived this if you’d just stayed out of it,” he remarks, stalking towards him. “Now I have to kill you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first, prick,” Peter says. He sees the man pause at that and turn to consider Alfred and the kid. That’s not good. Peter grabs the end table the bust had been resting on and throws that at him, too. The wood is finely made and heavy and unbelievably expensive. “Hey! Tough guy! You forget you were in a fight or what?”

The man bats the table away with a snarl and stalks down the hall towards Peter, hands clenched into fists. The man is huge. The Hulk might be taller, but Peter’s pretty sure this guy has the same amount of muscle on him. He keeps a healthy distance between them, backing away from the man and drawing him further and further back into the hallway and away from Alfred. He hears someone in the dining room slip free of their bonds; either the kid or Alfred, Peter can’t tell. Shortly after that, he hears a button gently click into place.

A panic button. The police or maybe some private security force should be on their way.

But with the blizzard outside, who knows how long it’ll take for them to get here? He’ll have to stall until Alfred and the kid get into a panic room or something. They should have one of those, right? Rich people always have some weird safety box to hide in during disasters. And ‘Hulk On Steroids’ definitely meets that criteria.

He’s in no shape to fight. He’d be hard pressed to fight a giant like this even on his relatively few good days in Gotham, and today is definitely not a good day. So he’ll just have to rely on his charming personality to keep from getting pummeled to death.

“So, before we start hammering at each other, what’s your name?” Peter asks. The man is closing the distance between them steadily. Peter is rapidly running out of hallway to back away from.

“I am called Bane. I won’t ask for your name. You are an unfortunate diversion that will be put into place and soon forgotten,” Bane sneers.

“Well, someone has a high opinion of themselves,” Peter remarks. “You’re acting like you’ve already won.”

"Everyone in this manor is already dead. Who would stop me? You? You won't last longer than five seconds against me."

He's right. Peter might stand a decent chance if he was in good health and in practice. But he's not; he's wheezing, feverish, and his limbs feel impossibly heavy. Which just means the fight is slightly uneven.

Peter smirks, falling into a loose boxer's stance that Rhodey and Happy had shown him once upon a time. When he speaks, his accent comes through thick as mud. "Pal, I could do this all day."

He can't. He'll be lucky if he's standing and capable of coherent thought in the next five minutes. But giving up means the kid and Alfred are killed, and Peter won't let that happen. So Peter tries to stand straight, dressed in a sweaty Superman shirt and sweatpants.

The shirt isn’t much defense. The first punch hits him squarely in the chest. He can feel his ribs creak from the force of it, and all of that coughing and wheezing comes out full force. Bane has, essentially, beaten him with one punch. And it’s not even his strongest punch; the man was clearly holding back.

Bane has him dead to rights.

Help me, Peter thinks. A strange tension tugs at the back of Peter’s eyes, as if he’s using an overextended muscle, stretched to its absolute limit. But help does come.

Bucky Barnes appears out of an explosion of orange and gold light. He drives his fist into Bane's stomach, digging his metallic knuckles up and under the man's ribs in a strike to his liver. Bane wheezes, drops Peter and staggers back, clutching his abdomen. Bucky spin kicks Bane across the jaw, knocking him back, and then disappears.

Peter, gasping for breath, falls into a coughing fit strong enough to keep him on the ground. Deep, wracking coughs, sabotage his every breath. The worst of them sound like bitter laughter.

Something dark flashes by the window beside them. Peter glances at it, frowning. His coughing fit grows worse, and there’s a sharp pain behind his eyes now. One that pulses in time with his heartbeat. It’s getting hard to keep his breath, and harder still to keep his focus.

Bane stands up slowly, snarling furiously at Peter. "You will pay for that--"

The hallway is suddenly filled with the unmistakable sound of a shotgun getting co*cked. Half a second later, it’s filled with the sound, light, and smell of a shotgun being fired. Bane staggers forwards by a couple of steps, and then whirls around to face his new attacker. His back is a mess of blood and torn cloth; Alfred isn’t using slugs in his shotgun, but birdshot. And the shot has shredded the thick tube carrying Bane’s steroids.

“You--” Bane starts.

“You have two seconds to step away from the boy before I blow your bloody head off,” Alfred says coldly. He co*cks the shotgun again. “The first shot was a warning. The next will be much more final.”

“That little gun won’t kill me,” Bane growls, stalking towards Alfred. He stands in front of a grand window, bleeding profusely from his back. The window looks out into a blur of white and gray; the blizzard is weaker than before, but still going strong.

“No, but he will,” Alfred replies, nodding past Bane.

At first, Peter thinks Alfred is nodding at him. And then he sees the shadow pass by the window, building momentum. A moment later, the window beside them explodes as a black shape launches through it.

Oh thank god, Batman's here, Peter thinks, slumping against the wall. And he didn’t come alone. Red Robin and Nightwing follow him through the window.

The beating Bane gets after that is one for the record books. Batman’s strikes are powerfully brutal, at complete odds with their fight together in the warehouse. He’s not holding back at all, and neither is Nightwing or Red Robin. Bane doesn’t stand a chance against the three of them.

Red Robin does a double take when he sees Peter, and Peter offers him a weak wave before falling unconscious.

* * *

He dreams. And, as always, he walks with another. It's Dr. Strange and Nick Fury this time. They’re walking through the Avengers Compound together. It’s summer here, unlike Gotham, the air pleasantly warm and calm under a sea of stars that, logically, shouldn’t be visible with the bright light of the Compound nearby.

Peter takes a moment to soak in his surroundings, then turns to face Dr. Strange, tilting his head curiously. “You have something to say.”

“You can tell?” Dr. Strange asks.

“It’s getting easier to feel your emotions,” Peter says. He pauses. “For the record, I’m not sure I’m cool with that.”

"You’ll learn to adapt. And you’re right. I wanted to let you know that we can't help you for awhile after this," he says. "We’ve used too much power, stretched our limits. It's weakened us."

"Oh," Peter says, frowning.

"We'll still be here, watching you, but we won't be able to help. Hell, you probably won’t even hear from us," Fury says. He pauses for a moment. "This also means that we can't protect you if you need help."

"That includes your nightmares," Dr. Strange adds.

Peter winces. Nightmares have followed him for most of his life, and they’ve only gotten worse in Gotham. Add in that letter Dr. Strange sent...

Well, he’s not eager to see what the shadows of his mind are going to show him.

“So, on top of everything else, I’m going to have nightmares again,” he says. “Great. We’ll see how long I last at Wayne Manor before they kick me out.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Fury says dryly.

Peter frowns at him, but goes silent, walking with them. Finally, he asks, “Will I hear or see you guys again? At all?”

“Eventually, yes,” Dr. Strange says. Peter feels his shoulders slump with relief. “But it will take time. We need to recover, and so do you.”

“Right. Okay. I can do that, I think,” Peter says.

“Good,” Dr. Strange says. “You’ll need it.”

And then he snaps his fingers. Dr. Strange and Nick Fury disappear, and Peter falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The steady, calm beep of a heart monitor draws Peter out of his rest. It’s a gradual process; every time he wakes up, the warmth and comfort of the bed pulls him back into sleep. He hears voices sometimes; distant murmurs, low whispers, conversations centered around words like ‘security system,’ ‘his ghosts are gone, man,’ ‘Joker toxin’ and ‘odd blood test results’ mostly. Peter can’t keep track of them, so he sleeps through them.

Until the nightmares start, that is.

It isn’t exactly a coherent dream: just darkness, dust, icy cold, and an overwhelming feeling of dread and despair that robs him of his breath and leaves him clawing at his blankets. He starts awake, kicking at his blankets with a startled gasp that turns into a weak cough. The heart monitor spikes, and Peter takes a moment to catch his breath and his bearings. He’s in a hospital, he can tell that much by the scent of the room alone. There’s a cold sterility to it that lends weight to that assumption. Hospitals are always a little oppressive, no matter how fancy they are.

Peter blinks up at the ceiling, willing his eyes to focus. His head is pounding. His chest is tight and sore; he can feel a massive bruise along the length of his torso, and the tightness from it makes his labored breathing even more difficult. He’s burning from a fever, and shifts restlessly on his bed, accidentally kicking off his blankets.

He lets out a frustrated groan that leads into a wheezing cough.

“Easy,” a man’s voice says, gentle and unfamiliar. The voice is smooth, rich, and carries the same distinctive old money accent that Tim has. The blankets return, the man tucking Peter in gently. “There, better. Are you awake?”

Peter slowly turns his head away from the ceiling and towards the source of the voice. He has to squint against the light and movement; his headache is actually a migraine, which explains why he’s having so much trouble seeing. Ugh.

After a moment, his vision clears, just a bit. He’s in a very expensive hospital room. Half of the lights are dimmed around his bed to at least give the illusion of darkness to let him sleep better. He’s hooked up to an IV (ugh), a heart monitor, and probably something else, but he can’t be bothered to figure out what just yet. He’s also very much not alone; his room is crowded with people.

Duke, Tim, and their brother, Dick, are all sprawled out in chairs and benches at the edge of the room. All three of them are deeply asleep. Steph is near the door, playing on her phone; she glances up when she feels Peter’s eyes on her and gives him a small, relieved smile before standing and slipping out of the room, raising her phone up to her ear.

Peter blinks after her, and then realizes that someone is standing beside his bed. The owner of the voice that helped him with his blankets. He squints up at him.

"Hi, there," the man says, friendly and curious. His suit is tailor made, cut from the finest cloth, and his shoes are polished to a gleam. He's every bit as put together as Tony, though he stands taller and his shoulders are almost as broad as Captain America's. Honestly, he looks like Tony with a protein shake and massive steroid habit. “My name’s Bruce Wayne.”

Peter, laying in his hospital bed, dressed in a patient gown, and confronted with the man he’s stolen from, suddenly feels very out of his depth. "Uh."

The man offers Peter his hand, still with that friendly smile, though he can see the man's eyes wander over Peter's room. Peter takes his hand, offering him a firm, businesslike shake, just the way Tony had taught him. It seems to impress the man. Or, at least, it seems to.

So he has that going for him, at least.

Bruce smiles, releasing his hand. "We haven’t had a chance to meet yet, but my sons have told me all about you. I’m sorry our meeting is happening here, but well, Gotham has been a bit more lively than usual. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

"It’s been a little rough lately, yeah," Peter mumbles, glancing around. Peter has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Rougher on some more than others,” Bruce replies. He looks at Peter, and there’s nothing ‘playboy billionaire’ about it. There’s a sharp intellect behind those blue eyes. Peter glances away.

“How’s Alfred?” he asks. “And the kid. Were they hurt?”

“They’re both fine,” Bruce says. He moves away from Peter, grabbing blankets from a cart set near the door and gently placing them over Duke, Tim, and Dick. “Damian activated the alarm system, but Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Starfire were already on the way by the time it reached the police. Starfire and Nightwing are the ones who brought you to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Peter says woozily. “That’s lucky.”

“Lucky for you especially,” Bruce says, spreading the last blanket over Dick before glancing at Peter. “Alfred told me what you did. That was a very brave thing you did.”

“Couldn’t just stand there and do nothing,” Peter says, yawning. “Had to help.”

Bruce tilts his head at that. A small smile forms. “I understand. You should rest.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d better,” Peter mumbles, sinking back into the bed with a weary and slightly wheezy sigh. Bruce pats his shoulder and dims the lights a little more for Peter.

“We’ll speak again soon, Peter,” he says.

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

His dreams are restless and stressful; one moment, he’s falling, unable to grab Sam’s hand as he reaches down to help, the next he’s drowning in the frigid waters surrounding Gotham. The only thing that seems consistent is how uncomfortable and restless his sleep is. When he wakes up again, he feels off kilter, his body not fully awake. He blinks, looking up at the hospital ceiling, gradually waking up. Physically speaking, he feels a little better; sore, exhausted, and wrung out mentally and emotionally, but a tiny bit better for the rest his body is getting inside a warm and safe place.

His stomach is another thing altogether. It growls. Loudly. And Peter realizes his last full meal was quite some time ago. A quiet chuckle draws his attention, and he turns his head to the side. Bruce Wayne is sitting comfortably in a chair tucked away in the corner. He nods when he sees Peter awake. He’s alone, Peter notices; Duke, Tim, and Dick have left the room. It’s just Peter and Bruce right now.

Peter stares at him. Some time must have passed since their last chat--a few hours, at least--but Bruce looks as fresh and calm as he did when they first spoke. It’s hard to tell time in a hospital; there’s an odd ‘anytime’ sense that haunts most of them, and the only window he can see shows a city under a blanket of snow.

“Good evening,” Bruce says. “I’ve asked a nurse to bring you something to eat. Dr. Thompkins has cleared you for food, but she wants you to eat slowly.”

“Dr. Thompkins?” Peter asks sleepily, sitting up. He winces, and slumps back onto his bed. His ribs are bruised and tender. They've been taped, restricting his movement, but that isn't helping much.

“The family doctor,” Bruce says. He frowns when he sees Peter wince. “Take it easy and try not to move. How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit by an angry truck on steroids,” Peter says. His fever is broken, at least, but he still has a nagging pain in his throat when he speaks. His voice is gravelly and thick, choking off his words. But his mind is clear enough. Thank god for small favors. “I think I’m more awake now, at least.”

“That’s good. You’ve had us worried,” Bruce says.

Peter had worried himself for a little while there. Thinking back to the river and how close he came to just sleeping himself to death in the cold fills him with an icy dread. The memory is blurry and smudged at the edges, but he distinctly remembers hearing voices, a radio, and the others.

Others who aren’t saying much of anything at the moment. That worries him; it feels strangely empty without hearing Bucky and Sam’s bickering, Fury’s dry observations, and Shuri and T’Challa’s gentle encouragement.

“Where am I?” Peter asks, rubbing at his eyes. The exhaustion is leaving him.

“In a private room at Drake Memorial Hospital. You’re quite the celebrity here at the moment,” Bruce says.

Peter frowns at him, confused. “I am?”

“One of Batman’s worst enemies broke into my manor with the intent to kill my family, and you distracted him until help could arrive. That makes you something of a celebrity in this city, and someone I owe a personal debt to,” Bruce explains. “Congratulations, you’ve just become one of the hottest topics in Gotham.”

Oh god. The marble bust and the display stand it was resting on were both well over one hundred pounds. He threw both of them at Bane. Sure, he didn’t have much of a choice, and it was worth it, but neither of those things can be considered light enough to be thrown by a skinny, sick kid. Hysterical strength can account for some amazing feats, but it can’t account for that. Come to think of it, he probably won’t be able to easily explain away the fact that he took a massive punch to the chest from Bane and came out of it without any broken bones.

“I know you’re a meta,” Bruce says simply. “You wouldn’t have survived that punch unless you had some kind of physical enhancement.”

“Yeah. Is that going to be a problem?” Peter asks hesitantly. “I know Batman isn’t a big fan of people like me.”

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes, just for a moment. Something like shock and annoyance. It passes so quickly that Peter wonders if he saw it at all. “Now, what gives you that idea?”

“It’s, ah, something I’ve heard around town, that’s all,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m not sure it’s true, but you know. I’d rather stay on his good side if I can help it.”

“I think you’ve got that covered,” Bruce says. “And it’s the police who tend to be less than kind to people with your abilities in Gotham, unfortunately.”

“Okay, that’s also a problem, then,” Peter mutters. He rubs his throat, annoyed by the soreness. His healing factor is nothing short of miraculous, but he’s been relying on it heavily lately, and he’s not exactly replacing all that energy he’s using up.

“Not in this case,” Bruce says, standing up to grab a plastic cup from the cupboard above the sink tucked away in the corner of the room. He fills the cup and brings it over to Peter, setting it down on the small table beside Peter’s bed.

Peter grabs the water and sips at it, relaxing. “Why’s that? I kind of made it obvious that I’m enhanced.”

“Alfred and Damian have told the police everything,” Bruce says. “How you distracted Bane before Batman and the others were able to intervene. I owe you for that. For more than that, in fact, but that’s something we can discuss later.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Peter watches Bruce, and Bruce calmly returns his gaze. The playboy billionaire facade is almost completely gone. He isn’t sure what kind of man Bruce Wayne is, but he meets Peter’s gaze with a steady and frank curiosity that could match T’Challa’s steely looks.

“They said I distracted Bane?” Peter asks, mind turning slowly. That’s an odd choice of words. He attacked Bane, it just wasn’t strong enough to count as more than a distraction given how weak and tired he was.

“Yes. You yelled at Bane and drew him away from the kitchen. That gave Damian enough time to slip out of his restraints and call for help,” Bruce says, still in that calm and steady voice. “Bane broke a marble bust of myself while charging towards you. Alfred saw him knock it over.”

Peter stares at Bruce. Alfred couldn’t have seen that. His neck was in Bane’s hands.

Bruce pauses, and gives Peter a significant look. “Which is a good story to tell the press and the police. If they think you’re different, they might start to investigate the incident at the manor a little more closely than they should. There are already a lot of questions surrounding you. We shouldn’t give them more than they already have.”

Ah. Yeah, a homeless meta kid throwing hands with one of Batman’s worst enemies in Bruce Wayne’s kitchen might turn this into a bigger sh*t show than it already is. Nothing good will come of Peter admitting that he’s enhanced or meta.

“Oh. Right. Got it,” Peter says.

He desperately thinks back to Tony’s ‘this is how you handle the press’ lectures, and tries to think of something useful. Somehow, he doesn’t think, ‘sunglasses, the mirrored kind; it throws people off’ and ‘always keep moving, you never know who’s trying to catch up’ and ‘always give them a show, people love a good show’ have any place in this particular situation. Probably because Tony was in the habit of fleeing the press if they weren’t specifically invited for a press conference by Stark Industries. Often because they had very awkward questions to ask him.

Bruce smiles. “Good. For the record, I have no issue with meta individuals, but I know there are others who do. I don’t want anyone to make you a target for their own agendas if I can help it.”

Peter pauses, taking that in. He blinks. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul,” Bruce confirms.

“Oh,” Peter says. He fidgets a little, and says, quietly, “Thanks.”

Bruce nods, pauses, and starts to say something. He’s interrupted by the door swinging open. The man freezes, tensing in a way that reminds Peter of Natasha before relaxing once more when he sees Dick Grayson peering into the room from around the door. Dick smiles when he sees Peter awake.

“Hey, Peter,” he says. He sounds tired. Actually, he sounds worn down, as if he’s just had the roughest week of his life. Peter can understand that. “Good to see you’re awake. You had us all worried.”

“Yeah, I bet. Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his head.

“What’s wrong, Dick?” Bruce asks.

“Dr. Thompkins and Detective Bullock want to talk to Peter, and Damian is refusing to stay in bed,” Dick says evenly. “You might have to pull rank here. He’s really riled up. He doesn’t want Alfred out of his sight.”

Which is understandable. Alfred must have raised that kid, just like the other Wayne kids (he assumes; he really doesn’t know). If Peter had been in Damian’s shoes, he’d be absolutely feral about keeping May in sight--

May. The note. Peter frowns, withdrawing while Dick and Bruce speak. So much has happened, he almost forgot about Dr. Strange’s note. For a moment, he loses himself to thoughts of the note, and what it means. For himself and for Felicia.

God, Felicia. He needs to tell her about Strange’s letter.

“--right, Peter?” Dick says.

Peter blinks, snapping out of his thoughts and looking at Dick. He’s standing near Peter’s bed now, and Peter can see that his eyes are bloodshot and red, possibly from tears. Peter can’t blame the guy; Alfred is family, and he nearly got his head torn off by someone on super steroids.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said that Detective Bullock and Dr. Thompkins want to speak with you. Is that all right?” Dick asks. “One of us can stay with you, if you’d like.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll talk with them.”

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Dick says, gently squeezing his shoulder before heading towards the door with Bruce.

Peter frowns after them. There was something familiar in that brief squeeze. He can’t quite place it right now, but it tugs at the back of his mind as Bruce and Dick leave and Detective Bullock and Dr. Thompkins enter the room. Dick hesitates for a moment before shutting the door with a gentle click.

Bullock lumbers towards Peter, offering his hand and giving a firm shake before sitting down in the chair Bruce left behind. The chair struggles to contain his bulk; Bullock is heavyset, but in a way that suggests there’s a great deal of muscle beneath the fat. He looks tired, and a bit more rumpled than he did in the warehouse when Peter met him as Spider-Man. He manages a pleasant enough smile.

“Peter, good to see you’re awake,” Bullock says. His tone is polite, but suspicious; Peter wonders if that’s just his default voice. He hopes so. “Most people Bane takes a swing at aren’t really capable of talking much afterward. Especially not--well. No offense. You’re not exactly a hard case.”

“None taken,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his arm and is relieved to see the stab wound from a few days ago is pretty much gone. Only a thin white scar remains from the knife wound.

“I’ve pretty much got all I need already, kid, but I wanted to check in on you before I left,” he says. “Won’t take very long, I promise. I know the doc here wants to talk to you.”

“Right. Um, anything you need.”

“Can you tell me what happened? I need to make sure the fine details match up for my report.”

Ah. So that’s why Bruce wanted to meet alone. He wanted to help Peter get his story straight with the cops. Tony’s given him advice on this before, too. What was it? ‘Tell ‘em you have a lawyer, then call Happy. He’ll get a lawyer for you. A real shark of a bastard, too. I keep a few around for situations like these. Just try not to get caught with your literal pants down, it doesn’t look good in court.’

Okay, so that’s not helpful in this situation. Especially since Tony and Happy are both likely dead. Which is another thought he can’t afford to get lost in.

“Right. Okay. Um, Tim brought me over earlier in the day, and I dozed off--”

“Dozed off?”

“Yeah, uh,” Peter stammers for a moment, and then opts for the truth. “I live in Crime Alley. My place doesn’t have heat, so I tried to go to the hospital to warm up and ran into Tim.”

“Tim Drake? How does a kid from Crime Alley know one of Bruce Wayne’s sons?” Bullock asks. He’s scribbling in his notebook as Peter speaks, and his tone is more matter of fact than accusatory.

“We go to the same school. I got in on a scholarship.” Bullock grunts, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and Peter pushes on. “Anyway, my cold got the better of me and I fell asleep in one of the guest rooms. I woke up when the power went out and went to find Alfred.”

“You woke up because the power went out?”

“I live in Crime Alley, detective. You either react to the world changing around you or you end up dead,” Peter says dryly. “Spider-Man can’t be everywhere, and neither can Red Hood.”

Bullock sighs. “Yeah, well, he’s not going to be anywhere these days. All right. You woke up. What then?”

“I could hear voices downstairs. I followed them and saw Bane threatening Alfred.”

“And then?”

“And then I yelled. Kind of,” Peter says, rubbing his throat. His voice is starting to give out on him, and he stops to take another deep drink of water. Bullock waits patiently. “Mostly I called him an asshole and tried to piss him off enough he’d get away from them. I think I struck a nerve, or startled him--” Well, literally struck a nerve by flinging Bruce Wayne’s face into the side of the man’s head. “--he started chasing me. Then Batman and the others came in.”

“Pretty brave,” Bullock remarks, still writing in his notebook.

“Not really. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” Bullock asks suddenly.

Peter blinks at him, frowning. “No, I’m from Queens.”

“That explains it,” Bullock says, clicking his pen idly. “Crime Alley kids would’ve run at the first sign of trouble. It’s how they survive long enough to end up being Crime Alley adults. Frankly, the fact that you’ve survived in Crime Alley this long without being a native is amazing.”

“Queens isn’t exactly a cakewalk, you know,” Peter says. He pauses. “But it doesn’t have much on Crime Alley, I guess.”

“I’d bet not,” Bullock replies dryly. He pauses. “Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t try to fight Bane? Didn’t hit him?”

Peter’s heartbeat spikes a little. The machine tracking it lets out a slightly quicker beep. He fidgets in his bed a little. “No. What kind of damage could a skinny kid like me do to him?”

Bullock eyes him for a moment, and scoffs. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But Bane says you threw Bruce Wayne’s bust at him, then the display case, and that you punched him in the stomach and kicked him across the chin. He’s got the bruises and busted jaw to prove it.”

“Batman gave the guy the beating of his life,” Peter says.

“Yeah. He did. And he’s pretty damn strong, but I don’t think he’s that strong. Not unless he’s Superman.” He gives Peter a level stare for a moment. The kind of stare that says ‘I know you’re lying, and I want you to know that I know.’ Peter stares back. After a moment, Bullock shrugs. “But who knows. That Starfire woman was with him. She packs a mean punch. Maybe she got a hit in or two.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Peter mumbles.

Another pause follows that. Bullock shakes his head, closing the notebook. “That fits the story everyone else has told me.”

Oh, thank god.

“By the way, we’re having trouble tracking down your guardian. I got in touch with your school, and nobody can find this Tony Stark guy,” Bullock says, pocketing his notebook. “You wouldn’t happen to have another number for him, would you?”

The number Peter gave them goes to FRIDAY. He can imagine that they aren’t going to find Tony at that number in this universe. Peter shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“We really need to--”

“If he was capable of being here,” Peter says, suddenly exhausted. “Then he’d be here. He’s not coming.”

Another pause follows that. Bullock frowns at Peter for a moment. After a few seconds, he says, “Dick Grayson has some paperwork signing over temporary guardianship to him from Tony. Sounds like your guardian made some arrangements to have you taken care of.”

How in the f*ck did Dick Grayson get that? Peter frowns. Maybe Loki did it? He has been oddly helpful lately. Even kind, in his own way. Peter could see the God of Mischief conning Dick Grayson into looking after Peter.

“Well, no, but we haven’t talked much lately.”

“Then it sounds like Tony did you a favor getting you in with the Waynes,” Bullock says. “Between you and me, kid, I think you’d be better off with them. They never lose heat in the middle of a blizzard.”

Peter says nothing, looking away to frown at the ground. If Tony was here, he wouldn’t have been starving in the streets. Bullock sighs, seemingly aware that he’s hit a sore spot.

"Is Nightwing still around? I'd like to talk to him," Peter says.

"He left as soon as he brought you here," Bullock says, pushing himself up from the chair with a sigh. He adjusts his hat and pulls a toothpick out of his front breast pocket, popping it into his mouth. "He wasn't in good shape. He lost a friend recently, and he has to lay low for a little while."

Yeah, Peter can only guess at what Nightwing is going through right now. And Red Hood. He needs to find them as soon as he can. Which he can’t exactly do if he’s just been kind of adopted by Dick Grayson and the Wayne family.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Peter,” Bullock says heading for the door. He places one meaty hand on the doorknob and glances over his shoulder at Peter. “One last piece of advice before I go.”

“Yeah?”

“Never play poker. You’re a terrible liar,” Bullock says. He pushes open the door and shuts it behind himself, leaving Peter alone with Dr. Thompkins. A long silence follows, until Peter lets out a heavy sigh and flops back against the bed.

Dr. Thompkins steps into view, picks up his cup of water, and refills it for him. She smiles at him. “Hi, Peter. I wanted to discuss a few things with you if you’re feeling up to it?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Peter says, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s never good when a doctor uses that particularly gentle tone with someone. Usually it’s followed by something like, ‘so good news, we’ve just discovered a fascinating new illness that will finance years of study. Bad news is, it’s inside you.’ Or maybe that’s just his anxiety talking. “What’s up, doc?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” Dr. Thompkins says, sitting in the chair Bullock just left. “Your blood tests specifically.”

Peter goes very, very still. His blood tests have been slightly weird since the spider bite. Most of the doctors he’s visited (which isn’t exactly a regular occurrence these days) typically make polite ‘hm’ noises before checking May’s insurance and deciding against pursuing it when they realize the policy won’t pay for any further tests. But since he’s technically under Dick Grayson’s guardianship, that’s not true anymore. Bruce Wayne’s kids probably have the best medical care money can buy.

“Yeah?” Peter asks warily. There’s a window behind them. Peter can make a break for it if he absolutely needs to, but the idea of fleeing the hospital in a patient gown during a snowstorm isn’t exactly appealing. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, and no. There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about. We found evidence of Joker’s toxin in your system. You said you live in Crime Alley?”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter says.

“He set off a few of his bombs in Crime Alley to throw off Black Bat the other day. Is that when you were exposed?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, leaping on that excuse as quickly as possible. “I wasn’t able to get the antidote for awhile, but I think it worked.”

“You should have come to my clinic,” she says. “But I think you got lucky, as far as exposure goes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“The Joker is a brilliant chemist. His toxins are notoriously difficult to counter. Most people who are exposed don’t recover if they aren’t given the antidote in a timely fashion, and there are a few who never recover if the Joker sprays them directly. I think you’ll be alright, but you might have some side effects.”

“Side effects?” Peter asks, worried.

“Laughing fits,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Almost like seizures. A few of my patients have it. There isn’t exactly a term for it yet, and we do have a treatment, but it’s often permanent.”

“Oh,” Peter says numbly. “So I’m going to have, what, laughing seizures for the rest of my life?”

“It’s still too early to tell. Your immune system is fighting it, which is one reason why your throat is so sore.” She pauses, then adds gently. “And your healing factor is something to consider. I know you’re meta, and I know you’ve been in a Lazarus Pit. I can recognize the signs.”

Jesus Christ, he might as well walk around with it tattooed across his face. Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his head. This is a lot to take in. “Okay. So, um, a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“What do I do about the laughing seizures? Is there anything I can do for them?”

“Yes, actually, there is,” Dr. Thompkins says. She stands up and grabs a small box from one of the cabinets above the sink in the room, then sits back down and sets it on the table beside his bed. “Have you ever used an inhaler before?”

Great. “Yeah, trust me, I know how to use those. So I just use this whenever I start to laugh?”

“Only when you can’t stop laughing. It might take awhile for you to recognize the signs,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Two puffs, hold in your breath, then release. You’ll know when it works.”

“Never thought I’d start using these again,” Peter mutters. Dr. Thompkins gives him a sympathetic smile. It seems genuine; most doctors are only capable of pulling off a polite, noncommittal smile. “Okay, next question.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Lazarus Pit thing. What did you mean by that?”

“That you died and came back when someone put you in a Pit. Or something like it, at least,” Dr. Thompkins says. Her tone is carefully neutral now. “There are a lot of side effects to that.”

“Like what?”

“Psychological trauma is the most common,” Dr. Thompkins says. “One of the most concerning side effects is, potentially, homicidal rage.”

Peter stops for a moment. This is what Loki was talking about during that weird dream awhile ago. Dr. Thompkins is watching him carefully, and Peter wonders at her courage. She’s in a room alone with a meta suffering from joker toxin poisoning and the side effects of resurrection.

“I mean, I’ve gotten frustrated and angry a lot easier than usual, but I haven’t--I mean, I wouldn’t---” he gropes for the words. He can feel a simmering fury somewhere deep inside himself, held at bay by...something. Someone? After a moment, he admits, “I think it’s gotten close a few times.”

“It can come and go in waves,” Dr. Thompkins says sympathetically. “Do you remember anything about it? Who put you in the Pit and why?”

Peter hesitates and then shakes his head. Explaining it to her won’t do him any good. If anything, it’ll put a target on her back if the people who put him into the Lazarus tube come looking. “No. And I don’t want to. I have nightmares about it sometimes and those are bad enough.”

She nods, unsurprised by that answer. “I understand that.”

A brief silence falls over the room after that. Peter breaks it, rubbing the back of his head. "Bruce Wayne wants me to stay with his family. If I did---I mean, am I a danger to them? Would I be putting them at risk? I don’t want to hurt anyone."

"Pit Madness usually lessens over time," Dr. Thompkins says reassuringly. "It's been months, right?"

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I don’t know how many. Four or five?”

Frankly, he’s lost track of time recently. Too much has happened.

Dr. Thompkins nods again, thinking. “Your case is special. Joker toxin can cause it’s own brand of psychological trouble. I’m going to be honest, Peter. The fact that you’re able to carry a conversation like this is astonishing, and probably thanks to your special abilities.”

Well, that and the souls of half of the Avengers he’s carrying around telling him to calm down whenever the anger gets to be too much. Peter decides against telling her that he can hear dead superheroes whispering to him. It might cause her some concern. To put it mildly.

“I’m cautiously optimistic in your case. If you start to feel like the anger is becoming uncontrollable, call me. Day or night. I’ll do everything that I can to help,” Dr. Thompkins says. “I know Dick feels the same way.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” Peter says.

“He knows enough,” Dr. Thompkins says, standing up. She takes out his IV, and disconnects the machine monitoring his heart rate. Peter wishes she’d done that sooner. “I know Bruce wants to talk to you. I’m clearing you for a brief trip outside, but I want to keep you here for one more night.”

“Oh, uh. Right. Thanks, doc,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins pats his shoulder idly and walks towards the door, opening it and slipping outside into the hall. Peter lays back in his bed and stares up at the ceiling, mind reeling from everything he’s just been through. He listens for the others, to see if they have anything to say about what he’s just learned. He hears nothing. He feels very tired and very alone.

A gentle knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts. Bruce Wayne stands in the doorway, holding a backpack in one hand. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Peter waves him in, sitting up with a sigh. Bruce steps into the room and closes the door behind himself. After a moment, Peter looks up at him. "Mr. Wayne, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, anything."

Peter looks at him from the corner of his eyes. This next question will tell him exactly what kind of man Bruce is. "Why did you have a bust of yourself outside of the kitchen?"

Bruce’s expression becomes wry and a tad exasperated. "It was a gift from the rest of the family. They knew I'd hate it but feel obligated to show it off, so they hired the best sculptor in the city to make it. I couldn’t exactly turn down a gift from my children, and the sculptor was only too happy to take on such a large commission.”

Peter already has his head in his hands. "I threw a birthday gift from your kids at Bane?"

"Yes. Alfred said your form was impeccable.”

Great, Bruce has jokes. "Please tell me I didn't break it."

"No, unfortunately. It's still in one piece. I think Dick suspected it might fall during an ‘accident’ at some point," Bruce says wryly. "You have, at least, given it character. And justified Dick, Tim, and Jason’s future crimes against taste when they inevitably order a replacement.”

There’s fond exasperation in his voice, and Peter smiles a little at the sound of it. Bruce seems like--well, not a bad father, at least. It’s good to know that the bust wasn’t some manifestation of an oversized ego. Just mild family terrorism between family.

"Listen, why don't you join me for lunch?" Bruce asks. “I’d like to talk to you, and I know you must be starving.

Peter looks down at his patient gown. "Um. I'd like that, but--"

"Duke and Tim brought you some clothes,” Bruce says, lifting up the backpack. He sets it on the chair next to him. “”

“I think I’ve got it,” Peter says.

Bruce doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “I’ll meet you in the hall. There’s a burger place around the corner.”

With that, he steps out of the room one last time. Peter sighs, pushing himself out of bed. If nothing else, that procession of people helped distract him from the steady itch of his healing factor. He’s already moving easier, and the bruise across his torso is green and yellow at the edges. His ribs still itch and ache, but a good meal and better sleep might take care of that. With his immune system fighting the Joker toxin in his blood, who knows how long it’ll take to heal.

Peter showers and changes into the clothes Bruce left in the backpack. Jeans, socks, shoes, and another Superman shirt. This one is the classic red and blue design and it fits Peter perfectly when he pulls it on. He idly wonders how many of Bruce Wayne’s kids are a fan of Superman.

When he steps out of the bathroom, feeling better for the shower alone, he stops and takes stock of himself. He eyes the inhaler on the table beside his bed and grabs it, pocketing it on his way towards the door.

He never thought he’d need one of those again.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

They end up walking out of the hospital and across a skyway, a pedestrian bridge connecting the hospital to a shopping center across the street, as well as a parking garage and hotel. Peter looks up at the sky through the glass walls and ceiling. The storm above Gotham is just as menacing as it had been days ago, but the snow has turned to flurries and rain. The city looks dark and gloomy in the fading evening light, even under a blanket of snow. It's strangely beautiful.

“This place is huge,” Peter says, in a tone equal parts wonder and worry. Mostly to break the silence.

“It's the biggest hospital in the city, more of a medical complex than a regular hospital. It owns three blocks and they might expand it more,” Bruce confirms, walking beside him.

“Exactly how much is all this going to cost?” Peter asks. He knows, on some level, that Dick or Bruce is paying for this, but he also has long baked in near poverty instincts about what he can and can't afford.

The few doctor’s visits he’s had since the bite were often in small, unassuming buildings that still manage to be expensive. He has the sudden realization that if a ten minute conversation with a doctor in a tiny office in the not-so-great part of town racks up a two hundred dollar bill, then a day or two inside a medical complex at the heart of Gotham City is going to ask for a price he doesn’t want to think about.

Bruce blinks, as if the cost of all of this never once entered his mind. “Don’t worry about it. Here, there’s a food court up ahead.”

And there is, in fact, a massive food court to their left. Doctors, visitors, various hospital staff, and even a few other patients fill out booths and tables lining the room. It reminds Peter of a mall food court, with separate store fronts. Most of the options are healthy enough: a soup and salad shop, a sandwich place, and far in the corner, a Batburger. Soup will get him nowhere, and a sandwich won’t last him a minute. Peter heads straight for that one.

Bruce follows him at a sedate pace, his movements easy, graceful, and far too silent for a man of his size. Peter makes note of that, wonders about it for a moment, and then becomes far too engrossed in the menu to care.

“Dr. Thompkins didn’t give you any dietary restrictions?” Bruce asks, stepping up beside him.

“Nah, she’s not worried about that,” he answers.

“Get as much as you’d like, then.”

Peter happily does so. Three burgers, more fries than necessary, a massive drink, and more. It’s probably more than his stomach can handle, to be honest, but he’ll find that out soon enough. Bruce settles for a regular burger, small water, and a fruit pie. Peter orders three pies for himself. Fruit is relatively healthy, so that’ll even out his horrible food decisions, right?

He half expects to hear some kind of comment on that from...someone. Anyone. It’s odd when he doesn’t hear anything. Odd enough to make him pause for a moment before grabbing a table in the far corner of the room while Bruce pays for their meals. Peter’s already eaten one burger and is halfway through the second when Bruce sits down across from him. carefully spreads a napkin across his lap, unwraps his burger, picks up a plastic fork and knife, and then cuts his burger down the middle like a steak.

Peter can only stare. It’s such a contrast to Tony demolishing a burger with one hand that, in any other instance, it’d be funny. If only because Peter can clearly imagine Tony nudging him with an elbow and commenting on it.

“So I noticed something a little while ago,” Bruce says between bites, a little too casually for Peter’s liking.

“Um, what’s that?” Bruce is cutting the burger into bite sized pieces and it’s distracting Peter terribly.

“I’ve been sponsoring a new student at Gotham Prep. Now, normally I make a big deal about that sort of thing. Press release, or at least a brief article in the paper. It looks good for my company, and it’s a good way to give back to the city that’s helped me maintain my wealth.”

Peter goes still.

“It seems your name was added to the list at some point. I don’t remember that.” Bruce sets the fork and knife down, watching Peter closely. There’s a sharp intelligence there to rival Tony’s glinting in those eyes. Peter suddenly realizes he's completely misjudged Bruce Wayne.

Peter sighs. The man wouldn’t bring it up unless he already knew the answer. He might as well come clean. "That’s because I put it there."

Bruce tilts his head and says nothing.

Peter's face burns with embarrassment. "I just needed to go to a school with a really good science program."

The part where he needs a good science program because he’s trying to figure out a way to get back to his original universe is left unspoken. There are some things you just don’t drop on billionaires upon first meeting them. And, if Strange’s letter is anything to go by (and why wouldn't it be?), that's no longer possible, so it doesn't matter anyway.

Bruce nods, thoughtful. "I thought so."

"Listen, I'm sorry I stole--"

Bruce raises his hand and stops Peter there. "Your grades are perfect, you set a new record for the entrance exam, and the teachers tell me you're a diligent worker who’s perfectly well behaved, despite being antagonized by other students. I prefer that people ask for my money rather than take it but given your circ*mstances, I can understand why you did it. As far as I’m concerned, you've more than earned that scholarship, Peter."

Peter stares at him, shocked. He relaxes slightly, but he can hear the unspoken ‘however’ hovering at the end of Bruce’s sentence.

"I am, however, worried about your living situation. Your neighborhood isn't safe, to put it mildly."

"Honestly, I've lived in worse."

Well, not much worse, and only for a week while May got them into a better apartment after losing the one she and Ben had shortly after his death. He really is at a low point in his life, shelter wise.

That earns him a deeper frown. “I like that even less. That won’t do. You need food, shelter, and a safe place to sleep. Preferably on an actual bed.”

“I mean, I can figure it out, if I can just find a steady job--” Peter starts.

“You can stay with my family. Dick has the paperwork for it already, but it’s a choice I'd like you to make."

Peter stares at him. “What?”

“Stay with my family," Bruce repeats. "Tim and Duke have told me all about you. Alfred is obviously fond of you. Dick already has the legal side of it handled. They’d be happy to have you there. So would I, frankly. I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in the cold. It's a wonder you kept your grades up living like that.”

“Are you serious?” Peter asks incredulously. “I literally stole from you.”

"Lots of people steal from me. Very few of them have a good reason for it." Bruce shrugs. "And why not? Dick becomes your guardian permanently, and gives you a safe place to live until you graduate or as long as you like.”

“Hasn’t that decision already been made for me?” Peter asks.

“Yes, but only as far as medical care is concerned. I want you to decide whether to take the offer or not,” Bruce explains. “You didn’t get any say in the matter when you were brought here. You do now.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, thinking it over. It’s basically a no-brainer; winter is in full swing in Gotham, and he simply won’t survive it without shelter and food, something that Bruce and his family are offering him without strings attached, apparently. But with that comes several downsides. Manageable ones, but unique frustrations all the same.

“A few ground rules first,” Peter says.

Bruce quirks a brow, but nods, politely folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t ask where I came from, or how I ended up in Gotham. The past is past, leave it there,” Peter says. The less the Waynes know about him, the safer they’ll be.

“Fair enough,” Bruce says easily. Too easily, actually.

“Second, I want you to talk to Dr. Thompkins first before agreeing to this,” Peter says after a moment. “I, uh, might have some lingering medical issues.”

“Such as?”

“Joker toxin. Dr. Thompkins says there could be some lingering effects from it. If you want me to stay with you, it’s only fair you know about that,” Peter says. "I mean, I still don't fully know what it means besides having to use an inhaler. It could get ugly."

What’s left unspoken is this: Are you willing to take a potentially emotionally unstable meta into your home? Well, in so many words; he’s definitely not telling Bruce about the Lazarus Machine thing. You can’t just drop ‘hey, by the way, I’m also a zombie’ on someone like that. At least, not right away.

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes for a moment. “You realize how difficult this rule makes the first one to keep?”

“I do. But just accept it at face value for now,” Peter says.

Bruce tilts his head, but nods slowly. “All right. Anything else?”

“If you ever try to pull me into your billionaire rich people nonsense, I will become a problem on purpose,” Peter says. He’d given this same ultimatum to Tony. Tony had tested it and then immediately regretted it.

“No different from the other kids, then,” Bruce remarks dryly. “All right. I have a few things to say, too.”

“I agree to your rules, but there are a few things you should be aware of," Bruce says. "The media will latch onto you for a few weeks no matter what. That can't be helped. You made a name for yourself defending my family. The attention will die down eventually, but don’t be surprised if a few reporters follow you around for awhile."

Peter hadn't considered that. God, that's going to make finding Nightwing even more difficult than he thought.

"Give it a few weeks and it'll die down. I'll do my best to keep you out of the spotlight in the meantime, but I can’t promise you complete privacy when you leave the manor," Bruce says, and there's a genuine apology in his tone. "My family is well known and well entrenched in Gotham. People are going to be curious about you based on that alone.”

That’s definitely going to be a problem. He doesn’t want to wait a few weeks to find Nightwing, but he may not have a choice. Between his general exhaustion, the joker toxin, whatever the Lazarus thing did to him, plus all of Batman’s worst running through the city...

Maybe a couple of weeks in bed could be useful. There’s a bone deep exhaustion that drags at his body and limbs even with the rest and food. And the uncomfortable itch of his healing factor is only making it worse; his body is already churning through the food he’s eaten to heal him and fight off whatever the joker toxin is doing to him.

“As long as you don’t mind me staying out of the public eye as much as possible,” Peter says after a few moments.

“You’ll still have to go to school,” Bruce points out. “But I think you can handle that. I just wanted you to be aware of it.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.” His other option is fleeing back into Crime Alley and living in the streets.

“I can give you tips on how to handle the press, if you’d like,” Bruce offers. “It’s actually pretty easy--”

“No, thanks. I already know.” More or less. Tony liked to share his knowledge, and even though the vast majority of it didn’t have any place in Peter’s life, he still listened to him. Turns out the media advice might actually be useful, though.

Bruce looks genuinely happy about that. “Let me, Dick, or Alfred know if you need help adjusting to things. Duke can give you some good advice on adjusting to life in the manor, too.”

“It’ll be nice living close to them. I missed hanging out with them,” Peter says, polishing off the last of his food. It was probably rude to eat during all of that, but f*ck that. He’s hungry, and he’s had his fill of eating cold food. Peter stacks up his trash on the tray and stands up.

“You'll be in the hospital for another night. Dr. Thompkins’s orders,” Bruce says, clearing grabbing his tray and standing with him.

"Guess my cold was pretty bad,” Peter says, dumping his tray into the trash can and stacking it. Bruce dumps his own tray behind him. His gaze isn’t focused on Peter, but Peter can tell the man is keeping an eye on his every move somehow.

“Dr. Thompkins thought it was pneumonia at first, but it cleared up so quickly that she ended up giving you cold medicine instead,” Bruce says. He pauses. “She also mentioned a gunshot wound in your side."

There's a very strange weight to that sentence. Peter blinks up at Bruce, doing his best to feign ignorance. "Gunshot wound?"

"It looks like it happened a few months ago."

He must have healed while resting at the manor. A good meal, several hours of rest in a warm environment, and knowing he was safe apparently kicked his healing factor into overdrive. He still feels like he’s got a cold, but that’s clearing up by the minute. "Oh. Yeah."

"I have to admit I'm interested in finding out how that happened.”

"It's, um, a long story." And one Peter has no interest in sharing at the moment. "I'm not ready to talk about it. Consider it a part of rule number one."

Bruce tilts his head for a moment, clearly debating on pressing the issue. Finally, he nods. "Only when you're ready. Come on, Alfred’s waiting for us.”

The walk back to his room passes quickly enough. Bruce is content to walk at Peter’s pace, occasionally pointing out landmarks and skyscrapers visible from the skyway. He mostly points out the businesses; Queen Industries, LexCorp, Wayne Towers, the Gotham Gazette building. Peter humors him while he slips into ‘billionaire businessman’ language; it’s oddly comforting and familiar, even if Bruce lacks Tony’s sarcasm and near manic infodumping.

Alfred is standing outside of Peter’s room. He seems glad to see Peter standing under his own power. He doesn’t quite perk up when they draw close and walks towards them.

“Master Wayne, Master Peter. I was just going to check on Master Damian,” he says. He looks between them. “I trust the conversation has happened...?”

“It has.” Bruce says, and he presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Alfred, Peter has agreed to stay with us."

The older man looks relieved. "Very good, sir. I'll make formal arrangements when we return to the manor." Alfred turns to Peter and smiles. "Welcome to the family, Master Peter."

"I have a meeting to go to, but Alfred will help you settle into the manor when Dr. Thompkins clears you,” Bruce says, his mind clearly already focused on other things.

“A meeting in all this?” Peter asks, jerking his head towards the skyway and the snow covered streets below. The sky, already dark and dim from the storm, has been steadily growing dimmer. It’s almost dark now.

“I’ve got a few things to handle at the office, plus I need to speak with the contractors coming in to fix the window, and I’m due back in Metropolis very soon,” Bruce explains, walking Peter back into his room. “I’m afraid I won’t be back for a week or two.”

“Oh, uh, right,” Peter says, kicking off his shoes and dropping down on the bed. That makes sense; Bruce still directly runs his company, unlike Tony. His schedule is probably ridiculous. “Thanks for taking the time to talk.”

Bruce pauses and then smiles. “We’ll talk more when I come back. Get some rest and settle into the manor. You’ve gone through a lot.”

Bruce doesn’t even know the half of it. “I’ll do that. Thanks, again. For taking me in after everything.”

“Of course,” Bruce replies, as if taking in a homeless thief is the most natural thing in the world. “Good night, Peter.”

He shuts the door behind himself. Peter stretches and flops back onto the hospital bed. It’s a touch too soft, really, but it’s warm, and that’s novelty enough to make up for the softness. He stretches, sighs, and relaxes. Peter is dozing in his bed, flirting with the edge of true sleep, when someone speaks.

"I thought you had enhanced senses," a young voice says from beside his head.

The voice is tinged with the barest Middle Eastern accent, and sounds, for lack of a better word, coldly haughty. It also sounds like the owner is speaking through a wall of mucus, which leads to an interesting effect.

Peter startles back awake, and finds himself face to face with none other than Damian Wayne. The kid is clearly exhausted and feverish, but he hides it surprisingly well, standing stoically beside Peter’s bed with an impressive glare across his features.

"Wha--when did you come in here?" Peter asks, reaching up to scrub his eyes. "Actually, how long have you been here?"

"You told the police that you heard voices in the kitchen from the bedroom hallway," Damian says, ignoring his questions. "That is physically impossible for a human. You almost blew your own cover story with that idiotic lie."

A brief pause follows that.

“I didn’t think of that,” Peter mumbles, still sleepy. How had the kid snuck inside? He should’ve heard the door, if nothing else. Hell, he should have heard the kid breathing or his heartbeat or something.

Damian stares at him, hard. It is focused, and intelligent and unbelievably creepy to see on the face of a kid. “Are you Kryptonian?”

Peter stares at him. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Hm. I didn’t think so, but you move like one. Clumsy because you can’t move as fast as is natural for you. And the strength, of course,” Damian says, half to himself. He squints at Peter. “Can you fly?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that the laws of physics apply to me,” Peter replies.

That just gets him an even more speculative look from Damian. It isn’t hostile, exactly, just focused. Peter’s seen Tim get a similar look around a particularly stubborn problem he needs to work through at school. Somehow, Peter thinks Damian wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. He’s pretty sure little brothers at this age hate being compared to their older siblings.

"You saved Alfred’s life. I owe you a debt for that,” Damian says after a moment, shifting topics so quickly that Peter’s exhausted brain is having trouble keeping up.

"You are super intense," Peter says blearily. He pauses. “Hey. I saved your life, too.”

“Debatable,” Damian says loftily, waving a dismissive hand. “I would have escaped my bonds and handled Bane eventually.”

“You would have handled Bane. The seven foot tall guy on steroids. By yourself,” Peter says slowly, quirking a brow.

“Yes,” Damian answers flatly, and with perfect confidence.

Silence follows that. Holy sh*t, this kid is serious. He fully intended to attack Bane, despite the fact that the man probably would’ve dropped kicked him through a goddamn window. What’s more, Peter’s not entirely sure Bane would’ve won. He would’ve been thrown off balance at the very least.

“You scare the hell out of me,” Peter admits finally.

Damian seems pleased by that. “Maybe you’re as intelligent as Drake claims you are.”

“Thanks?” Peter says.

“Master Damian,” a voice says, cutting off their conversation gently. “I believe you were told to stay in bed.”

“I’m merely visiting Father’s newest addition to the family,” Damian says, turning to face Alfred. The butler is standing in the doorway, holding the door open.

“Creepy,” Peter says.

“I see,” Alfred says. “And I see you’ve completed your task. To bed, please.”

It isn’t a request. Damian lets out a large sigh, gives Peter another speculative look before walking towards the door.

“We’ll speak again soon, Parker,” Damian says, striding through the door with perfect confidence. Alfred offers Peter a fond smile before turning to herd Damian back into his own room. He tugs at the door, content to let it swing shut on its own momentum as he walks off.

The door is caught and held by a small, feminine hand. Steph saunters into his room, cell phone pressed to one ear.

“Yeah, he’s awake,” she says, walking over to his bed. He stares at her blankly and she offers him a brilliant, cheerful smile before listening to whoever she’s speaking with. “Sure, okay.”

She offers him the cell phone. He stares at it blankly. “Uh. Who---”

“Felicia,” Steph says.

Oh god. Felicia.

"Uh," Peter says into the phone, fumbling with it. "Hi?"

"Oh, thank god, you are alive," Felicia says, relief evident in every word. "Peter, you absolute asshole, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll kill you myself."

"Oh, hey," Peter says, flopping back onto the bed. God, he’s talked to so many people today. He’s not exactly an introvert, but this is straining. "So, uh, you probably have some questions--"

“To put it mildly, yes," Felicia retorts. “Right now I’m just glad you’re alive. Seriously, you had me really worried. I tried to find you when I found out how bad the storm was going to be, but you were already catching the crane by then. And then you...”

Peter grimaces. “I’m sorry, Felicia.”

She takes in a shaky breath and lets it out. "I'm really glad you’re okay. Lou will be happy to hear it, too."

"Lou?” Peter says, and then he remembers. Lou. His bus driver. The man who always brought him an extra sandwich for breakfast and who keeps food waiting for him at the bus depot during his patrols. God, how could he forget? “Is he all right?”

“No, he’s really upset. He saw you fight them, Peter. His bus was trapped in traffic a block away when everything happened.”

“I should visit him,” Peter murmurs.

“You should. In the meantime, I’ll let him know you’re okay,” Felicia says. She pauses for a moment, and then speaks softly. “How are you? Seriously. You were--I mean, I saw the videos on the internet...”

Peter sighs. “I’m alright. More or less.” He pauses. “A little bit on the less side than is normal, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Felicia repeats back, but there’s less worry and more of her usual wry fondness.

“Listen, we should talk soon. There’s a few things we need to talk about. It’s about, uh, home.”

“Okay. We’ll talk soon,” Felicia says. “For now, just rest, okay? I’m going to go talk to Lou.”

“Got it. Tell him I said hi,” Peter says. The call ends. Peter stares at the phone for a moment and hands it back to Steph. He says, "I think I upset her.”

"You definitely did," Steph replies cheerfully. "But she'll forgive you. You are a hero, after all. Girls are totally into that."

"That may or may not work in my favor,” Peter says. “Right now I’m leaning towards no.”

“You’d know better than I would,” Steph says. She pulls out another phone from her pocket and hands it to him. “Here, for you. Everyone in the family gets one.”

He takes the phone, staring at it in frank confusion for a moment, before swiping his thumb across the screen and activating it. It’s a WayneTech phone, and it’s bulkier than what he’s used to back home. The case is sturdy, and looks to be dust and waterproof. WayneTech makes things meant to survive harsh environments, apparently.

“I’ve added everyone to your contact list already. Including Felicia,” Steph adds with a quick wink and teasing grin. He blushes, and her smile turns fond before she moves on. Peter has a sneaking suspicion that Steph is a bit of a romantic. “There’s the family chat, plus all the standard apps: news, weather, social media. Feel free to grab whatever you want off the app store. Bruce pays for it all and he usually doesn’t even notice."

“Uh, right,” Peter says, taking the phone. God, he’s missed having a cell phone.

“Here, let me give you the grand tour,” she says, dropping down on the chair beside his bed. He’s tired, but he’s also missed Steph, and he’s missed cell phones even more. He sits up and lets her show him all of the features on his new phone.

* * *

Wayne Club Chat

Peter (03:09pm): hi, Steph is insisting I say something here

Cass (03:10pm): 😲😁

Tim (03:11pm): she got the phone to you! Awesome

Duke (03:12pm): this should make your hospital stay a little less boring

Peter (03:13pm): hey I can entertain myself

Peter (03:14pm): i’ve counted the tiles in this room three times so far and watched Dr. Thompkins yell at the media trying to sneak into my room four times. Also, at any moment, Damian might show up and terrify me, which is a nice shot of adrenaline to help stimulate that homey Crime Alley feeling I’ve been missing

Peter (03:15pm): this is riveting stuff

Tim (03:16pm): yeah, you’re gonna fit in just fine. Welcome to the family, Peter

Cass (03:17pm): 🥳

Peter (03:18pm): 😎

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Steph leaves the hospital room a little while later, letting Peter rest. To his credit, he lasts a whole twenty minutes before hopping onto the internet. He’s been woefully disconnected since he came to Gotham, and it’s nice to have the internet back in his pocket. And this gives him an excuse to avoid falling asleep. He can avoid the nightmares waiting for him a little longer.

The first thing he does is google himself. He finds two news stories in the past week: one for Peter Parker, and one for Spider-Man. Both are twitter posts from The Gotham Times. He follows the links.

Terror at Wayne Manor

Homeless teen helps Batman save the youngest Wayne heir. Story here.

Peter debates on clicking the story and ultimately decides against it. He’s used to reading news stories about Spider-Man. It’s infinitely weirder to read stories about himself. He scrolls on. Near the bottom of the news feed, he stops.

Crime Alley Mourns Loss Of Spider-Man

Story found here.

After a few moments of hesitation, Peter taps the link. He’s a little amused that an article chronicling his ‘death’ doesn’t even warrant the use of a byline in Twitter, but whatever. Spider-Man can’t exactly compete against Bruce Wayne’s fame and family drama in Gotham City.

Spider-Man was announced missing and assumed dead after fighting a number of super villains who broke out of Arkham Asylum weeks ago. Eye witnesses claim the hero suffered a number of injuries before fleeing the fight after being struck with Joker gas. Crime Alley vigilante Red Hood was also present, and his current condition is unknown.

An image of the crane, suspended between skyscrapers by his webbing and other cranes, takes up half the page. Workers are busy disassembling it, piece by piece, in the snow and wind. Below it, the article continues.

Local restaurant owners Omar and Sophia Noor hosted a candlelight vigil for Spider-Man despite the storm. Hundreds of Crime Alley citizens came to show their support, laying out wreaths, pictures, and thank you letters to the fallen hero.

Mr. Noor’s comment on the hero was brief, poignant, and to the point: “Spider-Man took down the gang extorting us for protection money, cleaned up the neighborhood park, and helped all of us in a dozen different ways. He’ll be missed.”

Elsewhere, riots broke out in Crime Alley after news of Spider-Man’s death reached the streets. Suspected criminal hideouts and gang strongholds were torn down or set on fire by crowds of furious citizens. Police response to the riots was notably lackluster. When pressed for comment, Jim Gordon seemed nonplussed.

“This happened when Robin was killed a few years ago, too,” Gordon pointed out. “If you take away a local hero, the locals aren’t going to take it lying down anymore. Especially not the kind of locals you find in Crime Alley.”

Peter stares at the article for a moment. They rioted because of his death? He’d better make an appearance as Spider-Man sooner rather than later before anything else happens. Before he can do that, he’ll need another suit. And web shooters. And web fluid. He lost all of it in the river.

A problem to be handled later. At least Omar and Sophia are okay; he hasn’t been able to check on them lately. He’s touched that they would host a vigil for him even though he never visited them as Spider-Man. That needs to change when he gets a suit again.

He finds a way to dick around on the internet for another hour despite being exhausted. Eventually, sleep claims him, and he falls into a restless, whimpering sleep. He can’t hide from his grief here; he dreams of May, of Ned, of his classmates. He dreams of Felicia and the conversation to come.

Most of all, he dreams of Titan, and ash, and blood, and death.

* * *

When he snaps awake, he’s trembling and coughing, and there’s a distinctive chuckling quality to the cough that robs him of breath and makes his bruised ribs ache and creak. He flails for the table beside his bed, half asleep and half panicked, trying to find the inhaler the doctor gave him yesterday. He sees it on the table, but bumps the inhaler off of it during his flailing, lets out a barking, breathless laugh of despair that blurs his vision with tears.

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Dick says. A weight settles on the bed, and the inhaler is pressed to his mouth. “Don’t panic. Just take a deep breath, all right?”

A breath of something that tastes distinctly medicinal and vaguely minty hits Peter. It takes him a second to remember how to use an inhaler, but he remembers it in the end. Two puffs, some lingering giggling laughs later, and he’s more or less back to normal. Albeit slumped against Dick’s shoulder and completely out of breath. Everything is oddly sore and vaguely off after the--well, it isn’t an asthma attack. Joker attack? His cold isn’t helping matters, even though it’s nowhere near as bad as it was last night before he ate. His head throbs, his gunshot wound aches, and he’s struggling to keep from flopping back against the bed.

Dick braces him easily, watching him. He doesn’t seem to mind having a near stranger slumped against his shoulder. He just looks worried.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine, totally fine,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound convincing in the least. And, truthfully, he's not okay. “That’s never happened before. What--”

“There’s a kind of incubation period for the toxin. That wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, but it sounded pretty rough,” Dick explains. He presses the inhaler to Peter’s hand. “Keep this with you, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Peter mumbles. God, this is going to complicate being Spider-Man. He runs a hand through his hair, taking in his surroundings while he catches his breath. “What time is it?”

They’re not alone in his room. Alfred is standing near the doorway with a coat draped over one arm, watching Peter with some concern. Peter gives him a little ‘I’m definitely okay’ wave, and Alfred manages a small, reassuring smile that somehow conveys ‘I don’t believe you’ without saying it.

“A little after nine. I was just coming by to wake you. Dr. Thompkins signed off on your release earlier,” Dick says. He frowns at Peter. “But I’m not so sure she should let you go after that attack. Do you want me to call her back in--”

“No. No more hospitals,” Peter says, cutting him off. He sighs, rubbing his eyes and leaning away from Dick. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Sit and catch your breath,” Dick says. “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

“To the manor?” Peter asks, resting for barely a moment before leaning down to grab his shoes and pull them on. His ribs and gunshot wound ache terribly when he pulls this little maneuver and he has to sit up slowly.

“Eventually, yes,” Dick says, leaning back against the wall. “I thought we’d stop and pick up your stuff from Crime Alley first.”

Peter pauses while tying his shoe, glancing up at Dick in confusion. “What?”

“Your school stuff at least,” Dick says, shrugging. “Maybe your uniform. And anything else you want to keep, too.”

“I’d like that,” Peter says after a moment. He would like to grab a few things from the fire station. His school work, yeah, but also the books he’s bought, and the radio he built. That little thing saved his life, after all. “But I don’t know if you, um. Well, you and Alfred aren’t going to blend in.”

Dick looks a little amused by that. “Don’t worry. We’re bringing a friend.”

A voice comes from the doorway, the tone rough and short. “Steph and Cass are taking the demon back to the manor. We good to go? The paparazzi are starting to lose their minds out there.”

“We’re almost ready, Jason,” Dick says.

The voice’s owner--Jason--steps into the room. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and there’s a shock of white hair above his forehead. He looks annoyed, as if bristling for a fight, and the look he shoots towards Dick doesn’t entirely look friendly. His voice is stiff and purposefully cool, as if he’s clamping back on some hidden emotions he’s doing his best to keep under control. Peter can’t tell if it’s sadness, anger, or both. Grief, maybe.

Peter squints up at Jason. Finally, the memory clicks into place. "You're the subway guy."

Jason frowns at him for a long time and then recognition hits him. He simply shrugs at Peter in response, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing away from him.

"Subway guy?" Dick asks, looking between them.

"I got hit with a migraine on the subway awhile back," Peter explains. "A bad one. Jason gave me earplugs and sunglasses when he saw how bad off I was. Man, you saved my life with that. Thank you."

Jason doesn’t quite fidget at praise; he moves restlessly, clearly not used to being thanked. Or thinks he doesn’t deserve it, maybe. He shrugs at Peter again. “Yeah, don’t mention it. I just didn’t want you to hurl all over my shoes.” He checks his watch. “Come on, let’s hurry. We don’t want to be caught in Crime Alley after dark. I think it’s stupid you and Alfred want to go there, for the record.”

“Noted,” Dick says, picking up the backpack Peter’s new clothes came in and slinging it over his shoulder. “Peter?”

“Yeah, on my way,” Peter says, checking to make sure he has his phone and inhaler in his pocket before hopping off the bed and following the group into the hall.

He ends up walking alongside Alfred, who hands him the coat, a beanie, and a pair of gloves. “Here, Master Peter. I’m afraid we’re in the heart of winter now. Best to put these on before going outside.”

Peter is quick to pull all of them on. His cold is still lingering, and the last thing he needs to do is let it get worse. Not when a coughing fit could trigger a laughing fit. He’s also had enough of the cold in general, frankly. If he could spend the rest of his life in warmth, he’d gladly take it. He’s earned it at this point. The coat is a navy peacoat, the beanie is made of thick wool, and the gloves are fine leather.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter says, tugging the hat down over his ears as they near the hospital’s side exit. The main exit is swamped with news reporters and paparazzi, each jostling for position as Steph, Damian, and a vaguely familiar dark haired girl leave through the double doors. There’s a surge of noise that’s neatly cut off when the doors slide shut. Peter glances at the butler. “Are you sure you want to come to Crime Alley?”

“We won’t be there for very long. And I can handle myself, Master Peter,” Alfred assures him. He speaks with utter confidence, shifting so that he stands between Peter and the main exit doors, blocking him from view of any potential reporters. “Bane simply got the drop on me. That won’t happen again, I can promise you that.”

Peter actually believes him. They step out into the freezing Gotham air, onto a service road whose main use seems to be for hospital deliveries. Jason is leaning against a sleek red motorcycle, black helmet in hand. Dick is standing near a sedan that seems newer, but isn’t nearly as flashy as Tim’s car. Which is a good thing, given the neighborhood they're driving into. He’s currently clearing out various clothes and gym bags from the backseat so Peter can sit in the car easily. The amount of clothes he’s pulling out to shove into his trunk is actually a little bit concerning.

Peter stands on the sidewalk outside of the hospital, marveling at being able to stand outside without being cut to the bone by the icy wind. Winter is actually pretty pleasant when you aren’t catching windburn from the cold air with every step. He watches Dick clean out his car, idly wondering how he should tell them to just skip Crime Alley altogether for the manor.

Jason watches him from his motorcycle, then pushes himself away from it and walks over to stand near Peter. The two of them watch Dick and Alfred work. After a few moments, Jason speaks quietly.

"They aren't going to judge your old place," Jason says quietly. He’s watching Peter, his eyes guarded but sympathetic. "No matter how bad it looks. They won't say anything about it."

"Yeah?" Peter says, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You wanna take a bet on that? I don’t even have a bed.”

“I grew up in Crime Alley, too. I know how bad it can get,” he says. Jason pauses, squints into the middle distance, and finally shrugs. "Dick might get a kicked puppy dog look on his face, but he won’t say anything about it. Alfred won't either. They're not as soft as you think. They're still from Gotham."

"There’s a difference between Gotham and Crime Alley",” Peter retorts. He pauses and sighs. “Sorry, that was rude. You’d know them better than I would. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jason says. “Where are we headed anyway? I can scout ahead and make sure it’s safe.”

“Would you?” Peter can tell Jason knows how to fight. He has surface level scars on his knuckles most street brawlers get after a few fights, and he walks like a street tough.

“Yeah, sure. I’m driving on my own, anyway,” Jason says, shrugging. The man is clearly eager to get away from Dick and Alfred.

Peter glances between Jason and the other two men. “You’re a little more down to earth for a Wayne.” Jason snaps his head towards Peter, expression stern, but unreadable. Peter, perhaps a little foolishly, pushes on. “You are a Wayne, right? I mean, Tim and Duke call you their brother...”

A very lengthy pause follows that. Finally, Jason scoffs. “I am when it counts. Give me your address, kid.”

What the hell does he mean by that? Peter decides to not push his luck; he gives Jason the cross streets. Jason frowns. “There aren’t any apartments in that block. Just an old fire station and some broken down office buildings.”

“I live in the fire station,” Peter says.

Jason pauses for a moment, taking that in and scoffs. “Okay, yeah, Grayson’s going to hover over you like a mother hen when he finds that out.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“But he won’t make you feel bad about it. He didn’t when Bruce took me in,” Jason continues. “Just tell him to f*ck off if he gets weird with it and he will.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter says, giving Jason a second look. Maybe Bruce just has a habit of adopting kids from Crime Alley? It would make sense, in a way. He’s pretty free with his wealth.

“I’ll meet you guys there,” Jason says, heading for his motorcycle. He pulls on his helmet and straddles the bike, giving Dick and Alfred a careless little wave before revving the bike and tearing down the street. The roads are relatively clear of snow and ice, but Peter still tenses a little when Jason speeds off. He’s taking the corners at speed.

“Okay, all done!” Dick says over the echoing growl of Jason’s motorcycle. He waves Peter over. “Hop in. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get you home.”

Home. Yeah, right. Peter sighs, pulling himself into the car. It’s warm and dry, and he settles into the backseat while Alfred and Dick sit in the front. Dick looks up at him from the rearview mirror.

“So, where are we headed?” he asks.

Peter gives him the cross streets. Dick frowns for a moment, then nods.

“Okay. I know where that is,” he says, turning on the car.

Moments later, they’re on the road, driving over icy roads under a steel grey sky. Peter settles into the car, marveling over the fact that, aside from a steady itch from his healing factor, he feels fine. Better than fine. Normal. He considers that for a moment, and realizes he’s not sure how to handle it. He’s been rushing from one thing to the next just to survive almost from the moment he ended up in Gotham. He’s been too focused on staying warm and fed and finding a way home to really stop and take stock of himself. He has a feeling that he’s going to have to play catch up on that front soon.

Later on, he’ll wonder how Dick managed to drive into Crime Alley and directly to the fire station without GPS.

* * *

They reach the fire station barely twenty minutes after leaving the hospital. Dick pulls up to the curb and parks behind a rusted car with no tires resting on cinder blocks. The street light Peter used as his light source for his homework flickers on and off in the waning light of the wintry afternoon. A freezing wind slips between the mostly abandoned buildings in the neighborhood, half heartedly pushing swirls of snow across the cracked asphalt of the street. Elsewhere in the city, the snow has softened the hard edges of Gotham, turning it from a brooding hive into something softer, gentler, though no less cold. In Crime Alley, the snow has only amplified the feeling of hopelessness and isolation.

He never realized how utterly horrifying his neighborhood is in daylight. Granted, he was usually busy looking into the shadows of alleys for gangs looking to jump him, or running for the subway, or doing a dozen other things. Seeing the fire station in the stark light of day brings his nervousness out full force.

Jason’s motorcycle is parked in front of the fire station. Jason is looking up at the fire station, squinting at it thoughtfully as Dick turns off the engine.

“This is the place?” Dick asks.

“It is,” Peter says with a sigh. “It looks worse than it is.”

Dick looks as though he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. He settles for a quick nod before stepping out of the car. Alfred follows him, saying nothing. Peter hangs back for a second, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. They’ll be in and out within an hour at most. He can handle this. He pushes open the door and steps out into the cold. The coat Alfred gave him (the cost of which he can only guess at) blunts the worst of it.

Dick, Jason, and Alfred are near the doors. Jason rattles the door a little and frowns when it refuses to open.

“These are boarded shut,” he says, turning to face Peter. “How’d you get inside?”

“The fire escape around back mostly,” Peter says. Which is technically true. When he wasn’t crawling up the side of the building with his hands, at least. “The window should be open.”

“Hopefully no one else has moved in,” Jason says easily, moving away from the front doors and walking towards the alley leading to the back of the building. Peter falls into step beside him, mostly to avoid seeing how Dick and Alfred react to that particular statement. Jason side eyes him. “You all right?”

Peter is amazed at Jason’s ability to sound both impatient and worried at the same time; the guy is being genuine, but his tone is short, as if he’s not used to asking that particular question or offering comfort.

“Handling it so far,” Peter says. “Didn’t realize how bad this place looks.”

“It’s pretty rough,” Jason says as they get close to the fire escape. He jumps up and yanks the ladder down with a ringing clatter before climbing up it. “If I’d known you lived in an abandoned building, I probably would’ve taken you in. I live a few blocks over.”

“There’s even odds on me taking you up on that offer back then,” Peter says, following him up the fireplace. He can hear Alfred and Dick turn the corner in the alley below.. “I would’ve been a terrible roommate.”

“Can’t be any worse than Drake,” Jason remarks before ducking in through the window.

Peter follows him, suddenly glad that his suit and web shooters are lost to the sea. He would’ve had a hard time explaining all of that to the Waynes. Jason moves aside so he can climb in through the window. Dick climbs in after Peter, his movements smooth and even. To Peter’s surprise, Alfred follows him, moving with an easy grace despite his age. Peter glances at them briefly before turning to look at his makeshift home.

It looks like a total dump.

The Waynes take in the scene in silence. Peter can't even imagine what it looks like from their perspective. The makeshift desk he used for homework is damp from a new hole in the roof, the ramshackle lights (admittedly not his best work) dangle from the ceiling, swaying in the wind, and the ragged tarp that serves as his bedroom is leaning drunkenly against the wall for support, weighed down by half melted snow. The storm dropped enough heavy snow on the roof to tear open a hole directly above his bed. If he had stayed in the fire station, he would’ve frozen to death during the storm.

Jason looks grim and sullen. Dick looks heartbroken and sick. Alfred’s expression hasn’t changed, but his shoulders have slumped just slightly.

"Not a bad idea with the tarp. You probably would’ve been better off with a tent, though," Jason remarks, breaking the silence. "What's with the newspapers?"

"Crumpled 'em up and stuffed my clothes and sleeping bag with them. They hold heat really well. A homeless guy in Queens taught me that trick," Peter remarks, grabbing his electronics and tools.

"Clever," Jason says.

Peter shifts awkwardly, then clears his throat, walking towards his wreck of a home and kneeling down to grab his backpack from a pile of snow. "I'll get the stuff I need. We can throw out the rest on the way out."

"Of course, Master Peter," Alfred replies, perfectly polite. The lack of judgement is heartening.

“We should probably throw out the food,” Dick says, doing his best to keep his tone light and even. “It looks like some mice have gotten into it. Gotham mice are pretty stubborn.”

Peter hesitates at that. Jason shakes himself out of his sullen glower when he notices that, shooting Dick a look briefly before looking at Peter. “Dick’s right. Toss the food. I know that’s going to be hard, but it’s safer. And Alfred’s got plenty at home.”

“I’d be happy to make you anything you like, Master Peter,” Alfred adds. “I daresay I’ve become rather experienced at feeding a troop of growing boys. Meta and human.”

Home cooked meals seem like a dream come true. “I’d like that. I’m always hungry these days.”

“Consider it done,” Alfred says.

Peter moves around the fire station, gathering his things and putting together a trash pile. Jason takes his old food, his sleeping bag, and the tarp he used for his makeshift tent down to the dumpster in the alley. Alfred looks over Peter’s uniform with a critical eye, letting out a quiet ‘hm.’ at the state of it. Dick seems at a loss at first; he opens his mouth several times to speak, stops, and then stays silent, simply helping Peter grab the few keepsakes he wants to take with him to the manor.

Peter keeps the Stark radio. He's still proud of it. Sure, it's simple work, and frankly not his best, but the art deco style Stark that lights up when it connects with a channel has become one of the very few comforts he has in Gotham. Dick eyes it coolly, but he’s very gentle with it when Peter hands it to him. He handles the few books Peter bought weeks ago with equal care. The books aren’t exactly in top shape since he bought them from a second hand shop, but Dick treats Watership Down and The Lord of the Rings as if they’re holy books.

He keeps his tools, his backpack and school supplies, and almost nothing else. The rain and ice ruined his tent, his sleeping bag, and froze his blankets solid. He throws all of that away, along with the scarce food stock he had saved. The mice and rain made quick work of it in his absence.

By the end of it, he's left with the radio, a ragged backpack full of homework, a couple of library books, and the clothes on his back. It's a good thing he didn't try to get back to the firehouse after getting splattered with freezing rain last week. Alfred considers the menorah set on Peter’s makeshift table near the one of the few intact windows on the second floor. The candles and cheap lighter Peter bought with it are set neatly to one side of the table. It’s one of the few organized spots in the whole building. Peter sighs when he notices it.

“I think I’ve missed a few days this year,” he says, shrugging on his backpack and heading towards the table.

“Given your circ*mstances, I think that can easily be forgiven,” Alfred says gently. “Is that everything?”

Peter gently picks up the menorah, glancing around the fire station one last time. It wasn’t a great home, but it was safe enough. He’s surprised to find that he might actually miss it some day.

“Yeah, I think it is,” Peter says.

“Let’s get to the car,” Dick says, a layer of false cheer in his voice. “I think Alfred and I can make lunch for everyone when we get back. You must be hungry.”

Peter’s stomach growls. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Dick and Peter leave the fire station. Dick pauses at the dumpster to toss a few things inside, and Peter stands beside him, looking up at the building next door to the fire station. The old office building looms high in the dim afternoon, the windows boarded or broken. Peter looks up at the roof, shifting his backpack. If he could figure out a way to get up there, he could leave a note for Nightwing--

Dick places a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gently squeezing it. “Come on, Pete. Let’s head home. There’s nothing up there for you.”

Peter disagrees, but he can’t exactly make a scene at the moment. He sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He makes a mental note to come back here as soon as he can. For now, he heads for the car with Dick and the others. The ride out of Crime Alley and across Gotham to Wayne Manor is one made in weary silence. Dick glances at Peter every now and then through the rearview mirror, but wisely says nothing. Alfred is silent and still in his seat.

Peter’s phone lets out a small ding.

* * *

Wayne Family Chat

Duke (1:23pm): hey peter, you any good at Smash Bros?

Peter (1:24pm): reasonably good yeah

Duke (1:25pm): cool, tim, and steph and i have a tournament planned tonight. You in?

Peter (1:26pm): definitely

Peter (1:27pm): we’re on the way now

* * *

Across the multiverse, the Avengers gather for another meeting. The sun shines dimly on the compound, the first true rays of sunlight to reach the earth in weeks. The Avengers seem heartened by the sight of it as they go about their work.

Thor watches the others, sitting in a far corner of the command center Natasha has taken over inside the Avengers Compound. He keeps himself separate from the others. Most seem fine with this arrangement; his moods as of late have made the Avengers wary of his presence. He doesn't begrudge them their wariness. The nightmares--or, really, the nightmare--has haunted him night after night. Always the same battle, always the same failure: the boy wielding the Captain’s shield falls beneath a wave of the Black Order’s outriders no matter what Thor does. He has only managed to forestall the boy’s death, never avert it. It grates at his nerves. Failure after failure in his waking moments and now that same failure follows him to some unknown city in his dreams, defending a young warrior he has never met.

He doesn’t blame the Avengers when they cast a wary glance his way and put a bit more distance between themselves and his seat in the corner. Another meeting is taking place. This time the sorcerer Wong and Bruce Banner have joined the meeting, taking their places at the council table while Thor broods in the shadows.

“Have you heard anything about those prison planets that blew up, Rocket?” Steve asks.

“No, not yet,” Rocket says, shaking his head. “My contacts went quiet for some reason. I don’t want to risk sending ‘em another message in case they’re in hiding.”

“And we still don’t know where Carol is?” Natasha asks, twirling a stylus in her fingers.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Rocket mutters, his projection scratching one fuzzy cheek. “It’s not easy getting news all the way out here, you know. Earth is a galactic backwater, it’s hard for me to get any information without tipping off Thanos.”

Natasha nods, conceding the point. Rocket is the galactic expert on the team, after all. Steve stares at the holographic map of the galaxy cycling through the holo screens in front of the team, his face grim.

“Thanos still has his army, and he’s not shy about using it against anyone trying to muster up a force to strike back at him in revenge,” Steve says. “I don’t think many people have tried, but he’s not putting any effort into preventing an attack either. He prefers a show of force.”

“None of his moves make any kind of strategic sense,” Rhodey says, walking around the projected map of the galaxy hovering in the center of the room. “He’s effectively destroyed every standing army in the universe and instead of moving in and consolidating his power, he’s just...what? Going back to bed? Kicking back? He still has an invasion force, but it hasn’t moved in months. Once you break an army, you send in your own forces and establish yourself. He hasn’t done that.”

“It isn’t as though he has any real rivals to worry about. He is a warlord with a savior complex. He will let us suffer from his decimation and return as a savior once the fight has been starved out of the survivors of his genocide. People will be desperate to join him, if only to get a steady supply of food,” Okoye points out. She’s physically present this time, opting to fly to the Compound for this meeting. A rare occurrence for her.

"Yeah, I don’t know how well that’s going to work for him. I’d rather starve to death, and I know I’m not alone in that," Clint says idly. There’s always a feral glint to his eye when someone mentions Thanos in his presence. Thor approves of it.

“It might work on the rest of the population. Logistics are completely shattered. The only reason things are holding steady is because Stark Industries is bankrupting itself to keep food, power, and water running for the world,” Natasha says, idly pulling up a list of the Avengers lost to Thanos. She adds Carol’s name to the list with MIA beside it.

"Pepper’s doing good work," Steve agrees, quietly.

"She always has," Rhodey adds.

“The food supply is evening out, too,” Banner says. Thor still isn’t used to hearing his friend’s voice come from the Hulk, but he’s glad the man has finally found peace with himself. It’s one of the very few things he can be glad of these days, and he clings to it. “Between the seed vaults in Europe and the automated farms FRIDAY is running, we’ll have a much more stable food supply soon--”

The meeting continues.

Others lost to the Snap cycle across the screen in front of Natasha as she works and Banner speaks. One in particular stands out to Thor.

“Wait,” Thor calls out from the corner. The room pauses and goes still as he rises and approaches Natasha and her holo screens. He stands behind her and leans down, squinting at one screen before pointing at one of the photos. “Who is that?”

“That’s Peter Parker,” Natasha says, cutting a wary glance to Steve before focusing on Thor. Thor’s moods have been variable lately; caught somewhere between bitter fury and manic, nihilistic grief. Thor can see Steve brace himself in case he needs to intervene. Natasha reaches in and plucks Peter's picture out of the screen, expanding it for Thor. The boy is smiling awkwardly at the camera, at once earnest and unsure. He’s posing with Tony in the picture, holding some award. “Spider-Man. He was with Tony and the Guardians when the Decimation happened.”

“And he was dusted?” Thor asks, confusion crossing his expression.

“We aren’t sure,” Rhodey says. “Not yet. Carol went to find them, but she’s turned up missing, too.”

Thor goes quiet, comes to some private conclusion, and pushes himself back up. He steps away from Natasha, rubbing his chin in thought. His eyes lose focus for a moment and he withdraws.

“Is something wrong?” Rhodey asks. He’s careful to avoid looking at Peter’s photo, Thor notices.

Thor doesn’t answer. He’s withdrawn, brooding, staring a hole through Peter’s image on the screen.

"Thor," Steve says, a wary question in his tone.

“After I left Earth, I became haunted by nightmares,” Thor says. He hesitates, then amends. “More than nightmares. Visions of the future. Ones that became true.”

“You had prophetic visions?” Natasha asks.

“Yes, of Asgard’s destruction,” Thor says. He points at Peter’s picture. “I have had dreams about this one lately.”

That brings things to a crashing halt. He has the undivided attention of every surviving Avenger now. Natasha and Steve share another one of those looks, passing some silent communication to one another. Rhodey stiffens and stares at Thor, clenching his jaw. Okoye watches intently. After a moment, Steve clears his throat.

“What did you see in this vision? What was Peter doing?” Steve asks.

“I saw him standing alone against an invasion, wielding your shield against a tide of darkness. Outriders, chitauri, strange batlike monsters, he faced them all alone,” Thor says simply.

The image in his mind is as clear as day; Peter wearing a red and blue suit, fighting against a horde of abominations in a city Thor does not recognize. The city changes in the vision; one moment, the city is a dark, brooding metropolis choked with smog and clouds, and the next it’s a bright and airy thing, with smooth edges and bright lights. The fight does not change, only the location.

And the outcome.

“The dream comes every night now,” Thor says. The others watch him silently. Rhodey in particular focuses on him hard, tense. “I try to help, to fight, but I fail. Neither of us is enough to fight the tide, but he never falters.”

“Is Tony with him in your vision?” Rhodey asks.

Thor shakes his head. “He’s alone when I find him.”

“But he’s alive?” Rhodey presses.

“He is," a gravelly British voice says from the doorway.

The Avengers turn as one towards the doorway. The man who appeared in the Compound days before staggers into the room, bracing himself against the wall or furniture as he limps inside. He’s still covered in bruises and bandages, he moves stiffly, as if his very bones have been bruised. He drags himself over to the conference table and drops down into a chair with a grunt.

“Right, I think I’ve got it now,” the man says, taking in the Avengers. He points at Steve. “You’re Superman.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“You’re Wonder Woman,” he says, pointing to Thor, who merely tilts his head. Next he points to Clint. “You’re Green Arrow.” To Natasha. “You’re terrifying.” To Rhodey. “And you’re Cyborg. Maybe. Are you human?”

“Human enough to get annoyed at you,” Rhodey replies dryly.

“Only one missing is Batman. Got any billionaires laying around, moping and brooding?” The silence that follows is cold enough to draw him up short. “Guess I’ve hit a sore spot?”

“Who are you?” Steve asks.

“My name is John Constantine. I’m here because Dr. Strange asked me to help him with something. Of course, he never mentioned I’d start hopping dimensions. Bloody wizards. Never could stand them.”

"Aren't you a wizard?" Clint asks.

"Yeah. That doesn't change my opinion. I know what we’re like."

“You spoke with Dr. Strange,” Rhodey says.

“A few weeks ago.” He pauses and squints. “Well. Maybe. Time doesn’t exactly work the same in all universes. A few weeks ago for me.”

“Dr. Strange has been dead for months,” Natasha says.

“I know. Bloody annoying ghost. Kept popping up in my dreams and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Constantine huffs. “He wasn’t alone. I saw a bunch of others with him, but I couldn’t tell you their names. He’s the only one who introduced himself.”

The Avengers pause, looking at one another. Wong tilts his head, regarding Constantine curiously and warily.

“You crossed over from another dimension?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“That shouldn’t be possible. Not with your level of power, no offense,” Wong says.

“None taken. And normally, you’d be right. The void that separates our universes would prevent that. Plus all the beasties inside the void. But that’s not true anymore,” Constantine says. He pats his coat pockets and pulls out a crumpled cigarette packet. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes,” Clint says.

“Thanks,” Constantine replies, lighting a half bent cigarette and ignoring Clint’s annoyed look. He looks at Wong. “See, our universes aren’t so far apart anymore. They’re closer than they should be, and they’re only going to get closer as time moves on because of your Thanos.”

“How is that possible?” Wong asks.

“He’s playing merry hell with the fabric of creation, that’s how,” Constantine says shortly. “Dr. Strange explained it to me in a dream. Thanos can’t punch through to my universe, so he’s physically dragging universes towards this one instead. Like an interdimensional black hole.”

Wong looks thoughtful, and disturbed. Steve exchanges a look with Natasha, frowning. Thor frowns.

“Peter was able to reach your universe. And you have reached ours. Why is Thanos not able to do the same?”

“That’s a little complicated,” Constantine says with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Mr. Constantine, I think you should start from the beginning,” Steve says. “Just so we have a clear picture of what’s going on.”

Constantine seems equal parts amused and tired. “You know, Blond Supes, that might be a good idea. Right, settle in, this is going to be one hell of a story.”

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Natasha says, watching Constatine closely. She leans forward, idly toying with the stylus in her hands, watching Constantine closely.

“Oh, I know that tone of voice,” Constantine says with a sigh. “Interrogation.”

“Just an interview for now,” Natasha says pleasantly. “You don’t want me to move into interrogation. Let’s start from the beginning.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Right. Okay. So, from the top,” Constantine says, ashing out his cigarette on the floor in front of himself. “I’m John Constantine. I’m from a universe that’s a bit to the left of this one, cosmically speaking, and I came here because your Dr. Strange is the most annoying ghost I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with.”

“How did you get here from your universe?” Wong asks. “That shouldn’t be possible. Not without one of the Infinity Stones.”

“I had to prepare a special ritual Dr. Strange showed me, drain almost every bit of magic I have, and follow a spirit over here. Tearing open a hole in my reality wasn’t hard, but finding the spirit and walking the tree was pretty damn difficult,” Constantine says.

“Tree?” Okoye asks, quirking a brow.

“Yeah. I climbed Yggdrasil," Constantine says, idly waving his hand. He doesn’t pronounce it correctly; his accent all but butchers the word, and it takes a moment for Thor to recognize it. He goes stock still. “The doc said a serpent would lead me here, I just had to stay out of his sight while he walked the tree.”

Thor stares at him. “You walked Yggdrasil.”

“What, like it’s hard? Simple walk in the park, mate,” Constantine says. He’s pale, weak, and most of his skin seems to be made of bruises and cuts that have turned an ugly shade of green-yellow as they heal.

Thor gapes at him. Clint slowly raises his hand, catching Thor’s attention.

“Hi. What’s Yggdrasil?” Clink asks when Thor glances at him.

“Yggdrasil is the Tree of Life that rests at the center of the cosmos. It connects all nine realms through its roots and branches. It’s a font of creation and life itself, and therefore as dangerous as the void between stars. Not even the gods dare walk Yggdrasil,” Thor says. “Only my father, Odin, was brave enough to approach it. It’s where he gained his wisdom of the nine realms and powerful runes that fueled his magic. He hanged himself from Yggdrasil for nine days and nine nights.”

“Yeah, Odin as the Gallows God. I ran into him while he was hanging from it. Literally. Once I was done screaming my bloody head off, he gave me directions and a message for you,” Constantine says, gesturing with his cigarette.

"My father is dead," Thor says. His tone is carefully neutral, a calm that belies how much pain and grief he still carries over the loss of his family. "You met his spirit or a memory--”

Constantine shakes his head. “No, I met him. The Allfather. Time doesn't exactly follow rules there, so it might have been him while he was first hanging from the tree. Listen, mate, it's a really bloody big magic tree. Weird things are supposed to happen there. Work with me here."

Thor stares at him in disbelief for a long moment. "What did he say?"

"He said to keep the hammer with you at all times."

"The hammer is broken," Thor says after a long moment. “Shattered. I only have the pieces.”

Constantine shrugs. "Keep ‘em in your pocket then, I guess. I promised him I’d pass along the message if he’d point me in the direction I needed to go, and I’d rather not piss off Odin, if it’s all the same to you.”

Thor goes quiet, staring past Constantine, thoughtful and mildly overwhelmed by everyone Cosntantine’s told him. He walked Yggdrasil. He followed a serpent--and he only knows of one serpent brave and clever enough to walk the world tree--here. Which means Loki led him here. Something close to hope sparks within Thor, and he can feel his grief and shame melt away. Just a bit.

“Yggdrasil can be used like that?” Wong asks Constantine.

"Yggdrasil is huge. Its branches and roots reach Midgard. Every version of Midgard, in fact, which is why I needed Odin’s help. I took a bloody beating from the void storms that shake its branches, which is why I dropped in on you lot the way I did.”

“That explains the how. Why did Dr. Strange come to you?” Natasha asks.

“Convenience. I’m a magic worker like him--though he’s a bit stronger, I think--which means I was one of the only people capable of seeing him. And I’m an occasional member of the Justice League.”

“What’s the Justice League?” Rhodey asks.

“You guys, basically. Or close to it, I suppose. You know. Earth’s greatest defenders,” Constantine says, with exaggerated hand gestures, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and sheepishness. “A bit corny if you ask me, but they’ve proven themselves more often than not. I suppose you guys have the same motto?”

“Earth’s mightiest heroes,” Thor says. He watches Constantine closely, his mind racing. No wonder this mortal had been hurt when he arrived. Even the gods don’t dare travel between realms without reason. Even Odin would balk at that journey.

“Sure, if you like,” Constantine says. “End of the day, it evens out to the same thing: I'm from a different universe. Normally, we wouldn't have anything to do with each other. We wouldn't even know about each other. There’s a vast void between our universes, keeping us separate so we don’t muddle around in each other’s existence. But someone in this universe is poking holes into mine. Sneaking people over and taking them out, building bridges between the two that don’t last very long, but work long enough to stir up trouble."

Wong looks alarmed. "You're certain of this?”

"Very. It's playing merry hell with the void beasties between realities. Your Doctor is damn good at his job. Most were still asleep when I snuck over. That’s not going to last forever. It probably won’t last the next few months, in fact,” Constantine says. “Which is one of the reasons why I’m here.”

“Interdimensional travel isn’t meant to happen,” Wong says, half to himself. “It’s dangerous. The trip is deadly for all but the most powerful beings. Even taking into account your walk through Yggdrasil’s branches, the experience should have killed you from thirst and hunger due to the metaphysical distance.”

“Normally, you’d be right, but your universe is closer than it should be. According to the good doctor, Thanos is using your universe to drag everyone else’s towards it like a black hole. Ours was closest, cosmically speaking, and he’s dragging it closer.”

Wong looks horrified. “Why?”

“He’s been trying to break through the interdimensional barrier between our universes, but he can’t pull it off, so he's bringing us here,” Constantine replies.

“He’s that strong?” Banner asks.

“He has that bloody Infinity Gauntlet. As long as he’s here, he’s the most powerful thing in the multiverse,” Constantine remarks.

"Which means he can force the two realities to collide," Wong says numbly.

"What happens if he manages that?" Natasha asks, looking between Wong and Constantine.

"No idea, but it won't be very bloody pleasant, I can promise you that. Plus the things that live between our realities will find it easier to wiggle their way into both universes, weakening the barriers further.”

"And that’s also bad, I’m guessing," Rhodey says. He looks lost; Thor knows that Rhodey is a man of science, and doesn’t easily accept explanations of magic. He adapts well, but the talk of power that he doesn’t understand irks him the same way it does Tony Stark.

"Depends on your definition of bad, I suppose,” Constantine drawls, turning to face Rhodey with a shrug. “Do you fancy slap fighting the Dweller-In-Darkness on the way to the pub?"

Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “That makes no sense. He has the Infinity Gauntlet. He has all of the Infinity Stones. If he thinks it, he can make it happen. If he wanted to get into your universe, he’d already be there.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Wong says. He looks at Constantine with less suspicion. “Stephen knows what’s happening?”

“Does he ever,” Constantine replies. He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and taps the side of his head. “He shared his memories with me. Not the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had. He used the Eye to see how the timeline was going to play out back on Titan and planted that knowledge, plus his last few living memories, right inside my brain while I was asleep.”

Wong nods, going quiet and thoughtful. The Avengers shift, bristling with questions. Clint is the first to break the silence.

“So, Thanos is in your universe right now?” Clint asks. “Going in and out of it? Building an army?”

“Not him, but he is trying to get there. He’s drilled holes into it. He’s slipped in a few of his stronger people and minions, if what the doc says is true.”

"Why can't Thanos break into your universe?" Natasha asks.

“Two reasons. The first being that your Infinity Stones need to acclimate to my universe. There’s a whole energy thing involved in all this,” Constantine says, waving his hand impatiently. “Your stones can become infinitely powerful in my universe, but only if they’re allowed time to adjust to it. Once a stone gets that new energy signature, it can be used in both universes freely."

"That sounds too simple," Steve says after a moment.

"Well, it is the simplified version. The problem is that the stones need to adjust to the new universe. The stones are more of a curse than anything else when they’re taken to a different universe," Constantine says, shrugging. "For awhile, whoever has a stone is weakened by it. It draws on the only energy source it's used to, and that's usually the stone bearer's life force. It can be fatal if you’re not careful, and it’ll definitely weaken you."

“So, if he has all of the stones, then hopping next door would probably kill him outright,” Clint says. “There’s a nice thought.”

“If only he were that foolish,” Okoye remarks.

“Thanos has to give up each stone to acclimate them,” Wong says slowly. “He has to trust his minions with the stones, send them into a universe completely free of his control, and wait for them to return. And they have to survive the attempt, since the stones will harm them until they adjust to their new universe. That limits the people he can use.”

“Trust does not come easily to a warlord as bloody as Thanos,” Okoye notes. “He would not dare give up all of the stones or a way to recall his minions if necessary.”

“The Black Order worships him as a god,” Thor says. “He doesn’t need to worry about their loyalty.”

“Oh, that son of a bitch. He’s recreating the Battle of New York,” Clint says, his tone flat. The others look at him and he sighs. “Think of it. He sends one of his most trusted people into Constantine’s universe with the Tesseract--the space stone--which lets them pull through more and more people as the stone adjusts to this new universe.”

“Got it in one. Good job, Ollie,” Constantine says, sticking his cigarette back into his mouth. He talks around it easily. Clint sends him an utterly baffled look at the nickname. Constantine points at the picture of Peter Parker hovering among the holograms. “The thing of it is, it won’t work the way he wants. Not really. Your Thanos has a problem, and it’s in the shape of that kid on the screen.”

Thor looks between Constantine and Peter’s image on the holoscreen. Rhodey is the first to speak, to no one’s surprise.

“How?” Rhodey asks.

Constantine blows out a wall of cigarette smoke and waves his hands. An image of Tony and Peter appears in the smoke, hauling against Thanos’s arm with all of their might. The Guardians of the Galaxy and Dr. Strange have Thanos pinned. The Avengers stare at the image, transfixed.

"Oh, holy sh*t," Rhodey says quietly. "They trapped him."

"Right, welcome to Dr. Strange’s memories from before his death. Give me a moment, I haven’t done spell work like this in awhile,” Constantine says. The image fades in, then out, then turns sharp again as he concentrates. After a few moments of struggle, he stabilizes the image.

“I’ll be damned,” Rocket says quietly. “Mantis managed to knock the bastard unconscious. Look at ‘em. They could’ve pulled it off if Groot and I were there.”

“If you’d been there, you’d have been killed,” Constantine says. “I saw the same timelines as Dr. Strange. Trust me, this is the kindest one by far.”

The gets a wide range of reactions from the Avengers, from Natasha’s puzzled but steady frown to Clint’s scowling fury. Rhodey gets them back on track.

“What does this have to do with Peter?” Rhodey asks.

“Thanos doesn’t know it, but the kid swiped the Soul Stone right out of that glove of his while he was trapped. Well, most of it. There was a piece left, and that piece had enough power to kill half your universe," Constantine explains. He waves his hands, the image moves. Peter suddenly stumbles back from Thanos and Tony both, looking at his hands in blatant confusion until Tony grits out a plea for help. He scrambles back into position, but keeps glancing at his own hand.

"Clever kid," Clint murmurs.

“Lucky kid,” Natasha says. “Infinity stones aren’t meant to be held like that from what I’ve researched.”

“Not unless the stone chooses you,” Constantine says. “Your Dr. Strange gave me a crash course on the buggers.”

“Now he has the oldest and most powerful stone in creation,” Wong says.

“You’re telling me a sixteen year old boy has an Infinity stone, and this is a good thing?” Clint asks. “Someone used the Tesseract to invade our planet, and they weren’t even using it at its full power. The kid is basically carrying around a multidimensional nuke.”

"It is better than Thanos having it," Okoye points out. Clint stops to consider that and nods, conceding the point.

"Peter’s responsible. He can be trusted with a stone," Rhodey says, eyes focusing on Tony and Peter in the small image.

“What’s the most responsible thing you can do with a stone of infinite power?” Steve asks.

“You don't use it,” Clint answers.

"Exactly," Wong says. "Or use it sparingly. The Eye of Agamotto--the Time stone--gave the Sorcerer Supreme absolute control over time. Using it required precision and supreme discipline. More often than not, the best course of action is to not use it."

"The kid hasn't used it much from what Dr. Strange told me," Constantine says.

“Which would explain why Thanos hasn’t found him. Peter hasn’t used the stone yet,” Thor says.

“He hasn’t used it in a big way, at least,” Constantine counters. “He’s using it a bit, but only a little at a time. I’m not sure how he’s managing that. It’s like opening up a dam against a river.”

“Stephen could be helping him restrain the stone’s power. Limiting it,” Wong adds, his expression thoughtful.

“Like easing off pressure in a steam engine,” Rhodey says.

Constantine nods, digging out yet another cigarette. Wong frowns at him.

“It shouldn’t have been possible for him to steal a stone. They aren’t things. They’re almost sentient,” Wong says.

“He’s right,” Clint says quietly, eyes going distant. “The Space stone spoke to me when Loki had me under his spell. There is a kind of intelligence there. I mostly just saw images. Things. And apparently had very blue eyes for awhile.”

“He passed some kind of judgement test for the Soul stone and it hopped over to him, according to Dr. Strange.” At the Avengers’ curious looks, he simply shrugs. “Intelligence cuts both ways, mates.”

"I am so lost," Banner says after a moment.

"Right, well, to simplify it: Thanos is trying to get to my universe. He can't do it because your Spider-Man stole the Soul stone out of his fancy glove during their boxing match. There was enough residual energy for Thanos to pull off the Snap, but he can’t make the jump to other universes to pull off that same trick without it. So, now he’s trying to get one of his people to sneak over with one of the stones while simultaneously yanking our two universes together. Got it?”

Banner blinks, then nods. “Okay, yeah. That makes sense.”

“You probably should’ve led with that,” Rhodey remarks dryly.

Constantine shrugs, pulling another drag off of his cigarette and adding smoke to the floating image of the battle on Titan.

Steve stares at the image, hard. "What happened to Tony?"

“Sorry?” Constantine asks, turning to face Steve. His confusion is genuine. “Ah, which one---listen, I’m going to count myself lucky remembering your names, I don’t know everyone in Dr. Strange’s memories. I hate thinking in someone else’s voice.”

“The man in the red and gold suit next to Peter,” Steve says, pointing at the frozen image of Tony straining against the Gauntlet. “We don’t know what’s happened to any of the people in that image, except for Peter and Dr. Strange. You have Dr. Strange’s memories, right?”

“Yes,” Constantine says. “Of Titan, at least. That’s as much of his brain as I’m comfortable having inside my head, personally.”

“Did he see what happened to Tony? Or the rest of the people in that image?” Steve asks.

Constantine hesitates for a very long moment, squinting into the air above Steve’s head. His eyes become unfocused, as if he’s watching some internal image. After a long moment, he pales and grimaces.

“Yeah. He did,” Constantine says, glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck. “Bloody hell.”

“Can you show us?” Natasha asks, her tone even and gentle.

Constantine hesitates, glancing around at the Avengers, as if suddenly realizing he’s outnumbered and, for all intents and purposes, trapped with them. “You won’t kill the messenger, right?”

“Would your Superman kill you if you gave him bad news?” Steve asks.

“No,” Constantine answers. “The man’s the ultimate boy scout.”

“Then you're more right about Steve than you know,” Clint says. He jerks his chin to the image suspended in smoke. “Show us. We can take it.”

“Right, okay,” Constantine says, taking a deep breath. He stretches out a hand lined in golden power, and sends out a tendril of magic towards the floating image. “We’ll just watch one of the good doctor’s memories, yeah? I’m sure no one will be upset by this.”

Thor can feel the magic tickle his skin as Constantine reaches out, grabs the smoke, and expands it. Suddenly, they aren’t looking at a small image hovering within cigarette smoke; the spell functions like one of Stark’s holograms, covering the room with a simulation of Titans. It’s as if the Avengers are there, on Titan, while the Guardians and Tony and Peter struggle against Thanos. Thor can smell the dust, feel the wind, and the persistent empty heat of the long dead planet. With a flick of Constantine’s wrist, the memory begins.

“Hurry,” Mantis grits out. “He is very strong--”

“We’ll have to pry his fingers back to get the glove off,” Peter mutters to Tony. Tony nods.

Steve stands at the head of the crowd, eyes taking in every detail. Thor paces restlessly, like a caged lion, eyeing Thanos with deadly intent. Clint and Natasha stand beside one another, grim looks on their faces. Rhodey stares at Tony and Peter. Okoye keeps separate from the others, watching events play out with a tactician’s eye.

They watch Quill’s breakdown. Thanos shaking off the trance. Nebula’s arrival. The moon.

“He had to pull a moon down to stop them,” Bruce mutters.

“And all that did was piss off Tony,” Natasha says.

Peter swings after the Guardians, catching and saving their lives, suspending them from his webs as he dances around flaming rock and debris. Tony faces off against Thanos. His suit changes on a whim, defending, attacking, the nanites reshaping themselves at his command. The suit is no match for Thanos. The fight is lost when Tony is forced to sacrifice his armor for offense. When Thanos drives the nanite blade through Tony’s stomach, the Avengers wince or glance away. Constantine freezes the memory.

“It really doesn’t get much better after this,” he says in the sudden silence. “I’m not sure you lot want to see--”

“Show us,” Steve says.

“Right,” Constantine says.

The memory begins again. Thanos mocking Tony, preparing to obliterate him with the Gauntlet, Strange interrupting the deathblow by surrendering the stone. Thanos disappears. Tony stares at Strange, betrayed, as Peter drops down and runs to Tony’s side.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

And then the Snap. The Guardians collapse into ash first. Dr. Strange begins to fall apart after them. His vision flakes apart; he’s fighting against death just long enough to trigger a spell. Before he collapses completely, he gets one last look at Peter staggering towards Tony, trails of ash rising from his shoulders as he stumbles.

“I don’t feel so good--”

Darkness falls. Constantine flicks his hand, ending the spell, before grabbing another cigarette and lighting it. He takes in a long drag and lets out the smoke slowly.

“I hate that part,” he says, looking as sick and miserable as he did the moment he popped into their universe. “I keep seeing it when I sleep. It’s no fun being inside someone else’s head when they die.”

A long silence follows the memory. Rocket, who’s been silent until now, curses quietly. “He killed all of them.”

“At least we know where to find Tony,” Rhodey says numbly. “Rocket, I know you’re--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll swing by Titan when I can,” he mutters. “I’ll probably find the Benatar there, too. Might as well get my ship back.”

Rhodey nods, satisfied, though he looks like he’s fighting back a wave of grief. The rest of the room goes silent, rattled by the vision of Titan that Constantine showed them. Thor lets his mind wander, impressed by the sorcerer, and worried for the man’s home. He’s equally worried about Peter. There’s a sense of urgency now that the realization that the Infinity War hasn’t ended occurs to each of the Avengers. Thanos won his war against the Avengers here, but there are gods know how many other universes, and he clearly intends to take the fight to them. And right now, the only Avenger capable of countering him is Tony Stark’s apprentice.

Constantine sits down heavily, snuffling out his cigarette with a long sigh. “I don’t suppose someone could bring me a drink? Or food. I’ll eat anything at this point.”

His voice is weary, and he looks almost as pale as he did when he first appeared in their midst. Steve clears his throat.

“We do. Just sit tight, Mr. Constantine,” Steve says. He looks at Natasha for a moment, then the others. “In fact, I think we should take a breather after that. I’m sure we could all use the fresh air.”

“Good idea. Let’s take a break,” Natasha says, slowly standing up from her seat. “When we get back, I think we’d better start making plans.”

Murmured agreement follows that. Rhodey mutters something about calling Pepper and Happy. Banner nods, rubbing the back of his head, his earlier good cheer gone. Clint says nothing; he never saw his family collapse into ash, and Dr. Strange’s memory of Titan has rattled him. Wong has already left, presumably to get some of his famous tea. Okoye merely nods.

Thor watches the others leave, looks to Constantine, and then walks past the wizard, briefly clapping him on the shoulder he moves past. The man jumps in his skin, but offers a weak, if confused, grin to Thor. Thor returns to his room to grab the remains of his hammer. The pieces are little more than shattered steel and wood, but if Odin asks that he carry it, then he will.

* * *

Peter doesn’t stay awake long enough to join in on Tim and Duke’s games. In fact, he pretty much passes out in the back seat once Dick drives out of Crime Alley. He doesn’t stir for most of the ride back to the manor. Dick watches him through the rearview mirror and can’t help but think he looks painfully small and thin. A part of him wonders if he looked that small and lost the night Bruce took him in.

“As much as I appreciate your concern for Master Peter,” Alfred says. “I’d appreciate it if you kept your eyes on the road a bit more, sir.”

“Right, sorry, Alfred,” Dick replies, focusing on the road again. The highway is busy, but not terribly so; if he needed to, he could drive home blindfolded. That probably wouldn’t make him very popular with Alfred, however. “Did Jason say where he was headed?”

“No, he did not,” Alfred replies. “But I believe you know where he’ll be.”

Dick sighs. He does know. Ever since Spider-Man’s death, Dick and Jason have been watching over the part of Crime Alley that Spider-Man cleaned up. Primarily the playground and surrounding neighborhood, but a few other spots, too. Lately, they’ve been watching over candlelight vigils and small memorials set up in Spidey’s honor.

“I should be there,” Dick says after a moment.

“You have other responsibilities now, Master Richard,” Alfred says gently.

Dick glances up at the rearview mirror. Peter is asleep, head resting against the window, bundled up in a coat and hat that look too big for him. Alfred’s right, of course; he can’t let his grief for Spider-Man prevent him from helping Peter. He’s Peter’s guardian now, after all. Even if the legality of that is questionable.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Dick parks inside the manor’s massive garage and carries Peter up to his room. Alfred follows, carrying Peter’s things with them. They pass Duke and Tim in the family room on the second floor, who both look up with alarm when they see Peter.

"Sorry, guys, but I don’t think Peter’s going to join in tonight," Dick says. “I think moving took it out of him.”

“I wondered how long he’d stay awake,” Duke says, standing up and walking over to Alfred to help him with the boxes.

“How bad was it?” Tim asks quietly.

“Bad,” Dick says with a sigh. “Come on, get the door for us.”

Tim hurries ahead of the group, opening Peter’s room for them. The room has changed a bit since Peter last slept here. The closet is filled with clothes and shoes, the small living area in the corner has new recliners and a small sofa tucked into the corner, and a new laptop rests in the middle of the desk. It doesn’t have any of the personal touches of the other bedrooms like Tim’s photography wall, or Duke’s puzzle games and card collections, but that should change soon enough. Dick sets Peter onto the bed and tucks him in while Duke sets down the boxes. Something tumbles out of the box, rolling across the floor. Dick bends down to pick it up. He lifts it up and stops.

In his hand is a tiny version of himself in his old Nightwing suit.

"He got that at Batburger with us awhile back," Duke says at his questioning look. "He said it was his good luck charm."

He isn’t sure how to feel about that. He stares at himself for a long moment before setting the Nightwing figurine on the nightstand and standing up from the bed. A thought occurs to him as he leaves Peter’s bedroom with Duke, Tim, and Alfred.

He hasn’t told Starfire that he’s technically a father now.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Dick gently closes Peter’s door behind himself, his mind wandering. He’s surprised to find Bruce speaking with Duke and Tim in the hallway.

“And don’t go on patrol alone. Not until we find out who’s behind the attack,” Bruce says, his tone firm and final.

“No need to tell me twice,” Duke replies. He glances at Peter’s door. “I’m going to stick around to help Peter settle in anyway. I know how overwhelming this place can be, and my arm is still a little whacked out.”

“That’s a good idea, Duke. It’s going to be a shock for him,” Dick says, walking over to the little group. “Just having a warm bed in a safe place will be a novelty for a little while.”

Bruce frowns. Tim looks mildly sick at that thought. Duke doesn’t seem surprised, but he doesn’t look happy, either.

“I kind of figured,” Duke says. He checks the time on his watch. “I’m going to grab some lunch with Cass. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“I’ll come with you,” Tim says. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, that happens when you forget to eat breakfast,” Duke remarks dryly. He aims a friendly wave at Bruce and Dick, falling into step with Tim as they walk towards the stairs.

Dick watches them leave, hands in his pockets. He looks at Bruce from the corner of his eye. “How’s Damian?”

Bruce sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and Dick fights back a small smirk. “Alfred and I restricted him to bed rest. Whether he stays in bed or not remains to be seen.”

Dick’s smirk grows for a moment. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Please do. He’s--” Here, Bruce pauses, as if trying to find a way to express himself. That’s not necessarily uncommon with him; Dick knows how to wait it out while Bruce travels through the murky waters of his own emotions. It can be a lengthy process sometimes. “Anxious. Alert. He almost lost you and Alfred within days of each other.”

Ah. Dick hadn’t considered that angle. Damian is closest to Dick and Alfred in this weird, screwed up family; the assassination attempt and then the whole thing with Bane would him on high alert.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Dick says, running a hand through his hair. “After I make a very awkward phone call to Kori and explain how I kind of illegally adopted a teenager. I’ll have her join me on patrol tonight so we can talk it out.”

Peter likely isn’t going to wake up anytime soon. And he wants to check in on Jason, too. That meeting won’t go anywhere positive, but he has to try. He knows it'll end with Jason blaming him for Spider-Man's death and a fistfight as a bonus. Honestly, it might start that way. Jason doesn't have many friends (by his own choice), so the few he makes are often kept close and protected zealously. In some ways, Spider-Man had been a bridge between them. That bridge is gone and Jason’s made it clear he puts some of the blame on Dick.

Not that Dick necessarily disagrees with Jason.

"Report in to Oracle when you leave the manor," Bruce says after a moment.

"I plan on it," Dick says, walking towards the stairs.

Bruce joins him, and they walk side by side through the manor. Bruce is watching him closely, his gaze frank and piercing. It’s a look he’s often used on Dick when he was Robin and trying to brush off an injury or a lie. Dick has to fight back a wave of annoyance and frustration. He’s a grown man; Bruce should’ve retired that look years ago.

"How are you?" Bruce asks after a moment.

Dick clenches a fist. "Perfectly fine. If you think I'm not capable of field work--"

"That's not why I'm asking," Bruce says quietly.

Dick pauses, his anger dissipating as quickly as it appeared. Bruce isn't looking for a readiness report. He's genuinely asking. A rare thing indeed for Bruce, given how cold the man can be towards those he cares for. Dick appreciates the effort, no matter how clumsily it's done, and boggles at what it means. Is the old man learning how to express emotions?

"We lost one of our own because of me," Dick says finally, his tone bitter and guilty. "How do you think I feel?"

Bruce has no answer to that, but he does squeeze Dick's shoulder comfortingly. Another surprise. Maybe the old man is softening in his old age.

That's a terrifying thought.

"I know," he says simply. After a moment, he pulls back his hand and walks away. Maybe he’s hit his limit on emotions for the day or something.

A brief silence hangs between them before Dick speaks. "I thought you were headed out of town."

Bruce leaps onto the change of subject gratefully. "I am. I needed to check a few things here."

"Is Clark in that much trouble?" Dick asks, frowning. "You've been spending a lot of time in Metropolis lately."

Superman is like an uncle to him. Clark has always been a steady, comforting presence in Dick's life, as much a part of his family as Bruce and his brothers and sisters. He hasn’t had a chance to ask after him for awhile, and frankly didn't think to do so. Superman is Superman; what could possibly hurt him?

“I’ve been spending less time there than you think,” Bruce says. “I’m not sure if there’s any kind of help I can give him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dick asks.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce admits. “He complained of headaches, then denied ever having a headache in his life a few hours later. And his eyes seem different, though I can’t place how. Something’s happened to him.”

“Where has he been? It’s been, what, weeks or months since he disappeared?”

“He doesn’t remember. And he didn’t tell Lois he was going anywhere before he left. He only does that with a short mission he doesn’t think will take very long.”

Dick quirks a brow at that. Bruce mimics the gesture. Dick scoffs. “Clark has a mind like a steel trap.”

“Not at the moment he doesn’t,” Bruce replies, his tone stiff and cold, and a bit defensive. Dick can recognize the fear behind it, though most others wouldn’t. Whatever’s happened to Clark has Bruce shaken and determined. “Has Tim mentioned Conner lately?”

“The day Bane attacked, yes,” Dick says slowly. “Apparently Conner hasn’t been returning his calls.”

“I need to talk to him before I leave,” Bruce says after a moment.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I believe someone is targeting the Justice League and Kryptonians in particular,” Bruce says. “Kara Danvers is overdue from her trip in space. The Kents haven’t seen Conner in weeks. His room was covered in dust and, oddly, ashes. I was hoping to find out something before speaking with Tim about it, but I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”

Dick is silent, walking beside Bruce towards one of the entrances to the batcave scattered around manor. He turns over this new information slowly, examining all sides of it. Tim is going to be upset, to say the least. Red Robin and Super Boy are usually inseparable when their schedules allow. If Conner is missing...

“He’s not going to handle the news well,” Dick says. Which is something of an understatement.

“I know,” Bruce replies, leading them down towards the computer that takes up a majority of one side of the cave.

The cave is cool, but not cold. Dick can hear bats shuffle in place on the rock ceiling above them, and smell the damp air. This place feels more like home than the manor above; he knows every shadow, every distant drip of water. The cave has changed over the past few years, but it still feels the same. It still feels like home.

“I’ll wait until he finishes with lunch and talk to him then,” Bruce says, sitting down in the well worn chair. He looks more comfortable here, more at ease. “If I bring him into the investigation from the start, I might be able to counter a few of his bad habits.”

Dick thinks that’s a lost cause, but he can see the logic in it. “Treat him as an equal, Bruce. It’s long past time.”

Bruce pauses, then gives the slightest nod. “I intend to.”

Maybe the old man has started to soften up. Dick considers that for a moment, desperately trying to find a tactful way to ask when and how Bruce gained emotional intelligence, when he spots a new addition to the row of suits carefully placed inside glass cases lined up in a row along one wall of the cave. Most of the suits there are simply old or retired suits from every member of the family: his original Robin suit, the original Nightwing design, Tim’s Red Robin suit, Duke’s Signal suit, Cass’s variations on the Black Bat suit, Steph’s Spoiler and Robin suit. Even a few of Jason’s older Red Hood helmets have a place. And Bruce’s old Batman suits that have since been retired. But there’s a new addition to the line up.

At the end of the row, a sleek black and red suit with large, pronounced white eyes stands inside a clear glass case. A black belt is slung across the hips and matte black gauntlet web shooters are clamped around the suit’s forearms. The chest is covered by a thin, sharp angled spider emblem against a blood red chest, the black legs meshing with the black fabric of the arms and hips. Dick stares at it for a long moment before walking over to stand in front of it. He isn’t sure how much time passes before he feels Bruce stand beside him, staring at the suit.

“I was going to ask you to give this to him when I got back from Metropolis,” Bruce says quietly. “It wasn’t quite finished before I left. I thought I would have more time.”

“No bat symbol?” Duke asks. He’s surprised by how strained and weak his voice is, and he takes a moment to clear his throat, fighting back a wave of grief.

“No,” Bruce says. “I was going to offer it to him, and a place here at the manor.”

“Too bad that didn’t work out,” Dick says weakly. “Can you imagine? We drag two more people into this family. Peter and Spider-Man.”

Bruce makes a quiet hn sound. He’s quiet for a long moment. “The city wants to throw a fundraising gala in Spider-Man’s honor for Crime Alley. They’re asking me to host it here at the manor.”

Dick whirls to face him. “They what? Bruce, that’s garish. He’s not even--no one’s bothered to bury him yet. There hasn’t even been a funeral.”

Bruce looks as unhappy as Dick feels. “I know. I stalled them for the moment, but a few of the requests are coming from Spider Alley itself. I can turn away the mayor and city council easily enough, but...”

But Bruce Wayne can’t be seen publicly turning away a call for help from the city’s poorest citizens, especially when it would cost him nothing, and when he’s done similar things in the past for Batman. It would cause nothing but trouble for Bruce and, by extension, the rest of the family, if he did turn them away. Increased media focus, this time with a negative slant to every question and every interview, the public opinion turned against them, which could have ripple effects on their night time work. Dick grits his teeth.

Bruce watches Dick for a long moment. He looks tired. “I’ll delay it as much as I can. With luck, most of the funds we raise can help fund a few restoration projects in the Alley.”

“Yeah. With luck,” Dick mutters. He brushes past Bruce, heading back for the stairs. “Excuse me. I have a phone call to make.”

He could really use Kori’s advice right now. And some fresh air.

* * *

When Thor returns to the conference room, he finds Constantine sitting alone, one hand gripping a mug of steaming tea, the other holding another cigarette. He looks worn down, and Thor wonders how much strength it took for the man to use his magic again so soon after traveling across the multiverse.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Constantine mutters. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck with a sigh.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to seem rude," Thor says. The remains of the hammer hang from a leather sack on his belt.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Constantine says. Behind him, the Avengers begin to file back into the conference room, one by one. "I'm not the most pleasant person to deal with in the best of circ*mstances. Now that I'm stranded here for awhile, I might be a little more snippy than usual."

“I think you’ve earned the right to be mildly unpleasant,” Thor remarks, trading a nod with Steve and Natasha as they pass by.

It’s strange how quickly the Avengers change. What was once another tooth grindingly slow meeting has turned into something else. Now when Steve speaks with Natasha, there’s steel to his words. Natasha’s eyes have filled with a subtle glimmer of purpose. Clint checks over his gear with slow and calm precision. Rhodey stands apart from the others, but he stands straight and tall, looking over the various holo displays floating in the middle of the room. Okoye walks over to join him, keen eyes scanning the galactic maps.

“Remember you said that the next time I say something that pisses you off,” Constantine says.

Thor is about to reply when Rocket reappears, the hologram bursting to life with a scattershot of blue light that stutters in place before creating his image. He looks excited, and starts speaking the moment his image assembles itself.

“Big news, guys. Another one of those prison planets just got blown to hell, and one of my contacts got a picture this time,” Rocket says. His hands are flying across a keyboard that’s not visible in the call, and he’s moving with an excited sort of energy.

The holograms disperse, reforming to create an image of Carol Danvers smashing through a platoon of the Black Order’s soldiers, wreathed in golden light. Another figure stands nearby, wielding a sword and shield, though they’re obscured by Carol’s golden light.

“I guess we know who’s been breaking apart those prison planets,” Rhodey remarks dryly.

“My guess is she got picked up looking for the Benatar,” Rocket says. “It looks like she broke out.”

“That’s deep into enemy territory,” Steve remarks. “She’s cut off from all support and making a hell of a lot of noise.”

“Then we’ll change that,” Natasha says. “Rocket, how fast can you swing by Earth to pick us up?”

“Two hours, give or take. It’ll be a long ride out there,” he says. “We’ll have to avoid a lot of patrols.”

“We’ll be ready,” Natasha says. Rocket grunts, and ends the call, stepping away and letting his holographic image collapse. Natasha takes in a deep breath and looks at the Avengers. “Thanos isn’t going to let her get away with destroying his things like that. We have the choice of taking this fight to his doorstep or waiting for Carol to come back here. I think we all know the smart choice.”

The Avengers nod, or murmur their ascent. Steve rolls his shoulders, adjusting his shield on his back. Rhodey runs diagnostics on his suit. Okoye and Wong speak with one another quietly. Thor touches the leather bag on his belt and the hammer within it.

Natasha makes her way over to Constantine. “Are you staying here or coming with us?”

Constantine lets out a slow breath, squints, and shrugs. “I’ll come along. What the hell. The Doc said I’d be better off sticking with you lot, and he’s been right so far.”

Natasha smirks. “Smart choice. Welcome to the Avengers, Mr. Constantine.”

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

Peter sleeps. His dreams shift from Titan to an earlier time of his life, dragged back by a familiar grief.

He’s eight years old, sitting in his newly furnished room at his Aunt and Uncle’s apartment. It’s late; the moon hovers outside his window, partially blocked by a neighboring building. Peter is hugging his knees, head pressed against them to muffle his sobs. His aunt and uncle have work in the morning, and he’s already woken them up twice this week. He knows he should stop, force the tears back, but he can’t.

He wants his mom and dad.

From the corner of his eye, distant golden figures shift and murmur among each other. He ignores them.

Peter lets out a quiet hiccupping sob. The door to his room opens, spilling in light from the hall. He winces and tries to muffle another sob. He doesn’t quite manage it as May and Ben sit down on either side of him on the floor. May wraps a warm, protective arm around his waist while Ben curls an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

"Life has a habit of knocking us down, Peter," Ben says idly.

"Yeah, it does," Peter says, withdrawn and subdued. Silence follows, and he feels Ben’s eyes on him.

"And what do we do when life knocks us down?" May asks.

"We get up," Peter says quietly. The words carry a weight he doesn't understand yet. "We always get back up."

Ben hugs him. It's warm, gentle, familiar, and comforting. "Damn right we do, kiddo. We got knocked down pretty hard this time, and there’s no shame in being sad about it, but we get back up. It’s just us now, you know. Me, your aunt, you."

Peter’s world has shrunk. The void left behind by his parents seems unfathomable; he'll never play hide and seek with his dad again. Never hear his mom hum silly pop songs and dance with him in their tiny kitchen. The memories are already fuzzy around the edges. Eventually they'll fade almost completely until he’s left with just his mother's laugh and his father's smile. Not yet, but soon.

"Yeah, just us," Peter says against his uncle's shoulder. He clings to May’s hand, and she squeezes his hand comfortingly. She reaches up to gently ruffle his hair with her free hand, a thing she’s done for him ever since he can remember. He leans into her touch, letting out a soft snicker when she accidentally tickles his neck.

The snicker turns to a laugh.

And the laughter lasts a long time. Longer than it should. Long enough to draw horrified looks from May and Ben. He can’t stop it. The laughter grows, shredding the dream memory apart, until Peter’s caught somewhere between deep sleep and awareness. Eventually some vaguely golden shape shoves him out of that lightless purgatory and into full awareness.

Peter wakes up laughing.

It's a painful, wracking kind of laugh, mixed with a wheezing coughing fit that strains his muscles and robs him of breath. He can barely see through the tears forming in his eyes, but he sees enough to mark out the inhaler on the nightstand beside the bed, resting beside the Nightwing figurine. He snatches it up and presses it to his mouth, taking in a deep breath as he activates the inhaler.

The medicine, whatever it is, tastes acrid and bitter, with a weirdly mint aftertaste. It works fast, and for that, Peter’s beyond grateful. Using an inhaler when he’s trying to laugh himself into unconsciousness is a nightmare and a half. He stifles a chuckling cough and focuses on breathing. When the urge to laugh subsides, he lets out a weary, slightly frustrated sigh and tosses the inhaler onto the night stand. He probably shouldn’t do that.

Whatever.

“Hey, man,” Duke says from his doorway. He looks like he’s half asleep, and he rubs at his eyes. Peter glances at the clock on his nightstand. 8:50 am. He must’ve slept through the night after Dick carried him inside. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter mutters, flopping back onto his bed. He is, too; he’s warm and somewhere safe. He’d be feeling great if it wasn’t for his unsettling dream and the laughing fit he just woke up to. And his cold. And his aching bullet wound. And--

Well, he’s fine enough.

“That wasn’t convincing,” Duke remarks, smiling a little. He walks into Peter’s room and leans against the desk near the door, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have it on very good authority that I’m an amazing liar. Just ask Detective Bullock and Damian,” Peter says, running a hand through his hair. He sighs. “I don’t remember getting here.”

“Alfred and Dick brought you in last night and pretty much took you straight to bed. Alfred tried to wake you up for dinner, but he gave up after a little while,” Duke says.

“Makes sense,” Peter mutters, his voice thick and rough like gravel. He stretches, careful of his wounded side. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday; they’re rumpled and wrinkled, and he’s in dire need of a shower. He must have broken through a fever while he was asleep. “I’d like to know why I feel worse now than I did at the hospital.”

“Probably the rebound effect from the Joker toxin,” Duke says with a small shrug. “It comes and goes in waves until your body builds up an immunity to it.” He pauses, and then amends his statement. “If your body builds up an immunity.”

His tone is more than a little subdued. And touched with grief. Peter can recognize that easily.

"You've dealt with it before?" he asks, flopping back against his bed. It's too soft, but it’s also warm, and he'll never pass up the opportunity to stay warm again. Not after living in the fire station. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

As in, knew immediately that Peter’s been exposed to Joker toxin. Hopefully that’s not a common theme among the rest of the family.

"My parents were hit with it. I was too, but I got lucky. It doesn’t affect me very much," Duke says simply. He shrugs at Peter’s horrified look. "It's Gotham, man. It happens."

“Still horrifying,” Peter mutters. Duke shrugs again. He’s quiet for a moment and tilts his head slightly.

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” Duke asks.

“I do?” Peter asks, rubbing his forehead. His chest aches from his lingering cold and laughing fit. His heart aches from the memories he just relived. Exhaustion tugs at him.

“Yeah. I saw these two--” Duke pauses and starts again. “I heard you mention a couple of names. Ben and May?”

Peter sighs, too exhausted to feel embarrassed. The grief still hits, though it’s subdued. “Yeah. My aunt and uncle.”

Duke pauses for a moment, seeming to read between the lines. His eyes soften, and he mercifully changes the topic. “Hey, are you hungry? Alfred’s making breakfast downstairs right now.”

Peter’s first reaction to being offered food should probably be embarrassing. He doesn’t care. He perks up like an excited puppy, standing up from his bed in an instant. Possibly too fast for a regular human, judging by Duke’s headtilt. “Yes. Always.” He pauses and looks down at himself. “Give me five minutes to clean up and change. I probably shouldn’t go downstairs wearing my clothes from yesterday.”

“Trust me, Alfred’s used to seeing way worse,” Duke says amused. He nods. “I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, ducking into his bathroom.

He showers, brushes his teeth, and changes. Having a private bathroom is going to be a novelty for awhile. As is warm water. And warmth in general. The new clothes in his closet are also going to be a shock; his closet isn’t packed, exactly, but it does have an array of new and very high quality clothes. Everything from sweatpants to school uniforms to shoes. Peter settles for a plain black shirt and sweatpants and runs a hand through his damp hair. It’s in dire need of a trim; he’s never had hair this long before. He almost looks like a miniature Bucky Barnes at this point.

The thought causes some distant murmuring he can’t quite hear; it sounds suspiciously like, “You wish, kid.”

Peter steps out of his room and into the hall and finds Duke leaning against the wall, idly scrolling through some social media feed on his phone. He perks up when Peter steps out and grins at him, pocketing his phone before jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Follow me. And stick close. Trust me, it’s stupid easy to get lost in this place. I can’t tell you how many times Tim and Damian had to help me when I first moved in.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of you guys like that yet,” Peter says, smoothing out his shirt and following Duke out of his room and into the hallway. He tilts his head, nodding to Duke’s shirt. It’s a vibrant red with an emblem in the center of it. A golden lightning bolt. “What’s with the shirt? Some kind of sports team?”

Duke gives him an odd look. “No, dude, this is the Flash’s symbol. Bruce got it for me when he was out of town awhile back.”

Peter stares at him for a moment until some far off neuron inside his brain fires off and reminds him that Flash here doesn’t refer to a classmate rival he actually kind of misses. “Oh. The, uh, the Justice League guy?”

“Yeah, he’s a part of the League too, but he’s mostly a solo hero. He’s the hero of Central City. He’s so cool.,” Duke says. “I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet. I hope I get to some day.”

Peter smiles, in spite of himself. He and Ned used to gush over which Avenger was the coolest; Peter called it a three way tie between Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America. Ned preferred the Falcon, Black Widow, and Vision and begged Peter to introduce him to them at some point. Peter had promised he would.

A promise he isn’t ever going to keep, as it turns out.

He shoves the thought away. He’s barely capable of ignoring the grief caused from hearing Ben and May’s voices in his dreams. If he stops and thinks about Ned, he’ll shatter.

God, what is with him today? He’s safe and warm for a few days and his emotions immediately get whacked out. He needs to pull himself together and at least pretend to be normal around everyone here.

“Who’s your favorite member of the Justice League?” Duke asks, interrupting Peter's train of thought. He pauses, amused. “Man, I can’t believe it’s taken me that long to ask you that. That's an ice breaker question.”

sh*t. Peter wracks his brain; Nightwing would be an easy answer but he doesn’t seem to be a member of the Justice League. Or is he? There are so many heroes here, it’s ridiculous. He thinks, then goes for the easy and obvious: “Three way tie: Wonder Woman, Superman, and Batman.”

“Cop out,” Duke says, grinning as he leads him down a hall, a set of stairs, through a living room, a ballroom, and another two hallways towards the kitchen. The layout of this place is boggling; Peter marvels at the fact that he was able to track down Alfred and Damian during Bane’s break in. Without his spider sense, he never would have found them. “The original three are everybody’s favorites.”

Peter shrugs again. He thinks of the Avengers for a moment and says, “Yeah, well. They earned it, right?”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Duke says, pushing open a door that leads into yet another hallway.

"Where’s Dick?" Peter asks. God, how big is this place? A few of the walls sound odd as they pass them; the doors shut far too loudly. As if the walls they're connected to are empty inside. Weird.

"Visiting Jason. They had kind of an intense discussion last night," Duke says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dick spent the night at Jason's place in Crime Alley, I think.”

"Jason doesn't live at the manor?" Peter asks.

"God, no. He'd hate it here," Duke says. "He lives in Crime Alley. We usually only hear from him in the family chat. He’s been pretty active lately but he drops off the radar every now and then, too." He pauses. "Honestly, we're all pretty guilty of that. Everyone in the family just disappears for awhile sometimes. Except for Alfred, obviously."

Yeah, Peter can guess everyone will notice when the family butler disappears. He frowns. “Even Damian? He’s like eight.”

“Thirteen, he’s just short for his age,” Duke says, amused. “And yeah, he’s pretty good at sneaking out of here when he wants.”

That’s a lot to take in. Peter walks with Duke. “What about Steph and Cass?”

“They have rooms, but they typically stay at their own place,” Duke says. At Peter’s questioning look, he shrugs. “They think everyone in this house is dramatic as hell. And honestly? They’re not entirely wrong. Sometimes I'll go stay with my uncle over at the Narrows myself if I need time away from here. Usually only during the summer.”

“Oh.”

“We're still family, we're just not here all the time,” Duke says. “We’ve all got pretty intense personalities. Trust me when I say it’s best that we split off every now and then.”

That makes sense. A family this big and rich tends to spread out from one another in his experience.

They keep going, drawing closer to the kitchen and the sounds of quiet conversation, cutlery tapping plates, and the smell of a freshly made breakfast. They pass through another hallway; this one is covered in photographs. Most of them are posed family portraits. They pass by too quickly for Peter to look at all of them, and then Peter’s attention is focused solely on the bust of Bruce Wayne settled near the kitchen entrance. He draws up short, stopping mid step to look at it. Duke breezes past him, heading into the kitchen. Peter hears Steph call Duke’s name, followed by conversation.

Peter stares at the bust. The heavy wooden stand is no worse for wear after Peter threw it into Bane’s face, but the same can’t be said for the bust of Bruce Wayne. Hairline fractures thread through the marble, and one of Bruce’s ears and his nose were knocked clean off. Someone has thoughtfully duct taped both back into place. It probably would’ve looked better if they’d bothered to line up both pieces correctly rather than tape them to Bruce’s face at a ninety degree angle.

“We decided to keep it like this,” Tim says, walking up beside him. He’s holding a worryingly large coffee cup in one hand and looks as if he’s caught between feral over caffeination and utter exhaustion. Probably both at the same time. “It adds character.”

“Who taped the nose on wrong?” Peter asks after a moment.

“I did,” Tim replies. “Cass taped the ear. Dick wrapped it up with masking tape." The bust is, indeed, wrapped with white tape. It looks like someone’s taken a hammer to a burn victim with how thickly it’s wrapped around Bruce’s head. "I think it adds a certain charm.”

"Right," Peter says. Another pause. “And Bruce saw this?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Tim says brightly. “We’re going to see how long it takes for him to say something about it. Right now he’s pretending he didn't see it.”

Peter considers Tim’s words and the broken bust for a long moment. “Well. I’m glad my property destruction is being used as a form of low level terrorism against the man I stole money from and whose house I now live in.”

“Thank you for your service,” Tim says soberly, clapping Peter’s shoulder.

"Yeah, no problem," Peter says. He squints at Tim. "Have you slept?"

"Nope," Tim replies. He takes several long drinks from his coffee, and sighs. Peter can all but see the caffeine perk him up. "I'm going to my room. I've got a big project to work on."

"Uh, okay," Peter says. He watches Tim leave and calls out. "Maybe take a nap first?"

"Not going to happen!" Tim calls back.

“God, he sleeps less than Tony,” Peter mutters, turning away from the bust and walking into the kitchen.

It’s huge. Just absolutely massive. There’s enough space for a full kitchen staff to work, with room to spare. The standard appliances are here, along with several ovens, stoves, and other appliances. A kitchen island lined with high backed stools takes up the center of the room. Empty plates rest in front of some of the stools, as if whoever ate there left in a hurry. Maybe they did; Bruce probably left for an early flight, Tim is deeply focused on...something, and there are a few others in the manor somewhere. Other staff or family, maybe. Duke is sitting in one of the stools, apple in hand, back on his phone.

"There you are, Master Peter," Alfred says by way of greeting. He’s dressed in a fresh tuxedo, but wearing an apron over the fine clothes, and standing in front of a stovetop. "What would you like for breakfast?"

Peter pauses, unused to having options. The pause lasts long enough that Alfred tilts his head curiously, watching him with a gentle patience, as if he’s gone through this before. Maybe he has; Jason’s a Crime Alley kid, too. His circ*mstances may have been similar to Peter’s.

“Can you make wheatcakes?” Peter asks after a moment.

“I believe I can do that,” Alfred says. “Feel free to eat whatever you like while I cook. There’s fresh fruit in the fruit bowl, oatmeal, and a few smoothies in the fridge.”

Peter hops into the stool next to Duke and grabs an apple and a banana. Fresh fruit was a rarity in the firehouse; he’s not passing up the opportunity to indulge.

“Master Duke, what would you like for breakfast?”

“Double up on the wheatcakes, Alfred,” Duke says. “That sounds good.”

“Two orders coming up. Peter, your meal will be double the usual size.”

“Definitely not complaining about that,” Peter says, already three bites deep into the apple.

“Any plans for the day, Master Duke?” Alfred asks.

“Physical therapy,” Duke replies with an eye roll. “It’s my last day, thank god.”

“You should keep up the exercises for a little while longer,” Alfred says idly, plating the wheatcakes and setting them down in front of Peter and Duke. “Believe me, you’ll thank yourself for it later in life.”

“Jason keeps telling me the same thing,” Duke says dryly. He perks up at the food and pulls the plate closer to himself. Peter does the same, grabbing a fork and digging in.

“And how is Master Jason? We didn’t have much of a chance to speak yesterday before he left,” Alfred says.

“He’s, uh, hanging in there,” Duke says. He nudges Peter with an elbow. “He’s a fan of your doodles, by the way.”

“My what?” Peter asks around a mouthful of food. He pauses, swallows, and tries again. “Why?”

“Not sure, but I think he liked that little warrior guy you drew with the hammer,” Duke says.

That’s weird. But Jason also seems like a weird guy. “I can doodle it on his bike helmet if he wants.”

“Given how intense he was about it, he might ask you to do just that,” Duke says. “Speaking of plans, what have you got lined up for the day, Peter?”

That’s a damn good question. “Unpacking, I guess. I’m too tired to do much else.”

Which is true enough. With his hunger satisfied--still something of a novelty for him--he’s just exhausted now. Bed sounds amazing, frankly.

“Need any help?” Duke asks.

“There’s not enough stuff for you to help with,” Peter says frankly, shrugging. “It’ll take me twenty minutes tops. But I wouldn’t mind the company.” He pauses for a moment and then admits, “Or a guide back to my room. This place is huge.”

Duke laughs. “Deal. I don’t mind being a tour guide.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Duke,” Peter says.

"Master Richard will be along later this afternoon. His work kept him out late last night, I’m afraid," Alfred says.

“He has a job?” Peter blurts out. Duke snorts in laughter, briefly coughing as he regains control of himself.

“He does. Primarily in Blüdhaven, but he’s been known to work in Gotham as well,” Alfred says. “I’m sure he’ll explain it to you fully soon enough.”

“Huh. Guess I don’t really know all that much about him,” Peter says. “I thought he was--well. You know. Just rich.”

Alfred smirks. “He once said the same of Master Bruce. I’ll let you know when he’s on his way back to the manor.”

Fair enough.

They don’t say much after that; Peter and Duke are focused on eating, and Alfred busies himself with cleaning the kitchen before moving on to another part of the manor. Peter cleans his plate, eats half of the fruit in the fruit bowl, and grabs a smoothie out of the fridge on his way back to his room. He finishes half of it before they make it back to the bedrooms and sips at it with a more leisurely pace when they get back to his room and step inside. The cup is empty by the time he walks through the door. His hunger is fully satisfied, and it’s making him feel a bit sluggish. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Duke.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine. Just going to unpack one box before I lay down for a nap, I think,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. “The food is making me sleepy.”

“Weird, I would’ve thought the massive cold was doing that,” Duke remarks. “Okay. One box.”

Compared to the rest of the manor, Peter’s room is oddly empty and a little bit sad. Duke pops open the box on Peter’s desk and starts to pull a few things out of it. Books, mostly, plus a few of Peter’s tools. He hands Peter the books.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Peter asks, taking the books and heading towards the nearest shelf.

“Sure, anything.”

“Why do you keep looking around like that?”

Duke blinks, turning to focus on Peter. “What?”

“You keep looking around me,” Peter says, shelving his books. A relatively short process, considering he has five total. Maybe there’s a library here? Bruce probably has a library. “Like you’re looking for someone?”

“Oh.” Duke pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It’s a long story. You probably don’t want to hear it right before you head to bed.”

Fair enough. “I’d still like to hear it someday.”

“You probably won’t be able to avoid it,” Duke remarks. He tilts his head, picking up a notebook from the box on Peter’s desk. He idly flips open the cover. “Hey, what’s this?”

Peter looks over at him and frowns. It takes him a second to recognize the notebook and, when he does, he fights back a sigh. It’s the notebook he used to scribble out ideas on how to get home way back when he first ended up in Gotham. “A thought experiment that ultimately went nowhere.”

“This is some serious stuff,” Duke remarks, raising his eyebrows. “I knew you were good at physics, Peter, but I didn’t know you were this good. What’s this supposed to be anyway?”

“A kind of quantum GPS device,” Peter says. He pauses, and adds, “It’s just theories and wildly unsafe--and obviously untested--ideas based on a thought experiment. You know. For fun.”

“Not interested in hopping the barrier between universes, huh?” Duke says, closing the notebook and setting it down on Peter’s desk.

“Not anymore, no,” Peter says. “Like I said, it was a thought experiment.”

“You should show that to Tim,” Duke says. “He’d get a kick out of it.”

Peter glances at his door. “I dunno. He seems pretty focused on some big project right now.”

“Then he definitely needs the distraction,” Duke says dryly. “Just don’t try to go into his room when his door is closed. If it’s open, he’s up for a talk.”

“Got it,” Peter says. He peers into the box and makes a face. “The only things left in this are some old clothes. We don’t have to unpack those.”

“Yeah, probably not. Alfred would just get rid of them if you put them in the laundry,” Duke says. His phone lets out a quiet beep and he pulls it out of his pocket to check his messages. He squints at it. “Damn.”

“What’s up?” Peter asks, flopping down onto his bed.

“Cass is checking to make sure I did my physical therapy. I better go do it now before she finds out I haven’t,” Duke says with a sigh.

“I haven’t met her yet,” Peter says, frowning.

“You will. She and Steph are going to come stay at the manor for a little while,” Duke says. He grins. “You’ll like her. She’s the best.”

“Looking forward to it,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn. “If you’re headed out, could you shut the door behind you? I think I’m going to sleep off breakfast.”

“No problem,” Duke says. “We’ll talk later.”

“Later, Duke,” Peter says, waving a bit as the door closes. His own phone vibrates on the nightstand and he reaches over to grab it from the Nightwing figurine.

New Message

Felicia: talked to Lou; he’s glad you’re okay, but you should come visit soon

Peter: I plan to. Need a new outfit first. Lost the old one. Sleeping now; talk later?

Felicia: get some rest

Peter is asleep before he finishes reading the last message.

He dreams of distant golden figures murmuring amongst themselves, too far for him to reach. He dreams of storms and darkness and the Avengers on a ship, flying into danger. It isn’t as emotionally wrenching as the dream about Ben and May, but it’s unsettling and weird, and he wakes up feeling off kilter and anxious. Not spider sense anxious; the regular, garden variety anxiety that sets him on edge.

He sits up slowly, stretching, and takes stock of his room. The windows have gone dark, and his stomach is rumbling from hunger. He must have slept through the whole day. Great.

At least his side doesn’t hurt as much. He can move pretty easily now, in fact. He stands and finds a covered dish on his desk with a small note beside it.

I’ve left several meals for you in the kitchen. Eat as much as you like. -Alfred.

Alfred is a god among men. Peter makes a mental note to thank him as he takes off the dish cover to find a bowl of soup and fresh bread underneath. Both disappear within a minute, curbing the edge of Peter’s hunger, but not his anxiety. He definitely needs more. And maybe someone to talk to. Maybe Alfred is still downstairs and wouldn’t mind the company.

The hallway is dim and gloomy when he steps out of his room, but a door down the hall is wide open, with light spilling out from the doorway. He peeks inside when he gets close and finds Tim bent over a desk and laptop, frowning intently on at the screen. Peter almost walks away and leaves him to his thoughts, but...

But, well, he could use some company right now.

He taps on the door frame. Tim’s head snaps up and blinks at Peter, first in confusion, and then with something close to relief.

“Hey, I was going to go wake you up for dinner,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He checks the time on his laptop and winces. “Guess I lost track of time. How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Peter says, shrugging. It’s not entirely a lie, but Tim doesn’t look very convinced. He sighs. “Bad dreams. Mind if I hang out here for a little bit?”

“Not at all. Come on in.”

“Have you left your room at all today?” Peter asks, stepping inside Tim’s room.

It’s cluttered; clothes are scattered around, along with books (varying between thick tomes and half read paperbacks), notebooks, pens, a few half built electronic devices the use of which he can only guess at, and a few video game cases scattered around the mess. It feels homey, and it reminds Peter of Ned’s room.

“Once or twice when Alfred came to find me,” Tim says. “Granted, the last time he came by it was to confiscate my coffee.”

“And how many cups did you have before he took it?”

“I plead the Fifth,” Tim says primly, with a small sniff.

Peter fights back a small grin, looking around at Tim’s walls. Most of them have posters (Justice League, Teen Titans, and various movie or game posters), but one wall in the far corner catches his interest. It’s covered in photographs; candid photos of family and friends or of Gotham’s skyline. Peter wanders over to it to take a closer look.

"Are these yours?" Peter asks.

"Uh, yeah. It's a hobby I picked up awhile back," Tim says. He fidgets self consciously, his eyes darting between Peter and the photographs. "They're not really--"

"They're good," Peter says, cutting him off. He points at one in the far top corner. Jason is leaning against his motorcycle beneath a blue-white light in Crime Alley. The only warmth in the scene comes from a lighter he's using to light a cigarette. It casts a gentle yellow glow across Jason’s features, softening them from the near permanent scowl that usually rests there. "This one especially. Your contrast and framing is awesome. What camera did you use?"

Tim stares at him for a moment, shocked, and visibly brightens. He stands up from his desk and walks over to a shelf, pulling out a weatherproof box and setting it on his desk. He opens it and pulls out a camera, handing it to Peter. “Here, it’s an old film camera Bruce gave me years ago.”

“I prefer film myself.” He takes the camera from Tim carefully, slowly examining it for the branding marks. Peter can feel his eyebrows lift in surprise. “A Leica M? No wonder your shots are coming out so well. This thing is a tank. You can’t find one for less than a thousand bucks back home, and that doesn’t include the lens.”

“It’s a great camera,” Tim says, sitting down beside him. Peter can feel Tim’s gaze on him, sharp and curious. “I didn’t realize you were into photography, Peter.”

“My uncle and I found an old Kodak at a second hand shop once. We fixed it up and started taking pictures together. I really got into it,” Peter says, half smiling to himself at the memory. Somewhere back home, there’s a couple of photo albums full of pictures of May, Ben, Ned, Ned's grandmother, and himself. Most of them are candid, though a few are posed family pictures with both the Parkers and the Leeds. Ned’s grandmother has copies of almost all of them in her own family album, plus a few mounted on the wall. “Honestly, I was obsessed.”

“Your uncle Tony?” Tim asks after a moment.

Peter starts, knocked out of his memories. He scoffs. “No, Tony’s not--” Peter pauses for a moment, and then tries again. “My Uncle Ben is the one who helped me build the camera. Tony would have, if I asked, but we never talked about that kind of stuff. Not really.”

“You guys didn’t talk about photography?” Tim asks.

“We didn’t talk about family. It wasn’t a good topic for either of us outside of one or two really specific things. Tony would've talked to me about anything if I asked, just not his parents. He never asked about mine either. It worked out better that way,” Peter explains. He admires the camera in his hands for another moment, and then carefully sets it down on the desk. “You should start taking pictures again, Tim. You’ve got a real talent for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, tilting his head. He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re crying,” Tim says gently.

Peter starts, reaching up to touch his cheek. He’s mortified to find that he is crying; just one or two slow trails of tears from his eyes. Peter sighs in frustration, leaning back to rub his eyes with his sleeve. It’s been years since this has happened; ever since Ben’s death, sometimes even the mere mention of his name is enough to cause him to cry. Not the sobbing kind of crying--though there was plenty of that--but a slow trickle of tears from the corner of his eyes. This time, it’s worse, and it takes him a moment to realize why. The family photo albums, full of his silly little photos of his family, are gone forever now. Lost to another dimension entirely. He’ll never see them again.

Tim squeezes his shoulder. It’s the gesture of someone not used to giving or receiving comfort, but trying their best. Peter sighs. Way to make it weird, Parker.

"Peter--"

“Sorry. I haven’t thought about home in awhile, and it’s catching up to me,” Peter mumbles. He swipes at his eyes again and lets out a shaky breath, astonished at the depth of his own grief. A part of him wonders if anyone is left back home to bury Aunt May and that thought almost sends him into hysterics. He pauses, takes control of himself, slowly stands up. “I should let you get back to work. Thanks for letting me poke around your room."

He manages to keep himself together long enough to leave Tim and reach his room. Once the door shuts behind himself, his vision blurs with tears and he chokes out a sob. He fights it back long enough to get back to the bed before dropping down on the edge of it and covering his face with his hands. What the hell is wrong with him?

“You haven’t had time to grieve,” a voice says softly, distantly. It sounds like Shuri.

He hears his door open, footsteps, and then someone sitting beside him. Tim hugs him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Peter normally would shake off the comfort, make a joke, or do his best to not make things awkward. He's too hurt to care about that right now.

Peter stays like that for a long moment before, eventually drifting off to sleep. Tim watches him, then pulls out his phone.

BATCHAT

Tim (01:02am): dick, end your patrol early. Peter needs you.

Dick (01:03am): What’s wrong?

Tim (01:03am): he’s going through what we all went through when we first moved in. it’s probably worse for him

Tim (01:04am): you know what it’s like.

Dick (01:05am): On my way.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

When Peter wakes up, it’s to the sound of gentle snoring at the foot of the bed, and two beating hearts. One on the bed, the other beside it. He blinks down at the bed and finds Tim facedown in the blankets, asleep, as still as a log. Peter does his best to move his legs away from his sleeping friend to keep from waking him and looks over to his side, still mostly asleep.

Dick Grayson is sitting in a plush chair on the other side of Peter’s nightstand, focused on his cell phone. He’s dressed casually and looks a bit tired and vaguely stressed. Peter can only guess at how long the man has been sitting there, and hopes he didn’t sit there all night. That can’t have been a good use of his time.

Dick looks up from his phone and smiles. “Hey, Pete.”

He bites back a cough and rubs his eyes. It takes him a moment to orient himself, to recognize that the weird light coming from the windows is sunlight, and that morning has come. It takes him a second moment to realize that the tickle at the back of his throat is from a laughing fit and not a coughing one.

“Ugh,” Peter responds, his voice thick and gravelly. He slaps at his nightstand for his inhaler. Dick plucks it from the nightstand and hands it to him. Peter snatches it up, uses it, and then sighs in relief when the medicine starts to work. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Dick replies. He considers the Nightwing figure on Peter’s nightstand for a moment and picks it up, amused. “You know, they never did get this costume right.”

“They didn’t?” Peter asks, putting his inhaler down on top of the Stark radio and sitting up. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, feeling wrung out and sick. Which he is, but still, it’s a little rude for him to feel this much of it.

“Nope,” Dick says, setting the figurine down with great care. “They never bothered painting the wings across the chest. Someone I met once told me branding was pretty important for that kind of thing.”

Something tickles the back of Peter’s mind when Dick says that, but the connection doesn’t quite form. Typical for waking up with a horrific cold. “Oh. They were right.” He yawns, stretches carefully, and stares at Tim for a moment before asking, “Is he okay?”

“Tim doesn’t keep to a normal sleep schedule, and when he does sleep, it’s usually done in a way that’s, at best, vaguely concerning,” Dick replies dryly. “Trust me, he’s fine.”

"Should we move him over to his room?"

Dick shakes his head. "No. Tim’s a heavy sleeper, but he doesn’t like getting forced awake. He'll act on instinct if someone grabs him or startles him when he's asleep. His training will kick in."

"Training?" Peter asks, standing up from the bed. He tosses a blanket over Tim’s sleeping form. Tim responds by curling up inside it like a caterpillar.

"Martial arts training," Dick explains. "It's a family tradition around here."

"That's an odd tradition to have," Peter says.

"Given recent events, it's probably a good one to have," Dick says, shrugging.

Fair enough. Peter thinks on that and relaxes. "That's where he got those bruises from, isn't it? When we were changing for gym class awhile back, I saw these bruises on his ribs and...well, kind of assumed the worst."

"He had a pretty rough sparring match awhile back, yeah,” Dick says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a few bruises of my own from a little while ago.”

Peter feels himself relax. Tim’s bruises have been bothering him for awhile now. “I wondered. You guys should probably pull your punches when you spar together. That was a really nasty bruise.”

Dick’s smile turns wry. “Our sparring partners don’t always agree to that. Actually, you should think about taking some lessons with us when you’re feeling better--” His phone beeps, and Dick snatches it up, and swipes open the screen, frowning down at it. He sighs.

"What were you working on anyway?" Peter asks, silently thanking whatever god interrupted that thread of conversation.

A quick boxing match at school that doesn’t last longer than three minutes is one thing, a prolonged self defense lesson is another. He can suppress his innate fighting instincts for only so long. And given how weird his moods have been lately, that might not be the best idea. The Waynes seem to not care and accept his weird meta abilities, but they might not be so forgiving if he flings Dick through a wall on instinct.

“Moving,” Dick says simply. “I live in Blüdhaven, but my place isn’t exactly....Uh.” He pauses. “Suitable for taking in another person? It’s a little cluttered like my car, you know, kind of--”

“It’s a total dump, isn’t it?” Peter asks, amused.

“Absolute trash fire,” Dick replies with a rueful grin. Peter finds himself warming up to Dick a bit more; sure, he grew up rich and pampered, but he has the same down to earth practicality as Tim and Duke. “Anyway, I thought it would just be easier to stay in the manor instead of dragging you over to Blüdhaven. I was trying to get into touch with a friend to help me move back into the manor, but Wally isn’t answering his phone for some reason.”

Peter tilts his head. “Is that weird?”

“Very weird. Normally if I call him, he’s at my door within the hour, but he’s not answering at all. And that’s just not like him. Maybe I should call Barry,” Dick replies, speaking half to himself. He rubs at a spot on the back of his head and frowns down at this phone for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Nevermind. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Peter admits.

“Clean up and meet me in the kitchen,” Dick says, standing up from the chair and heading for the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet. And we should talk anyway.”

“Right,” Peter says. “Meet you downstairs.”

Dick smiles, nods, and shuts the door behind himself. Peter gets up and stretches, briefly touching the gunshot wound in his side. It still aches and burns, but it’s a healing ache now. Alfred’s cooking has done wonders for his healing factor, thank god. If this keeps up, he might be close to full strength in a month. Maybe less. Depending on the Joker toxin, he supposes.

He makes a mental note to look into that toxin when he gets the chance. Though where he’s going to find a lab, let alone one stocked with everything he needs, is anyone’s guess. He’ll need to find one soon, if only to get more web fluid. He can probably cobble together a cheap suit from the clothes Alfred has bought him...

He’s getting distracted. He sighs, throws the blankets over Tim’s sleeping form, and heads for the shower, curious about this person Dick wants Peter to meet.

* * *

He has his answer the moment he steps into the kitchen, still a little damp from the shower and wearing warm clothes.

Dick is sitting at the kitchen island with a beautiful woman wearing a purple coat. He perks up when Peter steps inside the kitchen and waves him over to a seat that has a steaming meal resting in front of it. Peter is eager to hop up onto the stool and grab a fork.

“There he is,” Dick says. “Kory, this is Peter. Peter, this is Kory, my girlfriend.”

The first thing Peter thinks when he meets Kory is: wow, she’s beautiful. And she is. She stands a few inches taller than Dick and carries herself with a quiet self assurance that somehow conveys both confidence and appreciative curiosity about her surroundings. Her hair is a shade of red that seems just a bit out of the range of normal human color, but is no less beautiful for all that.

Of course, he’s kind of got a thing for redheads.

The thought that follows immediately after that is: she’s meta. Her eyes are just a hair too bright, her movement just a bit too uncanny, and her heart beats a bit too fast. Oddities like that are common for meta people like him, especially those that have enhanced strength. Captain America’s heart was the same way.

Oddly, despite the faster beat, Kory’s heart seems to match Dick’s heartbeat as much as possible.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Kory says, smiling warmly at him. “You’re Dick’s son now?”

“Uh--” Peter starts, thrown by the question.

“Technically, he’s my ward,” Dick says, cutting in smoothly. “I haven’t--the paperwork is more like a guardianship. I’m responsible for Peter, but not his father. A caretaker.”

And Peter hears, distantly, a different voice sneer, “I’m a little confused as to the relationship here. What is he, your ward?”

Kory frowns at this, not quite understanding. “Like Bruce did for you?”

“Until he adopted me, yeah,” Dick replies. “Think of the tower, back when we all moved in together.”

That seems to click for her. She smiles at Peter. “I see. Well. Welcome to the family, Peter.”

"Thanks," Peter says, sitting down beside her. "What did you want to talk about, Dick?"

"I wanted to touch base with you, that’s all. You’re going through a lot. You’ve gone through a lot, too,” Dick says.

“Bruce gave me the rundown. Something about paparazzi, and--uh.” Peter pauses. “And I think I threatened him if he made me do rich people nonsense.”

“The standard threat we’ve all given him at one point or another. To his credit, he’ll do his best to protect you,” Dick says. “So will everyone else, but you’re kind of the hot topic on the internet at the moment.”

“What? Why?” Peter asks.

“You’re involved with the Waynes. It’s just something that comes with the territory, unfortunately. The press is going to have a field day over you for at least a month, assuming nothing else bombastic happens in the city,” Dick explains. “They can’t reach you here, and Alfred and Bruce and I can chase them away here at the manor, but they’re too rabid to deal with right now.”

“I would’ve thought Spider-Man would’ve been bigger news,” Peter says, squinting at one article. ‘Newest Wayne Heir: Peter Parker’. Heir? What the hell is that about? “You know, since he’s out of action after that thing with the crane.”

Dick freezes for a moment, and visibly fights back some kind of strong reaction. Anger, maybe. Definitely grief. That surprises Peter; he’s never seen Dick in Crime Alley as Spider-Man or in his regular day to day life. And he would’ve noticed him. Dick’s far too easy going and clean cut to blend in with the usual Crime Alley types.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Dick replies, his tone even and calm. Kory reaches out and gently places her hand on top of his and Dick shakes his head. “I just wanted to warn you to be careful. Not that it matters since you’re recovering from being sick.”

“Well, noted. I’m not completely clueless, believe it or not. Tony taught me some tricks awhile back.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dick asks. There’s curiosity there, but a lot more wariness. “I haven’t seen him recently.”

Shocker. Peter tilts his head, looking at Dick for a long moment. Finally, he asks, “Did Tony really sign over custody to you?"

"Would he normally do that?" Dick counters.

Peter pauses. If Tony had literally appeared in this universe, found out what Peter had done, and knew he had only a short amount of time to help Peter, then yes. Hell, Peter wouldn't be surprised if Tony wouldn’t have managed to sketch out some rough design of a transdimensional device in the process. If May were here (the thought of her name is enough to cause a burning ache in his chest), she would probably do the same thing.

But Tony wasn't at the conference. Loki was. And Peter has no idea what Loki would do.

"Believe it or not, that is an unbelievably complicated answer," Peter says.

"We're still looking for him, for the record," Dick says. “If only to tell him where you are.”

"You won’t find him," Peter says. "He's gone."

Dick frowns. “I’m pretty good at finding people. If you don’t mind telling me about him--”

His phone goes off before Peter can even think of an answer (thank god), and Dick glances at the screen, frowning at it. The name on the screen reads Barry Allen. He hesitates, glancing between the phone and Peter.

“You should take that,” Kory says. “I’ll stay with Peter.”

Dick shoots her a grateful look and stands up, grabbing his phone and patting Peter’s shoulder on his way by. He steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Peter can hear brief snatches of conversation: ‘Hi, Barry, what’s up?’ and ‘No, I haven’t seen him, I thought he was busy with you?’ before Dick’s voice fades from his hearing completely. The joys of abnormally thick and weirdly soundproof walls.

“So, Kory, where are you from?” Peter asks after a moment of awkward silence.

Kory smiles.

They spend some time speaking. By the end of it, Peter realizes he still doesn’t quite know where Kory is from, just that she lives in New York with a bunch of roommates. That works as a springboard for the rest of the conversation, at least, until she excuses herself and leaves him alone.

She seems nice.

After eating half of the meals Alfred left for him in the kitchen’s industrial sized fridge, Peter excuses himself and heads back upstairs, grabbing one last smoothie for the road. This one is green, and smells strongly of healthy vegetables, completely at odds with the strawberry banana smoothie he drank dry while speaking with Kory. He taps the door to his own room and peeks his head inside.

Tim is sitting up on his bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets Peter threw across him earlier, clearly half asleep. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are open to bare slits. Judging by his heartbeat and breathing, he just woke up.

"Dude, you look like a zombie," Peter says by way of greeting, walking into his room.

Tim’s response is a grunt.

“I brought you a smoothie,” Peter says. “Since I don’t think you had dinner last night.”

Another grunt. A three second pause, and then Tim slithers a hand out from under the blankets and reaches for the smoothie.

Peter is beyond amused and a little concerned. He hands Tim the drink and flops down across his bed, sinking into it. It’s way too soft. He wonders if Alfred would be insulted if he found Peter sleeping on the floor.

Tim drinks his smoothie, gradually waking up. He watches Peter carefully. “How do you feel?”

Peter shrugs, and aims for honesty. “I’m good until the next mental breakdown hits.”

He’s only half joking. He feels okay now, but he’s also tired, and a little jittery from the inhaler. He can’t remember his dreams, but the thought of them sets his teeth on edge. He’s exhausted and needs sleep, but he knows the moment he closes his eyes, he’ll be dragged over the coals by his own memories. That’s going to spell disaster sooner or later.

“I know how that feels,” Tim says, taking a deep drink. “As a heads up, I might get a little, uh, focused over the next few days.”

“Yeah, it seemed like you were super into your project last night. What were you working on?”

Tim pulls his phone out of the blanket cocoon and swipes it open. It’s much more high tech than Peter’s, filled with apps that look to be custom made. Peter idly wonders if Tim and Ned would have been friends if they’d had the chance to meet.

The grief that follows that though sours his mood a little.

“Just checking up on a friend I haven’t heard from in awhile. Then I got sidetracked by something else,” Tim says, holding out his phone. There’s an image of a tall, broad shouldered teenager standing in front of a modest farm house near a field of sunflowers. A kid sits on his shoulders; the two look like brothers, and both of them are wearing shirts with Superman’s symbol across the front. They look like brothers. “This is Conner. He’s my best friend. He sent me this a month ago when he and his brother went to visit their grandparents. It’s the last I’ve heard from him.”

Peter is fascinated by the turns of fate that allowed an over-caffeinated old money genius to become best friends with a Kansas farm boy who looks able and willing to juggle a herd of cows with one hand tied behind his back. Actually, he looks weirdly familiar.

Peter squints at the picture. "He kinda looks like Superman.”

"He gets that a lot,” Tim says. He drains the rest of the smoothie down, and stands, leaving Peter’s blankets behind. “I should let you rest and get some coffee.”

“Sure. Go easy on the coffee,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn.

“No,” Tim says, walking for the door. He hesitates at the doorway for a moment. “Hey.”

Peter, already half buried in the blankets, blinks up at Tim.

“Call me or Duke if you need anything, all right?” Tim says. “I might be distracted, but I’m still here if you need me.”

“I know,” Peter says. He pauses. “Thanks for putting up with me last night.”

“I don’t ‘put up’ with family,” Tim explains patiently. He pauses. “Minus Damian, I guess, but also not really. Anyway, don’t think like that. You’re not a burden, Peter.”

“Nightwing said the same thing to me once,” Peter says, amused. “He told me you’d say that, too.”

“Nightwing’s a pretty smart guy,” Tim says, with an air of familiarity that’s surprising to Peter. He pauses again and adds, “And he’s right.”

He leaves after that, stepping through Peter’s door and shutting it behind himself as he goes. Peter stretches out on the bed, annoyed by how exhausted he feels. He got up, showered, ate, and spoke to three whole people and he’s ready for a nap. Is this how old people feel? God, this sucks.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand, and he grabs it on autopilot.

New Message

Dick: Hey, sorry I left in such a hurry. I’m going to be a little busy moving back to the manor, but I’m here if you need me. Day or night. Okay?

Peter: yeah, got it! Good luck with your move!

Okay, so that wasn’t the most elegant or smoothest end to a conversation, but he couldn’t just leave Dick on read. Peter sets his phone down on the nightstand, gently bumps fists with the Nightwing figurine, and then turns out the light.

His room is dark, quiet, and warm. He sleeps.

And dreams of his family.

* * *

His cold lessens by the hour; after a little bit of good rest and better food, Peter finds himself almost back to full strength. If it wasn’t for the occasional burst of laughing seizures, he’d be back to normal. Or, at least, normal enough to start up his patrols again.

The problem is this: good rest means he’s no longer distracted by hunger and exhaustion. His temper becomes hotter and sharper. Harder to control. It’s strong enough to pull him out of a sound sleep.

His dreams about May and Ben become nightly affairs. They’re not quite nightmares, but they aren’t pleasant either.

They end with May trying to speak with him. It almost feels too real for a mere dream.

* * *

The nightmares become a problem two days into his new life with the Waynes. To his utter shock, they aren’t made uncomfortable by his screaming nightmares. In fact, they’re treated as almost routine, as if each of them expected this or has personal experience with nightmares of their own. Maybe that’s true.

He’d bet good money that they definitely don’t have the same nightmares as he does.

He dreams of Ben and May. Of Titan. Of the Vulture. He sees the Joker grinning at him from the shadows, bloody crowbar in hand. The worst nightmares are a combination of all of the above. And the absolute worst ones are chased away by indistinct figures wreathed in orange and gold. Peter gets the sense they hurt themselves doing this.

He starts to avoid sleeping. Not a lot; his body is just too beaten up and exhausted to allow much insomnia. Just enough that the nightmares stop becoming a nightly occurrence because he’s simply not sleeping on a nightly basis. He’s balancing his mental health against his physical health at the moment and feels as though he’s walking a tightline between two separate disasters.

Not exactly an elegant solution, but a solution nonetheless.

* * *

“You should sleep, man,” Duke says. He invited himself into Peter’s room a few minutes ago. It’s the first thing he’s said to Peter, and unfortunately, it sets off a level of aggravated annoyance that Peter’s wholly unprepared to hide.

“No,” Peter says. He’s been pacing his room for hours now, staving off sleep minutes at a time. His tone is sharper than he intends, and his fists are clenched at his sides, and he’s moving just a hair too quick for a normal human. If Duke wasn’t currently in the room, he would literally be crawling the walls to stave off sleep for just a few more minutes.

That he can’t indulge in his weird spider instincts is another annoyance to pile on top of the others. Including the sound of the rain tapping his window, the sound of Duke’s heartbeat, and the sound of electricity running through the walls. If he was less tired, he’d recognize the telltale sign for an impending migraine; oversensitivity is usually a big clue for him.

Duke is quiet for a moment, clearly concerned, and then tries again.

“Peter, seriously, I think you should lay down at least--”

Peter crosses the room, grabs Duke by his shirt, and slams him against the wall before he realizes what he’s doing. He glares up at Duke. The anger is quickly boiling over into a simmering rage. His vision actually starts to turn red; a thing he never thought possible before.

Distantly, a voice calls to him. Something golden from far away shouts, “Peter! Enough!”

It sounds like T’Challa, calling out across a fathomless void. It distracts Peter away from his tantrum long enough to realize how tired he is, and that drains away more of his anger.

Duke is watching him warily, and with a steady, almost unnerving amount of calm. Either people lose their sh*t on him constantly or he’s not very impressed with Peter’s tantrum. Peter sets him down gently and takes several big steps back, covering his face with his hands, breathing in deep, heavy gasps. A few come out in chuckles, and he takes that for the warning it is. He staggers over to his nightstand, snatches up the inhaler, and uses it to head off the crazed laughter. He stays hunched over his nightstand, dropping the inhaler down with a heavy sigh.

A very tense silence follows.

Duke hasn’t moved from where Peter set him down. His heart rate is elevated, and so is breathing, but only from dwindling shock. Peter’s spider sense isn’t touching off, but well. It hasn’t pinged against anyone in this house. Peter sighs.

“I need to be left alone right now,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. It comes out harsh and bitter at the edges. After a few seconds, he grinds, “Please.”

Duke says nothing. He simply leaves, gently shutting the door behind himself as he goes. Peter lets out a long sigh and holds his head in his hands.

What the f*ck was that all about?

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (11:20pm): Dick, where are you?

Dick (11:22pm): Crime Alley. Bane broke out of prison, Jason and I are trying to track him down.

Dick (11:23pm): Correction: I’m trying to track him down. Jason might actually kill him.

Duke (11:24pm): Peter needs you. Drop the patrols for awhile.

Dick (11:25pm): What happened?

Steph (11:26pm): A pit reaction. A pretty bad one, but Peter controlled himself.

Dick (11:27pm): Where is he now?

Steph (11:29pm): asleep. Cass is keeping an eye on him right now.

Dick (11:28pm): I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Jason (11:32pm): What’s that old phrase? History repeats itself?

Jason (11:34pm): How many times did Bruce leave you alone in that manor to go chase the f*cking Joker when you were a kid?

Dick (11:46pm): Point made.

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

BATCHAT

Dick (12:06am): I’m here. Heading upstairs now. Status?

Duke (12:07am): he’s calmed down

Steph (12:08am): did he really stop in the middle of a pit reaction?

Duke (12:09am): one of his ghosts distracted him

Steph (12:10am): his ghosts are back?

Duke (12:11am): not sure, but one was close enough to help

Dick (12:12am): Good to know. I’ll take it from here.

* * *

Peter isn't surprised when he hears a gentle knock on his door barely an hour after Duke left. He half expects it to be Alfred, coming in to gently shoo him off with a couple of police officers.

"Come in," Peter says, mentally preparing himself for whatever’s coming next.

The door opens and shuts on nearly silent hinges. Peter turns to face the door, and is surprised to watch Dick walk in, alone, freshly dressed and with utter confidence and concern.

"Hi, Pete," he says, sitting down on the edge of Peter’s bed. He’s completely calm, as if he’s had to come talk to some teenager losing his sh*t on a regular basis. "It sounds like you're having a rough night."

Peter winces. “A little, yeah.” He pauses, and asks, “Is Duke--”

“He’s okay. His arm’s a little sore, but he’ll be fine.,” Dick says, shrugging. He watches Peter. “I’m more worried about you. You don’t seem like a violent kind of guy.”

Buddy, you have no idea, Peter thinks. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve always kind of had a temper. It’s gotten worse since I came to Gotham. I’ve never lost control like that before, though...”

“The Joker toxin probably has more to do with that than you think. And the lack of sleep,” Dick says. “Trust me, if you get tired enough, you’ll start suspecting everyone is out to get you. Sleep deprivation is hell.”

“I’ve been sleep deprived before,” Peter mutters, walking over to sit down on his bed. Dick gives him space, watching him intently.

Dick pauses, glancing at the streak of white hair above Peter’s right temple. “I think you might be dealing with more than just a horrible cold and sleep deprivation, Pete.”

“You could say that,” Peter mutters.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve had my share of those,” Dick says. “If you feel like sharing...”

Peter glances at him from the corner of his eye. He debates on telling him everything: Titan, the weird tube thing he woke up inside, Wonder Woman, Superman, all of it. In the end, he decides against it. Dick is a good man, and patient and kind, and he’s given Peter a life he literally could not imagine having otherwise, asking nothing in return. If he believes Peter--a pretty hefty if, all things considered--then he’ll probably start to treat Peter differently. If he doesn’t believe Peter, then he’ll likely have him committed. Oh, sure, Peter could prove the Spider-Man thing pretty easily, but the dimension stuff? Dying and coming back? More than once? That’s a harder sell.

He settles for a simpler version of the truth: “I keep dreaming about people I’ve lost.”

“Your family?”

“Mostly, yeah, but other things, too. My home. My friends.” A brief pause. “I keep thinking about what happened to them.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, folding his hands in his lap, thinking. After a moment, he turns to face Peter.

"I know you’ve gone through something terrible," Dick says simply. "I know you asked Bruce to not pry into your history--and the fact that he listened to you is amazing, frankly--but a few things are easy to guess."

“Yeah?”

“You just confirmed a few of my suspicions,” Dick says. “I know you’ve lost a lot. I know you’re grieving. I know that grief and anger typically go hand in hand.”

“I don’t--” Peter starts. And stops.

He recalls some pretty...well. He wouldn’t call them tantrums, exactly, but whatever they were, they were rough. Most of them happened right around the time Uncle Ben died. There was one ugly incident where he trashed his bedroom, felt terrible about it, and then hid in his room until May came in and talked to him.

“When I lost my parents, the only thing I could think of was revenge. I was angry for a long time, more than I realized. I didn’t realize how much of that grief came from guilt,” Dick says simply. “Because I lived, and they didn’t. I was furious over it. It wasn't fair. I was angry for a long, long time."

Peter falters, grasping for words. He’s not sure how to explain this to Dick. He’s looked up Dick Grayson since his questionably legal adoption, and he knows the man’s history. He suspects Dick would understand his grief and guilt.

Still, he’s not sure how to describe to Dick that he’s living in two different dimensions at the same time: some part of his mind is constantly reliving his death on Titan, his fight with Gotham’s rogues, his fight with the Vulture, and the night his uncle died. All at once, over and over, endlessly, as much a part of himself as his arm or leg. Most of Peter is living in the here and now, but that one piece, whether its at a whisper or deafening roar, will always be there. All he has to do is think of it and he'll snap back to any one of those points in his timeline.

Peter stares past Dick, feeling his cheeks burn hot with frustration and anger. Finally, he says, “I have no right to survive when everyone else died. I shouldn’t have come back at all. I should’ve--”

It goes on in that vein for awhile. Dick doesn’t interrupt or press for details (thank god), he simply listens. Something Peter’s needed for longer than he’d like to admit; without May or Ned or even his AI, Karen, he’s been bottling up a lot more than usual.

Dick doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask for clarification (thank god, Peter would be hard pressed to explain some of his word vomit), and he doesn’t tell Peter that he has no reason to feel guilty. It’s refreshing.

Eventually, he talks himself out. Dick wordlessly ushers him into bed and tucks the blankets over him.

“I didn’t understand all of that,” Dick says quietly. “But I think you’ll explain it when you’re ready. I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of Titan, for example.”

“It was a place. And a person,” Peter says sleepily.

“Right. When you’re ready, I’ll listen to the full story. For now, just get some rest, okay?”

Peter, already half asleep, murmurs. “I just don’t want the bad dreams to come back.”

Dick sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’ll stay close tonight, all right? Just in case.”

Peter considers that for a moment. Finally, he says, “You know, I think Nightwing would like you.”

And then he falls asleep.

* * *

Dick pulls the blankets over Peter, tucking him in. He does it casually, as if he’s done it a dozen times before. Mostly because he has. Between Jason, Tim, and Damian, he’s got plenty of experience. It feels a little different now that he's illegally named himself the main caretaker for an entire human being. One who's clearly died and come back, no less.

Speaking of the dead...

There’s no way this could work, but it’s worth a shot.

Dick looks around the room slowly, tucks his hands in his pockets, and then says, very casually, “I’d like to talk to Sam, please.”

A minute passes, and nothing happens. Dick sighs, and starts to head for the door---

A gentle flash of gold illuminates the room, and Sam Wilson appears in the corner, casually leaning against Peter’s desk. He’s fuzzy at the edges, surrounded by a golden, partially translucent aura. He’s wearing some kind of super suit; red and silver armor, with red tinged glasses similar to what the Flash wears. One arm crosses his chest, the other ends at his elbow, though Dick can see hints of it where it should be. There’s a steady nobility to the man that instantly reminds Dick of Clark, and his wariness subsides. A bit.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Grayson?” Sam asks. His tone is polite, good humored, and carries an accent. Louisiana, maybe?

“Gimme a sec, I didn’t expect that to work,” Dick says.

“Try not to take too long, I’m kind of breaking a few rules doing this,” Sam says. His voice is easy and calm, but it sounds off somehow. Not quite echoing, as if coming over a very cheap phone line or across a massive chasm. “Dr. Strange can’t keep this up for long.”

Dick’s stomach drops, and he feels his shoulders and arms tense. “Hugo Strange?”

Sam frowns at him, confused, and shakes his head. “Stephen Strange. Listen, focus. There’s limits to this and you need to know them.”

“What kind of limits?” Dick asks.

“I can answer one question before I have to head back,” Sam says. Flecks of gold and orange flake off of him and drift away into nothingness behind him. Dick has the disconcerting feeling that Sam is burning himself alive to have this conversation. An odd thought to have for a ghost. “And I can’t give you an answer Peter doesn’t want you to hear. We’re all kind of under his power, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

“Right, okay,” Dick says slowly. He’s gone through a lot of weird things in his life. Talking to a superhero’s ghost isn’t that weird, really, and Wayne Manor has been haunted in one form or another ever since he was a kid. That said, it is a little weird to see a literal ghost in his childhood home. “How do I help Peter?”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, as if listening to someone else that Dick can’t see. Finally, he says, “Tell him to listen to his aunt the next time he falls asleep.”

And then he disappears, fading away back into nothing.

Dick stares at the empty spot where Sam stood moments before, thinking. Finally, he settles into the chair he sat in a couple of days ago and leans back in it, thinking.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (02:09am): everything okay?

Dick (02:10am): He’s asleep. I think we made some progress.

Dick (02:11am): Lots of guilt. I don’t know exactly what for. It’s more than just survivor’s guilt.

Dick (02:13am): Help him if you guys can, okay?

Duke (02:14am): you don’t even need to ask

Barbara (02:15am): Sorry to interrupt, guys. Dick, Bruce is on his way back to Gotham.

Barbara (02:16am): He says he needs to talk with you.

* * *

By the time Peter wakes up tomorrow, Dick is long gone. A note sits next to his inhaler:

Meeting with Bruce, will be back tonight. Be kind to yourself, okay?

-Dick

Peter considers the note for a moment, sets it aside, and uses his inhaler. His cold is all but gone now; the food alone has given him the energy he needs to fight it back. The bullet wound in his side twinges and seizes up every now and then, but that’s more of an annoyance rather than the white hot agony of the initial wound. Or even the tooth grinding pain he experienced when he jostled it in Tim’s car.

He doesn’t quite isolate himself the next day. He gets up, he showers, he eats his weight in food, but he doesn’t linger and chat with Alfred or anyone else in the kitchen. He heads back into his room and sits on the floor, staring at the murky winter sky outside his windows, watching the snow and brooding. A knock at his door brings him out of his thoughts. He turns to face it as Stephanie pushes the door open, stepping inside as if invited.

“I come bearing gifts,” Steph announces. She drops a backpack on his desk. It lands with a very loud and slightly intimidating thump. “Your homework.”

“Homework?” Peter asks, dumbfounded, staring at the backpack. And then it clicks and he groans. “Oh god. School.”

“Yeah, school is still a thing, unfortunately,” Steph says, amused by his reaction. She jumps up and sits on the edge of the desk, idly kicking her legs a little. “Alfred’s called you in sick for the next week. There’s a lot of catch up work to do.”

“Wonderful,” Peter mumbles, walking over to the backpack. He lifts it up and blinks at the weight. “What the f*ck.”

“Welcome to finals season,” Steph says brightly. She laughs at his look of despair and nudges his shoulder lightly. “Duke, and I are hosting a study session in the living room. Wanna join us?”

He blinks. He’s surprised they want anything to do with him after his midnight sh*t fit. “Uh, are you--”

“Yes, we’re sure,” Steph says. At his startled look, she continues, “You aren’t the first person to lose their temper in this house, Peter. You’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I lost my mind on Duke. He was just trying to help,” Peter mutters.

“He’s heard worse.”

“Wow, that does not make me feel better.”

Steph shrugs, her eyes softening. “Peter, you’ve gone through a special kind of hell. You’re finally somewhere safe enough for you to let out all the emotional baggage you’ve been piling up for god knows how long because you were focused on survival. No one thinks less of you for being upset."

Well, that does help. He still feels bad, though. He’ll find Duke and apologize to him later.

Steph continues. “And, honestly? That was a small time tantrum. Bottom of the scale, frankly.”

Peter pauses and squints at her. “Are you calling my midnight breakdown low tier?”

Steph gives him a sober look, places her hand on his shoulder, and says, earnestly, "I'm afraid you're going to have to up your tantrum game if you're going to be a Wayne kid, Peter. We're the best of the best when it comes to dramatic breakdowns. You can’t make us look bad. At this rate, you’ll never beat Jason’s tantrum spirals."

Peter stares at her.

She smirks and winks at him.

That startles a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe that’s actually making me feel better.”

"What can I say, I've got a gift," Steph says, bumping shoulders with him. "Come on, if we go now, we can get the comfy chairs."

Peter grins after her, picking up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder as he follows her out into the hallway. He half expects Steph to bring him to some massive, opulent library or study. Instead, she brings him to a large, but reasonably sized and decorated living room. Couches, sofas, and chairs fill the area, and a large flat screen is mounted to one wall. The furniture looks well worn and comfortable, as if they see near constant use.

Steph flops across one of the couches. Her homework and notes already cover most of it. After a moment, Peter sits down on the other end of the couch and opens up the backpack. Paperwork almost immediately pops out of it when he does so.

“There is no way I’m going to be ready for finals,” Peter mutters. It also seems hilariously unfair that he has to worry about academics now, too. He’s already two steps away from losing his sh*t permanently, dammit.

“That’s why we’re having a study group,” Duke says, strolling into the room and sitting down on the couch between Peter and Steph. He grins at Peter, just as friendly as ever, and opens his own backpack. “Steph and I figured we’d help you catch up.”

“Oh,” Peter says, a little overwhelmed. “Is Tim coming, too?”

“He already took his exams,” Steph says.

“You can do that?”

“When you’re Tim Drake, yes,” Duke remarks dryly. “Come on, if we start now, we can finish up your homework by dinner.”

They get to work. Steph keeps the mood light with an occasional joke or simply by breaking the tense silence. Duke doesn’t treat him any differently than he did before. The study session goes by quickly and easily (god, Peter is so far behind on school work it isn’t even funny).

At the end of it, Steph slips off to grab a drink from the kitchen, and Duke packs up his homework and starts back towards his bedroom down the hall. Peter taps his pen against his notebook for a long moment. Finally, he sweeps his homework and books into his backpack and jogs down the hall after him.

“Hey, about last night,” Peter says, catching up to Duke. Duke stops in the hallway and turns to face him, tilting his head slightly. Peter sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. Or hurt you. I--I’ve never lost control like that before.” He pauses for a moment. “And you really didn’t deserve that. You were just trying to help.”

Duke glances at the white streak in Peter’s hair, then at some distant point over his shoulder. After a moment, he smiles. “Apology accepted. I didn’t realize you were that upset or I would’ve given you some space.”

“Man, I didn’t even realize I was that upset,” Peter says, relieved. “I promise I won’t lose my sh*t on you again.”

“And I won’t come barging into your room without warning anymore,” Duke says. He holds out his hand. Peter clasps it and almost starts his handshake he usually uses with Ned. He stops at the last second.

“Deal,” Peter says. “Are you ready for finals?”

“Hell no,” Duke says cheerfully, walking with Peter to his room. “You?”

“I literally haven’t thought about school in weeks,” Peter admits.

“That’s the spirit,” Duke says. “Who needs school work when you’re a hero anyway, right?”

Peter blinks at him.

“You know. Because you saved Damian and Alfred?” Duke says. He raises an eyebrow. “That does make you a hero. And kind of a big deal.”

“Oh. I guess I’m not used to it,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his head. “Usually when someone talks about heroes around me it’s about someone else. Like Spider-Man or someone.”

“Did a lot of people talk about Spider-Man around you?” Duke asks, tilting his head.

Peter shrugs. “No more than anyone else in Crime Alley.”

Duke hums, thoughtful. “I never got to meet him.”

“I mean, that’s probably for the best. He lived in Crime Alley,” Peter points out. “You really don’t have a reason to be in that part of town.”

“More than you’d think,” Duke says. He checks his watch. “Hey, has anyone given you a tour of this place yet?”

“No, not yet,” Peter admits.

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Duke says, smiling. “That should last until dinner.”

“Dinner is in like an hour. There’s no way it’ll take that long,” Peter says, amused

Duke smirks. “Wanna bet?”

* * *

It takes longer than an hour. Eventually, Duke excuses himself, and Peter heads back to his room, exhausted and a tiny bit overwhelmed. He can feel an itch at the back of his throat and a rising frustration that has nothing to do with anyone, and decides to skip out on dinner entirely. The last thing he wants to do is have one of his fits during family dinner.

Peter uses his inhaler, then stalks his room, agitated and annoyed, fighting back a wave of anger he doesn’t fully understand the source of. It isn’t anywhere close to the near blinding rage he experienced last night, but it’s still there.

It doesn’t make sense! He’s safe now. He has more food than he could ever hope to eat at once, a warm bed, he’s surrounded by people who care about him to a baffling degree, and his wounds are healing. He should be fine. He is fine.

So why the nightmares? Why the constant, grinding anger?

A knock at his door draws him out of his thoughts, creating a flash of annoyance that quickly melts away. He rubs his eyes, takes in a slow breath while counting to ten, and then walks over to the door and opens it.

Dick is on the other side, holding a covered dish and one of Alfred’s smoothies. He smiles at Peter.

“Hey, Pete. Alfred said you missed dinner,” Dick says. He holds up the covered dish and walks inside, setting it and the smoothie down on Peter’s desk. “Which, for the record, you shouldn’t miss.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Peter admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The food smells incredible, and when Dick raises the dish cover and reveals the steak, vegetables, and baked potato underneath, he has to fight back the urge to grab the plate and skitter up the nearest wall to devour it.

Okay, so his spider instincts are starting to drift back. That could get awkward.

“Eat up,” Dick says. “There’s more downstairs if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. “How was the meeting with Bruce? He’s in and out of this place every other day.”

Dick sighs, reaching up to rub his temple. “He wanted to give me some bad news, that’s all.”

“Bad news?”

“Bruce has a lot of unspoken expectations placed on him by the city,” Dick explains. “One of them is supporting clean up efforts for Crime Alley. He’s been working on it for decades, with varying degrees of success. Believe it or not, it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

Peter stares at him, horrified. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dick says. “Anyway, there’s fresh public support for another renewal effort in the wake of Spider-Man’s death. It’s an opportunity he can’t really ignore, especially with the Mayor trying to win back some support after that school or jail law that was passed a few months back. Bruce can’t really say no without disappointing a lot of people, so he’s going to host a Spider Alley memorial fund.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Peter says after a moment, mildly overwhelmed by his ‘death’ causing so much ripple effect changes so quickly.

“I’m not,” Dick says. “He’ll host a ball or a gala or--honestly I’ve never gotten the names straight for these things--and invite in the rich and well to do and try to convince them to match whatever donation he’ll put towards it. Most of them are just going to treat it as a way to rub shoulders with one another.”

“Oh,” Peter says.

Dick shakes his head. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. I just wanted to talk with you really quick.”

“Sure,” Peter says, sitting at his desk and grabbing the knife and fork for his meal. “As long as you don’t mind me eating for most of it.”

“Not at all,” Dick says, leaning against the wall near the door. He crosses his arms and frowns, as if trying to decide how to best approach a topic. “I wanted to ask you about your nightmares, if that’s okay?”

Peter’s appetite dims a little. He pauses, but nods.

“Are any of them about your family?” Dick asks.

Peter scoffs. “They’re all about my family. More or less. Usually my aunt and uncle.”

Dick nods, going quiet. After a moment, he starts to speak quietly. “You know, I had dreams like that after my parents died. I kept forcing myself awake whenever they started. It was hard waking up and remembering they were gone.”

Peter frowns, setting his fork down. That’s exactly why he’s been avoiding sleep. Dreaming about Ben and May consoling him after his parents’ death, only to wake up and realize they’re gone has been too much for his already wounded psyche.

Dick presses on, his tone gentle. “Eventually, that stopped working. I needed to sleep. And it hurt having dreams about them at first, but eventually, I started to have dreams about the good times we had together. And eventually, I had dreams that weren’t memories at all. It was like my parents were there.”

Peter tilts his head, looking up at him. “What were they like?”

“Upsetting, at first,” Dick admits. “More upsetting than the others, but then they weren’t. I dreamt I showed them my new home, my new family. They were happy for me. I think it was just my mind’s way of handling the grief, but it helped. A lot more than I expected, really.”

Peter frowns at him, going quiet.

Dick doesn’t say anything for a moment, then sighs. “Anyway, just keep it in mind. A little bird told me listening to advice from your family is a good idea. Even if that family is gone.”

Peter thinks on that for a moment and nods. “Okay. I’ll, uh. Keep that in mind.” A pause. “And I guess I can’t avoid sleeping forever...”

“Preferably not,” Dick says. “

Peter taps his plate, clears his throat, and nods. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” Another pause. “Thanks. I know this is probably a lot more than you signed up for--”

“No, it isn’t,” Dick cuts in gently. He pats Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it for a moment. “Eat up. I’m going to go check in on Duke and Damian.”

“Right. Thanks,” Peter says.

Dick gives him one last reassuring squeeze, and then leaves, shutting the door behind himself. Peter stares at the wall, thinking over Dick’s works while he finishes his dinner. He should take the plate downstairs and wash it, but he decides against it. The food has helped stabilize his mood and also made him realize just how exhausted he is.

After fighting it for longer than is necessary, Peter lays down on his bed. A short nap, and maybe those nightmares won’t find him. Or maybe they’ll be like Dick said, and they won’t bother him as much?

One can dream.

In this case, literally.

Chapter 35

Chapter Text

He knows this dream.

Peter sits in his bedroom, beneath a window gone white with snow. He's not eight years old anymore, and he knows Uncle Ben won't come in to talk. In fact, that’s the reason why his bedroom is currently a disaster area. The full memory is fuzzy, but he remembers the salient points: coming home from school, calling out to Ben out of pure habit, realizing he’s gone, and then--

And then something like a tantrum. Frustration and anger and tears, and not much else. His room is a disaster; clothes, books, some broken Lego models, and a few other things cover the floor. The result of his grief induced tantrum.

He’s dreamt of this place and time dozens of times, but it’s different. It's more real. Steady. Logical in the way his dreams get when he taps into something inside him that brings out ghosts. He’s also older in this dream that he would be if he was reliving his memory. He’s sixteen, not fourteen, and he sits taller.

Before he can contemplate what that might mean, he feels someone appear beside him.

May Parker sits beside him, as real and present as if she were alive. She smiles at him, warm and sad, and pulls him into a protective hug that feels real, too. Peter melts into her hug, clinging to her and burying his face against her shoulder.

“Hey, you,” she says quietly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Again?” he asks, leaning back out of the hug.

“You don’t remember? You came back to the apartment before,” May says. “Back when you were first figuring out how to use your new power. Honestly, that was a little weird, but Sam explained the whole soul stone thing to me. What’s weirder is that I think he came to talk to me with someone else.”

Peter frowns at her. And then he winces. “New power? I don’t know what you’re--”

“Yes, you do,” May says patiently. “You do know. You’ve been pretending you don’t. And apparently you’ve done it so well that you’ve almost forgotten.”

Peter can’t deny that. May knows all of his tells; he couldn’t even hide being Spider-Man from her for very long. And he was arguably failing at that even when she didn’t suspect he was Spider-Man. She knew he was sneaking out of school and out of the apartment almost the moment he started doing it.

"With great power, there must also come great responsibility," May tells him patiently. "You know this already, Peter. Remember?"

Peter’s room shifts, changes. He finds himself watching a memory. The day he met Tony Stark.

"If you can stop the bad thing, but you don't, then the bad things happen because of you," his younger self tells Tony.

Tony looks away, thoughtful. After a moment, he claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder and almost smiles.

"But I never wanted this," Peter tells May. In his hand is a stone the size of his palm, glowing orange and emitting a strange heat. The light rises and falls in time with his heartbeat. “Not this stone thing. That’s too much for one person.”

"I know. But you have it anyway," May says, her tone understanding but firm. “You have a gift, Peter. And you have a responsibility to use it. A responsibility you’ve been avoiding.”

Peter frowns, going silent. “So, where is this thing, anyway? Like, I have it, but how? I can kind of feel this ‘orange’ thing inside me, but...”

“You might have to ask an expert for that one, kiddo,” May says.

Fair enough. Despite his childhood beliefs, May probably doesn’t have an answer to every problem in his life. “I don’t know how to use it.”

“Neither do I, but I think you’ll figure it out.”

“That’s like trying to figure out nuclear fission,” Peter mutters. “Where do you even start with that?”

“The first thing you should do is rest,” May says. “Give yourself a chance to heal, and then forgive yourself.”

“Forgive myself?”

“For surviving,” May says gently. “The rest will come in time.”

Peter goes quiet. That’s a big ask; he’s felt guilty for surviving ever since he was a kid. First with his parents, then with Ben, now with--well. A whole universe, apparently. He looks up at her. “You’re really her, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m really me,” May says, smiling. “Larb and all.”

He grins a little in spite of himself. The conversation enters a quiet lull; his bedroom shifts around them. Tony disappears. Peter’s younger self disappears. The desk is replaced with something nicer. A bunk bed replaces the twin sized bed pressed against the wall; something he asked of May so Ned could comfortably stay the night during their weekends together.

“Do you forgive me for surviving?” he asks her.

“Yes,” May says immediately.

Her voice is sincere, gentle, and firm. She means it. Peter feels himself relax just a bit.

"What do we do when we get knocked down?" May asks him after a moment.

"We get back up," Peter answers. He hesitates. “Can you stay?”

She smiles sadly. “No. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

He isn’t surprised, but the disappointment is overwhelming. “Not even if I learn how to use the Soul Stone?”

“Not even then. I don’t know the details, but I'm only here because your friends brought me here. The guy with the cape, mostly.”

“Dr. Strange,” Peter says, frowning. “I didn’t think he was strong enough to do that.”

“He said he was getting help from the other side, whatever that means.” She pauses. “I guess I did pass by a chain smoking British man earlier. Either way, honey, I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

He considers that for a long moment, and then frowns at her. “I don’t want to wake up and remember you’re gone again.”

She has no response to that. May pulls him into a warm hug and simply holds him.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, it isn’t done by screaming, sobbing, or laughing. He simply wakes up, safe and warm in his bed. He still has to use his inhaler, and cough up half of a lung, but physically and emotionally, he seems...

Well, ‘better’ may not be the correct word, but it’s the closest he’s got. On the mend, maybe? His side aches, but it aches less than it did yesterday. More of an annoying bruise rather than a bone deep wound. He stretches, yawns, and wanders over to the window, idly pushing aside the curtain to look outside.

It’s snowing. Just like in his dream, when May--

The memory and grief hit him both at roughly the same time. He wavers, caught between the two. Eventually, the memory of May’s arms around him wins out over the grief from losing her, and he leaves the window to go shower and start his day. He still has homework to do, and wounds to recover from.

He spends the better part of two weeks recovering. Eating, sleeping, gradually learning to control the weird fury inside him. None of the others in the manor reacts if he excuses himself to pace the halls or wander through the snow covered garden outside of the manor. The latter is usually only briefly tolerated by Alfred or Dick, who chase him back inside within ten minutes of his idle walk, much to Peter’s annoyance.

He sticks inside after that. Gotham’s constant rain and snow make for poor walking weather, anyway.

* * *

Finals come and go; Peter doesn’t see Felicia during it, which is a disappointment. Bruce wanders through the manor occasionally, brooding and serious in a way that does not fit his playboy persona in the least; Peter keeps his distance. Peter grows stronger and healthier by the day; his healing factor kicks into overdrive, and the weight he’s lost to too much exercise and not enough food gradually returns. Not to the point where he was when he first came to Gotham, but arguably close.

After finals, he’s on winter break. His cold is all but gone, and steady use of the inhaler has kept the Joker toxin inside him from becoming an issue. Everyone in the Wayne family seems to scatter; Steph stops coming over after finals, Duke disappears at daybreak and only comes in sometime near the evening, Dick, Bruce, and Tim all disappear at various points of the day. Of those three, Peter can count on one hand how often he’s seen Tim. Damian, still suffering from a brutal cold himself, wanders the manor with his service dog when he’s allowed out of bed at all.

Peter is, for the most part, left to his own devices. He tries reading. Watching TV. After two days, he’s bored out of his mind. Sitting still has never been his strong suit, and with his renewed health comes renewed spider instincts: he’s fidgety at the best of times, and without something to occupy his hands--

Oh. There’s an idea. Peter grabs a book and heads down to the kitchen.

Alfred finds him washing dishes out of sheer boredom.

"You realize that's my job, yes?" Alfred asks, his tone dry and amused.

"You realize I'm never going to get used to that, right?" Peter replies.

The silence that follows his question lasts long enough that Peter turns to look at the butler. Alfred stands near Peter, sleeves rolled up, dish towel in hand, smiling at him. His expression is soft; a look of fond nostalgia and amusem*nt.

"Master Richard said those very same words to me when he was your age," Alfred says after a moment. "Forgive me. I'm becoming sentimental in my old age."

"He seems like a nice guy," Peter says, handing the last freshly washed dish over to Alfred from the sink. “I’m surprised he went through all the trouble to take me in.”

Alfred hums in thought, drying the dish carefully before setting it aside. “I think you’ll find it much less surprising as time goes on. What do you want for lunch?”

Peter drains the water and shrugs. “Whatever you’re making. I’m not exactly picky these days.”

“Lentil soup, then,” Alfred says.

Peter dries his hands, and takes a seat at the kitchen island. He picks up his book and idly pages through it while Alfred begins to cook. Eventually, a foot step--one so silent Peter barely hears it--draws him out of his reading and he looks up to find himself under the careful scrutiny of Damian Wayne. The boy eyes him for a moment before sitting in the stool beside him.

“Good afternoon, Master Damian,” Alfred says warmly.

“Alfred,” Damian replies, clearly half asleep. He looks at Peter, focusing on the book in his hands. “Parker. What are you reading?”

Peter closes the book and shows Damian the cover. He’s just finished reading it for the third time, so he doesn’t mind the interruption. "Watership Down. It's one of my favorites. It's about a group of rabbits finding a new home after their old one is destroyed."

"Ah, an excellent book,” Alfred says from the counter. He makes a vague gesture with the knife he’s using to chop vegetables. “Your father loved it as well, Damian."

Damian squints at the book cover. "Father's favorite book as a child is about rabbits?"

"Yes," Alfred says, amused by Damian's disbelieving look. He pauses in the middle of chopping vegetables. "There was one particular passage in their creation myth that he enjoyed. Oh, how did it go? 'All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and when they catch you, they will kill you.'"

"But first they must catch you," Peter continues, closing the book and shifting it over into Damian's hands. "Digger, listener, runner, Prince With The Swift Warning. Be clever, and full of tricks, and your people shall never be destroyed. I always liked that part, too."

Damian quirks a brow, taking the book. "I can see why Father latched on to that particular passage."

Peter sure as hell doesn't. "I'm surprised. He doesn't seem like the type who’d be interested in that kind of book."

Damian aims a shrewd look his way. "You haven't spent enough time with him yet. You'll see."

“That sounds vaguely threatening,” Peter notes.

Damian smirks, but looks at the book with interest.

“You can borrow this if you want,” Peter says. He offers it to Damian. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

“You don’t mind?” Damian asks.

“Not at all," Peter says. "Tell me what you think of it when you finish."

Damian takes the book and considers it for a moment before opening the cover. By the time Alfred brings them their soup, he’s deeply engrossed in the book and barely looks away to thank him. Peter switches to his phone, letting the conversation die off so Damian can read in peace. He doesn’t know much about Damian, but he knows that the kid socializes like a cat; simply being in the room with him is a sign of--well, not approval, exactly, but trust. Something that clearly doesn’t come easily to Damian. Given that he’s been raised in the shadow of Bruce Wayne, that isn’t exactly surprising.

Alfred favors Peter with an approving smile when he sets a bowl of soup in front of him. “Eat as much as you like, Master Peter.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter says. His phone lets out a quiet ding! when Alfred steps away and he picks it up to read the message.

Felicia: hey, are you going to come by anytime soon? Lou is getting worried.

Felicia: also your Red Hood friend is making my life extremely difficult by following me around when I’m trying to do things