Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter looks up at the New York Sanctum through the slight drizzle of rain, and tries to will himself to approach the door. 

It’s bigger than he remembers it being a month ago. Darker too. The steel gray storm clouds do nothing to endear the building as warm or inviting, and, not for the last time, Peter debates leaving without saying a word. It’s not as if anybody would know if he didn’t go in. He’s a stranger to everyone in the Sanctum. They have no reason to help him. 

But it’s not like he has anybody else to turn to. Not with the chilling tendril of something other slowly weaving through his veins.

Dr. Strange is his last shot.

Another torrent of rain sweeps by Peter, and his entire body shakes. His threadbare hoodie already has trouble standing up against a normal windy day, his sneakers have holes in them, and the feeling of soaked denim chafing against his legs is slowly overstimulating him. 

He would give almost anything for a new pair of dry clothes. Or a bed. Or a warm meal. 

Making it another night out on the streets sounds like a living hell. This past month has been brutal enough. Much worse than Peter had expected it to be. Adding the worst storm they’ve had all year? Peter grits his teeth. Even if he did go back out to weather the storm, the spot he slept at last night, under the steel bridge, is probably already flooded by now. 

He inhales a deep breath and takes a step up the concrete stairs towards the Sanctum. 

You were an Avenger. His mind weakly supplies. You can do this. 

Stumbling up the rest of the stairs, Peter wearily eyes the door. Should he go? Should he stay? His mind still swims with doubt, even as he raises his hand to knock. But before his fist can even touch it– the door swings open. 

The blast of warm air that washes over him is such a relief, he can't even bring himself to be surprised. 

“I was wondering when you were going to come in,” a familiar voice echoes. “You were standing out there for so long, I was starting to think you wouldn’t.” 

Tears prickle the back of his eyes, and he blinks away the urge to cry. 

Dr. Strange descends through the main lobby looking healthy and powerful with his magical red cape billowing behind him. Strange’s eyes are calculating, but not cold. It’s the same look that Tony had when one of his projects failed– like he wanted to take apart the problem piece by piece to analyze all of its innerworkings. 

Peter shivers again. He wraps his arms around himself and rubs the sides of them idly. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I had nowhere else to go.” 

His voice hitches at the last part of the sentence, and he mentally berates himself for almost breaking down. That would be just his luck– gather up enough strength to make it across the city, only to start crying now. He looks at Strange again and almost pauses. The man’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted in a small ‘o’ shape. 

“Have we met before?” Strange asks, his voice low and soft. 

“We have– but you don’t remember– it’s a long story.” Peter answers weakly, his body's still shivering uncontrollably. Drops of water fall off his wet hair and splatter on the floor beneath him, and he steps away from the carpet, realizing that a puddle of water is forming around his feet. 

Dr. Strange looks at the water, before looking back up and meeting his eyes. The weight of his stare almost makes Peter crumble.  “Good thing we have the time then. First things first though. You’re going to shake yourself to death, kid.” 

With a wave of his hand, Strange spells his clothes dry and teleports them both into a parlor, a floor above where they were standing. “Let’s get a fire going.” 

As soon as he speaks the words, the fireplace flickers to life, and it takes all of Peter’s willpower not to dive in front of it, hoarding its warmth. Strange watches from a distance with an emotion that Peter can’t quite place. Sitting down in an old antique armchair, the sorcerer motions at the couch across from him. 

“Come on, sit down. We have a lot to talk about.” 

An hour later, Peter is sitting on the couch, a thick blanket over his lap, and a mug of tea warming his hands. He’s still shaking uncontrollably, but it’s died down to a healthier level. He takes a sip of his tea ( something herbal that calms the nerves ) as the sorcerer paces in front of a window across the parlor.

“So, let’s just recap.” Strange says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re Spider-Man.” 

Peter nods. 

“And last month, you caused me to botch a spell that resulted in multiple dimensional intruders that was finally resolved with everyone in the entire world forgetting about you?” 

Peter nods again, not knowing if he could trust his voice not to break. 

Strange stops, his eyes a storm of raging thoughts. “Why?” 

“Well,” Peter clears his throat. “There wasn’t really a better option at the time-” 

“No, not that. I understand why you did it. But,” Strange exhales and rests a hand on the back of his armchair. “Why haven’t you come to me before?” 

That’s not what Peter expected him to ask, and his mind scrambles for an answer. But all the reasons he thinks of sound like excuses. Finally, he says the first thing that rings with a bit of truth. “I didn’t want to be a bother. ” 

The grip on his cup of tea tightens, and he continues. “It's my fault that I’m in this mess. And it’s not fair to you if I always come to you to solve my problems. And if you don’t want to help now, I completely understand. I just– don’t know who else to turn to with this.”  

“When you say ‘ this’ I’m guessing it isn’t with the homelessness and hypothermia.” Strange rubs a hand along his jaw in an unusual display of tiredness. 

“That’s just it. This isn’t hypothermia. Not to say that you don’t know better. Because you’re like a doctor– and I’m not. But I’ve been researching the symptoms I’ve had in the past month–”

“Breathe Peter,” Dr. Strange says in a weird voice that is a cross between annoyed and amused. 

“--And I’ve been shaking since you casted the spell.” Peter finishes, watching Dr. Strange’s eyebrows knit together. 

Instantly Dr. Strange appears in front of him, not bothering to walk the few steps required to get there manually. He reaches out and Peter can’t help the full-body flinch he has. He knows Dr. Strange wouldn’t hurt him, but his body is still on auto-pilot from the last month of living on the streets. Not having to struggle for food and shelter is a novelty. 

Warmth brushes against his skin, and Dr. Strange frowns as he gently places the inside of his wrist against the boy’s forehead. The one motion reminds Peter of a better time, when Aunt May used to do the same thing back when he was sick as a kid. Against his better judgment, he finds his body leaning into the small touch. 

Thankfully, Dr. Strange doesn’t mention it and merely hums at the temperature difference. “You said this started since the spell?” 

“Yes sir,” Peter says. 

“Well, you’re right. This is more than just hypothermia,” Dr. Strange murmurs offhandedly. “What are your other symptoms?” 

Dr. Strange removes his wrist, and Peter tries not to mourn the loss of the small comfort. “I’m cold all the time. Everything feels numb, even the small things, like standing under the shade doesn’t feel any different than when I’m in the sun. But the biggest thing is that I have a– it’s hard to explain– a hole. Right here.” He taps right above his heart. “And it keeps growing every day. And it just…won’t…stop.” 

The room falls into a silence, the only sound coming from the crackling fireplace. Dr. Strange softly curses and runs a hand over Peter’s head. Beside him, a diagram made of the weird light-magic-string-stuff Strange uses appears. 

“What’s that?” Peter asks, not being able to help his curiosity. 

“Your diagnostics. To quote Foreigner, you’re as cold as ice, kid. It says your temperature is under sixty-eight degrees.” 

“Oh,” Peter says, sinking into his seat. 

“Yeah. Oh.” Dr. Strange summons a book and it appears next to him, lazily floating in the air. 

“Maybe it’s wrong?” Peter suggests, looking at the swirling diagram next to them. 

“It’s not. Your skin is freezing to the touch.” Strange huffs and summons another book that hangs suspended in the air. “Nope. Not this one either.” 

Another book appears. Then another. The sorcerer looks like a man on a mission, opening up each one and flicking through the pages without lifting a finger. 

“But isn’t that temperature, like, impossible?” 

“Well, the coldest person to have ever lived did so in the low fifties. So, sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s been done before.” 

“Did you learn that at Kamar-Taj?” Peter asks, watching as some of the books fly off back to their shelves. 

Strange pauses and looks at Peter with a raised eyebrow. “What? No. Medical school.” 

The sorcerer then finds the book he must have been looking for, because all the others drop to the floor around him. Peter winces when some with a fragile spine hit the ground carelessly. They must be magically reinforced or something because Strange doesn’t bat an eye.

“Right, so here’s the good news,” Strange says as he holds up a thick, ancient tome. “This isn’t natural.” 

“And that’s the good news?” Peter asks. 

“Yes, because if this was natural you’d be on your death-bed and probably an amnesiac right now,” Strange says with a slight roll of his eyes. He flicks his hand and the fireplace grows even brighter. “But since you’re not convulsing on the floor, I do say that it’s probably because of the spell.” 

“Do you know what’s wrong with me?” Peter asks, his heart skipping a beat. He’d known– since the spell happened, that he felt off. Like his body no longer fit him, and that everything was too dim, too cold. But it was also after Aunt May–

Peter screws his eyes shut and pushes those memories deep down. 

But it was also after that happened, and Peter wasn’t quick to rule out depression and other grief related symptoms from how he felt. Now that he knows it’s just the spell, there is some sense of relief that hopefully it can be fixed. 

That the hole inside his heart won’t grow any bigger. 

A hand clasps his shoulder, and he looks up to see Dr. Strange looking down at him with a determined focus spreading across his face. “I have no clue, but I’m going to figure it out.” 

It’s an admission of ignorance, but not one of defeat. A small kernel of hope starts building in Peter’s stomach, and he doesn’t have the strength to squash it. The hand squeezes his shoulder comfortingly before Dr. Strange straightens up and turns one foot towards the door. “For the time being, you should stay here. Eat. Rest. Get some new clothes from the acolytes. They need something to do. But don’t leave here until we know what’s wrong with you.” 

Usually Peter would ask the reasoning behind Strange’s orders, but this time he doesn’t mind following them. He nods and Strange looks relieved. He then refills Peter’s tea with a flick of his fingers and, within the same beat, disappears into thin air. 

And, for the first time since Peter has entered the Sanctum, he’s alone. 

Staying at the Sanctum is weird. 

But it's a good kind of weird. His stomach is always full, nobody bothers his regular naps in front of the fireplace, and there are a thousand nooks and cranies he can climb up into and read one of the many library books. 

He tries his best not to be a complete burden to Dr. Strange and offers many times to help with his research. Except, the man completely denies him each and every time. So Peter takes up doing small chores around the Sanctum: sweeping, mopping, and helping the other acolytes who wander in and out from various different mystic temples. 

It’s quiet work. And mindlessly dull. But it better than thinking about Aunt Ma–

Thinking about what happened the previous month. 

When he’s not helping around the temple, he’s in Strange’s study acting as a guinea pig.

“And what does this test do?” Peter says as he holds a crystal ball. He eyes it wearily as Strange watches it with fascination. 

“Just testing a theory.” 

“And that is…?” Peter asks with a frown. 

The man smiles. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Days pass by in a blur. Before Peter knows it, he’s spent two weeks in the Sanctum, and they are no closer to figuring out what’s wrong with him. Whatever this illness is, it’s getting worse. 

It’s freezing cold. All of the time. Even with double layers on, next to a fireplace, Peter still finds himself shaking from the dreaded numb feeling that’s spreading throughout his blood. More than once, Peter catches Dr. Strange wearily looking at him with pinched eyebrows and an upturned mouth. 

It’s obvious that Peter’s sickness bothers him, so Peter tries to endure each weird question that is thrown his way. 

“Have you met your soulmate yet?” The man asks him over dinner one day, idly stroking his goatee. 

The question shocks him out of a daze, the spoon he’s holding falling back into his soup ( something herbal that Wong made him– full of vitamins, he said.) He blinks owlishly. “No?” 

Strange hums and drops the question after that. It’s not taboo to speak of soulmates. Everyone has one, so it’s a topic that is broached fairly often. But it’s not one that’s spoken about so…openly.

Peter grows quiet, before the silence starts to bother him. “Have you met yours?” 

He’s not sure why he asks. He’s not expecting an answer. But to his genuine surprise, Strange does, giving the boy a tired, yet sincere smile. “I have.” 

He should probably drop the conversation there, but sue him, he’s bored. And he’s been in the Sanctum for weeks now. There’s only so many times that he can reread Lord of the Rings. “Who?” 

Strange’s smile speaks of mischievousness. “Wong.” 

“Wait? Really?” Peter asks with a grin– struggling to picture the two very different personalities as better halves. As friends for life.

“Got the words to prove it,” Strange rolls up one of his sleeves, and Peter can see, written in a messy black scrawl on the inside of his forearm– Stubborn. 

As far as soulmarks go, it isn’t the worst that Peter’s seen. Peter’s seen one person at a FEAST shelter that had the word ‘ Idiot’ written across his cheekbone. Instead of being embarrassed by his mark though, the man had treated the words as if they were a piece of art. 

It happens. Since whatever your first impression is about your soulmate is the word that gets stuck on their body– marks often range from being very sweet to downright insulting. Not everyone gets off on the right foot. In fact, most of the time they don't. Yet, people still held onto their soulmarks with a precious gentleness. 

Aunt May, one of the few people in the world with a red-romantic soulmark, often looked down at her own helpful scrawled on the back of her hand with a soft smile. (Even after Uncle Ben’s death and a single line appeared through the word, she still looked at it as if it was her entire world.)

“Is that why you don’t want him knowing about your botched spell?” Peter teases, his mood lifting from its previous gloom. 

Dr. Strange rolls his eyes. “He would never let it go.” 

They both finish their meal in respective silence. But unlike before, the lapse in conversation is pleasant, and it isn’t until they’re both standing by the sink, dishes in hand, that Strange freezes. 

“Soulmates,” he whispers, his mouth forming an ‘o.’ “That couldn’t be the reason.” 

“What about them?” Peter asks. A buzzing feeling starts to creep up his neck. Something is off in the way that Strange takes a step back away from Peter. The way he looks up towards the direction of his study with wide eyes. 

In a second, the man snaps his fingers and disappears, the bowl he’s holding crashing to the ground without a second thought. 

Peter doesn’t see Strange after that meal. 

The sorcerer doesn’t come down from his study, and if it weren’t for the sounds of the man muttering to himself and pacing, Peter would worry he died. The seventeen year old tries to spend his time by mindlessly doing his chores. But when even that can’t distract him from the growing tension in the Sanctum, he sits down to design plans for a new suit. 

He no longer has access to Stark technology, so he needs to design something that will work until he gets back on his feet. 

Surprisingly, inspiration comes from their multi-dimensional neighbors, and Peter idly thinks back to the other Spider-mans he met. They didn’t have any fancy technology in their suits. Nothing like the Iron Spider. But they still managed to squeeze by. Thrive even. The other Peter Parker with the curly hair only had his web slingers and almost nothing else. 

“If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it.” Tony’s words drift in and out of his mind as he sketches a new design. He recalls the earliest suit he ever had. The ‘onesie’ Tony had called it. The stitched together costume he had made from costume store scraps and some low-grade goggles. 

He didn’t start being Spider-Man because of the suit. So he isn’t going to quit Spider-Man because of it either. 

The hardest part of the costume would be the webs. Peter no longer has access to the expensive equipment in Midtown. Or any chemistry equipment at all really. And it would take a while to start gathering some from scratch. He could see if the Sanctum had any, but even if they did, it would only be a temporary solution to a permanent problem. 

He needs a lab. 

He exhales a sigh as he closes his notebook shut. Before he fixes up a new Spider-Man suit, he needs to take care of Peter Parker first. Right now the most important thing is getting his basic necessities taken care of. Water. Shelter. Food. 

What would Tony do-?

“Peter!” A voice says urgently, and Peter blinks to find himself standing in the middle of Strange’s study. A full-body shiver wracks down his spine. Teleportation is something that Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. 

Dr. Strange looks at him with frenzied eyes. He doesn’t look good. At all. Dark eyebags sit under his eyes, and he has an aftershadow along the places he doesn’t usually shave. Papers and books are scattered along the floors, and moonlight pours through the open circular window, illuminating the sorcerer in a soft, pale glow. 

“I’ve found it.” Strange says quietly. Softly. As if he was talking to a timid creature instead of a teenager.  “I’ve figured out what’s causing your sickness.” 

The kernel of hope in Peter’s stomach blossoms. Excitement thrums under his skin.“You did?” 

“Yes…It was the spell after all.” Strange stalks over to the wall where several pieces of paper are tacked up with string connecting them. He has his back turned to Peter and he crosses his arms behind it in deep thought. “When we made the entire world forget about you, we had just closed a multi-dimensional rift, which altered the properties a bit.” 

“Is that bad?” Peter asks, trying to keep his voice from squeaking. 

Strange, for once, sounds as tired as he looks, “ Yes.” 

“But you can fix it right? You can make me better?” Peter insists. 

“ Peter,” And the man says his name like Tony did on Titan. Back before they didn’t know if either of them were going to make it out alive. 

The kernel of hope in Peter’s chest shrivels up immediately. 

“I mean– you said you’d figure out what’s wrong with me, right?” Peter asks, a pressure building in the back of his school. “You said–” 

“And I did. I did.” Strange turns his face towards him, and Peter could see the sorrow that’s painting the man’s features. “And it’s good that I did, because you wouldn’t have made it another month.” 

His words immediately chill Peter to the bone. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself. Suddenly the room is a lot colder than before. “What's wrong with me ?” 

“The thing is Peter, when we made this universe forget about you. It wasn’t just the people.” Strange approaches him and places his hands out in front of him. He holds the air as if it were delicate. “It was the plants. The animals. The cells in your body.” 

Peter tries to grasp the conclusion of that concept, but his usually clever mind scrambles against the implications. Strange doesn’t wait for him and continues. 

“The very universe itself sees you as something other– like a multidimensional traveler. And since there are several people working hard to make sure the fabric of reality doesn’t collapse, myself included, it’s doing the next best thing it can manage.”

“It’s erasing me.” Everything clicks in Peter’s brain. The feeling of emptiness–the cold lingering numbness that’s been crawling through his veins. It all makes sense if he’s being erased little by little. 

He’s being snapped all over again. 

But this time there is no Thanos to fight. No monster to go pummel into submission. It’s just Peter and the consequences of his own actions. His selfishness has caught up to him, and is tying the noose as punishment for his crimes. 

“Peter,” Strange’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Strange grabbing his shoulders, as if he could keep him together with just his own hands. “Don’t panic yet. I have a plan.” 

“Okay, okay, okay, yeah,” Peter rambles. “Lets, um– let’s hear it.” 

“So I didn’t understand why the universe would see you as an intruder, when you’ve only ever belonged here. It wasn’t until our conversation about soulmates that it finally clicked. Soulmates transcend time and space. That’s why not everyone meets theirs. And while most people in the world do, there’s still a handful of people who don’t.” 

By handful, he means a literal handful, there’s only a dozen documented people who don’t have soulmates. It’s not often that people die without their soulmate’s words being printed somewhere on their body. Peter always assumed he just needed more time to find his. 

But what if time hadn’t been the issue at all? 

What if it had been space? 

“Are you saying,” Peter stops and holds up his hands as he tries to think. Pain is slowly growing along the back of his head, and he feels a migraine starting to form. “That my soulmate is in another dimension?” 

He doesn’t know what he expects Strange to say. Maybe roll his eyes and call him stupid. Or even say, “Gotcha! It’s a prank!” But instead the sorcerer nods as if it’s the most logical conclusion in the world. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Dr. Strange says, his frown deepening. 

“How does that even happen?” Peter’s skull pounds. 

“My best theory that I have is that when the universe erased all memory of you, your soul latched onto the closest connection it had– your soulmate.” Strange pulls up a diagram of magic that shows two earths circling each other. “It’s fascinating really.” 

Peter eyes the diagram with an emotion he’s never felt before. It’s a cross between wonder and terrifying fear. His entire body shakes, and he doesn’t entirely think it’s because of his newfound illness. 

“So- so- we need to break this bond right? Because it’s the thing that’s causing this. If I’m not tied to my soulmate-” 

“What? No. Kid, you can’t just break a soulmate bond. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You don’t just mess with fate.” 

Peter raises an eyebrow at that and the sorcerer manages to look embarrassed. 

“Well more than you should,” Strange says. “Trust me kid, that’s not a pain you want to cause yourself. People who don’t have soulmates don’t fare as well as those who do. Even those whose soulmates have died.” 

And well. He’s not wrong. Peter’s seen the data before on the lifespan and quality of those who don’t have better halves. And the statistics never pointed to anything good. 

Peter grimaces. “So, I belong to that world now?” 

“It claimed you,” Strange says before sarcastically drawing, “Congratulations on your new off-verse citizenship.” 

The world opens up around Peter’s feet and it feels as if he’s falling. And, unlike before, he doesn’t know if anyone will catch him. He stumbles back and covers his mouth with his hand. His stomach shifts and it takes all of his willpower not to throw up. 

He no longer belongs here?

Well, he had known that for a while now. Since everything around him disappeared in a span of a day. It’s different hearing it spoken out loud though. Hearing Strange say it, makes it feel all too real. 

This city that he grew up in, had his first date in, first became Spider-Man in, and saw his family for the last time in….is no longer home. It’s moved on from Peter. 

But, Peter hasn’t moved on from it. 

He’s still digging his heels into the dirt and holding onto the idea of it with all of his strength. 

A part of him says that he needs to think of a way to stay– but why? Why stay? Strange is right. He doesn’t belong in this New York anymore. He belongs in that new dimension. The one that apparently his soulmate is in. 

But could he give up this place so easily? Does he even have a choice? 

“So, you mentioned a plan.” Peter says, his voice quiet and fragile. 

Strange hesitantly nods. “I do, but you’re not going to like it.” 

“Well, I’ve had to make a lot of decisions like that lately.” Peter inhales a shaky breath. “So, what’s one more, yeah?” 

Strange’s lips twitch up a miniscule amount, but for him, it might as well have been a full grin. “Let’s get started then.” 

Peter only gets a week before Strange’s plan commences. 

Seven days to explore his home for the last time– to commit everything he can to his memory. It’s not enough. (He’s not entirely sure there would ever be enough time.) He swings through the streets of Queens and can’t help but feel a hollow sadness taking root in his heart. The apartment he used to share with Aunt May has already been rented out to a new family, so he pointedly keeps away from that block. Or else he might be tempted to swing by anyways. 

He aches to take pictures of everything, but Strange warned him not to bring any electronics across the portal– or it would mess up the spell. So that meant no cameras. Instead he settles with going to a local drug store; printing off a few photos he has on his phone of Aunt May, MJ and Ned. They’re small and fit into his wallet's tiny pockets which normally would hold credit cards. Tiny keepsakes that are worth the world. 

He’d print off his entire gallery if he could, but there just isn’t enough space to bring them with him. He tells himself he’ll be able to make due with the three. 

(But the thoughts linger like a lie, leaving a sour, acidic taste along his tongue.) 

He stops by MJ’s shop one more time, ordering a donut and a coffee and watching her and Ned talk from a distance. They don’t even notice he’s there, discussing moving to Boston in the next upcoming week. 

In another universe he wonders if– instead of dimensions– he’d be moving to MIT with them instead. 

He leaves a few minutes later, his donut untouched and his coffee half-empty. 

The last few days he spends switching between visiting Aunt May’s and Tony’s graves, and eventually wandering around the halls of FEAST. 

Happy spots him one time, when he’s sitting in front of Tony’s headstone, and they talk, sharing a bagel. It’s nice to chat with the man, even if he doesn’t remember Peter. There’s a strong urge to try and remind Happy that he’s Spider-Man, but he ultimately decides against it. 

At the end of the week it won’t matter if he knows anyways. 

Not when he’s going to be gone. 

Peter’s last day, he tries to go everywhere, but somehow ends up at his favorite spot on the roof of Midtown High School. The one where MJ and Ned had comforted him after his most gruesome run in with the Green Goblin. He stays there, and watches the stars, aching for what tomorrow will bring. 

His heart mourns for every waking memory he’s going to leave behind. But eventually his time is up and he’s standing in Dr. Strange’s study with only the clothes on his person, and a backpack on his shoulder. 

The only things he'd be bringing to his new world. 

“We’ve only got one chance at this kid,” Strange’s voice is gentle despite the urgency behind the tone. “We can only do this on the full moon. So once this portal closes, we won’t be able to reopen it for another month.” 

And by then, Peter would be dead. Erased from existence. 

The teenager grimaces, but nods. “I understand.” 

“There’s no changing your mind,” Strange reminds him. Both of them are probably thinking about the last time the duo tried to weave a spell together. 

Peter’s grin is shaky and barely held together. “I think I’ve learned my lesson sir.” 

“I’m sure you have.” Silence envelops the two as Strange draws a diagram on the hardwood floor with white chalk. It’s in a language Peter doesn’t even recognize. And the sense of– oh-my-god-this-is-finally-happening hits him like a speeding truck. Breath leaves his lungs as he tries to gather up his courage, but courage sounds like a panic attack with shaky limbs and a frantic heartbeat. 

He pointedly looks away from the diagram and pulls off his backpack. He opens it to make sure he has everything. He can’t carry a whole lot. He’s not even sure it would do him any good if he could. But he does manage to fit the bare necessities in. Water bottles, prepackaged light food, his wallet, his official documents, about one-hundred dollars in cash, two sets of clothes, a hastily-thrown together suit that’s only slightly better than his first one,a few vials of web fluid, and the empty shell of his web slingers that’s stripped from all its technology. 

He won’t be starting completely from scratch. And, it’s marginally better than nothing. But, Peter still has a lot of work cut out for him in his new home. 

Especially since he has a gut feeling ( maybe-a-spider-sense) that he isn’t going to magically wind up in New York. 

For all Peter knows, there might not even be a New York wherever he’s going. 

He’s totally unaware of what environment he’ll be stepping into. 

Please don’t be a desert planet, Peter thinks as Strange finishes up the diagram on the floor. Nothing good comes from a desert planet. I've seen movies. 

The sorcerer rises and dusts off chalk from his knees. He stares at Peter with no small amount of sympathy. “You got everything you need?” 

“I’m pretty sure,” Peter zips up his backpack and throws it back on his shoulders. “Unless you have some sort of magic gadget you wanna give me?” 

Strange snorts. “Nothing that’ll make the trip. Alright, so here’s how this is going to work. I’ve pinpointed your soulmate bond to a general area and am using it as an anchoring point. Since apparently that’s what started this in the first place. You won’t enter the world right next to your soulmate, but it’ll be in a proximity of a few miles.”

“Yes sir,” Peter whispers. 

“And kid–” Strange opens his mouth. Shuts it with a click. Then opens it again. “It’s been really nice knowing you. And for what it’s worth…I’m sorry.” 

Tears burn at the back of Peter’s eyes, and for once, he doesn’t stop them, letting them streak warmly down his cheeks. His laugh is wet and aching. “It’s okay. There’s no other way, right? And it’s better than dying.” 

“It is,” The man says it so vehemently that Peter almost believes him. “It is. Alright. No point in waiting around then. Time for the second hardest part of this spell.” Magic draws from his fingers– imitating sparks of lightning and power. 

“What’s the hardest part?” Peter can help but ask. 

Strange smirks. “Hiding it from Wong.” 

And that’s the last thing he says before his smile drops and he’s spinning magic like webs. It takes a few seconds before sparks start to ignite around the diagram. And within a minute a small opening appears. First the size of a coin and then something bigger. It looks like any other portal made from the slingy that all the sorcerers use. It stretches further and further until it’s a gaping maw on the floor, opening up into a dark alleyway that Peter doesn’t recognize. 

At least it isn’t a desert or the arctic. Peter thinks. 

“Peter!” Strange calls over the sound of sparks and wind. “You’ve gotta go now!” 

Now? As in now? His stomach drops into the floor. 

He knows he was expecting the portal to open, but it still feels too sudden– too quick for Peter’s mind to grab onto. 

But it’s either this or dying. 

And Aunt May would never forgive him for choosing the easy way out. Not when he could still help others and keep marching forward. 

His grip tightens on his backpack before he takes a step back– then, using all his strength, he rushes forward. Each step drums on the floor. And shock, panic, and adrenaline grip his heart as the world disappears from underneath him. As he dives through the portal, he hears Strange say the last words Peter will ever hear from him. 

“Good luck kid!” 

Chapter Text

One moment Peter is standing in the Sanctum– and the next he is decidedly not. 

It takes him one second to realize that there’s no ground under his feet. It takes him one second more to realize that the ground is much further than it had looked through the portal. 

He’s free falling. Fast. He stretches his arms out, but the walls are too far away from him to stick onto. Bracing himself for a terrible landing, he prepares himself to get ready to tuck into a roll. 

Then everything goes wrong in a blink of an eye. 

A feeling stretches in his chest towards the portal, like pulling a rubber band back. Tensions build. His vision flashes white. His limbs flail. He lets go of his backpack. 

He hits concrete. 

There’s a sickening crack followed by pain flooding through his nose. He clumsily rolls onto his sprawled back. A ringing fills his ears. Distant sounds of car horns and shouting become muffled like he’s underwater. Warm liquid starts pouring down his face, and he gasps in a breath as he watches the portal close in a shower of sparks–three stories above him. 

The rubber band snaps back. 

An anvil of pressure drops onto Peter’s chest and the air is knocked out of him. Shoot. That hurts.

Not his worst landing. Not his best either though. Peter coughs as he slowly turns onto his side. The pain somewhat lessens, but the alleyway around him is still spinning. 

Something is broken? He’s pretty sure. He screws his eyes shut and tries to take stock of his injures. Everything hurts. He’s supposed to be looking for…something though. A concussion? What are the signs of a concussion again? 

“Shit,” Peter softly curses as he starts to push himself to his knees. Blood gushes from his nose onto his shirt, and it’s all he can do to watch it fall. 

That’s not good…he thinks. 

Everything is fuzzy. He probably shouldn’t have landed on his head. He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t going to– but then–

What had that been? 

It felt as if for a second he had been held by a string in from his old world, and then it suddenly disappeared. Dr. Strange would be able to tell him. But Dr. Strange– Stephen– isn’t here. 

Nobody Peter knows is here. He’s alone in an alleyway with a– maybe, possibly– concussion? 

He reaches up and gingerly touches his nose, resulting in him jerking back and hissing in pain. Oh yeah, that’s broken. He’s going to have to set it back in place. Bringing his sleeve up to his mouth, he bites down, just as his other hand reaches up and gently grabs the base of his nose. 

Rhodey taught him how to do this. Once. Back in the Avengers Tower when he was given his very first lesson in first aid. 

It's been a while, but it can't be that hard, right? Peter harshly breathes out. He needs to do this now. No time like the present. Best to rip the bandaid off quickly. 

Using a tiny amount of strength, he pushes the bone back into it’s original place. 

Crack. 

Blood pours from his nose again, but he breathes in a sigh of relief, letting his enhanced healing take the job from there. When copper drips onto his lips, he spits the excess onto the ground next to him. 

Ah, he’s making a mess isn’t he? Aunt May wouldn’t like that. She’s always been laid back and chill, but she had been an clean and orderly person at heart.

(Longing sparks through him when he realizes he won’t ever hear her nagging him about his room again.)

Peter grunts as he scoots back until his shoulders hits the brick wall behind him. What should he do now? 

“Don’t do anything I would do. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do either.” Tony held up his thumb and forefinger, making a small space. “There’s a little gray area in there. That’s where you operate.” 

A broken laugh spills from him. He misses the days when Tony was there to guide him. Back before Mysterio and Thanos and all his enemies had started to appear larger than life. Back before everyone had forgotten about him. 

The laugh dies out and he stares up at the cloud covered night sky. Police sirens wail in the distance, but it’s still muffled from the ringing in his head. 

He needs to get up and get moving. 

Strange had said that he would land near his soulmate. People would kill for a once-in-a-lifetime chance like that. You never knew if your soulmate was in the same city– much less within a few miles. 

Maybe it's blindly optimistic of Peter, but he can’t help but wonder if he took to the roofs right now if he could find his soulmate. See who it is that tethered him to this universe. What kind of person they are. But even then– what would he do if he did find them? 

He could already imagine how that conversation would go: Hi, yes, I’m Peter Parker. I’ve come from another universe, and I don’t really have anywhere to stay. Also I might have a concussion. 

Hard pass. 

His entire body shakes and he curls into himself. As much as he would like to run off into a random direction, he’s not entirely sure if he should. He knows nothing about this world. What if someone sees him close a distance between buildings that a normal person couldn’t make, and it lands him in trouble? 

He isn't exactly eager to out himself as a super quite yet. Not when he's unsure of how this world will react. The best case scenario is everyone’s fine with superhumans, but the worst case scenario…Well, Peter doesn’t want to deal with being shot at. 

His head is already in worse enough shape, thank you very much. 

Right, he needs to move. Find…his soulmate? No. Not that. 

Blinking slowly, his mind begins to wander. There’s nothing more Peter wants to do than fall asleep. It wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a few seconds right? A power nap. Just for a little while. Then he’ll be up and ready to go. 

But he can’t sleep out in the open. 

He eyes the alleyway. There’s a bricked off dead end with a dumpster and some boxes next to it. That could work. Slowly edging towards a huge empty box, Peter crams himself into it. 

In a few seconds, he’s out like a light. 

“Get up kid, you can’t sleep here.” A loud voice booms next to him. 

Peter jolts awake. Pressing himself further into the box, he looks up to see a crouched haggard man peering in. 

“Y-Yeah give me a second,” Peter croaks. The man’s eyebrows furrow as he stares at the front of Peter’s shirt. He follows the path of the man’s eyes, and quietly says, “Ah.” 

It’s drenched in dried blood, and Peter doubts his face looks to be in better shape. He probably looks like he tried to pick a fight a speeding train…and lost. 

“Get to it,” The man snaps, hitting the top of the box and then rising to his feet. Peter takes a few seconds to gather his bearings. His head isn’t quite pounding like it had when he went to sleep. More than that he feels…warm. 

The hole in his chest is gone. 

Instead of a gaping maw of an invisible wound, the void’s been filled with a warm, tingling bundle of feelings. It pulsates in his chest, and if he closes his eyes it almost feels as if it’s tugging him in a random direction. 

It’s strange. Peter’s not sure if the feeling is a by-product of switching multiverses, or a side effect of his life-erasing-disease. But either way, it’s completely foreign and new. 

The teenager kind of likes it. 

This soul bond certainly beats shaking to death and disappearing. In fact, this is probably the best he’s felt in months. (And he had broken his nose last night.) 

He wiggles all his fingers and toes, making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, before exiting the box. 

Morning light shines through the dirty alleyway and the sudden change from darkness to light makes his irises burn a bit. Ah man, he must have slept through the morning. So much for closing his eyes only for a couple of minutes. 

He stands up to see the man collapsing the other boxes around them and throwing them in the dumpster. When he’s sees Peter is up, he grunts and jerks a thumb across the alleyway. 

Peter’s backpack lays on the ground a few feet away. He must have dropped it in the fall. He nods his appreciation to the stranger. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like it’s been opened. As he approaches it though, he curses when he notices that the bottom of the pack is wet. When he opens it, it just confirms his suspicions. 

Half of his water bottles were busted open. He mournfully pulls them out. Out of the six he had, only three are left. Shit. He needed those. Clean water is hard to find. Especially in the city.

He lets out a disappointed sigh when he sees his clothes are drenched as well. Thankfully though, by some miracle, his papers made it out relatively intact and mostly dry. His birth certificate is going to have some smudges around it. But it's not the worst outcome. 

He’ll have to air it out once he gets settled. 

There’s a tiny bit of water left in one of the busted bottles, and he pours it over his face, scrubbing away at the dried blood. The stench of copper floods his senses, almost making him sneeze. He doesn’t know if he’s got all of the blood off his face, or if he just smeared it around, but it feels cleaner. 

He throws away the busted three bottles. The stranger stops him afterwards. He idly taps his nose. “You should get that checked. Dr. Thompkins sees kids like you further down Crime Alley. Looking that pitiful– she might not even charge ya.”

Peter blinks. 

This place is called Crime Alley? And here Peter thought Queens had been bad at naming things. 

Where the heck did Strange send him? 

“Thanks,” Peter says, tucking away that bit of useful information for later. “But I think it’ll be okay. It was just a nosebleed.” 

Skeptical eyes trace over his nose.

Peter winces. "A bad nosebleed." 

“Kid you make a shitty liar. Go on then. I don’t care where you go as long as it isn’t here.” 

“You’ve got it!” Peter jauntily waves. He then exits the mouth of the alleyway and looks around. 

Discarded newspapers flitter across the barren streets, as neon lights flicker in the distance, and a  few people mull about on the corners with their heads down and hoods up. Peter idly notices that the two cars parked on the street sit on cinderblocks tireless. 

In the distance Peter can hear the wail of police sirens, cars honking and shouting. 

But on this street– it’s deadly quiet. 

He hears a cough coming from one of the people on the corner. His heart drops. 

So far, this city isn't looking like it's doing too hot.  

He wonders if it’s too late to ask the stranger behind him where that clinic was. He feels like he might need it in the future. If not for him, then maybe to send others to. Free healthcare is too much of a luxury to pass up. 

Ducking in another alleyway, Peter climbs up to the rooftops. Where even is he? The skyline is way too different to be New York. There’s salt in the air that means that he’s landed by the coast, but the scent is mixed with the burning sensation of chemicals. 

There’s a sea of sky scrapers around him, but he can’t see anything remotely recognizable. 

“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Peter whispers as he steps onto the building ledge. 

He sticks to the rooftops after that. Once he leaves the street he’s in (Park Row-Not Crime Alley) he easily makes good distance into the city. The roofs are surprisingly easier to navigate here  than in New York. The buildings are a strange mixture between Gothic and modern styles. Sculpted in glass and stone. And as Peter travels, he learns that it's normal to see a towering cathedral next to a punk club or bar. 

After a few minutes he’s in a nicer part of town. 

Peter turns back. 

He’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb with his bloody shirt and torn-up jeans. It’ll be easier to blend in once he’s actually clean. But he makes a mental map of where everything is, and tries to commit all the streets to memory. 

This city is jam packed with people. Away from Park Row, the streets turn into swarms of strangers heading to work on the sublines, or crossing the streets in front of cars. He sees one person flick off a motorcycle that strays too close to the sidewalk for comfort. 

He sits and eats a couple of his breakfast bars on top of a random gargoyle as he tries to calculate where he is. From the accent alone, he guesses somewhere on the East Coast, but this is an alternate dimension. For all he knows, he could be anywhere. 

He can’t approach problems with the same logic he used back home. Not until he learns more about the world he’s been dropped in. 

Leaning back, he climbs on top of an old cathedral, politely stepping over the head of an angel statue, and tries to get a closer look at the city. 

He needs to find a job if he’s going to make money. His water bottles busting put him at a slighter disadvantage than before. 

He probably only has two days before his supplies run out. Not even that if something happens again. He’s going to have to be smart about his resources. 

First, he needs to find some type of shelter. Getting a job might take days, even weeks. But he'll need shelter tonight. 

“I wonder if Gotham has a junkyard,” Peter muses out loud, scanning the skyline. 

Junkyards would have enough scrap for him to work on his gadgets, plus he might be able to find something soft to sleep on like a broken couch or a mattress. 

New York City took their trash to the main land. They just didn’t have enough room on the island for it. And, knowing Peter’s luck, Gotham is probably the same. However, they might have a few salvage yards that could benefit him. 

And surely the owners of that wouldn’t miss a few missing parts in the grand scheme of things. 

Peter finds one within one hour of searching the city. 

It’s nestled in between the place Peter was teleported and the docks. There's a ‘No Trespassing’ sign authorized by the local government. Unsurprisingly, that does nothing to stop him from jumping over the chain link fence into the salvage yard. 

He ignores the overwhelming smell of trash and rot and starts looking for workers and someone that might snitch on him trespassing. 

The scrapyard, much like Park Row, is uncannily quiet. There's nobody here. 

“Maybe it’s a weekend,” Peter muses as the sun starts to drift further in the sky and there’s still no signs of any workers. 

This might be a good place to hunker down if it’s abandoned. He’ll have to wait and see if this scrapyard simply has late hours though. It’s significantly warmer than it had been in Peter’s world, and it’s entirely possible that they’re in the middle of summer. 

(The implications of time travel is enough to keep his brain busy for hours– so he has to ignore it in order to focus at the matter at hand. He makes a mental note that he’ll re explore the ideas when he’s safer and in a better place.) 

He starts exploring. There’s not much to see– it’s pretty small for a scrapyard. Cities rarely have space to begin with. Much less space for operations that need a lot of land. It’s impressive they were able to carve out this amount from the city blocks. 

Peter then gets to work finding components for his web shooters. Why not? He's bored. And it's not as if he's going to get settled in a day. 

He starts gleaning from any spare electronics laying around: busted microwaves, refrigerators, shattered televisions, torn apart radios. Anything that uses electricity. 

The tools he has access to are limited, and Peter would give his left shoe for a soldering kit. But he manages to find a rusted razorblade that he can use for a wire cutter. It works well enough to cut most of the coated wires he finds. Most of the more complicated circuit components have already been salvaged by someone else. 

Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers. 

The wires are a good enough start. 

He tries to test how conductive the copper metal is, but all the outlets (even the ones in the small shed) are busted. 

If Peter didn’t think this place was already abandoned, he did now.

By the time Peter finds a few resistors and capacitors to use, the sun is already setting into the horizon. The teenager lockpicks the shed door open, and decides to chance someone walking in to find him. It’s a small room. Peter can touch both walls when he spreads his arms out in both directions. But it has a roof. And the walls are pretty insulated, so it’ll stay warm when it’s cold. 

It’s not that bad of a place to crash for the night. He won't be able to spread all his limbs out, but he can manage curling up into the fetal position. He throws his backpack on the ground to use as a pillow. He doesn’t have any blankets, but it’s warm enough that he doesn’t really need them. 

His sleep that night is fitful. It’s too hot and Peter has to crack open the door to let the cool night air in. Moreover, the warm bundle of feelings in his chest slowly tugs in different directions at random intervals in the night. It freaks him out– having a foreign feeling that he’s never felt before. 

He doesn’t even quite know what it is. 

It’s almost too much. 

And by the time it’s past midnight, Peter is exhausted and shivering. The tugging feeling stops abruptly. As his eyes drift shut he could have sworn he fell asleep to the gentle feeling of calloused hands carding through his gritty hair. 

Two days later and Peter is out of both food and water. 

He’s made his base in the little shed in the scrapyard, finding a few tarps to cushion the floor and keep him off the cold concrete, and not once is he interrupted by any workers or men from the government. 

Scrapyards can cost quite a bit to run. But there’s almost always a buyer for the scrap metal. It’s strange that it’s shut down.  

But then again, near Park Row is always unusually quiet. Almost as if people are afraid that if they make noise something bad will happen. With a moniker like Crime Alley though…it just might. 

Peter idly spends his day making sure his temporary home is well suited for the elements. There’s a hole in the roof that will definitely need repaired before the next rain, and he takes an hour or two to sweep the dead roaches and dirt off the shed floor that he had missed the night before. 

Gross. 

He explores almost everything in the junkyard, finding baseballs and some rope that he makes into a shoddy bolas. He tests their weight, throwing them around poles he sets up in a small obstacle course throughout the scrapyard. (He's really bored- nobody told him dimension hopping would be this boring.) Throwing them certainly isn’t his strength, but they could come in handy as a capturing tool while his web shooters were down. 

Surprisingly, he’s found most of the wiring needed for the two web shooters within the two days, but he’s still missing some vital components. He needs to go to an actual electronics store to finish these. Or at least a place with more niche scrap. 

Food and water come first though. He can’t be Spider-Man if he’s starving. Peter burns through three times as many calories as the regular human. And that’s not counting if he’s swinging through the city. 

He guesses his time for salvaging is up– he needs a job. Soon. 

He takes a sniff of his shirt. He’s been in a junkyard for a couple of days, and his smell is definitely reflecting that. 

First though, he needs to get clean. Nobody is going to hire him smelling like filth and trash. 

Stuffing his bloody clothes in his backpack, Peter goes out to look for a gym that offers showers. He doesn’t find any in the broken down district he's residing in. Nor did he expect to. But he's already mourning the walk he's going to have to make to the nicer parts of town. He finally finds one a few miles away, when the streets get a little cleaner, and the graffiti lessens along the walls. 

Gotham Glades Gym. It’s a modern building with a lot of glass walls and an open floor plan. He’s guessing from the gym's title that this city’s name is Gotham.

He’s never heard of a Gotham city before. And he’s pretty sure he would have heard of a city this big had it existed in his last world. Which means it probably didn’t exist there. 

Weird. 

Peter might not have a lot of cash, but a membership might be worth it for the free showers. Until he get's a place of his own, that is. He can’t stay in the junkyard forever after all. 

There’s just one tiny problem with that course of action. 

“Is this a joke?” The receptionist asks, looking at the two twenties he handed her. Seeing random superhero figures smiling at him from the cash register gives him an inkling of an idea about what the problem is. 

“Yeah, sorry,” He says, turning around and heading straight back out of the building before he can be kicked out. 

He doesn’t ask for the twenties back. It wouldn’t be of an use even if he did. Of course, they wouldn’t have the same money here. That would be asking Peter’s luck for too much. 

Sighing, he goes to the back of the building, climbing up to the roof entrance. For once, things seem to go his way and the door swings wide open when he tugs on it. 

Looks like he’s doing this the illegal way then. 

He carefully and quietly climbs on the ceilings, making note of the cameras, and staying out of sight until he reaches the shower rooms. All of the stalls are empty, and, besides the faint odor of mildew, it smells clean and faintly of chlorine. 

The first time he steps into hot fresh water, he almost gives a sigh of relief. The water feels heavenly against his sore muscles, and he watches as all the dirt and grime he’s accumulated in the past few days flow down the drain. For a second he contemplates drinking the water from the shower head, but there is a lingering scent of chemicals in the water that makes him pause. 

Drinking tap water in this city is starting to seem like it would be a huge mistake. Peter makes sure to keep it out of his eyes and mouth. Just to be on the safe side. 

After his shower he pulls out his bloody clothes and does his best to scrub out all the stains underneath the water’s spray. His shirt looks like it’s beyond repair, but the pants are salvageable. Keeping an eye on the door to make sure nobody comes in, he uses a hair dryer on the wall to slightly dry his clothes to the point he can put them in his backpack without the fear of them mildewing. 

After he exits, the exact same way he came in, he goes to find a job agency. He feels a lot better after the shower. More hopeful. Like he might actually be able to make something here. 

During his walk he ignores the slight warming of the feeling in his chest and the slight tug that reaches in the opposite direction of him. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to that. 

By the time he reaches the temporary job agency, there’s still a small sliver of anxiousness in his stomach. Peter dry swallows. 

No turning back now. He steps inside. 

The place is almost completely full of people. There are dozens of citizens of different ages, shapes, and wealth here. Most of them are lined up along the walls filling out clipboards, some are sleeping in plastic chairs, and a few pace anxiously around the waiting tables. 

Nervousness churns in Peter’s stomach, and he’s surprised when a woman at the desk almost immediately flags him down and waves at him. “Next!” 

Peter walks up, hitching his backpack up higher. 

“Name, age?” The woman inquires as he steps up to her desk. 

“Umm– Peter Parker– I’m seventeen, but I’m almost eighteen. I’ve graduated high school and I’m emancipated–” If you could call your universe kicking you out of it emancipation. 

“Right,” She drawls, her red lips forming a thin line. “Do you have a form of ID and your diploma?” She’s already typing away before he answers. 

“I do!” Peter chirps, moving to get them out of her bag. The clicking noise stops, and her mouth forms a small ‘o.’ Her surprise is evident and he anxiously shifts on his feet as he hands them over. 

She inspects them carefully, holding them up to the light and inspecting the signature of his principal. When she gives them back, she still looks as if she doesn’t quite believe they’re real. “Fill this out.” 

She picks up a clipboard with a blank form under the metal pin. However before she hands it to him, she slips another brochure on top of it. 

“What’s this?” He asks, scrutinizing the front of it. It has a giant ‘W’ in cursive font on the front along with a rocket circling it. 

For the first time since he’s come in the woman smiles. 

“Your diploma says Midtown is one of those fancy STEM schools, right? Well, Wayne Enterprises is havin’ the Wayne Technology Expo in about two weeks. I’m pretty sure they’re offerin’ summer internships for recent graduates. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find somethin’.” 

“Thank you,” And he means it genuinely. 

Technology Expos have always held fond memories for him. That’s where he met Mr. Stark after all. 

The smile is fleeting and as Peter turns around to fill out his form, her frown’s returned and she staring at the next person who walks in. “Next!” 

The blonde man in the tan trench coat stares up at the empty alleyway and grunts. He ignores the sound of gunshots behind him and the shouting on the streets as he lights up a cigarette. What a shitty city. Like– really shitty. Gotham never changes. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t take a step into this accursed place to begin with. 

Well, that’s a lie. After all, it isn’t like anybody exactly called him here. He came of his own accord. Curiosity killing the cat and all that. 

He takes a deep drag of it just as the shouting stops, followed by the sound of spandex hitting skin. 

A few seconds later, a shadow drops behind him. 

“Been wonderin’ when you’d show up,” He drawls, his british accent seeping into annoyance. He exhales smoke as he turns to face the new arrival. “You’ve got that whole no-meta rule after all.” 

“Yet you’re still here,” Batman stands like a shadow against the street lights. He towers above the warlock, and his voice is just a tad too warm to be completely unwelcoming, “Constantine.” 

“Well, its not exactly like I’m here to don a ridiculous costume and punch every criminal I see,” Constantine quips back. “Nah mate, I’m here to see the sights.” 

Batman raises an eyebrow that Constatine can’t see. His expression deapans and the message it sends is clear: seeing the sights–in Gotham? 

Yeah, honestly not his best excuse. 

“You’re going to be a right prick about this, aren’t you?” Constantine asks. Batman doesn’t say a word, but Constatine has worked with the man enough to realize that it might as well be a shouted ‘yes.’ Fucking capes. They really can’t leave well enough alone. 

He sighs, taking another drag of his cigarette. “I’m not here to stir up trouble, but I sure was expectin’ it. Felt a magic source here not too long ago.” 

Batman’s shoulders straighten. “How long ago?” 

Would it kill him to say please every once in a while? “About two days–give or take. I felt it when I was drinking down in a pub in Seattle, and I hadn’t exactly been sober during the time. But then what would you know– I woke up this morning and the magical residue is still there. So it wasn’t just my imagination–” 

He’s so rudely cut off by his companion’s deep baritone voice. “And what does the spell do?” 

“What you expect me to know everything about magic? Give me a bloody break–” 

“Constatine,” Batman’s voice leaves no room for him to get his way out of this. The warlock rolls his eyes. No fun this lot. That’s another reason he stays away from this city. 

“Space-altering kind of magic,” He drawls. “Last time I felt a spell this strong, someone was trying to open up a gate into hell.” 

And hadn’t that been fun? He never wants to deal with that many demons again. He had to make so many deals in order to get everything squared away. (If he ever did have a first-born child..well, at least they would never feel unwanted.) 

He shakes his head. “This isn’t that type of spell though. It looks like someone tried to make their own Einstein Rosen Bridge across parallel universes.” 

“Tried?” 

“Succeeded,” Constantine finishes off the last of his cigarette and throws it on the ground, smothering the ashes with his boot. He looks up into the alleyway about three stories up, still feeling the hum of magic in the air. “And they did it well too. It’s hard to do that without the entire thing collapsing in on itself and destroying the fabric of space. Whoever did it sure as hell knew what they were doing.” 

“You sound impressed.” 

“I fucking am!” Constantine admits. “You’d have to be one of the most powerful sorcerers of the century to pull that off. Even more powerful than me.” He stumbles, pulling out a steel square flask and taking a deep drink from it. He then starts walking from the alleyway. He found what he had been looking for. 

“And where are you going?” Batman asks. 

“Well, my curiosity is sated. So I figure the next thing I’m going to do is go to the nearest seedy bar, drink myself under a table, and hope that whatever dropped from this portal isn’t gunnin’ specifically for me.” He takes a few more steps. “Good luck findin’ whatever the hell that was!” 

His voice drops as he exits the alleyway. “You’re goin’ to need it.”

Chapter Text

Some mornings are easier than others, and other mornings…getting out of his makeshift bed is a herculean effort. He wakes up slowly on those days, smacking his dry lips and barely heaving himself up from his pallet. 

He slumps forward on this particular morning like a puppet cut from its strings. Sitting on his tarp for an unknown amount of time– seconds blurring into minutes and maybe hours– while listening to the pitter patter of rain hitting against the metal roof. 

It’s the first time he’s heard rain since that day in the Sanctum. 

The sound weighs down on Peter, making him want to do nothing more than lay back down and fall back asleep. If he does that though– he has a feeling he won’t get back up again for a decent while. 

It’s reminiscent of the time that Ben died, and Aunt May pulled him from his bed. 

“One day at a time,” She murmured, brushing back his hair. “You can’t tackle this all at once.” 

One day at a time.

Peter can handle one day. 

He pushes all the twisting, gnawing feelings he has deep down inside and  blindly paws at the floor for his shoes. Peter craves to go buy a lightbulb. There’s an empty socket in the ceiling, and one of these days, hell figure out how to reconnect the shed to the energy grid.  But that would be a waste of his money. He has to be responsible and buy only the things he needs. 

Thankfully, that’s been getting a bit easier as the days go by. 

It’s only been a couple of days since he’s started at the temp agency, but he’s already managed to snag a few gigs under his belt. Mostly he’s been doing laundry at a run-down hotel in the middle of the Bowery. It’s boring work– washing, drying and folding sheets–but, it gives him just enough of an income to survive. 

So far Peter has earned about ninety-seven dollars. 

Twenty of that has gone to a cooler and some ice that Peter keeps cramped in the shed. It takes up half of the floor space, and Peter has to sleep curled up in a ball with his knees touching his chest because of the addition. His back hates him for it, but he can make do for the moment with his enhanced healing. 

Another twenty goes towards a week supply of food and water. It’s not a lot: a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter and apple jelly. 

Though he does also manages to snag a few boxes of oatmeal raisin cookies on sale for a dollar, and savors the pastries as they last. The desserts fill up some of the empty calories he’s been missing. 

The big jugs of water– now certified chemically free by the Gotham Health Association– are tucked in the cooler, keeping cool. The ice cold water has been the only thing keeping him from having a heat stroke. The temperatures in the shed get up to insane amounts during the day, and from the information Peter has gleaned from his co-workers, it’s only going to get hotter from here. 

If the scrapyard had been in a more secure location, Peter would be tempted to keep the door open to air it out. As it stands though, the teenager doesn’t want to bring attention to the fact that the scrapyard is currenly occupied. 

The less attention he brings to himself the better. 

So he makes do with his ice cold water, waiting until it melts, dipping rags (made from his bloodied ruined shirt) into it, and placing it on his neck during the day. He goes through ice like crazy, but it’s better than burning up and fainting. 

Most of the remaining money goes towards a gym membership. The unlimited showers make the purchase worth it since Peter doesn’t have access to them otherwise, but with his new membership he also gets a locker for free in the back rooms along with being able to attend any classes they have. 

Surprisingly for such a small gym, they have a variety of several different classes rotating each week. They host gymnastics, hand-to-hand combat, and first-aid classes such as CPR and bandaging wounds. Most of them are even free for the community, paid for by the Martha Wayne Foundation to booster different types of education among the poorer populace of Gotham. 

Apparently, the Wayne Family is everywhere. 

Once Peter received the pamphlet to the Wayne Expo, he started seeing the name Wayne plastered all around Gotham. Now he can’t not notice them. It’s almost as if every block in the city has some kind of connection to the family. 

It makes Peter all the more eager to sneak into the Wayne Expo. Not only would it be cool to be able to meet the family helping Gotham behind the scenes, but it the perfect opportunity to see whether this world’s technology is further behind or ahead of his past world. 

Past world. When did he stop calling it his home? 

Yeah, Peter is most decidedly not thinking about that. The idea that he’s in an entirely different dimension still makes his head spin. Worse, it gets all the more easier to forget he’s not in his past home as the days slowly tick by. 

What if in the future he forgets all about it? What if the sounds, smells, and sights of Queens becomes only a distant image to him? What if one day he forgets the sound of MJ’s voice? 

‘Don’t think about it Parker. One day at a time.’ Peter shakes his head and opens the door to the shed. 

He leans against the doorframe as he watches waves of rain wash across the scrapyard. It’s pouring outside. There’s no way he’ll be able to stay dry if he goes out. 

For once, he debates staying inside and having a day of rest. Walking in a heavy downpour isn’t his idea of fun. 

But, at the same time: money. 

The teenager sighs, keeping the door propped open with a cinderblock and using the light to dig out his wallet. He opts to leave his backpack there. (No reason for everything he owns to get soaked.) 

And, once he’s fully prepared steps out into the rain to face the day.

Turns out that the job agency doesn’t have any job openings for the day, making coming out in the rain almost completely redundant. Instead of laminating about his loss though ( he could’ve been dry and warm–) Peter decides to make the most of his trip and asks one of the agency workers for directions to the library. 

The worker points him towards Old Gotham– the rich district that Peter saw when he first arrived– and Peter exits back out into the rain to find it. It’s not a pleasant trip.  

His shoes squelch as he trudges along the sidewalks, his hair plasters to his forehead in wet clumps, and his clothes are so soaked they might as well be a second layer of skin. By the time he’s halfway to the library he’s shivering and there are goosebumps along the entirety of his arms. 

He swipes water out of his eyes as he spots a run-down grocery store on the corner. 

He bets they have raincoats or umbrellas. 

Peter finally caves in. 

A ringing bell chimes overhead as he ducks inside the door, and the man behind the counter wearily eyes him and reaches down for something. It’s probably a weapon. Most of the store owners in Gotham have them for self-defense. (And, hadn’t that been a shock the first time he entered a store for food.) His spider-sense doesn’t go off though so he’s probably safe for now. He pays the man no mind, heading down one of the aisles looking for an umbrella.

He doesn’t find one. The closest he finds is a clear plastic rain coat for five dollars. It would take all that’s left of his money. But… sadly… it’s worth the investment. It’s always cloudy in Gotham, and Peter’s probably lucky that he’s avoided the rain for as long as he has. He can’t be showing up to future job sites soaking wet each time it decides to drizzle. 

He snags the raincoat and heads to the counter. When he brings out his wallet the employee lowers whatever he’s holding. 

“Not sure how much it’s gonna help ya’ now,” He grumbles as he rings it up. The man’s eyes narrow at the growing puddle around Peter’s feet. The teenager cringes, handing over the remainder of his cash, and eyeing the trail of water he’s left behind. 

He shivers and rubs his arms again. He does his best to give a lopsided grin. “It’s uhh– better than nothing, yeah? And do you have a mop? I’m really sorry about dragging in water. I’ll clean it up for you if you want–” 

“If ya’ wanna clean it up, I ain’t gonna stop ya’ kid.” The man shrugs. After putting away his new rain coat in a bag by the counter, the man points at a crusty white mop propped up against the far wall. 

Immediately Peter goes to grab it, feeling a deep guilt about the zig-zag patterns of water he’s making on the floor. He trails after his path, feeling the man’s eyes follow him as he moves throughout the store. After he’s sure Peter isn’t up to something sketchy though, he feels the gaze fall off him. 

Just as he rounds the corner of an aisle, he hears the chime above the door ring out. 

“Hands in the air!” There’s a click of a gun’s safety being turned off, and Peter immediately stills. 

He knows the sound of a robbery when he hears one. He's handled this exact scenario hundreds of times as Spider-Man. Quietly lowering the mop to the floor, Peter sneaks along the aisle, until he nears the front. There’s only one extra heartbeat in the building. 

The attacker is alone. 

Slowly, Peter leans his head out of the aisle. For a second he’s afraid the owner will look at him and give his position away, but the man’s steely eyes hold steady eye contact with the robber. 

“Put all the money in the bag old man.” The attacker says putting a grocery bag on the counter between them. Not once does he drop the gun. “Or I'll put metal between your eyes.”

The man stays silent, slowly opening the cash register in one languid movement. 

Peter's heart stutters.

“When you can do the things that I can...and then the bad things happen...they happen because of you.” 

The teenager comes around the corner and pounces. 

The fight is over before it really begins. The attacker turns around, slinging his gun out and drawing a cut across Peter's cheek, but he's not a match for super speed or super strength. Especially not the two combined. It's almost child's play to smack the gun from his hand while simultaneously bringing up one knee to his stomach. 

The mugger doubles over, coughing and wheezing, until he eventually drops to his knees. Peter tilts his head down at him. “I got a feeling-just an inkling– that you aren't going to sit around and wait for the police to arrive huh?”

The man's eyes become saucers, and now that he's facing Peter, the teenager can see the man's not wearing a mask or anything to protect his identity. Amateur. 

There's a ka-chick of a shotgun being loaded and a second later the store owner is looking down the barrel of his gun at the man. 

“I do,” He responds. The mugger lifts his hands up in surrender. “You'll sit nice and tight, won't you?”

“Yes sir.” The affirmative is grit out. 

Peter owlishly blinks. “Do you want me to call…?”

“I pressed a panic button as soon as he came in.” The owner shrugs. “Go on kid, I've got this.” 

Peter isn’t quite sure how he feels about leaving the attacker alone at gunpoint– it isn’t good, that’s for sure– but here isn’t much else he can do. 

He merely shrugs, goes to grab his raincoat, and chalks it all up to karma. 

People’s stares turn into sneers the closer Peter treads to the library. 

This part of town is way nicer than the Bowery. All of the buildings are intact, the stores are open and not boarded up, the streets don’t have potholes scattered throughout them, and cars sit parked along the curb with their tires still intact. 

It’s not completely quiet though. There are still sirens in the far off distance, sounds of suspicious activity happening in the dark alleyways, but they’re further apart and more seldom than the city’s more crime-ridden areas. 

Most notable of this district though, is the increased police presence. Blue uniforms stand around almost every street. Even better, they seem to actually be doing their job. This is the first time Peter thinks he’s seen a cop in Gotham that wasn’t up to no-good. Usually they keep a wide berth from Peter and wait until someone comes to talk to them. 

These police officers though, merely give him a nod, as their eyes watch vigilantly over the street. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to catch their attention in any malicious way. 

Before he knows it, he’s at the library. 

The building–like most of the city– is gothic in nature. It's made of marble and has many nooks and crannies that look perfect to crawl up to and take a nap in. Roaring lion statues stare down at the street from where they prowl near the roof, and Peter feels a small ounce of unease staring into their nondescript eyes. 

Creepy. 

Despite the outside looking straight from a early 90’s crime novel, the library itself appears very modern. The doors slide open automatically when Peter approaches them and a thick layer of gray plush carpet covers the floor until where it meets the round wooden front desk. Guess he won’t have to worry too much about leaving a trail of water here. 

From beyond that point, dozens of bookshelves are crammed into the space a little whiles away, and some stairs and elevator lead up to further sections. 

The teenager feels no surprise when he sees a plaque on the wall dedicated to the Waynes as a generous benefactor. 

‘Not the worst place to fund.’ Peter thinks as he strolls into the building. He lowers his hood, taking off his raincoat and placing it by the door next to where dozens of umbrellas lay. 

A red-headed woman at the front desk spots him and waves him over with a smile. She leans forward in her wheelchair, already typing something in the computer. From this angle, Peter can barely see her name badge (“Barbara”) pinned to her Mario Kart hoodie. “Man, it’s really coming down out there huh?” 

“Oh yeah,” Peter returns her smile with one of his own. “No sign of letting up either.” 

“What else can you expect from Gotham? We haven’t had rain all week though, so I guess it was due.” Barbara good-naturedly shakes her head. “How can I help you today?” 

Peter startles a bit and pats down his pockets for his wallet. “I was hoping I could make a library card? I only have my identification though. I didn’t know if you needed a proof of address.” 

“You’re in luck. We got rid of that requirement last year.” Peter holds out his ID and Barbara takes it gently from his hands. Her eyes glance over to the pictures in his wallet, before she starts to quickly type away at the computer. Of course, Peter’s luck isn’t that great, and the woman immediately brings it up. “Is that your girlfriend?” 

He purposefully closes his wallet without looking at the MJ’s face smiling up at him. 

(Funny how he had wished to bring more photos with him when he universe-jumped, but now that he’s here, he can’t even bring himself to look at them.) 

“Uh– she was. It’s complicated.” Peter says honestly. 

“Sorry if I brought up any bad memories,” Her words seem genuinely apologetic. “I don’t know when to stop asking questions sometimes.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter stretches his lips in the best grin he can manage at the moment.  “No way you can know right? It’s conversation for a reason, and goodness knows that I’ve bumbled my fair share of those. Especially since I have a tendency to ramble on. Which I am doing now.”

Barbara snorts softly. “Ramble away Peter. One of my friends does that all the time when he’s had too much caffeine and too little sleep. He’s a coffee junkie, so it happens often enough that I’m used to it.”

“Coffee junkie? I think you mean he just has good taste,” Peter jokes. 

“Remind me if he’s ever in the library to keep you two from meeting.” Barbara grins as she types away at rapid speeds. She must be at the computer a lot if she’s that quick with a keyboard. Even Ned doesn’t type that fast. And he is–err was– Peter’s guy in the chair. 

He wonders if she gets stuck behind the desk often.    

“Will do,” Peter gives a finger salute as she hands the card back to him. 

“Almost done,” Barbara says, her eyes reflecting the glow of the computer. “Annnnd, congratulations, you are a proud owner of a Gotham library card.” 

‘Thank goodness.’ Peter almost sighs in relief. Finally he he’ll be able to have some answers to his questions. His fingers itch to get behind a computer. 

“Thank you,” Peter says. He then realizes how uncomfortably soaking wet his clothes and skin still are. If he sits down at one of the computers, he’s going to make a mess. “What are your hours? I’ll have to come back when I’m more…” He gestures to his clothes, “Dry.” 

“We’re open every day except Sunday from nine to seven. Sorry kid. You must be shaking like a leaf like that.” Barba’s eyebrows furrow and then she holds up a finger. “I actually might be able to help you there though. Give me one second.” 

She wheels into the back for a few minutes, and  through the walls Peter can hear the sound fabric and paper rustling around. When she comes back out, she’s holding a plastic bag full of clothes. 

Peter reluctantly takes it when she holds it out to him. Peering inside, he can see a mixed pile of jogging pants and lightly used workout shirts. He can tell that some of the stitches in the seam lines are hand-sewn, so whoever they belonged to, must have taken good care of them. 

“These were my boyfrien– err my ex-boyfriends– but he hasn’t grabbed them from my apartment in weeks, and I told him if he took any longer I was just going to toss them.” Her expression is soft, and her eyes hold a warmth that Peter isn’t entirely sure should be directed towards him. Gothamites usually keep their stares level and steel-cold. 

Initially, Peter goes to refuse, but he stops himself. He could… really… use some extra clothes. They would be a huge help to him. He's not really in a position to decline the. He shifts from one foot to the other awkwardly. “Are you sure he won’t get mad?” 

Barbara grins with a raise of her eyebrows. “Let him get mad if he does. He should be happy I held onto them for as long as I did. Besides, I think he’d want you to have them too. He already has too many clothes to keep count of, and no offense kid, but you definitely look like you need them more.” 

Heat crawls up Peter’s neck and he peers back into the bag. “I really can’t thank you enough for this.” 

“No problem. Bathrooms are over there to your left,” She points down the lobby and Peter doesn’t wait another second to go change. 

The bathrooms smell lightly of lemon-scented cleaner, and he crams himself into a nice stall to change. Putting on a dry change of clothes after trudging around in his wet ones all day is a balm to his skin. The fabric is warm and ridiculously soft. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever owned clothes this soft before. They almost slide off his skin like water. The jogging pants are also really thick and retain heat well. A minute after putting them on and he feels like a new person. 

Before he leaves the bathroom he takes a few paper towels and pats his hair not-quite-dry but not dripping either. 

When he exits the bathroom, Barbara is sitting outside of the desk. “Everything fit?” 

“Surprisingly, yeah.” Peter isn’t the tallest guy in the world, but he has a lanky yet muscular build from doing acrobatics. Yet the clothes given to him fit perfectly. Almost as if they were bought specifically for Peter. 

“You both are pretty much the same height. Glad they fit! Now you can browse the library without looking like you’re one second from melting.” 

Peter shakes his head, “I would have definitely melted. You’ve practically saved my life.” 

“I have, haven’t I?” Barbara looks pleased with herself. “Well, your very gracious savior won’t keep you any longer. Have fun exploring the library. Remember there’s a five book limit, along with a two item limit on movies and audio cds. Oh and Peter–” 

Peter stops and meets her warm eyes. She continues, “It’s hard being homeless in Gotham. If you have any place else to go kid…You might want to try your chances there.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Barbara,” Peter purposefully relaxes his stance. “I totally have a home.” 

It’s very sweet in a way. She has no way of knowing that he has superstrength or any of his other powers. But Peter can take care of himself. 

He can. 

“Right,” She drawls. “I know they say home is where the heart is. But I mean four walls and a roof–” The shed has four walls and a roof. “Not the streets.”

“I promise you that I don’t live out on the streets. Got a roof and everything.” 

Barbara disbelievingly raises one eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t push the topic. They part with pleasantries and Peter goes to the computer lab. After registering the computer for a two hour period, he sits down at the nearest cubicle and begins his search. 

It takes him a while to figure out where to begin. There’s so much he doesn’t know. It’s overwhelming. Fortunately, Peter’s no stranger to being dropped in new environments, and he’s always been a quick study. He decides to start with superpowered laws. 

It would be nice to know if he’s breaking the law simply by living. 

What he finds is shocking– but in a good way. Unlike his last world, this dimension doesn’t have equivalents to the Mutant Registration Act or the Sokovia Laws. 

In fact, most metahumans (and it looks like they are called metas here in a very board category) fall under a lot of protection acts. Most of the laws are founded and backed by members of the Justice League. 

And oh boy– wasn’t that a fun group to find out about? 

Unlike the Avengers, which worked closely with the United States Government and S.H.I.E.L.D, the Justice League operates almost as it’s own entity. They work across borders and are seen as the embodiment of justice and good. 

It’s strange to think that there’s not a governing body that’s overseeing them. What’s to stop them from doing what they want? 

Peter pauses. 

That line of thinking is what made the Sokovia Accords in the first place… maybe it’s for the best that this world doesn’t try to regulate them.

After reading a brief synopsis of the main Justice League members, he figures out that one of them is in Gotham. Batman. Apparently one of the few members who isn't a meta. 

He exits out of his search and focuses all of his new efforts in studying Gotham. A quick Wikipedia article links him to all the known vigilantes in the city…and there’s quite a few of them. 

There had been a lot in his New York. (Matt, the Punisher, Jessica Jones, Tony, and everyone else when they were in town.) But nothing like this. All of the vigilantes were under one force. They moved and operated under Batman and nobody else. 

One man helped organize all superhero activity in the city. 

And from what Peter’s seen of Gotham, no wonder the man needs as many vigilantes as he can get. Even if he patrolled each and every night, there’s simply too much crime for one man to handle. 

Heck, there’s apparently an entire organization of night-prowling vigilantes, and Peter still sees a flood of crime happen in the streets as he wanders around. Explosions, fires, bullets, and thievery, the entire city always feels like it’s on the precipice of imploding into itself. 

Pulling up a new list, Peter quickly moves all of his new-found information about vigilantes onto a document, before also adding maps of Gotham along with the location of the police stations, hospitals that deliver antidotes to the different type of toxins, and all the major villains that prowl the city. 

At first glance, the rogues don’t look like too much of a threat. Then Peter reads more about their attacks and he realizes that while the villains of Gotham are different than what he’s used to, they are by no means less dangerous. 

Holy fuck– why is Jocker Toxin a thing? 

After reading about Joker’s main attack, Peter feels his skin crawl. How could somebody weaponize laughter? There’s already so much bad in the world…why take one of the few good things they have left and turn it for something so sickening? 

He shudders. 

“That’s one of the worst of them,” A voice speaks behind him. Peter almost jumps out of his skin. Barbara smiles softly back at him. 

“I thought I would go ahead and see what kind of stuff I might run into here,” Peter says. “It’s…different than Queens.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Barbara replies. “We’re one of the only cities that has to worry about mass chemical warfare.” 

Peter solemnly nods. “I didn’t realize there were so many different toxins. I put all the locations for antidote hand-outs in a document, but I won’t be able to print it out until it stops raining.” 

“That’s smart. You probably should be able to last a few days without it, but with Gotham,” She shrugs. “You never know. See why I said you might want to try and live somewhere else?” 

“I got it, but I don’t really have anywhere else go right now,” Peter answers honestly. Then he grins, “Besides, I said it was different, not unmanageable. I’m sure I can make it.” 

Barbara’s smile turns a shade closer to fond. “If you say so kid. If you’re going to be sticking around, I might have something that might help you. Come see me when you decide to leave.”

Ominous. But Barabara has been nothing but helpful, so Peter pushes down any worries about her. 

Looks like his time is almost up at the computers anyways, and there's a backlog of people so he won't be able to reserve it for more time. Shame. There's still so much more he wants to research.

One day at a time Peter. 

Saving all the information on the computer, he logs off and heads off. There’s still a few hours until the library closes, and Peter doesn't quite feel like going back to the scrapyard just yet. 

Junkyards aren’t exactly the most entertaining of places, especially on rainy days like these. 

Sue him, Peter's bored. 

He meanders through the rows of books. Should he be trying to research more? Probably. Is he going to read fiction instead? Ab-so- lutely.

He grins and b-lines it to the comic book section. 

It’s a pretty small collection for being in such a big library. But they all look interesting. Peter’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen half of them before.

Oh right. New world. New material. 

Wait– is Star Wars a thing in this world? 

That would be a crying shame if it isn't. Perhaps the biggest travesty of dimension hopping. 

Picking up a comic at random, he sits cross legged on the floor. A few comics later and he's so lost in the plot and characters that he barely registers someone walking to a stop next to him.

It’s not until there’s a polite cough that he looks up. 

A short nine-year-old kid is glaring at him. If stares were daggers, Peter would be six-feet-under by now. “Excuse me, but you’re blocking the one I want.” 

Peter blinks. “Oh, sorry about that.” 

The child literally scoffs at him as he stands up and takes a few steps to the side. Peter didn’t even know kids could scoff like that outside of movies. 

The back of his spider senses buzz lightly as the kid approaches the shelf, plucks his desired comic off the shelf, and turns around. 

It isn’t until the kid walks is down the hall that Peter realizes why he was so uncanny. 

The kid barely makes any sound when he moves. If Peter didn’t have super hearing he wouldn’t have been able to pick up the slight sound of moving fibers on the carpet.  Compared to all the other moving people in the library, the kid is as quiet as a mouse . 

Weird. 

Peter shakes his head and puts his comic back. He then goes to see Babara, returning her smile when she greets him. 

“Here you go!” She hands him a plastic laminated piece of paper. Further examining it–Peter realizes it’s a map of Gotham. On the back is a list of emergency numbers and locations in case of events. 

And since it’s laminated– it won’t get wet and ruined in the rain. 

It’s an extremely throughout gesture, and Peter feels the back of his eyes burn from it. Since he’s come to Gotham he hasn’t had anybody show him as much kindness as this librarian. 

“Thanks,” He croaks, trying to will himself to keep his dignity intact. There will be no crying in the Gotham library. Not today. He gulps and looks up at Barbara. “This means a lot to me.” 

“No problem kid,” The red-haired woman smiles. “Now, get on home, it’s going to be getting dark soon.” 

She didn’t need to tell him twice. Criminals grew ballsy when the sun went down, and walking all the way back to Crime Alley in the dark is asking to get mugged. 

He gives her a two finger salute. “Yes ma’am! See you later Barbara!” 

“See you later Peter.” 

And without another word he exits into the rain. 

Peter trudges back to the Bowery with his rain hood up and keeping to the rooftops. He’s less likely to get a gun pulled on him from parkouring across the skyline, and his spider-abilities let him jump without the worry of slipping and falling off an edge. 

He’s halfway to the junkyard when a grinding noise interrupts his run. The sound of gears makes him halt and he peers over an edge into an alleyway just in time to see one of the brick walls open and move. 

A fake wall. 

Peter pauses as a car shoots out of the fake wall and down the wide alleyway. Blue lights reflect out of rainwater, and the sound of the engine reverberates off the walls. As soon as it came though, it disappears as it careens around a corner. 

Had Peter not just spent literal hours researching in the library he might not have know what that was. But he had. And he did. 

That was….that was the batmobile. 

Batman’s car. 

Peter whistles as the grinding noise restarts. His eyes flicker to the closing false brick wall. 

An idea forms in his mind.

Peter quickly hops over the edge, jumping off the walls and landing harshly in the alleyway. Quickly using his remaining strength, he sprints and jumps through the closing gap of the wall. 

The door shuts behind him with a echoing thud. 

Peter stands up and looks around. 

Well-lit circular tunnels lay in front of him. A thousand questions rattle through his head at light speed. How far did these go? Did they extend all under Gotham? Would Batman notice the sudden intrusion? 

“Bad idea Parker,” Peter whispers as he reaches back and feels the solid brick wall under his fingertips. 

What was he supposed to have done though? Not explore the giant tunnels under the city? Yeah right. 

‘Besides,’ Peter thinks as he looks back to the closed wall behind hi.. ‘ Too late to turn back now.’

“Alright, I’m back online,” Barbara says as she logs into her computer in the clocktower. The sound of rain hitting the stone roof and distant thunder surrounds her, and it’s on days like these that Barbara feels like a mad scientists stuck in the top of her tower. 

It’s not a bad feeling. 

“Miss anything interesting?” She asks as she starts reading through her systems warning logs for any strange occurrences.

“B and Robin are going downtown to stop Clayface from attacking a bank,” A high pitched feminine voices says throughout the intercoms. “Besides that, it’s pretty dead tonight.”

“That’s a good thing,” Babara says. 

“I guess,” Steph laughs. “Although, we might want to ask Dick if he wants a ride from the tunnel system. I just got a ping from one of the motion sensors and I saw him wandering around.” 

Barbara’s fingers still. 

Dick wasn’t in town today? Unless he lied about working a late nighter at the police station? But he rarely lies about things like that. Not to Barbara. Quickly she pulls up the footage from the bat tunnels and feels a chill go up from her spine. 

The figure wandering the tunnels looks exactly like Dick. He’s the same height, and his water logged hair is closer to black than the brown Barbara knows it is. Those clothes belong to Dick too. Or they did. 

If Barbara hadn’t given them away just hours prior. 

“Good catch,” The librarian-turned-vigilante says through the intercom. “I’ll message and arrange something for him now.” 

As she speaks she slowly deletes the footage and places it on a loop in the cave. She sends the live feed of the kid wandering around to only the clocktower channels. They don’t need to know about Peter. Not yet. 

He’s not doing anything harmful. 

While the tunnel videos don’t have audio, she can see him whistling and skipping along some parts. He’s nowhere close to finding the path to the batcave, and he’s on his way to a dead end. 

She looks up to see how he snuck in and sighs when she realizes that the kid only broke in because of a bad case of ‘poor timing.’ Honestly, if she had been younger and saw the batmobile shooting out of a cave system, she’d want to go explore it too. 

She can’t exactly blame him. 

As it is, she blocks a few wings near him that lead closer to the Bristol area. 

Just because he probably won’t find the batcave, doesn’t mean she’s taking any chances. She keeps an eye on him throughout the night on one of her other monitors as he wanders around. 

On the next monitor she starts her search for one Peter Parker. 

Who in the world is this kid?