Chapter Text

It’s been a stressful month.

Peter had somehow turned up in this place, Gotham, and had spent the past few weeks figuring out how to survive by the bare minimum (read: dumpster diving and sneaking into both libraries and gymnasiums), his pride adamant against the idea of seeking any homeless shelters. Not when so many others required their services and could use them to improve their lives. Besides, he wasn’t homeless, just… displaced. 

Right, displaced.

Even when he was out on the street, his Spider-Sense had been buzzing nearly constantly. He was on edge at almost every minute of the day. And maybe it was the slow-paced starvation that sunk into the deep of his bones, making his hands shake with each fragile movement, face heavy with exhaustion, or maybe it was because he was in a whole new universe (he figured that out pretty quickly), without a friend to rely on, a person to speak to who would sympathize with his situation, but he was also incredibly moody.

That left him as an over-exhausted, nervous, starving teenager who was alone.

Completely.

So yeah, it’s been a stressful month.

Now, Peter is not one to change his morals; no sir, he’d die on the very rock he stood on as long as it meant he was doing the right thing. And he usually does.

Do the right thing, that is.

Whether it be stopping a high-level heist or a petty mugging or even helping little old ladies cross the street, the point is that he tries to do the right thing by everyone. Yes, there are the occasional moments where maybe he arrives a little too late, hits a little too hard, or loses his temper a little, though that’s a more recent thing- but it’s never on purpose, no. He would never intentionally cause permanent bodily harm to anybody. No matter how hard they hit him. No matter what they say or do. He would never.

Still, mistakes happen, and with Peter forcing himself to hold back all the time, he can’t always be flawless in his “Delivery of Justice” (as Ned called it).

But those were mistakes.

This wasn’t.

He had been looking for a new place to sleep, his previous spot now being investigated by a large (armed by the way his Spider-Senses were tingling) man whose steps reverberated throughout the gymnasium hall by way of heavy combat boots. Peter doesn’t doubt for a second that the faint clink he can hear with each step is some type of concealed weapon being jostled by the movement. 

Despite all this, this man was one of Gotham’s vigilantes… sort of. Technically speaking, he was a crime lord, but after looking into it some more, Peter quickly found that he worked rather closely with the Bats, at least more than he (the crime lord in question) would admit.

And like he was also wearing this red metal helmet that screams vigilante.

So yeah, the Red Hood had found out he’d been sleeping in gymnasiums and was hunting him down practically every night, and though Peter had a few theories, one following the lines of him being a criminal for the amount of breaking and entering he’s done-

Side note: he’d never broken anything. Except maybe a door lock. Or two.

Regardless, he’s still technically broken the law- Okay, so maybe Peter does have an idea as to why the Red Hood was tracking him down. Still, many other things were going on in the night: drug deals, kidnappings, and muggings, to name a few, so why was the crime lord so focused on this one measly nineteen-year-old teenager who was just trying to sleep a few hours?

No clue.

Peter started actively avoiding the Bats after he’d found out that they, for the most part, had been hunting him down. 

They weren’t just looking for him when he was Peter.

They were also looking for Spider-Man; of course, Peter had started Spider-Manning when he arrived in Gotham. Heaven knows this place needs all the help it can get-

It's not that he doubted the abilities of Gotham’s resident vigilantes because he definitely didn’t; he was just providing an extra hand.

-but seeing as to how he was in a new universe with nothing but his suit, which unfortunately did not have pockets, it’s safe to say he was a suspicious individual when all the baggy clothes he borrowed hung loosely, way too loosely, off his frame and had a bright red and blue shifting beneath. Peter does not doubt that some passersby suspected him to be a rogue in a poorly drafted disguise. 

Peter made it a habit to keep his hood up, but he supposes that wasn’t enough, considering he was under heavy surveillance. He wonders if somebody had tipped off the bats or maybe his New York mannerisms simply didn’t fit the Gotham bill despite their similarities.

The Bats hadn’t seen his face yet, so Peter considered himself a step ahead, even if it was a small step, but that’s not the point-

He was looking for a new place to sleep. 

Peter supposes it could be due to a lack of proper rest, maybe blame the fact that his entire universe had shifted so grossly to the left that he’d gone dizzy, or even his borderline dying body, withering of starvation by the day, but he messed up, and he messed up big time.

Mistakes, not that he’s sure he’s allowed to call this one a mistake, by any capacity at that, can happen from anyone at any time. Mistakes can come in the form of letting a pencil slip through your fingers by accident. Mistakes can be staring at a phone while driving too long, causing an accident, which, again, is less of a mistake, and more so endangering the lives of others.

The point is that mistakes can vary in degrees of seriousness. One thing they tend to have in common, however, is recklessness. Loss of attention. Casual disregard… and any other things that would be best to describe what someone should not do if they’d like to prevent mistakes.

Peter didn’t know a whole lot about this universe yet, so he could probably pin this event on him being the ‘new kid,’ but realistically speaking, having been here a few weeks now, that’d just be shifting the responsibility off his shoulders, which he could never do.

After all, with great power, comes great, well in this case, mistakes again, not the term he’d use, but with the way his brain was flatlining right now, he wasn’t sure how else to classify it-

The jumbotron towering behind and above him flickered to life.

On it was Spider-Man, frozen, looking up at where the screen was (he was being filmed from the right side based on the positioning) as a thumbnail manifested in the upper left corner and grew to take up half the screen, replaying what was live footage mere moments ago.

Bane, the name Peter read scrolling across the screen that could belong to none other but that towering man in the black and white mask, getting hit directly in the side by none other than Spider-Man himself, the force rupturing through his hypodermis with relative ease as a part of the man's digestive tract is partially eviscerated from his abdomen, squeezed out like a chip bag under pressure.

Peter gags from behind his mask.

He has always known to hold back his strength.

Always.

Bane is laughing somewhere nearby, no doubt impressed (he’d complimented the spider joyously), and Peter can hear the blood dribbling from the man’s maw in between slurred speech.

Peter can’t bear to look.

He turns away from the lens filming him, away from the jumbotron, and away from Bane, the poor man he’d brutally struck. Was it his fit of rage? Overestimation of the man’s abilities? Exhaustion and hunger wearing down his filter? He’s unsure.

This was not a mistake. 

This was attempted murder. 

The mortality rate of evisceration was about eight percent, though it varied on a case-to-case basis, Bane was more than likely to survive, but that did not excuse his actions, not at all.

He should have been more careful.

Known better.

Done better.

Peter looks up at the looping jumbotron footage once more. It’s still trained on the pair as the scene from moments ago continues to loop. 

A soft patter of footsteps sounds from behind him, so imperceptively quiet that he figures it’d be invisible to the regular human ear. The bats have arrived. Peter doesn’t turn to look at them, figuring there are at least three present from the sound of their heartbeats. He doesn’t turn to look at Bane either as he shoots out a web and pulls himself up to swing away, ignoring the roaring laughter of the injured rogue as well as the other vigilantes calling out for him to wait.

Peter doesn’t know why he thought he’d be able to help as Spider-Man.

He wouldn’t be trying again anytime soon.

Red Robin scrubs his hair aggressively, sighing at the screen.

He clicks replay on the video footage once more watching as Bane’s insides are blasted out to carpet the street as he topples over, the vigilante in red and blue staring down at the rogue, mask void of expression. This was the self-proclaimed vigilante they’d been searching for over the past couple of days and this video alone confirmed that he was, in fact, a meta.

The lithe man, they’d assumed he was one based on his build, his voice changer made it difficult to be sure, looked almost shocked at the injury he’d graced Bane with as Nightwing was when initially pulling up to the scene.

It was also the first time they’d heard, much less seen Bane laugh in a long while, so that was most definitely not helping the shock factor, but judging by the way Spider-Man (the Bats had gotten his name from several different locals he’d saved) bolted off at the arrival of Nightwing, the Signal, and himself, which, he doesn’t doubt Spider-Man heard, Tim doesn’t expect to see the spider-themed hero anytime soon.

Tim sighs again, he just hopes they’ll be able to locate and monitor this vigilante, now confirmed meta, whenever he does come out of hiding, that is.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the infamous "almost-killed-a-man-with-one-punch" incident. 

A lot can change in just seven days. He’d gone from sleeping on park benches and scrounging for meals to living in the spacious guest room of an elegant townhouse, fostered by a kind elderly couple who seemed too good to be true.

He’d been discovered while napping in an alley, seated on dry magazines and wrapped in a ratty blanket when a man with faded auburn hair, who introduced himself as Gordon, had offered to find him a safe place to stay.

Peter probably shouldn’t have been so quick to accept the invitation, but he supposes the mania from his starvation was an acceptable excuse.

Their names were Benson and Courtney, his foster parents, and the moment Peter heard "Benson," it felt like a stab to the heart—a reminder of everything he’d lost. He’d tried not to flinch when he learned that another foster kid named Steven would be living with them too, yet another name that stung with unwelcome memories. Then there was Teresa, the last member of their small group, a bright blue-eyed girl with a soft demeanor who spent his first few nights peeking at him from behind doorframes before she’d even mustered up the courage to introduce herself.

It was the fourth night when she finally asked if she could touch his hair and possibly braid some of the longer bits, and who was he to say no? It was through Teresa he’d discovered that his hair had a brilliant white patch near the front, a feature he hadn’t had before. He figures he’d gone through some stressful event recently that had triggered a sort of canities subita, also referred to as ‘Marie Antoinette,’ syndrome—though that condition was considered more so a myth due to the complete lack of research supporting it-

The point is, he never bleached his hair, and even then, it’d be blonde, not a crisp white.

Peter, when not picking at and scratching his wrists raw (another new habit he’d grown recently, but they were just so itchy-), found his fingers constantly fiddling with the ivory strip. Ever since he became aware of it, he couldn't stop. It was as if its presence gnawed at the edge of his mind, pulling his attention like a silent itch he couldn’t quite ignore.

Despite small parallels to previous relations back in New York, back at home, Peter couldn't deny that his new foster parents were nothing short of extraordinary. Benson and Courtney were far from the typical picture of caregivers. The pair of octogenarians moved with the grace of people half their age, a strange vitality that defied their years. The Parker luck had skipped him this time, and somehow, against all odds, he’d landed in a home that could only be described as a miracle.

That’s right. Screw you Parker Luck.

That wasn’t all though, no, Benson and Courtney weren’t just generous—they were loaded. Their wealth flowed through every inch of the house, from the finely crafted furniture to the gourmet meals they had prepared by a personal chef. But more than their material wealth, it was their hearts that overflowed with kindness. They had taken Peter, Steven, and Teresa in with open arms and made it their mission to provide these kids with everything they could possibly need. “The best of the best” wasn’t just a saying here—it was their everyday reality.

And so, with their boundless patience and unshakable generosity, the couple did the unthinkable (albeit Peter hadn’t understood the benevolence of the gesture until after Teresa had thoroughly explained it to him over late-night friendship bracelet-making and movie-binging): they enrolled all three kids in Gotham Preparatory Academy. Even the name of the school sounded regal, and it was light-years beyond Midtown High in both size and prestige. 

Peter thought he’d be done with school by now, seeing as he was nineteen—or at least, he had been nineteen. Being shifted into this universe had, in fact, de-aged him by what seemed like two years, though with no proper way to check, Peter wasn’t entirely sure how old he truly was at this point.

The amount of age-related issues he'd had to deal with lately was almost comical. From disappearing for five years and having everyone forget him by the time he was sixteen, to spending three years in complete isolation... 

Honestly, it was a spiral of thoughts he really didn’t need to go down right now. 

The academy was a private institution, a world of gleaming hallways, towering gothic architecture, and ivy-covered walls that seemed to breathe history. Gotham Prep catered to the secondary phase of grades, middle and high school students alike, though they were kept in different wings of the enormous campus, which sprawled out like a small city of its own.

Peter had barely been able to believe his eyes the first time he laid them on the place. The grandeur of the school had taken his breath away, momentarily allowing him to forget the shame of what he had done a week ago. Almost. 

The wrought-iron gates, the pristine lawns, the statues of legendary figures (some foreign to his knowledge) dotting the courtyards—it all felt like stepping into another world, far removed from the gritty streets he used to roam.

The day Peter was officially signed up for classes, he accompanied Benson to the academy. 

The old man had a certain sturdy warmth about him—a quiet strength, coupled with a gentle spirit—that made Peter ache with the memory of Uncle Ben. Benson was exactly the kind of man who could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and still find time to ask how your day was. Benson had signed up Teresa a week before, and Steven two weeks before that, as the couple were still new to fostering. 

Eager to provide the best possible future for their foster children, Benson and Courtney had leaped at the opportunity to enroll the three of them in Gotham Prep—a school with deep personal meaning for them. It was where they and their late daughter, who had passed away only a year ago, had graduated (rest her soul). The loss still hung over the couple like a thin, ever-present mist, but they carried it with quiet dignity. 

Peter hypothesized it was their mourning that brought them to foster, but it wasn’t his place to prod, not with how accommodating the couple had been.

In their old age, they saw no reason to hoard their wealth, so they told Peter. Instead, they wanted to use it for good—to give children in need the opportunities they deserved. They weren’t content with just writing checks to charities, though they did that too. No, Benson and Courtney wanted to make a direct impact, to open their home to kids like Peter, Steven, and Teresa, and give them a chance at a better life.

The cost of attending Gotham Prep? It was a number so staggering, Peter could hardly wrap his mind around it. 

The tuition alone was more than he had ever seen in both his and Aunt May’s accounts combined—possibly even doubled. It felt almost surreal to be there, walking those hallowed halls, knowing how much it took to even get through the door. And yet, there he was. The scruffy, once-homeless (not homeless, displaced ) kid who had made a mess of his life was now enrolled in one of the most prestigious schools in the city, thanks to the kindness of two elderly strangers.

It's Monday when Peter steps onto the school grounds for the second time, now officially enrolled as a junior— for the third time. Redundant, he knows.

He wonders distantly if he'd ever be done with junior year for good.

His nerves are frayed to hell and back, anxiety clawing at him with every step. He hates being the new kid, the stranger, the outcast. The prospect of being bullied again looms over him like a storm cloud. Sure, in theory, he could defend himself without breaking a sweat—he wasn’t helpless by any stretch of the imagination—but realistically, he couldn’t use his powers. 

Not again. 

Especially not after last time.

With a sigh, Peter adjusted the strap of his newly purchased bag (thank you, Courtney) back onto his shoulder, nearly wincing at the movement. It felt like everything was dialed up to fifteen today—his senses on overdrive, every touch and sound grating on his nerves.

To be fair, the entire week had been overwhelming, but the past three days in particular took the cake. His appetite had nearly doubled overnight, leaving him sneaking down to the kitchen in the middle of the night just to quiet the relentless hunger pangs. Normally, he would have ignored it, but it had gotten so unbearable that he'd found himself standing in front of the fridge in a daze, with no memory of how he got there and only a few crumbs stuck to his fingers as evidence of his ravenous midnight feast.

But it wasn’t just his appetite. Of course, it wasn’t.

No, his senses were cranked up to eleven, leaving him in a constant state of sweat, with migraines holding him hostage. Peter felt like he was back at the beginning when he'd first been bitten—the same dull, bone-deep aches as his body struggled to adjust to whatever new mutations were altering his DNA. He'd already gone through that once, so why was this happening again?

Was this a side effect of crossing into a new universe? Why did things keep changing? His stupid Parker Luck could never let him have one good thing.

A bubbling heat of frustration surged in his gut, and it took a surprising amount of self-control for him to push it back down. 

Now wasn’t the time. 

Not on his first day of school.

He took his first daunting steps into the building, the soft jingle of his Robin keychain (courtesy of Teresa) bouncing against his thigh with each step.

The walk to the office took much less time than he'd mentally prepared for. He was told to wait there until another student—someone who had volunteered—would come by and show him around. Apparently, he and this student had nearly the same schedule, except for two classes where he'd be handed off to someone else. Peter wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not by how much responsibility the school placed on the students to take care of each other.

As he pulls his hands away from his wrists—trying to break the habit of picking at them—the office door swings open, and in steps a teenager with chocolate-colored skin. Judging by his looks alone, he was about the same height as Peter, maybe an inch or so taller. The student walks to the desk, exchanges a few words with the office worker, and then turns to Peter (a flash of recognition sweeps across the teenager's eyes for but a bat of an eye) with an outstretched hand and an easy, infectious grin.

"Nice to meet you, dude. I’m Duke."

Peter nods, offering a small smile in return. He doesn’t really feel like being touched right now, but he doesn't want to seem rude. Hesitating for just a fraction of a second, he finally extends his hand to meet Duke’s. The moment of hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed.

When Peter tries to respond, though, the words get stuck in his throat. His voice refuses to cooperate, and his head spins slightly. He opens and closes his mouth a few times in confusion. Why can’t he speak?

Duke seems to pick up on his distress almost immediately, releasing Peter's hand swiftly but kindly. "Not the talkative type?" he asks with a warm, understanding chuckle.

Peter was very much the talkative type. Just… not right now, it seems.

Still, he quickly shakes his head 'no' to Duke, not wanting to leave the other teen hanging.

“No worries, man,” Duke says with a casual shrug. “I can show you where the cafeteria is if you want? We still have, like—” he checks his phone, a sleek, unfamiliar device that looks similar to but much less advanced than Peter’s own, “fifteen-ish minutes before class starts.”

Peter nods again, offering a tentative smile in place of words, which still seem to be eluding him for some reason. Thankfully, Duke doesn’t seem to mind at all. He beams back at Peter and starts leading him out into the hall, launching into an explanation of their schedule for the day.

And honestly, Peter's attention drifts elsewhere. His thoughts fixate more on the promise of the cafeteria than on Duke’s words because, God, he was hungry.

Hopefully, they have something good.

Chapter Text

After getting a sufficient—but not too suspicious—amount of food in his system, Peter feels somewhat more grounded. 

(Eating had felt off, something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.)

Duke definitely notices how much he’s eaten, but to Peter’s immense relief, he doesn’t comment on it. In fact, Duke even slides parts of his own plate over to Peter without saying a word, earning him a silent but heartfelt ‘ Bless your soul’ from Peter.

The unspoken understanding between them makes Peter feel just a little more at ease. He was used to people commenting on how much food he put away, especially with his enhanced metabolism constantly working overtime and that was before his sudden appetite increase. It’s hard enough blending in without his body demanding nearly triple the amount of food a normal person his age would eat, but Duke’s casual generosity and lack of judgment—it’s exactly what Peter needed today.

Classes, surprisingly enough (especially with Peter’s track record), pass by with relative ease. Gotham Prep operates on a block schedule, so they only have three classes a day. Today, Peter's schedule consists of math, art, and science. Tomorrow it’ll be physical education, history, and coding.

Pretty solid, he thinks, considering how overwhelming his past school experiences were.

Duke, as it turns out, is far more popular than Peter expected. Two girls—one with preppy blonde hair and the other with a sleek black bob—wave over at him, their arms linked. Their gazes slide over to Peter, and they greet him with polite smiles. Their eyes seem to drift toward the white patch he is very much self-conscious about in his hair and Peter elects to ignore it, instead responding with a shy smile and a wave, still feeling too awkward to do much else.

A second later, another chocolate-skinned teen comes up and dabs Duke up as he passes, giving Peter a friendly nod as well. Again, Peter forces a smile in return, much too awkward to attempt anything else, especially with his voice still on lockdown.

Even when they pass by the middle school section, Peter notices a grumpy-looking preteen, who nods hello with an unusually formal, “Greetings, Thomas.” 

(Duke clarifies quickly, “That’s my last name.”)

“Hey, Damian,” Duke greets. “This is Peter, new transfer. He’s the one I mentioned. I’m giving him a tour right now.”

Damian’s gaze zeroes in on Peter, scanning him up and down and, like the girls earlier, staring a bit too long at his hair, then his eyes, and Peter briefly wonders if he looks that strange, seeing as to how he’d been given that same treatment three times over, before locking onto the Robin keychain Teresa had given him, hanging off his hip. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d swear there was a smug look on the kid’s face, almost like a bird fluffing up its feathers, preening in satisfaction.

“So… I take it Robin is your favorite of the Bats?” Damian asks, leaning in ever so slightly toward Peter.

Caught off guard, Peter instinctively shifts back a bit, wary of any contact (a movement that both Duke and Damian notice). Still, Peter manages to nod, flashing a wide smile in response.

He remembers one of those late nights staying up with Teresa. She had gone on a whole tangent about the Bats and why Robin was her favorite. “How can someone be so young and still be a hero? I bet he never gets bullied at school!” she had gushed. Peter hadn’t formed much of an opinion about them at the time, but since Teresa had insisted Robin was the best, he had figured, sure—Robin was his favorite too.

Besides, if it meant that he had one more thing in common with Teresa, he had no qualms at all. He’d only known the girl a week and had already decided he’d hang up the stars for her if she asked.

Damian’s expression almost— almost —softens into a smile. He nods at Peter’s confirmation and simply says, “You have good judgment.”

And just like that, Damian spins on his heel and strides away without another word, leaving Peter blinking after him in confusion. Damian didn’t even seem bothered by Peter’s lack of verbal response.

Duke chuckles beside him, clearly amused. Peter, on the other hand, can’t figure out how someone could leave a conversation so quickly without so much as a goodbye. But seeing as Duke doesn’t seem fazed, Peter decides he shouldn’t be either.

As time drags on, Peter’s wrists itch more fiercely, and the dull ache steadily builds, spreading to his arms. His head throbs, the pain ebbing and flowing in pulses, and though he shakes his head a few times to clear it, it only provides momentary relief. Every so often, Duke glances over, asking him if he’s okay with increasing frequency—about every ten minutes now. Although Peter is grateful for the concern, it’s starting to wear on him. Duke’s voice, while smooth and friendly, feels like nails on a chalkboard against his heightened senses, especially with how close Duke stays by his side. Peter winces every time Duke speaks, wondering why such an innocuous sound irritates him so much.

It shouldn't affect me this badly, he tells himself, trying to keep calm. He’s just trying to help.

But as the day presses on, Peter’s head feels more clouded, his skin crawling, his muscles wound tight.

By the time they meet another of Duke’s friends—a shorter, pale teen with sharp black hair and piercing blue eyes named Tim, looking no older than Peter—Peter’s body is screaming at him to retreat. He tries his best to smile, feeling dizzy and off-balance, but his muscles barely cooperate. Tim, who’s been tasked with helping Peter in the classes Duke can’t attend, seems friendly enough, but Peter's head is spinning too much to focus on his words. He sees Tim’s mouth moving, hears the noise, but the ringing in his ears is overpowering.

Then Tim, mid-speech, gives Peter a friendly slap on the back. That simple, harmless touch feels like a branding iron against Peter’s skin, searing into his nerves.

Peter flinches violently, stumbling backward with a groan. The hallway warps in his vision, blurring and shifting as the fluorescent lights burn through his eyelids. He squints, struggling to stay upright as the world spins beneath him. Tim and Duke are talking to him—he can tell by their muffled, distant voices—but it’s as though they’re speaking from the other side of a thick wall.

“Peter!” Duke’s voice cuts through the haze, sounding worried.

“Woah, dude! I didn’t mean to hurt you—are you alright?” Tim says, his tone rising with panic.

But their words are grating, pounding in Peter’s skull. He feels like he’s drowning in sound, light, and pain, and the fear sets in, quick and overwhelming. Instinctively, Peter does what he always does when he’s scared—he runs.

He bolts down the hallway, stumbling and nearly crashing into lockers and students as he desperately searches for an empty classroom. The pain throbs in his temples, his wrists burning as he pushes through the panic. Finally, he spots a bathroom under renovation.

The door is locked.

His mind races, panic flaring hotter, and he doesn’t have the time or patience to look for keys. Without thinking, Peter grabs the handle and yanks hard, the door screeching as it skews off its hinges. He hopes no one saw that—though in his current state, he couldn’t care less. Peter rushes inside, the air thick and quiet, and he slips into the first empty stall. Collapsing onto the floor, which is miraculously clean, Peter presses his back against the cool tiles and curls his knees to his chest, trying to block out the overwhelming sensory overload.

Right now, all he can focus on is surviving this freak-out, hoping no one finds him like this.

Peter’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he presses his head against the rough, bumpy plastic of the stall door, his body trembling with exhaustion and the ache spreading through his limbs. The cool tile floor offers some relief, but it’s not enough to block out the burning sensation in his wrists or the bizarre bulge growing in his gums, right where his canines are. He’s run his tongue over the area all day, thinking it was just a sore, but now it’s clear it’s something much worse. When he tries it again, the bumps feel unnervingly symmetrical.

What’s happening to me? Peter groans, pulling his jacket up and over his head, tightening the hood to block out the harsh light. The world is too loud, too bright, and he just needs a minute to breathe—to think.

He just needs a minute like this… just.. Just a minute.

Just one minute.

Back in the hallway, Duke and Tim stand in stunned silence as they watch Peter take off like a bullet. Tim turns to Duke, wide-eyed and bewildered.

“Dude,” Tim says, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Duke, equally exasperated, grabs Tim by the shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. “Tim, I know you’re a genius, but why on Earth would you even think to slap him on the back?”

Tim sputters, defensive. “You didn’t tell me he was sensitive to touch!”

Duke groans, rubbing his face in frustration. “It’s called body language, man! How do you expect me to just spell it out for you when Peter was standing right next to me? What was I supposed to do, announce, ‘Hey, I can tell you have touch-related trauma,’ right to his face?”

Tim throws his hands up. “And why can’t you say that?! Would’ve saved us from all this.”

Duke scoffs, shaking his head. “Because that’s rude, Tim! God, sometimes I can’t believe you.” He pauses, letting out a long sigh before resigning himself. “I’m going to go find Peter.”

Tim slumps his shoulders, remembering the shocked look on Peter’s face, the strange green glow in his eyes before he bolted. It had reminded him of Jason—an eerie similarity that sent chills down his spine. Peter had seemed like a nice kid, too. If only he wasn’t running on decaf this morning, he would’ve been sharper and noticed the signs.

This was totally Steph’s fault.

“Alright, I’ll come with you,” Tim says, determined to make up for his mistake.

Duke nods in acknowledgment. “He probably needs a minute to calm down, so let’s not rush in too fast. We’ll wait for him, alright?”

“I know how to give people space, Duke,” Tim grumbles, though Duke’s raised eyebrow speaks volumes. Without another word, they jog down the hall, following Peter’s trail.

It takes about five minutes to track Peter down, and Tim can’t help but feel a surge of admiration—Peter is fast. 

Really fast. 

They finally reach the bathroom that’s under renovation, the one no students are supposed to enter. The sight that greets them is anything but normal. The heavy metal door is hanging slightly off its hinges, as though it had been yanked with far more strength than any regular person could muster. Several bolts are scattered around the floor, gleaming under the bright hallway lights. Tim and Duke share a look, the air between them thick with unspoken realization.

“That wasn’t like this earlier,” Duke mutters, frowning as he steps closer.

Tim nods in agreement, eyes narrowing. No, this kind of damage doesn’t just happen. Peter had definitely come through here. But what the hell was all of this? The force needed to tear that door apart wasn’t normal—it was extraordinary.

Inside, the room is eerily dark. The overhead lights, likely unplugged during the renovation, do nothing to chase away the gloom. Still, despite the stifling silence, they can hear it—shaky, shallow breathing. It’s quiet, but it’s unmistakably coming from Peter, though the boy remains hidden from view.

Something twists in Tim’s gut.

Duke leans forward slightly, his eyes scanning the dim interior, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of Peter, but Tim’s quicker. He grabs Duke by the shoulder, holding him back. 

“Wait,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s not spook him.”

Duke glances back, surprised but nods, realizing Tim’s right. In Peter’s current state, any sudden movement or sound could send him spiraling further.

Tim’s gaze drifts lower to the floor, and that’s when he notices something strange. The newly installed tiles—the ones that were perfectly aligned this morning—are askew, shifted as if something, or someone, had knocked them out of place. The neat grid of tiles is now disjointed, with some sections shifted several inches from where they should be. Tim crouches to inspect them more closely, running his hand over the uneven surface. These tiles didn’t move on their own. There’s no doubt—something caused this.

He rises to his feet, exchanging a knowing glance with Duke. The unease between them deepens, and the pieces start to fall into place. Peter wasn’t just overwhelmed or panicking. This was something else. Something far more dangerous.

Duke’s eyes widen at the implication as he follows Tim’s gaze. The door, the tiles, Peter’s unnatural speed... it all points to one conclusion.

Peter wasn’t just scared.

He’s a meta.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

This is so much worse, Peter decides, than the first time he went through a transformation.

Back then, the pain was tolerable—bad, but manageable. Now, it’s excruciating. If his senses were cranked to eleven during his first transformation, they’re at a fifteen now, and climbing. Every sensation is a fresh onslaught.

Even his own breath—normally a faint, rhythmic sound—pounds in his ears like thunder. It’s deafening, and each inhale feels like he’s sitting next to a concert speaker cranked to full blast. He can’t think, can’t focus on anything other than the way his heartbeat is practically screaming in his head. His pulse thrums relentlessly, overbearing and nauseating.

And it’s not just his hearing. His vision is too good. Despite the room being nearly pitch-black from the lights being out, Peter can still make out every single detail—the silver edge of the porcelain bowl beside him, the grout between the floor tiles, the distinct colors of everything around him. It’s like he’s developed night vision... except it’s not helpful. 

It’s too sharp.

Too intense.

What should have been a soft glow from the hallway light streaming in has become an unbearable glare. It feels like staring directly into the sun. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to block out the painful brightness, but even that doesn’t help much. Spots of green and red dance across his vision, taunting him behind his eyelids.

And it only gets worse.

The physical touch sensitivity he’d been dealing with earlier? It’s downright unbearable now. 

The simple weight of his backpack pressing against his shoulders feels like razors slicing into his skin. He rips it off with a frantic motion, tossing it across the bathroom stall. It hits the opposite wall with a dull thud that reverberates painfully in his ears, the sound much too loud, like someone slamming a door right beside him. It lands on the floor with an unceremonious slump, but to Peter, it sounds like an elephant stomping nearby.

But even that’s not enough. 

His clothes, clinging to his tightening skin, are suffocating him. Each brush of fabric feels like sandpaper, scratching, gnawing at his senses. His hands claw at his hoodie, desperate to rip it off, the frustration mounting as the fabric bunches and resists. It takes all of his willpower to calm down just enough to pull his hoodie over his head without tearing it apart, not wanting to ruin the gift Benson had gotten him, though the blinding fabric scraping over his face nearly sends him spiraling. 

His shirt, though, doesn’t survive.

The moment Peter feels his muscles surge with power, he tears through the fabric in one swift motion, the green in his vision pushing him to shred the worthless piece of cloth standing between him and relief. 

His bare skin isn’t enough.

It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

The itching under his wrists grows worse—unbearable, searing. His fingers claw feverishly at the area, scratching deeper and deeper until his nails break skin, and he can feel the slick warmth of blood against his fingers. And still that doesn’t register as enough to stop.

His breathing is heavy, ragged, and he slumps against the floor, his fingers finally resting on the cold, unforgiving tile. The rough texture of the floor should be maddening—it is maddening—but at least it’s better than the suffocating fabric of his clothes. Every flaw, every tiny imperfection in the tile grates on his skin like needles, but the coolness helps a little.

The dripping of his own blood is another assault, the faint splatters against the tile amplifying in his ears like a faucet turned to full blast.

But it’s lessening. Everything is.

And he nearly exhales a sigh of relief when the stall door slowly creaks open and his heart freezes in his chest.

Duke and Tim.

Peter had been so focused on trying to stop everything —the overwhelming sound, the blinding light, the unbearable pressure on his skin—that he had forgotten entirely about the two people who were supposed to be showing him around the school. 

He’s barely aware of their presence until their eyes lock onto him, and he locks eyes right back.

A flush of embarrassment surges through Peter, hotter and more intense than any of the physical sensations assaulting him and he almost wants to crumble in on himself again. The burning humiliation instantly clears the green haze from his vision, washing over his senses like cold water. His stomach tightens, and suddenly, every raw nerve in his body is replaced by one singular thought: Holy shit. This is so embarrassing.

He’s never going to recover from this. In the back of his mind, he wonders faintly if this was somehow worse than the sensory overload.

(What Peter doesn't realize—can’t remember, through the whirlwind in his head—is that he’d locked the door. Nor does he notice the quick, practiced movement of Tim, quietly sliding a slim Batarang, a small one he’d swiped from Bruce ages ago for a prank, back into his pocket, unseen by Peter’s panic-fogged mind.)

It’s only when something clatters inside the stall—a sharp, sudden noise that echoes through the bathroom—that the two boys outside decide to check on Peter. They exchange a glance, the decision unspoken, but shared between them. It’s been nearly twenty minutes, and Peter’s quiet gasps and labored breaths have done nothing but grow more alarming despite the few minutes of respite he’d have every so often.

Slowly. Cautiously.

They move forward. Years of training guide their movements and their steps are nearly silent as they inch closer. Tim leads, carefully stepping past the first stall, empty, then the second, until they both stop just outside the third—the handicap stall, larger than the rest. The door’s locked, but they can hear Peter on the other side, struggling to breathe.

Tim feels a moment of hesitation. He knows Peter’s background—Lazarus Pits, glowing green eyes, a streak of white hair so stark it’s impossible to miss. He’s seen Jason’s Pit rages firsthand, the raw fury and strength that came with it, and now... Peter's a meta on top of all that? 

There’s no denying it either. No way a scrawny teenager could tear a bathroom door off its hinges and rip up floor tiles like that. No way in hell.

…he’s suddenly not so sure forcing their way into the stall is a good idea anymore.

But then Duke shoots him a look—an unmistakable deadpan expression of "Are you serious?"—and Tim sighs internally. With a resigned nod, he reaches down to his boot, pulling out the concealed Batarang he’s carried for years as an emergency backup. Slipping the sharp edge between the stall door’s gap, he fiddles with it carefully, feeling for the lock until the tip of the wing bumps against it with a soft click. Tim adjusts his grip a little bit more, easing the lock out of place and stopping just before the door can swing open.

He stops, looking to Duke again, who gives him a single nod in return, ready for well, anything. Tim slides the lock free, holding his breath as the stall door creaks open with an agonizingly slow groan. Every muscle in his body tenses at the sound, praying Peter doesn’t notice the intrusion. With a quick, practiced movement, Tim shoves the Batarang back into his pocket, hoping Peter doesn’t see it.

But the scene that greets them is worse than anything they could’ve anticipated.

Peter is shirtless.

The remnants of his shredded clothing are scattered around his feet, his hoodie lying somewhat intact by the base of the toilet—gross, but that’s not what grabs their attention. What does, what makes both Tim and Duke freeze for a moment, are the marks covering Peter’s back and it takes them both a second to realize that they’re scars. 

They stare, wide-eyed, at the rampant scars that crisscross his skin, each one looking worse than the other, alien to the otherwise smooth, pale flesh.

Tim’s heart sinks into his stomach as he realizes the implication of them all being different from one another—an unsettling combination of flat, hypertrophic, and contracture scars, haphazardly spread across Peter’s back like someone had carelessly carved them into his skin. It’s not just the scars themselves, it’s the sheer number of them. The sight is enough to make Tim’s throat tighten, a wave of pity crashing through him.

The cherry on top is Peter’s bleeding wrists, the mute had seemingly raked into his own arms during his panic. They needed to get to the infirmary.

Duke’s expression mirrors Tim’s—disbelief, shock.

However Peter died, it must have sucked.

Peter is turning red under the gaze, mouth open producing no sound, and it’s then that the pair of Waynes seem to remember to breathe. Duke crouches down, lowly and whispers some words of comfort and reassurance to Peter, asking if the shaken teen is alright and if he’s allowed to move closer.

Tim could already see the adoption papers.

“Do you need a new shirt?” 

Peter looks down at the mangled fabric beneath him, nodding despondently while running his fingers through the tears on the cloth. His eyes drift over to his wrists, staring at the ragged claw marks. He doesn’t even remember when his shirt got torn up, but his arms too?

(While Duke is pulling off his own sweater to give to Peter, Tim observes him, recognizing Peter’s state as of one confusion. Did… did Peter not know he was a meta? Or that he’s died, for that matter.)

Damn.

And he’d been having such a good week too.

Duke slips off the rest of his sweater and reaches it out to Peter before pausing momentarily.

“You- Uh… You wanna wash the blood off your arms first?”

Oh. Right. 

Peter flushes even deeper at the suggestion to move, the embarrassment from the whole situation still burning under his skin. He shakily stands up, his legs like jelly beneath him. Tim and Duke immediately hover at his sides, their anxiousness palpable. He can see in their faces they want to help, to steady him, but they hold back, clearly worried about triggering another overstimulation episode. Peter appreciates it—he’s not sure he could handle even the lightest touch right now.

As he steps out of the stall, his body wobbles with every unsteady movement, arms instinctively huddling around his bare chest in a futile attempt to hide the fact that he's shirtless. The pair, to their credit, avert their eyes as soon as he steps out, likely noticing his embarrassed demeanor. It's a respectful gesture, and though Peter knows they’ve already seen everything there is to see, he appreciates it all the same.

The cool air of the bathroom brushes against his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms, and despite his earlier sensory overload, he feels the uncomfortable prickling start to ease up, if only slightly. He forces himself to focus on something else—anything else—and turns toward the sink.

The water is freezing as it splashes against his hands, sending a jolt up his arms. For a moment, it’s almost unbearable, like tiny needles pricking at his skin, but he grits his teeth and pushes through. He doesn’t want to cause even more of a scene over washing his hands. 

Peter watches the water swirl down the drain, pinkish from where his fingernails had scratched too deep into his wrists earlier, blood still slick between his fingers. His hands tremble under the stream, but it’s steadying, grounding him back into the moment.

When the soap hits his skin, the smell is strong, too strong, almost cloying. But at least it's something familiar, something he can latch onto as he tries to center himself and he’s almost glad that cheap soap smells the same no matter the dimension. He scrubs at his hands, probably a little too hard, but the ritual of it—the motions—help bring him down from the overload, if only a little.

Once he's finished, he turns off the water with a shaking breath and takes the sweater Duke had been holding out for him, fingers trembling slightly as he grabs it. The fabric feels rough against his overstimulated skin, and he winces as he pulls it over his head, the material brushing against his back like sandpaper.

It’s not as bad as before, though. 

The sheer intensity of earlier has dulled, now just a low hum of discomfort instead of the blaring pain that had been consuming him. Peter slips his arms into the sleeves, wincing again as the fabric pulls over his shoulders, his skin still hyper-aware of every little sensation, but he lets out a shaky breath once it's fully on. It’s too big on him, the hem falling halfway down his thighs, but the extra space feels comforting, like a barrier between him and the world.

He can still feel everything—the pressure of the sweater against his skin, the lingering sounds echoing in the back of his mind—but it’s manageable now. Manageable enough that he can look up at Tim and Duke, who are both watching him, clearly relieved that he’s finally calming down. Peter pulls the sleeves down over his hands, curling his fingers into the fabric, and offers them both a faint, tired smile.

“Glad you’re feeling better, Pete,” Duke says gently, his tone steady as he starts to guide the three of them out of the bathroom. 

Peter follows, his steps still shaky but a little more confident with each step. 

“I think we should get your hands looked at though, if you’re okay with it, of course.”

Tim, walking on his other side, glances over with that same concerned look Peter’s come to recognize over the last ten minutes—or however long it’s been.

“We can just give you the supplies if you’d prefer to treat yourself?” Tim offers, Peter’s bag and torn sweater slung over his arm, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of anxiety and relief.

Peter hesitates for a moment, his mind racing with a thousand reasons why he should politely decline. He doesn’t want to trouble them any more than he already has, and honestly, the idea of sitting in some nurse’s office, vulnerable and exposed, makes his stomach churn. But then again, they’ve been nothing but patient with him this entire time. They’ve handled him with more care than he’s used to, especially after an episode like that, and a small part of him doesn’t have the heart to pull away from them just yet.

He doesn’t want to come off as ungrateful.

Besides, the thought of tending to his wounds on his own is far more appealing than having someone else fuss over him. He thinks of Benson, Courtney, and Teresa back home—they wouldn’t take too kindly to him coming back injured. He’s unsure if Steven would even care. They haven’t really spoken much since Peter started staying with them. 

Best to avoid that headache altogether.

With a small, reluctant nod, Peter agrees. He wants to speak, tell them anything, but his voice still fails him so he doesn’t bother to continue trying.

Duke and Tim break into relieved grins. 

“Good call,” Duke says, his hand floating above Peter’s shoulder as they begin leading him toward the nurse’s office. “We’ll grab you the supplies, then.”

Tim, still carrying Peter’s things, shoots him a reassuring look, as if to say everything’s going to be fine now. And maybe it will be. But all Peter can think about is how it’s only his first day here, and already, he can’t wait to get home.

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t notice when Tim splits off to go do his own thing; he’s too focused on remembering to breathe with every step he takes. 

His chest feels tight, but the steady rhythm of walking helps, at least a little. Duke walks beside him, offering small comments—calming words meant to soothe Peter’s frayed nerves—but Peter can’t focus on the actual words. Instead, he just lets the sound of Duke’s voice wash over him, appreciating how grounding it feels, even if his mind is too foggy to understand.

They reach the nurse’s office, and Duke carefully guides Peter inside. 

(Peter notices with mild surprise that Duke now has his sweater, draping it over the back of a chair. When did Tim hand that off? Peter has no idea, but he only now realizes Tim’s absence. The vague thought of “Where did he go?” crosses his mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by the exhaustion still dragging at him.)

Duke settles Peter’s bag on the chair, then gently walks him over to one of the beds. Peter sits heavily, his muscles aching from the tension of the past hour, and watches as Duke rummages through the cabinets for medical supplies. The school nurse isn’t here right now, which is probably for the best. 

Peter isn’t sure how he’d handle the extra attention.

“Peter?”

His eyes snap up, locking onto Duke’s calm, patient gaze. Duke offers a small, cautious smile like he’s carefully gauging Peter’s reaction before speaking again. “Did you want to go home for the day? So you can get some proper rest?”

Home. The word feels like a relief and a burden all at once. 

Peter truly does miss home. Not the foster home. Not Benson and Courtney, despite how loving and kind they were in their old age, which he didn’t mean to take for granted at all, because he wasn’t, but they weren’t home.

No, he misses his apartment home back in New York. He misses going out to cafes to see Ned and MJ, even if he never plans to interrupt their lives, because they’re safer without him, so much safer, still, he misses at least being able to see them. He misses his afterschool job with Dr. Octavius, the balding man who’d smile at him anytime he stepped into the room, crow’s feet winking in delight. That man was like a father to him.

A father…

He misses his parents Richard and Mary. His fathers Ben and Tony, and his aunt, his surrogate mother, May.

Peter briefly wonders if he ever truly did have a home after they passed and blinks back tears as he remembers he’s still in the nurse’s office.

This was supposed to be a fresh start for him, even if he couldn’t for the life of him remember how he got here, it was a chance to explore something new. He did want to see the rest of the campus. But after everything that happened—the breakdown, the overstimulation, the embarrassment—he’s mentally and physically drained. Plus, the hunger gnawing at his stomach is starting to rear its head again. Maybe going home was the best option.

Peter looks down, thinking it over for a moment before he glances back up at Duke and nods, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief.

Duke returns the nod with understanding. 

“Sounds good,” he says, placing the first aid kit beside Peter on the bed. There’s a kind of softness in the way Duke moves like he’s taking extra care not to startle Peter. He hesitates for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to offer help with the bandages, but something in Peter’s posture must give him pause. Peter flinches ever so slightly when Duke gets too close, and that tells Duke all he needs to know.

“I’ll go grab an excuse slip for you, alright?” Duke says, waiting for Peter to nod again before continuing, “I’ll need a few minutes, but I’ll be right back. Just wait here.”

With one more reassuring wave, Duke jogs out of the room, leaving Peter alone. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Peter lets out a long, shaky breath, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate the support Duke and Tim gave him—they’ve been nothing but kind—but the solitude is comforting in a different way. 

Less pressure to act, well, normal.

(Was anything normal in his life?)

Rolling up the sleeves of Duke’s sweater, Peter opens the first aid kit. His eyes land on the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, but experience—far too much experience—tells him not to use it directly on his wounds. He opts for a more familiar routine instead, heading to the sink to wash his arms again with soap and water. The sting is sharp but manageable, and he dries them carefully, making sure not to let the paper towels stick to his skin.

Returning to the bed, Peter takes out a roll of gauze and starts to wrap his arms. But something makes him pause. His eyes catch on the forming bumps at his wrists, just beneath the surface of his skin. The veins there, usually faint, look strangely dark—almost black. The way they stand out against his pale skin is unsettling, and the dark web-like patterns crawling up his arm make his skin look like it has become transparent in some strange, unnatural way with how intense the contrast is.

Peter frowns, biting his lip absently as he stares at his wrists. Why do they look like that?  

It’s not something he’s seen before, and a flicker of concern passes through his mind. He considers examining it further, but exhaustion wins out in the end. He can look into it more when he’s back at the foster home. Right now, all he wants is to finish this up and go.

With a shaky resolve, Peter starts wrapping his arms in gauze, each layer covering the unsettling sight of his darkened veins. Out of sight, out of mind—for now, at least.

Tim slides Peter’s belongings into Duke’s arms, giving him a glance that clearly says, “Keep him busy.” Duke easily understands the unspoken message and stays close to Peter, keeping him distracted as Tim slips away, pulling out his phone. He opens up the group BatChat—still a name that makes him chuckle, especially since Bruce hadn’t approved of it. The responses start coming in almost immediately.

Tim pauses, mildly surprised by how fast everyone responds. Then again, this was his family. Of course, they were quick to be on their phones. Honestly, they were quick to everything.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, thinking of how to explain the situation with Peter, but before he can type, his phone lights up with another flurry of texts.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. Getting this group to stay focused for more than five seconds was an impossible task. How they functioned as a team at night was beyond him. He rolls his eyes as Duke sends another message, and Tim refocuses on the group chat once more.

He blinks, staring at his phone. This was a mess. Everything was a mess. He reads over the group chat one more time before stuffing his phone in his pocket. He said his piece, and judging by how Bruce was getting involved he guesses he better start getting used to Peter’s company. Tim starts walking back to his class, knowing Duke has everything under control while simultaneously dreading how Bruce is probably going to get more involved now that he knows Peter’s in foster care. The last thing Peter probably needed was Bruce breathing down his neck.

God, he needs a coffee right now.

When Duke steps back into the nurse’s office, slipping his phone into his pocket, relief briefly washes over him at the sight of Peter's arms wrapped up, though it’s quickly overshadowed by concern as he catches the distressed look on Peter's face.

It takes Duke less than five steps to cross the room. He moves with careful intent, settling beside Peter so the other teen isn’t startled.

“Everything alright, Pete?” Duke asks softly, not wanting to push or scare away the other.

Peter’s gaze flickers to his hands, where he’s clutching a slightly crumpled piece of paper. Silently, Peter offers it to Duke, who accepts it and smooths out the creases to read it.

The note reads, “I’m sorry for getting blood on your sweater. I can wash and return it to you later if that’s okay?” The edges of the words are smudged, likely from Peter nervously fidgeting with the paper for who knows how long.

Duke can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him. The gesture is almost cute and he thinks for a moment how he wishes Steph or Tim would offer this kind of courtesy when they borrow his clothes.

“No worries, man,” He says, glancing up at Peter, who’s still wearing the Batman sweater that Cass had gifted Duke last year. “You can keep it if you want. I can even show you how to get the bloodstains out if you need?”

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, his hands coming up in a flurry of nervous gestures, clearly trying to decline. But Duke waves it off, grinning. “I’m serious, man. I’ve got a ton of sweaters. I really don’t mind.”

It takes a few more minutes of reassurances before Peter hesitantly accepts the sweater, his expression softening. Peter does in fact know how to remove bloodstains on his how, however, and Duke finds that very concerning. Still, he’s relieved when Peter finally agrees to keep the sweater—it feels like a small victory.

Especially with how apprehensive Peter had been toward them the whole day. Small victories are still victories.

Standing up, Duke gathers Peter’s belongings and hands them over, slipping the excuse pass he got from the office earlier into one of the pockets of Peter’s bag. He chuckles quietly as he hears the jingling of the Robin keychain, still finding it rather amusing, and waits patiently while Peter gathers himself.

Peter offers a shy smile as he takes his stuff from Duke.

“Do you need a ride home?” Duke asks, keeping his tone casual.

Peter shakes his head, making a walking gesture with his fingers. Duke nods in understanding, not wanting to push since it’s clear Peter’s social battery is drained for the day. He almost wants to wince at how obviously exhausted the other is.

“Cool. Let me at least walk you to the street.”

The walk is quiet, with a touch of awkwardness, but Peter seems to find some comfort in the silence. When they reach the street, Peter waves goodbye, and Duke returns it with a warm, “See ya’ tomorrow!”

Once Peter is out of sight, Duke pulls out his phone again, mind already whirring with what to tell the group. He just hopes someone is close enough to be helpful for once.

Peter’s walk back to the foster home starts off quiet enough, but about ten minutes in, he notices something. The faint sound of a heartbeat, accompanied by the nearly silent scuffle of footsteps. And yes, there are many others on the streets walk about, but this was different. No matter how many turns he takes, the sound follows him, persistent like a shadow. Normally, his senses wouldn't pick up something this subtle, but today, everything feels heightened—like his body is on overdrive.

His mind traces back to when he first sensed it, sometime after he crossed Trigate Bridge and stepped onto Burnley Island. The follower had been tailing him since then, but he isn’t exactly sure. Peter glances in the direction where he senses the presence, then continues walking. He takes a few extra turns, left and right, hoping to shake them off. But despite his efforts (and getting himself momentarily lost), they’re still there, tracking his every move.

Frustration begins to simmer under his skin. 

An unfamiliar anger flickers to life, and the edges of his vision tinge with a faint, eerie green. His rationality starts slipping as annoyance takes over. He throws a glare up at the rooftop where he knows his follower is hiding.

Discretion flies out the window as Peter sprints.

If he can’t lose them by confusing them, then he’ll outrun them.

His legs take a moment to speed up, mindful of not blowing his cover as a regular human but something inside him, a primal instinct, pushes him to run faster.

Do they think they can keep up with you?

A voice whispers, low and dark, feeding the simmering anger. The green seeps more into his vision, licking at his consciousness like flames.

Who do they think they are?

Peter feels the urge to give in, to go all out, but he holds back just enough to maintain his cover. Even so, his pace quickens, blurring past corners and slipping into alleys, darting between pedestrians. Soon enough, he’s moving too fast for anyone to notice—and fast enough to leave his follower far behind.

What should have been a forty-five-minute walk had become twenty and the best part? He wasn’t even winded.

Up on a rooftop near Otisburg, Nightwing leans against a wall, panting from exertion. He lost sight of Peter—no, the meta—in under five minutes. He tries to wrap his mind around it. He knew Peter was a meta; Duke and Tim had given him a heads-up. But he wasn’t prepared for how quickly the kid would notice him or the sheer speed he had.

What unnerves Dick the most isn’t losing Peter, but the glare the boy had thrown his way before bolting. There was something off about it—predatory, like a hunter staring down prey.

He shakes the nerves out of his system with a few quick hops and exhales heavily.

Dick had assumed Peter’s abilities were just enhanced strength and senses, maybe some speed. But this? This was on another level. Still, he’s a trained vigilante. He shouldn’t have lost sight of a teenager so easily—especially not in under five minutes.

Slumping against the wall, Dick sighs dramatically to himself. He can already imagine the teasing he’ll get from the rest of his siblings.

They’ll never let him live this down.

The door’s locked and Peter doesn’t have a key.

The locked door stares back at Peter, mocking him. It feels like the final blow after everything that’s gone wrong today. He almost wants to cry, which feels unreasonable. Really, Peter? Crying because you don’t have a key? But it’s not just about the key. It’s the exhaustion, the overwhelming sensory overload, and the frustration that’s been building up all day. All he wants is to collapse into bed.

Peter takes a deep breath and slips around the side of the house. He’s thankful there are no cars in the driveway, which means Teresa and Steven aren’t home yet. But then it hits him-

Oh crap. 

How could he forget? 

He was supposed to walk Teresa home from school today. He groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Steven always stays out late with his friends, which means he has to call someone to pick her up. But after everything that happened today, could he even speak to explain the situation? His voice hasn’t been cooperating with him at all.

Well, he’s no help out here.

Pushing the thought away, Peter scans his surroundings, making sure no one’s around to see him, and with a quiet leap, he vaults over the fence into the backyard. The house looms in front of him, familiar and yet somehow distant in his current state. He quickly finds his bedroom window, relieved that he never locks it.

Habits from Spider-Manning, even if he decided he wasn’t going to do so anymore after…

He shivers and feels his stomach swirl at the image of Bane’s insides that seems to taunt him almost every day now.

Not now, Peter reminds himself, get inside .

He carefully presses the pads of his fingertips to the wall. The rough texture of the stucco scratches at his fingers as he climbs up. The feeling sends jolts through his heightened senses, but he powers through, desperate not to be seen. His heart thunders in his chest at just the thought of being seen, anxiety tugging his heartstrings. With a swift tug, and probably a little bit more force than necessary, Peter pulls the window open and scrambles inside, shutting the window and pulling the blinds shut behind him.

For a moment, he stands still, listening. The room to Peter’s door is shut. His heightened senses pick up the usual hum of the house: the chittering of insects outside, the rustling of curtains as they sway back into place, and the creak of old wood shifting in the walls. And there, up in the corner—a thin, silvery web strung in the hallway corner, one of his many fellow arachnids. He’s left that one alone, feeling a strange kinship with the tiny spider.

No signs of human presence though. The house is empty, for now.

With a sigh of relief, Peter drops his stuff onto the floor, peeling off Duke’s bloodstained sweater and tossing it into the hamper along with his dirty pants. He knows he should wash everything immediately to prevent the stains from setting, but the exhaustion is too much. His entire body feels heavy, his mind still partially dulled from the sensory overload.

He collapses into bed, sinking into the soft sheets. The sensation of fabric against his skin still irritates him, but his senses are slowly calming down, and for once, he doesn’t mind. He lets the tension melt away as he buries his face into the pillow, feeling his body finally begin to relax, maybe it’s because he knows he’s finally alone in a place where he can rest undisturbed, but he feels himself come crashing down all at once.

Before another thought can form, sleep overtakes him, and Peter drifts off into a deep slumber.

“What happened?” Peter looks down and his mouth dries at the faint look in her eyes. Aunt May is dying. He knows. He knows.

He’s experienced it too often to not know at this point. 

He still can’t find it in himself to admit it.

“Nothing happened,” his breath hitches at the lie and he can feel himself crying but he continues regardless, “You’re okay.”

And his smile is fake and tear-filled and Aunt May is so disoriented she can’t seem to tell but she nods along with him when he repeats the line. 

“I just ha-” her voice loses its strength but she doesn’t seem to notice, “Let me catch my breath.”

Peter nods, shakily because she can do whatever she wants, take whatever she needs, as long as he knows she’ll be alright. His eyes dart outside to the flashing red and blue lights and he carefully brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

She seems like she’s about to disappear.

“I’m right here,” he says, and then repeats the line almost pleading. He doesn’t want her to go. He’s not- he’s not ready. He doesn’t know if he can do this again.

“I’m right here.”

And it’s the third time he says that he knows, but his brain is flatlining and she needs to know she isn’t alone. She needs to know. 

He remembers back when Uncle Ben had passed away, she had sat on his bed next to him, holding his hands. She had spent all night crying, he’d known, he heard it through the walls, but despite that, she still mustered all her strength to come and sit next to him and be the support he needed.

“We’re okay,” she’d said, just as he was saying to her now, “It’s just me and you.”

Her stare tapers off somewhere behind him and he still calls out to her, but he already knows. He knows. He’s seen Ben. He’s seen Tony. He knows.

He knows.

And when he looks away from his knees where he’s biting back tears, looks back up to etch her face into his memory one last time, he sees his Uncle Ben. Ben shaking, wheezing in his arms, cupping his face oh so gently.

“Y-you’re going to be okay,” the man says, and he’s smiling because despite all the horrible things Peter said during their fight, the man still loves him, forgives him.

“Dad- No, please…” Peter trails off, hiccuping and Ben’s smile somehow widens.

“Y’know,” he wheezes, blood dribbling from his drying lips, “I’ve always wanted you to call me that.”

Ben’s other hand lifts from the wounds in his stomach, wrapping around Peter’s quivering hand and holding it still, patting the top of their conjoined hands with four shaky fingers.

“Yeah. You’re going to be okay, Peter,” he says again, and Peter’s sobbing so so loudly, but he still soaks in every word Ben says, “You’re going to be just fine.”

It’s one more raspy breath, followed by a, “Take care of May for me, will ya’?” that has Peter calling him back, begging, pleading as his second father stills, staring outward. 

“Hey,” he says, voice wavering, trying to pull back his attention, get him to move, anything, but when he blinks, it’s not Ben. It’s Tony.

“Mr. Stark? Can you hear me?” He still asks, hoping the man would respond, but he’s frozen in time, “It’s Peter-”

Tony’s eyes focus for just a second on him as Peter scrambles to hold onto his suit, hoping some form of physical attachment will keep him grounded. Peter almost breathes out a sigh of relief when Tony is looking at him.

“Hey,” he says again.

“We won, Mr. Stark,” Peter continues like those two words are all he needs to hear for him to magically get better. Peter repeats them just in case. Maybe he needed to hear it again and he’d laugh and say “Great job, Underoos” and they’d go home and he’d finally meet Megan. Finally, try out that shawarma place he spoke about. 

He doesn’t. 

He doesn’t get better.

In fact, Dr. Octavius has been getting worse. His kind and gentle smiles have become more sporadic. He’s stopped testing his products before putting them to use and-

And…

And then what?

Peter doesn’t remember.

Why can’t he remember?

Laughter suddenly surrounds him and twisting black claws take over his vision and- 

And- 

“Please Octavius! This isn’t you!”

What? Dr. Octavius is a kind man, the only man willing to hire him despite him having practically no identity. He was the only parental figure Peter had that hasn’t, well, died .

A sharp pain suddenly strikes him in the back, an all-encompassing light takes over his vision, searing heat as company, and-

Peter jolts awake.

Sweat runs down his face in bullets and he’s panting, clutching the sheets around his chest tightly. He’s disoriented and confused and it takes him a moment to realize he was dreaming. It was a nightmare.

Nightmare of what? Peter can’t remember.

Why can’t he remember?

Hm. How interesting…

Chapter Text

When Peter opens his eyes again, it’s as the sunset filters through the blinds, accompanied by cicadas chirping outside.

He blinks, slowly adjusting to the dimming light and the calmness of being rested. Compared to the exhaustion he felt earlier in the morning, he feels much better, though a heaviness still lingers. Groaning quietly, Peter stretches and pushes himself out of bed.

He doesn’t remember much about his dreams—just fragments and sensations that drifted away as soon as he woke. Getting dressed quickly, Peter grabs his bag and collects his hamper, heading downstairs with a dull sense of habit. The habit was not from this place, though; it was more of a habit from his home in New York that sat as script turned to muscle memory. He tosses his clothes into the washer in the laundry room, hoping it’s not too late to get the stains and smells out. Steven had shown him how to use it once, but not by choice.

Of course, it had been Benson and Courtney who made him actually do it.

Peter’s footsteps bring him to the kitchen, and when he enters, he’s greeted by a domestically warm sight. Benson and Teresa are already seated at the table, and Courtney is bustling around, prepping dinner.

The second Teresa hears his footsteps, she’s up. 

“Petey!” she calls out, and her smile is so bright it instantly softens Peter’s mood. Before he can respond, she’s darting over and wrapping her short arms around him, hugging him as tightly as she can. Her face is pressed into his torso, and when she looks up, she grins wide with a "Good morning, sleepyhead!"

A soft smile touches Peter’s lips as he pats her head. He nods in reply, and though he says nothing, Teresa doesn’t seem to mind. She beams at the small smile he gives her, perfectly happy with the nonverbal exchange, and then skips back to the table.

Benson and Courtney also glance up, greeting him with warm, synchronized “Good evening.” Peter feels a tiny bit of tension leave his body. Something is calming about their presence—ordinary, stable.

“I was just about to wake you and get Steven,” Benson chuckles. He pauses, glancing at Peter with gentle compassion.

“I heard you had a tough day at school today. The office called us and filled us in on what happened."

The comment sends a wave of guilt crashing through Peter. He remembers his promise to walk Teresa home and that he’d forgotten entirely, not even bothering to call. His chest tightens, and he can’t even look at them for a moment. Courtney catches the shift in his expression quickly.

“Oh gosh, don’t worry, dear,” she says, her tone kind and reassuring. “Steven picked up Teresa, isn’t that right?”

Teresa nods, too focused on pushing the ice cubes to the bottom of her cup. 

Peter’s shoulders relax a little, though the disappointment still lingers. He feels like he’s failed—again. And this time, it wasn’t as Spider-Man, but as Peter. He glances down at Teresa, relieved to see her cheerful and unharmed, but the anxiousness of guilt still clings to him, prickling his mind.

She appears fine. Do not worry about it, Peter.

He’s quieter now, much quieter than he used to be, especially after the Bane incident. Talking just doesn’t come as naturally anymore. He isn’t completely mute, but the words don’t flow like they once did. His foster family mostly understands this, except for Steven, who seems to harbor some unspoken grudge against him. But despite their understanding, Peter’s complete lack of response draws Courtney’s attention.

“Everything alright, Peter?” she asks, concern lacing her voice. Peter nods, almost on autopilot, not wanting to add to their worries, but before he can fully settle into his thoughts, Teresa blurts out, “I think Petey can’t talk anymore.”

The innocent observation catches everyone off guard, and Peter stares down at her, stunned by how perceptive kids can be. Her bright blue eyes follow him, gazing but not judging. There's no malice in her words, just pure honesty.

The room is quiet for a moment, and Peter hears Courtney shift her weight to lean on her other leg as she turns to face him.

“Oh… is that true, Peter?” 

A chill of fear runs down his spine—fear of rejection, hatred, and lack of understanding. Still, he confirms Teresa’s words with another nod, not finding it within himself to lie to her warm eyes.

The following silence feels endless, each passing second making Peter’s stomach churn with unease. He braces himself for the worst. Will they be disappointed in him? Will they regret fostering him because he can’t even manage to speak? That the teen they chose to foster is just a defect?

“Well,” Benson clears his throat, “Whether he feels like talking again or not, it’s up to him.”

Teresa bobs her head up and down quickly in agreement. Courtney blinks a few times and smiles, clearing her throat, “Yes, of course.”

She turns back to the stove, about to resume cooking, when she suddenly pauses and exclaims, “Oh!” Now seated beside Teresa, Peter watches her curiously as she turns back around.

“That reminds me, we got you a little something that might help with your… overload.”

“Overstimulation, love,” Benson corrects gently.

Courtney smiles sheepishly. “Yes, that.” She glances at Peter, and he nods carefully, unsure of what she means. She rushes over to a plastic bag sitting on the counter, one Peter hadn’t paid much attention to earlier. From the bag, she pulls out a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat. He instantly recognizes the model, and though he tries to remain composed, his heart swells. Courtney looks nervous as she holds the headphones out to him.

“Do you think these would help, Pete? I heard they’re good for… kids like you.”

Sure, she could have worded that better, but he doesn’t really care right now. He's focusing too hard on swallowing around the lump in his throat. He feels like crying—but not in a bad way, no, out of appreciation for how understanding they’ve been with him.

He takes the headphones from Courtney with a grateful smile and slips them on. The effect is immediate. The usual cacophony of sounds that assaults his enhanced senses dulls to a manageable level. It doesn’t block everything, but it’s the closest thing he’s felt to normal hearing since before his powers.

And, without thinking, Peter jumps up and pulls Courtney into a tight hug. She laughs, patting his back before gently guiding him back to his seat.

Just then, Steven enters the room. Everyone greets him warmly, except for Peter, who waves shyly from his seat. Steven mumbles a barely audible “hey,” side-eyeing Peter as he moves to sit across from him. Courtney and Benson resume their calm conversation, but the room isn’t as peaceful as before.

“So,” Steven mutters, quiet enough that the two seniors in the room miss it, “Finally went full freakshow, huh?” 

Peter’s heart skips a beat, his body going rigid. Teresa, ever observant, furrows her brows, glaring at Steven. She bumps him lightly with her fist, clearly upset. 

“Be nice to Petey. He’s our brother.”

Steven scoffs loudly, drawing Benson’s attention momentarily before he turns back to his wife. Teresa’s frown deepens, confusion clouding her features at the sound.

“I’m not brothers with a meta,” Steven says coldly.

And Peter…

Peter’s heart stops. The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. The room seems to shrink around him, and all he can hear is the rushing of blood in his ears. His sight tinges as green slowly starts to make its way into the very corners of his vision. His body feels paralyzed.

Teresa’s confusion only grows. “He’s not a meta. Don’t talk like that, Steven.”

Peter’s heart starts racing again, beating wildly in his chest as panic builds. He doesn’t know what to do. He stares in full shock, his hands tremble, and his mouth dries as he looks between Steven and Teresa, desperate for an escape.

The older teen rolls his eyes.

Steven rolls his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain. “Of course, you wouldn’t get it. You’re a kid—”

Teresa tries to interrupt, but Steven talks over her. 

“I saw him break a metal door. Do you think normal people can do that?”

He saw Peter.

Peter’s blood runs cold. Steven saw him. Earlier today, during the incident, Peter had been too panicked to notice his surroundings—and now, Steven knows. Steven knows about his strength, about his secret. About Spider-Man- It's going to happen all over again. He's can't go through everything and be forgotten again, he finally got some semblance of a normal life, and now just because he's a mutant, a meta-

And Peter knows how Gotham treats metas. 

If the wrong people find out… he’ll be arrested, or worse, what if they figure out he’s Spider-Man? That he nearly killed a man, Bane, albeit unintentionally, and locked him up forever. Will they report it to Batman? He’s aware of Batman’s “No Metas” rule-

A small, pathetic whimper escapes Peter’s throat before he can stop it. Steven takes it as confirmation, an admission of guilt, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face. Teresa stays silent, her eyes darting between them, clearly pondering something.

Peter’s not sure if he can handle Teresa’s rejection right now, and-

"So what?" she snaps, and Peter’s breath hitches, "He’s still my brother. More than you."

His mind, still buzzing with guilt and fear, flashes back to the nights he’d spent with Teresa the past week. 

They’d hang out late, sitting on the porch or walking around the block. Teresa had been vulnerable, telling him how Steven would always avoid her, how he hated hanging out with her. She’d brush it off like it didn’t matter, but Peter could see it bothered her. It’s why he initially offered to take her home, pick her up from school, and spend a little more time with her, knowing she didn’t have to feel unwanted, at least not with him

Peter’s head starts buzzing in an all too familiar warning.

Steven’s face twists into a scowl, his body language radiating fury as he stands abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor and finally grabbing Benson and Courtney’s attention.

“So, you’re taking this freak’s side over mine?” Steven growls, stepping toward Teresa, his posture aggressive.

Peter's heart races, but Teresa doesn’t back down. “He at least treats me better than you do!” she screams, her voice raw with emotion.

And that’s when everything unravels like a rubberband snapping back into place.

Peter’s senses explode, his spider-sense screaming at full throttle as he yanks Teresa toward him just in time to dodge where Steven’s swinging fist was moments ago; the action draws a surprised gasp from Courtney and Teresa alike. The room fills with chaotic noise—Steven yelling curses, Benson trying to drag him away, Courtney shouting in shock, pleading for calm. Once startled, Teresa seethes with anger behind Peter, hurling insults at Steven.

But Peter can’t focus on any of it. All he can see is Steven.

Steven, who tried to hit Teresa.

This coward. A low, rumbling voice growls in Peter’s mind, its tone dark and seething. Going after prey who cannot yet defend itself. 

Peter agrees. The emerald tint creeps further into his vision, clouding his thoughts. When Steven throws a fork at Teresa, something inside Peter snaps. He bats the utensil away effortlessly before lunging at Steven, the green roaring encouragements.

The first punch leaves Steven with a blackening eye. The second silences his angry shouts. By the third, Steven’s gasps are no longer out of rage—they’re out of fear.

Yes, the voice purrs, a sinister satisfaction lacing its tone. This is how it should be.

The green swirls around Peter’s vision, singing in joy at his actions, blurring the line of his moral compass. His fists fly, each hit fueled by the dark encouragement of the voice, which praises him with every blow. He almost loses himself in its rhythm, in the feeling of finally giving in, of letting out all the anger and fear he’s been bottling up and now Benson is the one pulling him off Steven.

Why? Does he not see that Steven is-

Steven's body is crumpled beneath him, groaning in pain, barely able to react. Peter breathes heavily, his knuckles dripping blood, and he stares at Steven—now whimpering, his face swollen and bruised. His chest heaves, and for a moment, Peter can't comprehend what just happened.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Peter’s heart sinks as the weight of his actions hits him like a freight train. What has he done?

He promised he wouldn’t make the same mistake he made with Bane. He swore he would never lose control like that again, never let the violence consume him, yet here he is, standing over a regular teenager, the boy beaten and broken.

The green urges him to finish it, to strike again, but Peter shoves it down, desperate to regain control. He can’t go down this path again. He can’t let the darkness win.

Tears well up in his eyes as he backs away from Steven, trembling, unsure of how to fix what he’s just destroyed.

Peter stands frozen as everyone’s eyes burn into him—Teresa, Benson, Courtney—all filled with shock, maybe even fear. They had no idea that the quiet, gentle boy they'd fostered could explode with such aggression. 

And truthfully, neither did Peter.

His gaze flickers to Steven, lying on the ground, beaten and bruised, but instead of crying or yelling, Steven’s groans morph into low, rasping chuckles. Between wheezed breaths, Steven spits out the word "Freakshow."

Peter doesn’t argue. Why should he? Steven’s right.

Benson starts to speak, “Peter—” but panic surges through him when those words reach his ears. 

He can’t stay. 

He can’t face them, not after what he’s done. 

Peter turns and quickly strides out of the room, each step heavier than the last. He just needs to get out to escape before the weight of everything crushes him. He needs to get out before he hurts anyone else. The simmering green cries in protest, demanding he go back and finish the job and it scares Peter how much he wants to.

Once in the living room, his hand reaches for the door, yanking it open. But then he feels it—a small, tentative grip on the back of his shirt. He halts and, slowly turning, sees Teresa standing behind him. Her eyes are cautious, but there’s no hatred in them. 

No fear, either. 

Peter’s heart clenches painfully. She witnessed everything, and now she’s probably terrified of him. Maybe she hates him. Maybe she’ll never trust him again.

"You’ll come back, right?" She says, contrary to his thoughts. Her voice is soft, almost pleading, and why she would even dream of Peter returning is beyond him.

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say anything anyway. Instead, he gives her a firm nod. It’s not like he has anywhere else to stay anyway.

Teresa nods, too, and before Peter can react, she wraps her arms around him in a quick embrace. The gesture catches him off guard, and for a moment, he stands stiff, afraid to return it, afraid his strength might hurt her. His hands stay at his sides, clenching and unclenching a few times, trembling slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispers as she pulls away.

Thank him? For what? Peter doesn’t understand. He doesn’t deserve her gratitude—not after what just happened. 

The words echo in his head as he slips out the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Chapter Text

Peter has always loved heights.

Something about being high above the world, separated from the chaos below, speaks to him in a way nothing else can. From up here, Gotham seems distant, as if the city’s troubles can’t reach him. The tangle of lives, the noise, the problems—they’re all muted. And the views, those are always incredible, like the city stretches forever, shimmering in the hazy night air.

After the argument, after everything that happened, Peter needed to get away.

So, he wandered. 

He wasn’t sure how far he'd gone, only that his legs kept moving, instinct guiding him until he reached this rooftop. He’s perched now on the ledge of an old apartment building, far from the foster home but close enough for the consequence of the evening to still cling to him. His legs dangle precariously over the edge as he leans forward, his balance perfect, even with the danger below.

The streets are quieter here, far removed from the glitzy Diamond District. This part of Gotham is different—rough around the edges, less polished, more worn down. But Peter’s been here before. He knows this side of the city, and it feels strangely comforting, in a way the wealthier parts never could.

He draws in a long breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air, holding it until his chest feels tight before releasing it slowly, watching as his breath turns to mist and floats upward. The cold should be a warning; his body doesn’t regulate temperature like others, not since—well, not anymore. But Peter doesn’t move to seek warmth. Instead, he stays, because going back means facing the aftermath. 

Facing everything that went wrong.

There is nothing to be afraid of, a dark voice whispers, one that’s been speaking to him more and more as days go on. It has become louder lately, more clear. He contemplates it no longer than a second before he lets the thought drift from him like water.

Peter sighs again, this time heavier, his breath fogging in the air. He tilts his head back, staring up at the sky, though the city lights drown out most of the stars. He feels a bone-deep exhaustion settle over him. I’m tired, he admits, though he’s not sure if he’s talking to the voice or himself.

You require energy to function, the voice responds, clinical, matter-of-fact. 

Return home, Peter. Rest.

The suggestion rings hollow. It makes sense, logically. He really should go back, get some sleep, if only to make it through school in the morning, especially after the mess that was today, but the thought of the foster home makes his stomach churn with anxiety. He doesn’t know how to face them.

Peter’s decision wavers, but eventually, he pushes himself to stand, his movements slow, almost reluctant. For a moment, he just stands there, high above the city, letting the night wrap around him like a heavy cloak. Below, Gotham stretches out, a maze of streets, lights, and shadows. It’s a city that never sleeps, like his own, one that thrives on chaos, and tonight, it feels like it’s swallowed him whole.

He briefly misses being Spider-Man. 

He casts one last glance over the edge, imagining the pull of gravity—the feeling of soaring through the air. 

Peter starts to turn, preparing to climb down from the rooftop and retrace his steps. That’s when the sound of footsteps breaks the quiet. The thud of heavy boots on concrete reaches him, quick but measured, as if someone is trying to move with purpose while still staying under the radar.

Peter’s senses tingle. He turns slowly, instinctively on edge, eyes narrowing as he listens closely to the footsteps approaching from behind him.

Truthfully, Peter had heard their heartbeats and measured breaths almost two minutes ago, but he hadn’t acknowledged them. They weren’t doing anything threatening, just keeping their distance. Now, something had changed, and he wasn’t sure what triggered it.

Turning slightly, his eyes fall on a figure he recognizes, though he’d never seen him this clearly before. With his enhanced now night vision, Peter catches every detail: the black suit, the bold red bat insignia stretched across the chest, and a heavy leather jacket draped over the armor. It’s the helmet that strikes him—the deep crimson, smooth and unyielding, with an eerily calm emptiness where the eyes should be. He never realized how menacing the man looked. The scent of gunpowder reaches him, sharp and acrid, causing Peter’s body to tense instinctively, fear prickling at his nerves.

Red Hood. How did he find him again? Did he know Peter was Spider-Man? Fear shoots through his veins. It's already too late, isn’t it?

The modulated voice, almost mechanical, cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “Step away from the ledge, kid.”

Peter blinks, momentarily confused. Step away? From an easy escape? His mind races, considering his options. He doesn’t feel up for fighting Red Hood right now—especially not after what happened earlier. His aching body is tired and hungry, and his mind is even more exhausted. Still, part of him, green and twisted as it is, considers it.

We could defeat him easily, the dark voice in his mind suggests, taunting.

But Peter pushes that thought down. He doesn’t want to lose control. Not again.

The sound of another pair of footsteps catches his attention, and Peter’s gaze shifts beyond Red Hood, locking eyes with someone else—a young boy, athletic in build, wearing a domino mask. There’s no mistaking him. Robin.

Red Hood’s head tilts slightly as though surprised by the sudden appearance of his younger ally. Robin strides forward with a casual air, stepping beside Red Hood. His expression is stern, though his words are sharp with a hint of arrogance. 

“I hate to agree with this failure,” Robin starts, gesturing at Red Hood, “but yes, step away from the ledge, Peter.”

Peter freezes. His name. How does he know my name? A flicker of green flashes in his vision, a faint signal from his Spider-Sense reacting not to danger but to his own rising anxiety. His heartbeat quickens, concern overtaking him. Still, he takes a step closer to humor them. To see how they’d react.

Red Hood’s posture relaxes ever so slightly, shoulders lowering as if relieved. Robin, too, nods, as if satisfied that Peter was going to comply. Were they really that worried I’d run? Peter briefly wonders.

There are so many things Peter wants to ask, but he can’t—his voice still refuses to cooperate. Frustrated, he raises a hand and points to himself, a questioning look in his eyes as he locks them on Robin. The younger boy snorts, his expression turning haughty. The green in Peter’s vision brightens, swirling in mild offense.

“Do you know sign language?” Red Hood asks Robin after a beat of silence.

“Do you ?” Robin shoots back, folding his arms. His voice drips with annoyance, and the quick exchange of words does nothing to ease the tension between them.

Red Hood sighs, a sound distorted by the modulation of his helmet, as though every breath he takes is filtered through static. Peter watches, bemused, as the two of them exchange glances, both apparently realizing they’re in over their heads when it comes to communication.

At least I’m more fluent than these two, Peter thinks, a flicker of amusement cutting through his anxiety. He silently thanks MJ for pushing him to learn more about sign language, insisting he become more understanding of people with disabilities. It’s ironic, really—now he’s the one unable to speak.

Peter’s fingers move slightly, as if wanting to sign something, but he hesitates. Neither of them would understand, and the thought of attempting to explain everything without words feels overwhelming. He sighs inwardly, biting back the frustration. What now?

For a moment, the three of them just stand there, and Peter just wants to disappear. Red Hood takes a deep breath as if steeling himself for what he’s about to say. Peter watches with mild curiosity as the man shifts his weight, posture stiffening. Then, without preamble, Red Hood's voice cuts through the quiet again, sharper this time, as he steps closer to Peter into what Peter can only describe as a tirade.

“Look, kid, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but I’ve been there,” his tone softens, and something about the way Red Hood says that makes the green in him prickle. True, anything is possible, but he highly doubts the crime lord has gone through what he has. Losing every parental figure, dying, and getting sent to a totally new universe weren’t everyday occurrences after all. 

He doesn’t even understand what Red Hood is trying to get at here. Robin shifts uncomfortably from where he’s posed.

“Life isn’t some perfect ride where everything goes your way. It’s messy. It’s brutal. Sometimes you feel like it’s not worth the trouble, like all the crap it throws at you isn’t worth sticking around for. Trust me, I’ve been there, and trust me, it’s not worth it. Whatever you’re dealing with… no matter how bad it feels right now, throwing yourself off a building isn’t the answer.”

And to that, Peter blinks, caught off guard. 

It finally dawns on him how this must look. Perched on the edge of the roof, looking down at the street far below—it did seem like he was going to jump. He stays silent, nodding along as Red Hood continues. The irony of it all isn’t lost on him. Just a few weeks ago, he was the one telling people to step away from the edge—urging them to keep going, to fight another day. Now, he’s on the receiving end of the same pep talk, and it’s... weird.

“I get it,” Red Hood says, pacing slightly. “I know what it’s like to want to escape. To feel like you don’t belong anywhere-”

He has no idea how true that statement hits home, and the dark voice laughs from somewhere inside him.

“-like nothing makes sense anymore,” his voice is a little louder now, passion mixing with frustration of… something. The green in him creeps away, a sympathy taking its place.

It’s odd—there’s something both comforting and oppressive about Red Hood’s presence. The helmet, the deep, distorted voice, the way he towers protectively between Peter and the edge—it’s all so unfamiliar. Usually, large armored figures he meets out on the streets are trying to beat him down, not talk him down. 

For the first time, he wonders if he ever came across as intimidating or overbearing when he stood on the other side of the mask, telling people to hang in there, staring up at Spider-Man, unsure whether to trust his words of comfort or run. Did they feel this same weight? This sense of being... cornered?

Peter stares out at the city, letting the words wash over him, feeling detached from the whole situation. He knows Red Hood means well, but it’s all just... off. The situation feels misleading now, painfully so. It hits him that they really thought he was about to jump from the roof. He never even considered it as an option before, believing that he could do more as Spider-Man, but it’s different now.

He’s done more harm than good and-

You’d do well not to follow that path of thought.

Peter flinches, the voice startling him. The pair of vigilantes notice but don’t comment on it.

Red Hood shifts, his hand gesturing toward Robin, who’s been watching the whole interaction silently, if not a bit stiffly, from his position. Emotional speeches were clearly not a strong suit for the younger Bat.

“Let Robin walk you back home, kid,” Red Hood says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Peter opens his mouth to protest, wanting to point out that Robin looks younger than he does, but predictably enough, the words don’t come. His throat feels tight, and he just can’t speak, so he nods silently instead. He wonders if his muteness is a permanent thing.

Red Hood steps toward him then, offering a hand. Peter doesn’t need help climbing down; he’s done it countless times before—he could leap down with ease, not even breaking a sweat—but Red Hood and Robin don’t know that. Peter plays along, gripping Red Hood’s hand as he climbs down carefully. Robin stands by, watching attentively, his sharp eyes never missing a beat.

Once Peter’s feet hit solid ground, he stands up straight, dusting himself off and glancing at Robin, who’s already started walking, motioning for Peter to follow him. The two walk in silence, the sounds of the city filling the empty space between them. They don’t speak, but Peter can’t shake the feeling of Robin’s eyes occasionally flicking toward him, sizing him up, still unsure what to make of him.

As they get further from the rooftop, Peter’s enhanced hearing picks up on the modulated voice, muttering to himself. 

“That’s Peter?”

Red Hood’s voice, quiet and almost confused, drifts toward him, barely above a whisper.

Peter’s enhanced hearing catches it immediately. He stiffens, a movement immediately noticed by Robin, but keeps walking, not wanting to let on that he heard. There’s a brief moment of confusion. Why would Red Hood care who I am? But he brushes the thought aside. He has more pressing concerns—like getting through this awkward walk with Robin and figuring out why these Gotham vigilantes know so much about him.

Robin’s footsteps are near silent beside him, and Peter’s sure that a normal person wouldn’t be able to hear them at all. Thinking of the quiet allows Peter’s mind to drift to his own quietness. He wonders if his muteness is going to be permanent, and his heart stutters in fear at the thought. 

He’s been gradually getting quieter over the days passed in this universe, but it’s been nearly forty-eight hours since he’s spoken aloud, and even when he’s tried, the words just seem to slip away, like they’re stuck somewhere deep inside him, unreachable. He touches his throat absentmindedly, tracing the muscles there, and considers whether the silence is something he’s imposing on himself or if it’s something more. 

Maybe it’s fear. 

Maybe it’s trauma.

Is this how it's going to be from now on?  

The idea makes his stomach twist. He’s always had a voice before—strong, opinionated, sometimes too much for his own good. But now? He’s not sure. The thought of never speaking again, of losing that part of himself for good, feels... strange. Like a vital piece of who he was might be gone forever. 

Part of him, buried under layers of exhaustion, whispers that maybe this is just temporary. Maybe, once he’s had time to process everything, the words will come back.

Or maybe they won’t.

Peter looks over at Robin, the younger boy speed-walking ahead. Robin looks like he can’t wait to drop Peter off, seemingly uncomfortable in the silence between them. It makes Peter wonder—how would he communicate if he couldn’t speak again? Could he rely on others to understand and hear him without words? Could he even make sense of his own thoughts without being able to vocalize them?

Robin clears his throat, breaking Peter’s wandering thoughts. “I, uh… don’t know where you live from here.”

Peter blinks, processing Robin's admission. There’s an awkward beat before he offers a small, lopsided smile and gestures forward, taking the lead. Robin adjusts his pace to match Peter’s, his presence less imposing as they walk side by side through the quiet streets.

After a few moments of silence, Robin finally speaks again, clearly awkward but Peter appreciates the effort regardless. 

“You’re probably wondering how I know you. Your name.”

Peter nods, though he tries to play it off, hiding the intense curiosity bubbling up inside him. It’s obvious Robin notices, though—he doesn’t miss much.

“A… friend from your school. He reached out to us. Wanted to ensure your safety and well-being.”

Does that mean all the Bats know who he is?

 The figure following him earlier— that had to be one of the vigilantes. The someone who was following him was sent to keep him safe. Guilt pricks at him, remembering the surge of anger he’d felt, the green haze that had clouded his mind when he noticed someone tailing him. 

He hadn’t known it was for his own good.

Why has he been so impulsive lately?

Their journey continues, and Peter gets lost in his thoughts a few times, needing to backtrack after a wrong turn or two, but eventually, the familiar sight of the foster home comes into view. As they approach, Robin slows, his pace deliberate, and when they reach the door, there’s a slight hesitation in the younger vigilante’s posture.

“Stay safe,” Robin says awkwardly, glancing at Peter before using his grappling hook to disappear into the night. Peter watches Robin pull himself onto a nearby roof, assuming he’s out of sight—but Peter’s brand new night vision tells him otherwise. He can hear Robin shifting, watching, waiting for him to go inside safely.

Peter turns to the door and knocks softly, bracing himself for whatever waits on the other side. 

The sound of rushing feet only takes a few moments before it swings open, revealing Benson and Courtney. Their faces are a mixture of concern and relief, and before Peter can even attempt an apology, Courtney interrupts his silent fumbling by wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Benson steps in as well, pulling Peter into a firm embrace. His voice is calm and steady.

“Welcome home, Peter.”

Home.

This isn’t his home, but the words still flood warmth into his system. Somehow, this—being welcomed back—feels more like healing than anything else he’s experienced all night. 

As Peter steps inside, the door swings closed behind him with a soft click, and he’s momentarily caught up in the familiar scents and sounds of the foster home. Benson and Courtney usher him further in, their expressions soft. A hint of relief.

It almost made Peter want to cry. 

“Teresa is asleep,” Benson explains gently, his tone soothing. “Steven was taken to the ER with a social services worker watching over him-”

Peter’s heart nearly stops. He’d hurt him that badly? 

“No one blames you, Peter,” Benson continues, and guilt starts to gnaw its way up his mind again, “Teresa told us you were just trying to protect her, that Steven was bullying you.”

Peter feels a wave of gratitude hit him at Teresa taking his side. Defending and explaining him to their foster parents. He pauses again.

But… how much did she tell them? Do they know he’s a mutant? 

They used the term meta in this universe, but the word was just as damning. It didn’t take rocket science to figure it out. He’s not entirely sure how much they, Benson and Courtney, know about him—about his abilities, but judging by their casual demeanor and lack of fear, he suspects they’re still in the dark about his being a meta.

Courtney steps forward and pulls him into one last tight hug, and his arms tremble as he returns it, cautious of his strength.

“Goodnight, Peter,” she says softly, “We’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

And before Peter can nod his head in agreement, the elder couple head toward the hallway, leaving him to settle into the night. He feels off being back here like nothing happened, but they trust him not to run again, so he won’t. He's still hungry but feels that now isn't the right time to point that out, electing to go to his room instead. Peter watches them go, the door closing softly behind them, and takes a deep breath, feeling a strange mix of relief and tension ease from his shoulders. Alone in his room, he walks to his bed, seating himself on the edge of it as he looks out the window. 

The sun is beginning to rise already.

Something, movement to be precise, catches his eye in the reflection—a pair of large, white shapes moving fluidly in the darkness. They almost look like upside-down trapezoids, undulating like they’re alive. They take up where his own reflection would be. Distantly, he realizes he hasn’t checked a mirror once since arriving in Gotham. Perhaps out of fear of what would be staring back. 

Disappointment, even.

A shiver runs down his spine, and he shakes it out of his system, focusing on the window again. He squints at the moving shapes, realizing they remind him of an eye made purely of sclera, devoid of color. Where blood vessels would be, hints of grey and black instead, swirling like ink.

He’s sure he’s seen those eyes before—perhaps in fleeting glimpses—but the memory eludes him, slipping away like sand through a sieve. 

I’m tired, Peter thinks for the second time that night, feeling the day's weight settle heavily on his chest. All that, and it still isn’t the most eventful day he’s gone through. 

The dark voice within him hums with a soft command: Sleep, Peter. 

So he does.

Chapter Text

It's been nearly three weeks since Peter’s eventful first day (and night) in Gotham Prep, and things had, once again, been going surprisingly well. It wasn't the peaceful kind, but in Gotham, Peter’s learned, you take what you can get.

Steven was still living under the same roof, though it wasn’t by anyone’s choice. Gotham’s foster system was full of cracks, some so deep that kids just slipped right through. It turned out, a lot of the foster homes weren’t exactly safe havens. Some foster parents were in it for the paycheck, others with more malicious intentions. 

Peter really did get lucky with Courtney and Benson. 

Steven had been assigned a room on the opposite side of the house. It wasn’t enough distance for Peter’s liking, but it was something. Funnily enough, Peter wasn’t in trouble for fighting Steven. The state sent a social worker by every few days to ensure there were no further incidents. Gotham’s kids were known to be tough, and the city expected them to clash, so the fight with Steven wasn’t the scandal it might have been elsewhere. It seemed aggression was commonplace, and many expected it. The only reason Courtney and Benson hadn’t experienced trouble before Peter’s arrival was because Steven had only been with Teresa. Although Peter would’ve said Steven wasn’t the type to hit children, after what happened that night, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Steven didn’t confront Peter directly again. 

Though they never really spoke before the fight, something was different now. Steven kept his distance. He wasn’t trying to provoke Peter directly anymore, though the tension lingered. Steven wasn’t stupid; he knew he was sitting on a secret about Peter, one that gave him an edge. A few times, he’d still try to mess with Peter—shoulder-checking past him in school hallways, throwing glares, or mumbling some half-formed threat, still, for the most part, they stayed out of each other’s way, even if the green deep inside him screamed in frustration, wanting to exact its revenge, it was an uneasy truce that Peter was more than happy to keep.

Less time dealing with Steven meant more time with Teresa. 

They’d started walking home together every day after school, hanging out until bedtime, sometimes whispering about school or Gotham’s oddball quirks. She’d tell him about her day at school. What she had for lunch. What book she read, only pausing to look up at him and make sure he was listening. The way Teresa looked at him… without fear , with nothing but warmth and curiosity, melted the ice that always seemed to creep into his chest.

He sometimes wonders if there’s a Teresa back in his own world, stuck in the foster system, waiting for a Peter who no longer exists. He tries to not dwell on that thought too much.

On more than one occasion, Teresa had asked Peter to show her his powers. She’d asked him about his powers countless times. Each time, he’d shaken his head, or fumbled through an excuse in sign language. He was no match for her persistence, though. Teresa was relentless, her big, puppy-dog eyes impossible to refuse. Four days of nonstop begging wore him down, and it was her offering a cookie she snuck from dinner for him when he finally gave in.

One night, after tucking her in and signing goodnight, he scribbled a note for her: If you leave your window unlocked tonight, I’ll show you :)

Her giggles had been muffled by her hands, her excitement bubbling over as she practically leaped into bed, nodding furiously. Peter watched her, an odd sense of warmth curling in his chest. He’d spent so long hiding, afraid of hurting the people around him, but somehow Teresa made him feel like maybe—just maybe—things could be normal again.

Maybe he could be Spider-Man.

Peter had been hesitant about using his powers again.  His body was changing, and not just in the normal teenage way. No, this was something deeper. His powers had shifted, evolved. He wasn’t sure if he could still control himself like he used to. 

The faint itching in his wrists had turned into something more—organic web-shooters now extended from his skin, which he kept covered under a chaotic stack of friendship bracelets Teresa had made him. 

(She’d teased him once, busy beading a string of red and blue beads together, with the letters P and T having a small heart shape between them, saying, “What would you do without me, Petey?” 

He’d chuckled softly, shaking his head at the comment but still appreciating how much she had helped him.)

His senses had sharpened to levels that were almost unbearable at times. After the bite, his vision had been corrected, but now? Now, it was beyond human. Not only could he see perfectly in the dark—no need for tech to enhance it anymore—but his eyes had become attuned to something else. He could see new colors, shades he hadn’t even known existed. Maybe it was a side effect of the hybrid spider that had bitten him. The most fascinating part? He could polarize his vision at will.

Even the dullness of Gotham was colorful now, to him at least. The world glowed in his eyes, with clearness akin to that of polarized sunglasses, cutting through the glare of the sun off windows or water, seeing straight through to the bottom of the murkiest ponds. It was like something out of a dream. The clarity was almost overwhelming at first, but Peter had learned to manage it. 

And when it clicked, it was incredible.

Not all the new things about his powers were good, though. The thing that worried Peter the most was his growing strength—and his ravenous appetite.

Teresa had figured out pretty quickly that Peter ate more than the average kid, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by her sharp eyes. Kids could be strangely observant, a trait that reminded him all too much of MJ, he tried not to dwell on that. But lately, his hunger had grown beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. He was constantly snacking during the day, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the cravings at bay.

Cravings for meat.

Peter had always loved meat—coming from a less fortunate household meant it was usually a luxury reserved for special occasions. Meat was for holidays. Meat was for birthdays and celebrating accomplishments. But now? The hunger gnawing at him was incomparable. It was as if his body needed it. More than just food, it was fuel, and his metabolism demanded more with every passing day.

(Even worse, he’d begun eyeing animals as of late. Wondering how a stray pigeon would taste, whether a dog would satiate his appetite. It sent chills down his spine once he’d noticed.)

With a sigh, Peter glanced down at the suit he had pulled from its hiding place under the floorboards, where he'd stashed it when he first arrived at the foster home. He’d been avoiding wearing it, anxious about going out again, uncertain if he could control himself. His strength was becoming more volatile, and the thought of slipping up scared him more than he cared to admit. But he couldn’t hide forever.

If he wanted to regain control, he had to put himself to the test. Sitting around and waiting for things to get better wouldn’t help anyone. There were people out there who needed him, people he could be saving if he wasn’t too busy being… well, a coward .

He shook his head. He could give himself a pep talk later. Right now, Teresa was waiting.

The next morning, news reports were filled with sightings of Spider-Man swinging through Gotham for the first time in nearly a month. The night before, the cool breeze against his skin and the feeling of the city below him had been... freeing. Teresa had clung to him, her giggles filling the air as he flipped, soared, and showed her Gotham from above. For a moment, Peter felt alive again. 

Truly alive.

They’d ended the night on a rooftop, sitting above a fast food joint—Batburger. Peter had devoured five burgers, while Teresa managed half of one before passing the rest to him, paid for by their allowance, courtesy of Benson.

Sitting there with her, sharing fries, Peter caught a fry—the fifth one now—she flicked at him, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“Can we do this more often?” She asked, her blue eyes hopeful and gleaming in the dim light of the city.

Realistically, Peter knew he shouldn’t encourage her hanging out with him while he was in the suit. The logical part of his brain warned him that people might make connections, might target her. That was the kind of thinking that guided him in New York. That was the thinking that kept his Aunt May safe, well up until-

A voice stirred inside him, darker and more confident, a lick of green accompanying it.

We are beyond strong enough to protect her, Peter.

And he believed it. He was strong enough.

He smiled softly, nodding, and for the first time in a while, Peter didn’t feel like he was running from anything.

The next day at school, Peter found that Spider-Man was all his classmates seemed to rave about. "Friend or foe?" was the hot topic, though he was vaguely curious about his peers’ thoughts on his alter ego, Peter flushed at some of the more indirect comments he caught about Spider-Man’s physique. What truly piqued his interest, however, was Duke and his family's opinion.

In the short time he'd known Duke, Peter had learned that while the older boy had friends, most of the people Peter had seen him wave to on his first day weren’t friends at all—they were Duke's siblings . Duke was adopted, just like Peter had been shuffled between caregivers, and it had instantly created a topic to bond over, seeing as Peter had been raised by multiple parental figures throughout his life, none of whom were his biological parents. Duke had done most of the talking, though. 

Which was still so weird, Peter has always been talkative before, well, everything-

He’d properly met the rest of Duke’s family during lunch on his third day at Gotham Prep. Tim, Steph, Cass, and Damian had joined them, and Peter had found them all to be fun, even if a bit intimidating at first. He'd been deeply embarrassed when they laughed at him for mistaking Duke's siblings for his friends, but it quickly faded as he realized he genuinely enjoyed their company, which wasn’t limited to the campus. Occasionally, after school, they went to the mall, saw movies, and explored the city, usually on the days Peter wasn’t picking up Teresa.

A bonus? Cass, Tim, and Steph all knew sign language, which made communication smoother. Duke and Damian were still in the early stages of learning it and didn’t know much besides the bare minimum. 

Peter was flattered to find out that he was one of the reasons Duke had taken up the mantle of learning sign again, the other being his adoptive sister, Cass. Cass had a selectively mute side, which they playfully dubbed their common ground, and though she was still capable of speech, she preferred silence. 

As a whole, the group was very welcoming, to the point it was nearly suspicious. Still, Peter couldn't shake the feeling that they were aware of more than he was letting on.

It started with Duke bringing an extra lunch for Peter, every day without fail. Peter had assumed it was out of kindness, but there was a moment, halfway through a shared meal, when Damian's sharp voice cut through the table's chatter.

“You have quite a large appetite, Peter,” Damian observed, his tone blunt and curious, but something about his gaze held Peter’s heart still in his chest.

Peter froze, his stomach flipping as all eyes turned to him. 

How was he supposed to respond to that? He could feel his mouth open in reflex, his brow furrowing in panic before he quickly snapped it shut again, realizing there was nothing he could say. His eyes darted around the table, searching for an escape route, but he was surrounded.

He’d felt the all too familiar green begin to make its way up.

(They were a family of detectives—trained to read body language, and Peter’s panic was loud and clear. A dim glow made its way into his eyes, flickering once, twice. Tim shot Cass a look to be ready and Steph elbowed Damian, who was too busy watching Peter to care, eyes sticking to every meticulous movement.)

Duke seemed to pity Peter enough to send a glare at Damian, his voice calm while stepping in with a, “He doesn’t get fed much back at the foster home.”

And after a beat.

“Plus, he forgets to eat breakfast half the time, so I bring extra, just in case,” he supplied smoothly. 

Peter almost wanted to kiss his friend in gratitude, heart pounding in his chest. Duke’s explanation hadn’t seemed to satisfy Damian, but still, the younger gave a curt nod before the conversation pivoted to Damian’s height, steered by Steph teasing that maybe he'd be taller if he ate like Peter.

Peter relaxed, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He bumped shoulders with Duke to get his attention, smiling shyly as he signed a quick thank you to his friend.

Duke grinned back, shrugging casually. “Don’t worry about it, dude. I got you.”

From that day on, whenever they all sat down to eat lunch, Peter started to notice something peculiar—everyone at the table subtly offering him food.

At first, it flew over his head. 

He’d been having such a good week, hanging out with Duke and his siblings, that the little gestures seemed like nothing more than casual friendliness. But then, he started piecing it together, realizing they were all well aware of his appetite, beyond the excuse that Duke had provided. 

They never said anything about it though, so he appreciated the quiet understanding.

Cass would pass him an extra bag of chips, Tim would casually slide over half of his sandwich, and Damian, of all people, would nudge a protein bar in his direction with a barely concealed eye-roll as if it was a chore. At first, Peter had felt a flare of embarrassment, but now? 

Now it made him feel like he was part of something—one of them.

As much as they fed him, though, they were also watching him, like hawks, each of them trying to pick him apart in their own way. They asked questions, simple at first. Cass was the first to try using ASL, much more complicated words and phrases that even Peter didn’t know, but when she realized Peter only knew the basics, enough to be considered partially fluent, she switched tactics, sliding over a small whiteboard, a marker, and an eraser she carried around. He blinked, glancing down at the supplies, and then back at her. She gave him a gentle, expectant nod.

The questions started coming in rapid-fire. At first, they were light, vague—Tim asking him about his favorite food, Steph about his music tastes, Duke chiming in with random questions about his hobbies. Peter answered each one with small, unsure scribbles on the whiteboard, signing when he could, his responses ranging from movies to books to sports. 

In a way, it was fun being able to talk about his interests—they would briefly describe their own in turn—but the more they asked and answered, the more confused he became. The things he liked—the movies, the tech, the heroes—they didn’t exist in this dimension.

When he tried to mention Star Wars , all he got were blank stares.

“Wait, you’ve never heard of Stark Industries ? Or the Avengers ?” Peter had scribbled furiously, eyes darting between the group.

Tim frowned.

“I mean, I’ve heard of the Justice League , but... Avengers?”

That’s when it hit him—he knew he wasn’t in his world anymore, but for things to be this different? His chest tightened, frustration bubbling up as he tried to explain things they couldn’t understand. His handwriting grew messier, more frantic, and his breaths came quicker. His hand froze over the whiteboard as a sharp, flickering glimmer of movement, a color that shifted from a liquid white bordered by black, caught his attention from his reflection in a cup of water.

The others at the table hadn’t noticed it, but instead noticed him. His eyes. 

Damian's hand twitched toward something at his belt. Cass tensed, her gaze locked on Peter’s, while Tim and Steph exchanged wary glances. Duke leaned in slightly, ready to step in if needed.

The reflection shifted, and Peter suddenly saw the white eyes staring back at him from the water, the only thing he’d been seeing in any reflective surfaces recently.

Calm down, Peter. 

And he wanted to. He felt compelled to listen, to ignore the green making its way into his vision, but something about the reflection was making a sort of unease churn in his stomach. Why had that eerie pair of eyes been the only thing he’d been able to see in mirrors? Reflections?

Stop. Listen to me. Focus.

Listen to you? I’ve always- 

…Always? 

Peter is suddenly hit with a barrage of images, memories of this dark voice always speaking to him, guiding him, and yes, this voice had been there to support him with whispered words of advice, it hadn’t always been there.

No, not back in New York. 

And when faced with this thought, Peter wondered if he’d even seen his own reflection, properly, once in the months he’d been here, but… no. He hadn’t. He’d only seen those blank, white, liquid-like eyes.

Peter.

The suddenness of the voice—its presence creeping in—made him flinch. His eyes glowed an even brighter, eerie green as panic set in near full, and without meaning to, his hands flew to cover his ears, yanking his headphones up over them. 

Focus Peter. Do not throw everything away.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the world, shaking his head as if he could shake the voice out with it.

I have been patient with you, human. Calm down and we might be able to play this off as a normal panic attack.

Normal? This… No. This isn’t normal. 

NOTHING is normal anymore.

The world felt too loud, too overwhelming, every noise too sharp and intrusive. He hunched over in his seat, trying to make himself smaller, trying to calm the rising tide of panic as his breath came in short, ragged gasps.

I will leave you be. Recover.

Relief flooded Peter’s system. He would focus on the voice, that thing inside him later. He’s with friends right now. He’s fine. His friends, could do nothing but watch. Duke’s hand hovered in the air as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t know if it would help.

Cass's fingers twitched, ready to intervene if needed, her sharp eyes not missing a single detail of Peter’s spiraling. Steph and Tim exchanged tense looks, each of them typing furiously on their phones.

Tim shifted to text back, his eyes darting up from the screen to watch Peter, as his fingers flew across his phone, tapping effortlessly with muscle memory.

It takes everything in him to not groan and he instead focuses on Peter again.

The glow in Peter's eyes dimmed slowly, like a flickering ember losing its heat. His breathing, erratic at first, evened out with each measured inhale and exhale. He sat hunched over, hands still clamped tightly over his ears, as if keeping the world at bay through sheer force. Gradually, the fog in his mind began to clear, thoughts untangling enough to pull himself back to the present.

They didn’t say anything. Not yet.

They just watched. Silent, patient, and prepared—each of them ready in their own way. Whether it was to help, defend, or even restrain him if necessary, it didn’t matter. They were ready. Trained. This kind of tension wasn’t new to them.

Cass had stayed perfectly still, but Peter could feel the subtle shift in her body, like a spring coiled and waiting. Damian hadn’t taken his eyes off him, hands on the table, fingers twitching slightly—ready to act. Duke, calm and steady as ever, sat close enough to step in if needed but didn’t push. Steph and Tim were just as tuned in, silent for once, quietly assessing.

When Peter finally squeezed his eyes shut and let out a slow, shaky exhale, something in the atmosphere shifted. It was subtle, but it was there—like a collective breath held too long and finally released.

Without missing a beat, Steph picked up a thread of conversation that had never existed, her voice breezy and casual.

“Anyway, like I was saying, the ending of that movie was such a letdown—like, I don’t care how ‘aesthetic’ it looked. I wanted substance, you know?”

Tim snorted, flicking through his phone again. “You always say that.”

“And I’m always right,” Steph shot back with a grin. 

It was normal. Even Cass was relaxed, leaning back in her seat with that quiet, unreadable look she always had.

So maybe they didn’t notice then? No questions, no pity, no awkward glances—just easy, familiar chatter, as if Peter hadn’t just shut down completely right in front of them.

But Peter could still feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Damian, seated across from him, hadn’t taken his eyes off him, practically dissecting him with that unnervingly intense gaze and he had a feeling that at least Damian noticed everything. He could tell they were all wary beneath the casual facade. Even though the younger teen said nothing, he was waiting. Waiting to see if Peter would break again.

Peter sat there for a moment, shoulders tense, the hum of their voices settling like a balm over his frayed nerves. He was still agitated by the volume around him, his headphones not strong enough to completely muffle out everything, but... it was enough.

Duke shifted beside him, scooting closer then leaning in close, his voice low and quiet so only Peter could hear. 

“You okay, dude?” he asked calmly, voice low enough so the others wouldn’t hear. It wasn’t pushy, just a soft question, paired with a knowing glance—a simple, open-ended offer, like he was leaving space for whatever Peter needed in that moment. 

“You did good. Just breathe, man.”

Peter’s stomach twisted at the sincerity in Duke’s voice, nodding faintly, the ghost of a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. But before he could say anything—or even decide if he wanted to—the dark voice slipped into his mind again, like an unwelcome shadow creeping in, the sound accompanied by what felt like hisses.

Finally calm?

Peter froze immediately. His stomach dropped, breath hitching.

They noticed, of course. Cass’s head tilted slightly, her gaze sharpening, and the lighthearted conversation faltered for just a beat—just enough to let Peter know they were still keyed in on him.

Panic bubbled in his chest again, but he forced it down, grabbed the whiteboard, and scribbled two words with shaky hands: Excuse me.

He capped the marker too quickly, the snap too loud in his ears, and then he was up—moving fast but not quite running. His steps were deliberate, like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread, speed-walking toward the nearest exit before the panic could drag him under again.

No one stopped him.

Chapter Text

Peter sat in the corner booth of a quiet café, hands wrapped around the warmth of a steaming cup of hot cocoa. The edges of the ceramic felt solid, grounding him after the whirlwind of emotions that had torn through him earlier, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the cup. He sat slouched, the oversized hoodie he wore making him look smaller as if he could fold into himself and disappear.

Two hours. He’d been gone from the school for almost two hours, needing the space to breathe and think without anyone watching him like he was a ticking bomb. He felt kinda bad about leaving school early, but he needed space.  The low hum of the café music, the soft clinks of mugs, and quiet conversations definitely helped in calming him down.

His mind, however, was anything but quiet.

When did you show up?

Peter asked internally, fingers tapping the side of his cup absently. The question had been gnawing at him since earlier—since that voice, so strange and, what worried him; familiar, first invaded his thoughts.

The response slithered into his consciousness, a lazy, deliberate drawl. 

Right before Gotham. You were... preoccupied. Distracted.

Peter snorted softly, lifting the cup to his lips and blowing over the cocoa, watching the steam swirl. He barely remembered before Gotham.

Preoccupied? That’s one way of putting it. He took a sip, the sweetness grounding him, making the anxiety that had been coiled in his chest loosen just a little. 

Distracted by what?

He was met with silence and Peter could feel that the voice didn’t want to answer. He mentally pinned that question before switching topics.

How’d we even get to Gotham? I remember a fight, but... everything's a blur after that.

The voice was calm, almost too calm, like someone holding back a truth that could shatter the fragile peace Peter had managed to build in the past couple of hours. 

I know how we got here, it murmured, tone slow and deliberate. 

But if I told you now, you'd probably panic. 

A beat.

Or go into shock. And... I can’t have that, little spider. It’s bad. 

Another beat.

For BOTH of us.

Peter swallowed hard, setting the cup down with a soft clink. 

The words hung in his mind, heavy and ominous. It couldn’t be that bad, right? And both of them? What was that supposed to mean? Surely the voice was exaggerating. Is this not his own consciousness? (He already knew the answer, he could feel the other’s presence in his mind.)

Peter’s fingers twitched slightly, brushing over the table’s edge as if it could anchor him to reality. Pull him back to New York. The knot in his stomach tightened.

What is going on anymore?

…It’s complicated. The voice curled, soothing and unsettling simultaneously, like a hand resting on his shoulder with just enough weight to keep him still but preventing him from moving, restricting. 

Peter leaned back against the booth, his head thudding lightly against the worn leather cushion. He bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to press further. He could tell that it was honest, the voice wasn’t lying, but the truth—whatever it was—felt like something jagged, waiting to cut if handled too carelessly. Anxiety puddled in his stomach and he had to mentally remind himself to calm down.

Peter rubs a hand over his face, rolling his eyes. He was really losing it, wasn’t he? He huffed, picking his cup back up and cradling it again. His fingers trembled slightly, but he ignored it. The cocoa was starting to cool, but the warmth still bled into his palms. Hunger seeps into his bones again.

An aching need for meat.

We hunger, Peter. 

Yeah.  He thinks. The was voice barely audible over the soft café sounds, almost apologetic sounding. The music was more dysphoric than comforting.

I know.

When Peter got back to the foster home that night, the familiar sounds of chatter and the clink of silverware greeted him from the dining room. He slipped his shoes off by the door, dragging his bag behind him and letting it skid softly against the marble tiles.

“Peter!” Teresa’s voice rang cheerfully as she waved him over to the table, Courtney and Benson beside her smiling. From the lack of a fourth heartbeat, one besides his own, Steven wasn’t home yet. Dinner was set—salad bowls, roasted chicken, and mashed potatoes. It was the chicken that caught his attention. The others were already seated, but as Peter stepped closer and caught the sharp smell of vinaigrette and crisp lettuce, nausea rolled over him in waves.

His stomach churned, and his throat tightened uncomfortably. The sight of the green, leafy bowl seemed wrong somehow like his body was actively rejecting the idea of eating it, which, ironically enough, was all he was surviving on before he ended up here. Before Gotham.

His heart thumped faster. What is this? Why is this happening? He swallowed thickly, forcing a small smile as he quickly signed to Teresa: Tired. Not feeling great.

Her expression immediately softened with concern, her brows knitting together. Worried. She started to sign something—probably asking if he wanted to talk about it—but Peter shook his head and added: Go room. I won’t hang out today.

For a second, her face twisted with disappointment, but then she offered him a small smile, slipped out of her chair, and stepped closer to wrap her arms around him in a gentle hug. Peter stiffened for only a second before leaning into it, grateful. She always knew how to make things easier, even when words failed him.

"Feel better," she murmured softly before pulling away. Peter gave her a small nod and then retreated to his room.

Inside his room, Peter sank onto his bed, feeling the tension settle deep in his bones. He kicked his backpack to the corner and pressed his palms over his face, sighing heavily. The headache that had been growing all day buzzed behind his eyes, aching.

Why was everything so complicated?

Then the voice stirred again. Low and smooth, like black silk draped over stone. It slithered into his mind.

You need rest.

Peter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. There you are again... The voice—the disembodied, shadowy presence—had been a persistent companion ever since he ended up in Gotham he realized. He’d never noticed the constant companionship before, but now that he had, he couldn’t ignore it.

...Why is my body doing this? Peter thought, not knowing if the voice could hear him but hoping it could. The nausea, the appetite, the headaches—are you the cause of it?

A low chuckle reverberated through his mind, not unlike a deep vibration in his chest. Not entirely. You’ve changed, though. I’ve...enhanced you.

Peter’s brow furrowed. Enhanced me? What does that even mean?

The lack of response made him sit up straighter, unease growing. What does that mean? He repeats, pausing for a second.

How much do you know?

There was a pause—just long enough to make Peter’s skin crawl—before the voice answered, soft and ominous: Everything. 

Every thought. Every memory . 

Peter shivered involuntarily, shifting where he sat, his hands curling into fists on the bedspread. He didn’t like the sound of that. Besides the mild embarrassment of the voice knowing every waking moment of his life, there were still other things he feared much more. Everything...

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Even things I don’t want to remember?

Yes. Even those.  

Peter clenched his jaw, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as though he could physically shield his thoughts from this invasive presence. The voice was quiet now, maybe it believed it had said enough. Or maybe it was waiting—patient, calculating, predicting what would wear him down and how to avoid it.

Peter pressed his palms to his temples again, trying to block out everything. The lights. The voice. The thoughts, though they lingered like an unwelcome guest in the back of his mind. They rumbled in his mind like waves against an aged dock and he felt one tide away from crumbling down.

Sleep, little spider, the voice murmured, and Peter felt his eyelids grow heavier as if the very sound of it carried a strange weight. We have time.

Time for what?  

He was met with no response.

With a frustrated sigh, Peter slumped further into the bed, pulling his hoodie over his head like a protective cocoon. He knew sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight, not with the looping thoughts of the voice’s dialogue pressing down on his mind like a shadow.

He dreams that night of liquid eyes and an eternal, insatiable hunger.

As they stepped out of the dim theater, Peter felt lighter than he had in days. Spending time with Duke had been surprisingly easy. No pressure, no awkward questions—just bad jokes, popcorn, and the quiet comfort of someone who seemed to understand without needing explanations and honestly he’d been looking forward to it all day.

The taller boy had walked over that morning, just before splitting off to their separate classes, asking if Peter would be willing to go to the theaters that day with a shy smile on his face and a flush on his cheeks, and, well, Peter was beyond happy with the thought, agreeing easily. The way Duke’s shoulders slumped with relief caused a weird feeling to swirl in his stomach, fluttery and light, albeit not bad.

Duke nudged Peter’s shoulder as they walked into the brightly lit lobby. His shoulder tingled from the contact.

“Okay, but seriously, that movie was trying way too hard,” He grinned, a glowing smile that spread across his face, an infectious one that reached Peter, “It was basically two hours of plot holes held together by explosions.”

Peter let out a quiet laugh, more like a puff of air, but it felt good. Genuine. For the first time in a while, the anxiety that had been gnawing at him all day melted away. Duke tend to have that effect on him, and, with the way the crow’s feet at Duke’s eyes winked back, he wanted to believe maybe he made the taller boy feel that way too.

Duke reached out offering to throw away the empty cup Peter was holding, and, lost in his own thought, he’d tripped over his own foot, nearly stumbling straight into the other, saved only by his outstretched arms… that were now on either side of Duke, effectively pinning him against the wall. 

Right next to the trash cans. 

How romantic.

Peter’s face heats up in an instant and he stumbles back again, attempting to put space between the two, to which Duke laughs and casually loops his hand around Peter’s wrist to prevent him from retreating too far.

“Hey, hey!” He starts, gaining the brunette’s attention through his fluster.

“It’s cool dude, don’t worry you didn’t hurt me or anything,” he says lightly, mirth in his expression alongside darkened cheeks, “It’s cool, yeah?”

Peter nods dumbly, his eyes blown wide. He doesn’t know how to respond or what to do, and he cannot look away. He really should, but he is so focused on memorizing the details of the face before him that he nearly forgets about personal space. Duke clears his throat and that breaks the spell between them, Peter nervously rubbing the back of his neck before signing an apology. How embarrassing…

He distantly wonders if things would be different had he been a normal way. Had met Duke in a normal way. Imagined what it was like. There was no voice in his head. No alternate universe or forgotten homes. No lost parents, and—

The sharp whoop-whoop-whoop of sirens echoed through the hallway, slicing through the atmosphere like a blade. Peter’s heart sank, and his Spider-Sense erupted like an electric current, making the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. A chill runs down his spine like ice.

His Spider-Sense peaks near immediately and the voice cries up alongside it.

Get away. Now, Peter.

Peter stumbles back a few steps, head automatically turning toward the sensed threat, and, from the far end of the corridor, something unnatural began creeping into view—green smoke, thick and cloying, snaking across the floor like a living thing. Duke follows his gaze and the quiet gasp he releases is by no means a good sign. It coiled and curled, tendrils slithering around the legs of terrified and unsuspecting moviegoers as they stumbled over each other to escape. 

A few people had already begun coughing and collapsing to the ground, clutching their throats and eyes as the toxin sank into their systems, nearby onlookers either frozen in fear or screaming, barreling towards the nearest cover. Shouts and wailing quickly filled the hall and Peter had winced at the sudden and sharp sounds.

The sight alone made Peter’s pulse spike, his breath catching in his throat. His Spider-Sense screamed louder with every second, conjoined by the choir of ambushed civillians warning him that something was very wrong. This wasn’t just a poisonous gas—it was something worse.

Duke’s body tensed beside him. His easygoing demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced with a sharp, focused look Peter had only seen once before.

"Fear toxin," Duke muttered, his voice low and grim.

The words hit Peter like a slap, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, not just from the looming danger but from the flood of memories rushing in all at once—fear toxin, Scarecrow, Gotham's endless parade of rogues. He didn’t need to know the specifics to understand one thing: they were in trouble.

Peter glanced around frantically, his mind racing through options. They needed to move. Now.

“Back exit,” Duke said quietly, eyes scanning the crowd with a gaze Peter felt he recognized all too much, “It’s faster.”

Peter nodded, his instincts screaming for him to grab Duke and run, but they had barely taken a step when the smoke thickened, crawling closer with eerie intent. Peter’s senses flared again, and he grabbed Duke’s arm, tugging him forward just in time to dodge a rushed patron. 

We need to go. He signed the words frantically, his hands shaking slightly, and Duke gave a quick nod in understanding.

They pushed their way through the panicking crowd, Peter moving with a precision born of his bite. He wants to turn back. He wants to help, but he can’t. Not with Duke here. He needs to keep Duke safe. The hallway felt longer with every step, the green smoke creeping closer, as if it were alive. Hungry. Peter could already hear the faint, distant echoes of people crying out in terror—screams that sent chills down his spine. 

His thoughts buzzed with urgency. What if Duke gets exposed? What if I can’t stop it in time?

Peter froze for half a second, his breath hitching. The voice again—the one that had been with him for days, always just at the edge of his thoughts. It sounded... calm.

Breathe, Peter. You’ve done this before. What is a little smoke to one like us?

Peter clenched his fists, trying to ignore the way the voice settled into him like a second heartbeat. He focused on Duke, who was keeping pace beside him, eyes sharp but hands steady. Duke wasn’t panicking—not yet and Peter would’ve probably found it strange if he weren’t so focused on getting the other out of here.

They were almost at the exit when a thick cloud of green smoke surged forward, cutting off their path like a rising tide. Peter’s spider-sense roared in protest, making his head swim. Duke coughed, stumbling slightly, and Peter’s heart lurched. Not now. Not him.

Without thinking, Peter grabbed the collar of his hoodie and pulled it up over his nose and mouth, then tugged Duke closer, trying to shield him as best as he could. Duke pulled up his own shirt over his nose, mimicking Peter. The unappealing side effect of a fast metabolism was being affected by things quickly. He could feel the fear toxin clawing at the edges of his senses, slithering into his mind with promises of nightmares. A deep-seated fear began to rise up inside him, pulling and prodding.

Focus.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, to which Duke firmly held his shoulders, squeezing them, helping Peter ground himself. He took a deep breath through his makeshift covering, his mind cleared just enough to think. He turned to Duke, quickly signing: Are you okay?

Duke gave him a brief nod, though his expression was tight. "I’m good. Just—keep moving."

Peter didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Duke’s wrist, pulling him forward as they ducked under the thickening smoke, heading toward the faint outline of the exit door in the distance. Crowds of people bustled around them, panicked, rushed, and his pulse pounded in his ears, and he- he tried to ignore it in favor of getting Duke to safety, but the civilians around him just kept pushing and running and didn’t care for anyone but themselves and Peter can feel his grip slipping from Duke’s wrist, the taller boy calling out in worry, unable to see Peter through the crowd rush, and Duke is getting swept away, and-

˗ˏˋ BOOM!  ´ˎ˗

A blast erupts from the side of the building, somewhere from behind, staggering many of the guests, as well as Peter, who is beyond overstimulated at this point.

He knows he should go look for Duke and make sure he’s okay but he can’t bring himself to see, much less hear anything past the ringing in his ears and the smoke now dribbling onto the scene. A particularly rough employee shoves past him and Peter is sent stumbling up against a wall, fear now setting in fully at the encroaching green smoke. He groans at the impact and shuffles against the wall blindly, feeling for a door to latch onto. The debris from the explosion is quickly filling the air and affecting his vision and Peter struggles to orient himself through the chaos. His chest tightens with fear.

Peter…

He wants to ignore the voice, he really does, but the dread building in his chest advises him otherwise. 

What? He questions abrasively, already stressed from losing Duke, his senses being overwhelmed, and the deep-seated fear growing further. 

Something… The voice fizzles into a soft hiss, sounding less predatory and more… afraid. Something is not right. We aren’t safe. We must hide.

I can tell that much. He grumbles in his head. A brief pause, a stutter of breath, almost.

Hide… far. Far, far away.

The voice continues to ramble, seemingly to itself. Though Peter really would rather not trust this strange voice that’s been speaking to him like some schizophrenic, all his senses agree heavily with the disembodied thing. He finds himself retreating away, still clinging to the wall, until his fingers finally fumble over the cool metal of a door handle, which he pulls open and scrambles inside.

Keep him safe… Safe…

I am safe, Peter thinks to himself, a thought that remains solitary and unheard by the other presence in his mind. Green starts to tickle the edges of his vision as frustration licks at his being and fear continues building in his gut. The rambles pick up, loud, commandeering. Outright ignoring (maybe unhearing?) all of Peter’s attempts to communicate with it

Host… No harm to the host…

Host? He can feel something is changing, something is happening, but he doesn’t know what, panic is setting in full-blown now as the voice falls into incomprehensible chatter not unlike hysteria, and the soft green immediately floats away, replaced by the fright. His mind feels frayed, fractured, fragmented. He can't make sense of anything. His eyes are darting around the room, Spider-Sense rapidly picking up again as he attempts to locate the threat, the thing that’s worrying both his every instinct and the voice, but there’s nothing he can see in here, nothing except his own hands-

His hands that are slowly being engulfed in a liquid black. His heart pauses in his chest. Smooth and pulsing, alive. It’s slithering its way up his forearms, his veins are dark beneath his skin, and full-blown terror strikes through his nervous system. A desperate, fearful gasp escapes him and he tries to pull the neverending slime away from him, but it’s like an endless pothole, every drop he scatters away refills itself immediately. And to make matters worse, the droplets themselves inch their way back to him like some disjointed colony of bugs.

Peter shivers violently and stumbles back, away from the substance, tripping over a forgotten bag and landing hard on his ass. He presses backward more, now cornered against the junction of two walls. He is frozen in his dread, unable to move, and distantly, Peter is aware that this could all be from the fear toxin, but something about the way he can feel the liquid is just so real and vivid that he can’t force himself to ignore it.

His heart is hammering, vision blurring, and still he can see the aqueous thing progressing up his arm even more, now spreading over the expanse of his chest, from both above his shirt and inside it, cooling in a way that would almost be comforting if he weren’t high off fear toxin and frightened out of his mind.

He’s shaking, Peter realizes, and he squints his eyes shut and curls up into a ball, hoping this nightmare of a hallucination would fade away faster. That whatever this horrid slug was doing wasn’t real and would quickly be over with. That he wasn’t here, but at home, in Ben and May’s arms. At the tower, in Tony’s. At the lab, in Octavius’. Anywhere but here. 

Because this wasn’t real.

This wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real…

(Right?)