Chapter Text
A gunshot, an explosion, laughter turning to screams—
Peter’s eyes snapped open—when had he closed them?—and all he could see was green. His limbs moved sluggishly, as if being pulled down. He gasped for breath but the green invaded his mouth, his throat, his lungs. He had to get out, but his body was barely cooperating, struggling to push through the thick green gas—No, not gas, liquid. He pushed up, forcing his legs to kick through the sludge.
~~~
Normally, Dick would have left the scene by now. Gordon had already been here and arrested the clowns Dick had fought. There was no reason for Nightwing to still be here.
Except for the vat of green chemicals that looked alarmingly like a Lazarus Pit.
They obviously couldn’t leave a Pit where someone could stumble onto it, so Nightwing was guarding it until backup came.
He was watching the blood—a few drops from a wound on his neck that had splashed into the sludge at some point—slowly sink into the goo; letting his eyes blur as he considered this new development
He’d already commed Oracle, who was sending Bruce over as soon as he was free to destroy the Pit. The Pit itself wasn’t really the problem though. The problem was that Dick had found it in a warehouse filled with the Joker’s men.
He was at the warehouse on instructions from Oracle, following a lead on the Joker’s whereabouts after his most recent breakout from Arkham. The Joker himself was not here, but the clown’s gang had been, and so was the manmade Lazarus Pit.
The blood had all sunk below the surface now, leaving Dick’s unfocused eyes fixed on the neon green of the Pit water.
He supposed it made sense the Joker would want a Pit. The Joker wasn’t exactly scared of death, his goal in life was to get Batman to kill him. So, no, he wasn’t scared to die. But when Ace had turned on him, or when Harley had almost taken him out, The way Dick heard it, the man had been terrified. The Joker was scared of dying in a way that didn’t suit his goals. So having a Pit meant being able to be revived in the event his death wasn’t the one he wanted. A do over.
Splash.
That jolted Dick out of his thoughts. Had that come from—
Another splash, a hand clawing at the edge of the vat—a small hand—and then a head was surging out.
Dick was already moving, grappling down from his perch in the rafters.
~~~
With great effort, Peter broke through to the surface.
What should have been a beautiful, deep breath of fresh air was interrupted by the liquid he’d swallowed forcing its way out of his throat on a hacking cough. When would he get to breathe? It felt like it had been hours. His throat hurt and his lungs burned and every inhale he attempted only made him cough and hurt his throat more.
He wanted to cry. Maybe he was crying, his face was too wet to tell.
Just let me breathe.
“Hey, it’s ok. You’re—“
Peter was so startled that if it weren’t for the hands that grabbed his shoulders, he would have launched himself back into the sludge he’d emerged from.
Was that the Goblin? It didn’t sound like him, the voice was too even and lacked the high-pitched hysteria of the villain. Peter tried to focus his eyes on the speaker, but everything was so blurry—his vision distorted by sludge and maybe tears.
He tried to speak—to ask who was there, or where he was, or what was happening—but all that came out of his mouth was a wheeze that was cut off by more coughing.
The hands moved to grip Peter under his armpits. Peter struggled against the grip, but in his current state he couldn’t fight whoever was pulling him from the sludge.
The hands lowered him onto the cold concrete ground, leaning his back against the tub he’d come out of. Or, his back would have been against the tub if the force of his coughs didn’t send him hunching over, forehead to his knees.
“You’re okay,” the voice spoke again.
Had Peter been able to speak, he may have said check your source on that, I’m pretty sure I’m dying. As it was, he was still only capable of hacking and spluttering, so he turned his head to send a watery glare up at the blurry idiot.
“Sorry, right. You’re right. Let me just—“
A hand clapped Peter firmly on the back, and after one last big hack that felt like coughing up his spleen, Peter could finally breathe.
He leaned back against the vat and tilted his head back to gulp in the foulest, most chemical ridden air he’d ever smelled. It felt so good he could cry.
Come on Spider-Man, you’re not safe yet.
After blinking the wetness from his eyes (definitely from the sludge water, not crying. Peter had not been crying) he was finally able to see the man crouched next to him, and…what the fuck?
The only parts of the man actually visible were his curly black hair, and the parts of his tan face not covered by the domino mask. The rest of the man was covered in what looked suspiciously like a suit; conforming to his body, all black save for a blocky bird shape on his chest in blue, the wings extending down his arms.
Perhaps this was a new villain? But, no, Peter wasn’t in his Spider-Man suit, so, even with his luck, it would be a ridiculous coincidence. This man also didn’t alert Peter’s spidey-sense to danger, all Peter got was the slight sensation that meant eyes were on him; nothing unpleasant, just an awareness, currently on Peter’s own eyes, meaning that was where the man’s gaze was focused behind his mask.
Also, the guy was just…staring at him. And he’d pulled Peter out of the sludge, so—oh, speaking of the sludge, what?
What the fuck was going on? The last thing Peter knew, he was…Well, shit. It probably wasn't good that his memory was all fuzzy. He’d been…in his dorm room? Yeah, that seemed right. So how the hell had he gotten here? Also, where the fuck was ‘here’? Peter had never seen or smelled anything like this foul warehouse of glowing goop. So, again: what the fuck was going on?
Peter had a lot of strengths, keeping his thoughts inside his own head was not one of them. “What the fuck?” He rasped.
The man apparently didn’t understand the gravity of Peter’s confusion. “I know everything’s probably pretty scary right now, but you’re going to be okay.”
Peter, eloquent as ever, doubled down with, “No, what the fuck.”
“Uh…What?”
“Great, now we’re on the same page.”
“Huh?”
Focus, Spider-Man. You’re in an unfamiliar location with a potential threat…though the ‘threat’ part seems unlikely. Figure out the situation.
“Who are you?” Finally, Peter had managed to ask a useful question.
He received a useless answer. “You…don’t know who I am?”
The man obviously expected Peter to have heard of him, which was stupid considering this had to be, like, his first day being out in costume for Peter to not have heard of him, considering Peter made weirdos in costumes his business.
Okay, screw it. This guy wanted to play stupid? Guy, meet Peter Parker, world champion of the game.
“Should I? Have we met before?” Peter asked conversationally, as if he hadn’t almost just drowned in chemicals and the man he was speaking to wasn’t dressed like a lunatic.
The man startled a laugh, though he looked more concerned than amused. “No, we haven’t. Just…I’m Nightwing?”
He received a blank stare from Peter.
“Nightwing? Protector of Blüdhaven? One of the Bats?” The man—Nightwing—went on, as if any of that was helpful. It did, at least, tell Peter that this man considered himself a ‘protector’. Maybe he wouldn’t try to kill Peter.
“Oh, sure, that Nightwing.”
Peter thought that was pretty funny, but Nightwing just kept staring at him with that combination of confusion and concern. Maybe he didn’t get it.
“It’s just, I know so many Nightwings. Common name.”
At this, Nightwing’s face did change, to a look of complete bafflement.
This made Peter laugh, which made him cough a little. This only made Nightwing’s face scrunch up further, which, in turn, made Peter laugh harder and cough more.
“Are you okay?” Nightwing asked cautiously.
It took Peter a second to calm down and clear his throat enough to answer.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Nightwing’s brow creased, contorting his mask into another look of concern. Was he always this distressed, or was Peter just especially perturbing?
Peter lost the awareness that came with his spidey-sense telling him someone was looking at him, and knew it meant Nightwing’s gaze had gone somewhere else.
Nightwing’s face turned solemn before he sighed, looked back at Peter, and asked with a gentle tone and a sad smile, “What’s your name, kid?”
Ah, fuck. Peter knew what that meant; the man in front of him was about to tell Peter awful, life altering news. It’s exactly what the cop who’d pulled Peter away from Ben’s bleeding body had asked, before he’d said I’m sorry, Peter. Like using his name somehow made the situation less devastating. Like in the months that would follow, where Peter would be consumed by his guilt and grief, he’d think at least that cop used my name when he told me Ben was dead, and feel better for it.
“Peter,” he answered.
Nightwing smiled at him, but it held too much sympathy to be comforting in this situation.
“How old are you, Peter?”
Cool. Excellent, draw this out more. It’s not like the longer this dragged on, the more terrified Peter became.
“Thirteen.”
Nightwing nodded, but his lips turned down slightly and his domino mask creased at the brows. “Do you…Do you remember where you were? What was happening before you were here?”
No, Peter didn’t remember, not really. He shook his head. It should be relieving, Nightwing asking that question. It meant Nightwing knew what was going on, and that Peter’s fuzzy memory was an expected side effect of the current situation. It didn’t feel relieving, not when Nightwing paused at Peter’s head shake. Not when, for just a fraction of a second, the man in front of Peter looked heartbroken.
Panicked, Peter asked, ”Why? Is that bad?”
Nightwing, having recovered his soft smile and gentle tone, said, “It’s worrying, yeah. Peter, have you ever heard of a Lazarus Pit?”
“No. Why?”
“The green stuff you just came out of? That,” he nodded towards the vat, “is a Lazarus Pit.”
“Okay…what does it do?”
“The Pit does two things, or I guess it has two extremities. One is that it can heal life threatening injuries.”
“Is that what happened to me?”
“Maybe. If you were unconscious, that could be why you don’t remember going in.”
That’s not so bad. Was that why Nightwing was upset? Peter got hurt sometimes as Spider-Man. “Okay. What’s the other option?”
“The other option…The Pit doesn’t just heal, it also…it can revive the dead.”
Oh, thank God. At least Peter knew that wasn’t what was happening. Peter hadn’t died.
Except…Okay, no. Peter hadn’t died, but…he couldn’t remember getting seriously injured either. So he’d either died or been super injured, and he couldn’t remember anything so he had no way of knowing which one it was. Maybe it didn’t matter. It felt like it mattered, but what was really the difference, if he couldn’t even tell which one had happened?
“Peter?” said a distant voice.
That was Nightwing’s voice. Right…Nightwing. The vigilante Peter had never heard of.
Oh—and there was the difference. How long did it take for an entirely new vigilante to appear? Weeks, months? Whatever the answer, it definitely took longer than the human body could survive while unconscious, so that answered that. How long had Peter been dead for? Oh God, years?
“Peter, can you look at me?”
Peter’s eyes snapped up, but Nightwing’s face looked all fuzzy. Nightwing was right in front of Peter, why did he sound so far away?
“Thank you,” He was speaking softly, and Peter had to strain to hear him. “Can you breathe with me?”
What? Peter was breathing. He was just…very fast, and as desperately as he tried to suck in air it still felt like he wasn’t getting enough.
Nightwing was taking deep, exaggerated breaths. Peter tried to copy him, but it didn’t feel like enough. He couldn’t keep himself from gasping in air and ruining the rhythm.
“Good, you’re doing great, Peter.”
Was he? He felt like he was screwing this up massively. And since when did he need help breathing? He was Spider-Man, he shouldn’t need help, certainly not with breathing. He wasn’t a kid, he wasn’t some victim, and he sure as hell wasn’t helpless. So why was it that every time he tried to breathe on his own he felt like he was suffocating?
“Peter, just focus on breathing for now, okay? You’re okay.”
Right, focus. Get it together, Spider-Man. He could breathe. He’d been doing it everyday for over thirteen years. Apparently with a lapse where he hadn’t been breathing because he’d been dead—Nope, no, not thinking about that. Breathing, just breathing.
“There you go. In and out.”
In and out. Peter felt some of the tension release from his shoulders, and he was now able to focus properly on Nightwing’s face again.
“I…yeah, sorry. Thanks.”
“There’s no need to apologise. Better?”
Peter nodded. “Better. I just…freaked…for a bit.” As if that hadn’t been obvious.
“I can’t really blame you. Is there someone I can call for you?”
And…shit. No, there was not anyone Nightwing could call. Peter didn’t have parents. Aunt May had died years ago, Uncle Ben was gone, and Peter’s newest legal guardian…
But Peter couldn’t just say no, there’s no one you can call, they’re all dead. That would surely end up with a call to the police, and Peter would end up with CPS.
Peter had let that happen once—a gunshot, an explosion, laughter turning to screams—and it wasn’t a mistake he would make again.
”Um…I don’t—I don’t know their number. I’ll just walk back, it’s not far from here.”
Smooth, Parker. Real smooth. Peter knew he wasn’t being very subtle here. Normally he was a much better liar, but he’d had kind of a weird day—he’d died—and maybe he was still a little off balance. Sue him.
Nightwing opened his mouth to speak, Peter beat him to it, “Thanks for your help, I really should be going now.”
Peter pushed himself off the ground. Nightwing followed, rising from his crouch.
“Peter—“
“I’m all good now, but they really must be getting worried.” He was already moving between Nightwing and the vat he’d been leaning against, hopefully fast enough Nightwing wouldn’t be able to—dammit.
Nightwing grabbed his arm—which he should not have been able to do, Peter was fast, this guy must have insane reflexes—and levelled that soft, pitying look back on Peter. “Peter.”
Play dumb. “Hmm?”
“If you don’t have somewhere to go, I can call—“
A gunshot, an explosion, laughter turning to screams.
Look, Peter’s had a rough week, and that’s not even including the part where he died, because he couldn’t remember that bit. He was not going to put himself in that situation again. He couldn’t let Nightwing call anyone.
Maybe he panicked. Maybe he punched Nightwing.
~~~
Did…did the kid just punch him? How the hell had a thirteen year old kid landed a hit on him? It hadn’t hurt much, but it definitely hurt more than a kid that size should be capable of. What the fuck?
After being stunned for a moment, Dick ran after Peter. The kid was fucking fast though, and Dick lost sight of him after only a block. Again, what the fuck?
Dick pulled his grappling hook from his belt and swung up to the rooftops, running and swinging in the direction Peter had gone, but he still couldn’t see him. Continuing in the same direction and praying he’d get lucky, he tapped his earpiece.
“Oracle, a kid came out of the Pit—“
“What?” she shrieked. Babs was generally one to stay calm, but that was pretty upsetting news, to be fair.
“And I lost him.”
“Shit, where?” Just like that, professional again.
“On the east side of the Alley, headed inland.”
“Okay, I’ll tell the others—“
“O?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell them he’s fast.”
~~~
Peter had no idea where he was. None of the street names were familiar, and the longer he ran, the more the buildings turned from industrial to…gothic? Like, with gargoyles. Where the hell was he? It couldn’t possibly be New York. Oh…unless New York had changed in the time he’d been gone. How long had he been gone? He really didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to ignore absolutely everything, which wasn’t possible when it was all around him. The buildings were wrong and there was so much noise; people, cars, and the thousand other noises that made up a city, but they weren’t quite right. They weren’t the noises of his city. And all the people he passed stared at him, and he knew it was weird that he was sprinting down the street in the middle of the night, and he was soaked and probably dripping on the pavement, and he must look really freaked out; but they were all looking at him like he was weird; like he was out of place. He knew he was out of place, or out of time, or something, and it wasn’t making him feel better having a hundred different people he didn’t even know—because he knew nothing here—stare at him like they knew it too.
It also wasn’t helping that his spidey-sense was buzzing angrily in his skull, and nearly every person he passed gave off little static shocks that zapped at his skin and confirmed what he knew; that this place, these people, were all wrong.
He needed to get higher, that would help; it always helped. Up on the rooftops he could be all by himself and avoid all of this.
He ducked into an alley, just barely having the presence of mind to check if he could feel eyes on him, and when he felt none he climbed the side of the fire escape like it was a ladder, pushing against the railings with his enhanced strength to make the jump between levels.
On the roof he closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the sounds from the streets below. Focusing only on himself, he felt for the first time how soaked his clothes and hair were with the putrid Pit water. Cooling down from his run, he could feel exactly how wet his hoodie and jeans were, and how little they were doing against the freezing wind.
He didn’t mind the cold. He used to hate it, always bundling up in as many clothes and blankets as he could find in the winter. Recently, though, he couldn't stand being warm. Scientifically, he knew that ‘cold’ wasn’t really a thing, it was just the absence of heat. Maybe that’s why it was easier to deal with. Cold was the absence of warmth, of sensation; it was numbness. It was nothing. Peter wouldn’t mind feeling nothing right now.
Maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the distance from the streets that had freaked him out so much, but he was feeling…not calmer. He definitely wasn’t feeling calm, but he was feeling less; less like he had a minute ago when everything was too much.
His spidey-sense was still active, but it had calmed; more like a hum now.
Overall, he just felt tired. He’d started crying at some point; a steady stream of slow tears, but he wasn’t sure why. He was feeling less now, so why would he be crying? He was also too tired and empty to really care.
Distantly he was aware that he was in an entirely unfamiliar location and he should be doing something about it, like finding shelter, but that sounded like it would require thinking. He didn’t feel capable of even attempting thinking right now without breaking into a million pieces.
He opened his eyes and moved to the middle of the roof, keeping his gaze solidly on the concrete beneath his feet, not daring to look anywhere else and risk upsetting the numbness spreading through him.
In the middle of the roof, as far as he could get from the unfamiliar city around him on all sides, he sat and curled into a ball. Resting his head on his knees, he let his gaze blur and unfocus on a smudge on the cement beside his foot; ready to think and feel nothing for a while.
~~~
Jason obviously wanted to be the one to find the kid. A kid that had come out of a Lazarus Pit? Out of the Joker’s Pit? Jason was gonna help this kid so hard. Feelings and comforting people weren’t really his strong suit, but…He was good with kids, he knew he was, and he was the only one out of the Bat’s who understood what this kid was going through. And maybe it was personal for him, alright? Obviously it was personal for him. He didn’t know this kid’s story, but he knew enough to get it; to want to help.
That being said, Jason would still absolutely like more context on the kid. Jason understood the Lazarus Pit part of it, but there were some things about the kid that didn’t make sense.
Babs had filled them all in on what Dick had told her. It wasn’t much. All they knew was that the kid was named Peter, he was thirteen, likely from New York based on his accent, he hadn’t known who Nightwing was, he’d run at the mention of calling someone, and he’d run fast.
They all knew what it meant that the kid had run. It meant he had no one to call—at least not anyone he wanted to call—and he didn’t want cops or CPS on him. Which they’d all seen plenty of. Gotham, the Alley especially, was full of homeless kids.
The difference, though, was that they were all from Gotham. How had a kid from New York ended up in Gotham all by himself? Maybe he’d been running from family or a bad foster placement, but all the way to Gotham? Even if Peter had felt the need to leave New York state, he could have gone somewhere better, like Metropolis. Maybe Peter thought he’d blend in better as a homeless kid here.
What was confusing Jason, was that Peter hadn’t recognised Nightwing. Dick had made the switch from Robin to Nightwing eight years ago, and since then Nightwing had made a name for himself leading the Titans and protecting Blüdhaven. The Titans, especially, Peter should know. He should know all of this, everyone did, but the Titans base was in New York. How could Peter possibly not know Nightwing?
There was also the question of how Peter had ended up in the Pit. He’d been close enough to death for the Lazarus Pit, which, as depressing as it was, wouldn’t be so surprising for a homeless kid in Gotham—especially a non-native who didn’t know what they were dealing with.
But Peter hadn’t just gotten injured or died, he’d been healed by the Joker. He couldn’t possibly be some random homeless kid, or why would the Joker have bothered?
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Why was Peter in Gotham? How could he not recognise Nightwing? How had he gotten so badly hurt he needed a Pit, and why would the Joker have him healed?
The Joker only surrounded himself with people he could use. Did he think he could use Peter? Why? Why him, and not some other kid? What made Peter special enough to the Joker to warrant the construction of a Lazarus Pit?
These were not questions Jason would get an answer to unless he could find the kid. The good news was the kid had run off into Crime Alley, which gave Jason an advantage in finding him. Not just finding him, but finding him first. It was an all hands on deck situation, every Bat was out looking for the kid. It had to be that way, Peter had crawled out of a Lazarus Pit, for fucks sake. Finding him was urgent.
But the kid had already run from Nightwing, and as competent as Jason’s family all were, Jason knew he’d be best at this. The fears of homeless kids were something Jason understood. Maybe Peter would have heard of Red Hood—it seemed unlikely, given he didn’t know who Nightwing was…but if Peter did know how Hood looked out for the Alley kids, he might be more willing to trust him.
Jason had already been in Crime Alley when he got the call through his comms about the kid, so he had a head start on every other Bat. More importantly, he was the only one who patrolled here. These were his streets, he knew them as well as he knew Dick, or Alfred. He knew them better than he knew himself.
He stuck to the roofs, only jumping down on occasion to check on Alley kids he already knew. He was desperate to find the Pit kid, but he couldn’t just shirk his responsibilities. He did make a point to ask all of them if they’d seen a soaked thirteen year old sprinting past. They all said no.
It took Jason almost an hour, but he found the kid.
He found him at the edge of the Alley, almost into Burnley. How the hell had the kid run that far? He also only found him in the end by luck. Peter was curled up in the centre of a rooftop. Jason never would have spotted him were he not also on the rooftops himself.
He approached silently, wanting to get in the kid's line of sight to avoid scaring him off, not wanting to have to chase the kid if he started running again.
Even though Jason moved without making a single sound, the kid tensed up anyway. Oracle had relayed from Dick that the kid was stronger than he looked, and too fast to be normal. Jason had assumed these were Pit side effects, but enhanced hearing? Jason hadn’t gotten that one. Not the time to ponder it though.
If the kid already knew he was there, there was no point in being subtle anymore. He did turn off the voice modulator in his muzzle before he spoke, though. No need to scare the kid anymore than he already was.
“Hey kid.”
Peter turned his head over his shoulder, squinting at Jason with suspicion. Jason froze. The white tuft of hair and the green eyes paired with the distrustful expression left Jason feeling like he was looking at some warped-reality version of himself. One where he’d gone into the Pit at thirteen, not fifteen.
Jason also noticed Peter’s red rimmed eyes, like he’d recently been crying. The kid needed help, so Jason refocused himself.
Peter watched as Jason came to sit about three feet away from him, giving Peter his space.
“Who are you?” the kid croaked.
Okay, so Peter didn’t know who Red Hood was, which Jason had known would likely be the case. It kind of fucked up his advantage a bit, he’d been hoping he could rely on his reputation here, but that was fine. Jason could earn the kid’s trust the old fashioned way.
More importantly right now, though, the kid was shivering so hard he was basically rattling. Jesus, he was just wearing jeans and a hoodie. Wet jeans and a wet hoodie. In the middle of the night. In Gotham. In February. Christ.
“Name’s Red Hood,” Jason said as he took his own jacket off and held it out to the kid.
Peter stared at the jacket for a solid ten seconds before reaching out to take it. Then he just…held it. He didn’t put it on.
“Thanks. You gonna t-tell on me, now, Red Hood?” He said with venom. The kid might actually be intimidating if he wasn’t shaking like a leaf from the cold. Also, if he wasn’t so small. Overall, the effect was less intimidating and more like one of those fucked up tiny dogs—the ones that shook all the time and leaked from their eyes.
“I’m not gonna call any authorities on you, if that’s what you mean.”
He wasn’t just saying it to keep the kid calm, either. He meant it. Jason knew very well that the emergency foster system in Gotham was almost entirely human traffickers, there was no way Jason was calling the cops on any homeless kids when they’d get put into that. Jason could take Peter to Metropolis. There were better systems there, ones Jason himself had investigated and made sure were legit. It’s where Jason sent homeless Alley kids—the ones who actually wanted that, anyway, which were few and far between.
Jason wouldn’t do that either, though. Peter had run when Dick had tried to offer it. Whatever happened to Peter, it would be on his terms, and if he didn’t want authorities involved, then they wouldn’t be involved.
Peter squinted at Jason, trying to decide whether or not he could trust what Jason said.
Jason still had other concerns. “You gonna put that jacket on?”
Peter shook his head. He was still shivering, he really needed to put on the jacket. But this was a delicate situation, and Jason didn’t want to push when it could make Peter run again. Maybe he just needed to get the kid to trust him a little more.
“Thanks, though. ‘M Peter.”
“I know. Wing asked me to help look for you. You really scared him.”
Peter took his eyes off Jason to stare at the rooftop in front of him. “I didn’t mean to.” He peered back at Jason without moving his head. “Did I…Is he okay?”
“He’s not hurt, Pete. Just worried about you.”
The kid’s shoulders slumped like he was relieved, but the guilty look didn’t leave his face.
“Do you mind if I call him? I won’t bring him here or anythin’, just call off the search.”
Peter gave a small nod.
Jason tapped his earpiece. He said to Babs, “Hey, I found him, we’re just havin’ a chat.” He didn’t use O’s name, as he usually would. For whatever reason, Peter didn’t know the city’s vigilantes. He hadn’t recognised either Nightwing or Red Hood, so he likely didn’t know there was an entire team after him right now, and Jason didn’t want to freak the kid out any more than he already was.
“Oh thank God. Is he—“
“Best to keep it just me and Pete. I’ll talk to you later,” Jason cut her off, tapping the earpiece again.
He focused back on Peter, who was back to being tense and frowning at Jason with suspicion. What had Jason done?
“Who was that?” How the hell did Peter know it wasn’t—Oh, guess that confirmed the enhanced hearing thing. Shit, his hearing must be really good if he could hear voices distinctly enough to differentiate them from Jason’s earpiece three feet away.
No point in lying now. “That’s O. She runs comms for us, tells us where to go, what to do, that kind of thing. She’ll call off Wing.”
Peter did not, as Jason had suspected he would, seem upset by the news there was another person hunting him. Instead, he lit up, grinning.
“Like your guy in the chair! Or, not a guy. But still, like the movies!”
And—Oh. How had Jason even for a second thought that Peter looked like him. It was the dimples that made it obvious, but now that he’d noticed, he felt like smacking himself for not realising sooner. It was Dick. Sure, his skin was paler, his hair brown instead of black, but they had the same wavy almost-curly hair, the same nose, the same goddamn face. Even if Jason hadn’t grown up in a manor plastered with a young Dick’s face on the walls, the resemblance was obvious. It was like looking at a tiny version of his brother. There were small differences, now that Jason was really looking he noticed Peter had rounder eyes, a softer jaw, some small freckles here and there that Dick didn’t have. Peter must get those bits, as well as his coloring, from his mother. Shit, his mother. Who the hell was the mother?
“Uh, Hood?”
Right, Peter had asked him a question. Something about O being like a movie character.
“Yeah. Yeah, just like the movies.”
“Are you okay?”
Jesus, snap out of it. You can figure out how Dick has a thirteen year old later.
“I’m fine, kid. Pretty sure I’m supposed to be askin’ you that.”
“I’m fine.”
Peter was a good liar, but Jason was good at spotting liars. The way Peter’s voice was just a little too flat compared to his excitement moments before gave him away.
Ah, and here was Jason’s advantage; his trump card.
“You don’t have to lie to me, kid. I’ve done a stint in the Pit, too. It’s not fun.”
Peter uncurled a little bit, his expression opening a fraction.
“You—you have?”
Jason nodded. “Mhm.”
Peter hesitated, “Did…Were you…” The kid stopped talking, his face scrunching up.
When it became obvious he wasn’t going to continue, Jason probed, “Take your time.”
Peter scowled at him. “It just seems like maybe a rude question.”
Jesus Christ. This kid had genuinely no fucking clue who Red Hood was. Which, yeah, Jason had known, but Jesus Christ. He was worried about offending him? And not in the I don’t want to say something that might piss off Red Hood way, but just actually, genuinely not wanting to offend him.
If Jason didn’t have a near-perfect poker face he’d be finding it really hard not to laugh right now. As it was, he was grateful for his muzzle and domino mask hiding the widening of his eyes and the twitch of his lips.
“Promise, kid. You’re not gonna upset me.”
Peter squinted at him, still wary. “Fine. I was gonna ask if you were dead or not.”
“Before I went in the Pit?” Peter nodded. “Yeah, I was dead.”
Peter looked taken aback, his mouth dropping open. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Pete. I told you, you’re not gonna upset me.”
“No, not about—I mean I am, I shouldn’t have asked that and I was a dick about it—“
“Pete—“ Jason tried to cut him off.
Peter just ploughed on through. “But I meant I’m sorry like, I’m sorry. For your loss? Can you say that to the actual person that died? Probably not. You know what I mean, right? I’m…I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Jason just stared at him. Huh. It’s not like he hadn’t heard that before, although in the past it had been said more…eloquently. It had also always been said by his family, or the few friends he had, people who knew him and had reason to care. Here was some child who knew nothing about him, hadn’t even heard of him before, and was just…sorry for what he’d been through.
Peter sat there, staring up at Jason with wide guileless eyes still red from crying. Crying because he himself was going through something completely fucked, and yet he had it in him in this moment to consider Jason. Not Jason, actually. Red Hood.
Even if Peter didn’t know who he was, Jason knew he looked intimidating. He was meant to. He was at least three times the size of Peter, and the majority of his face was hidden behind metal, and the lenses over his eyes were glowing red. Grown adults, criminals and metas, were terrified of Red Hood. But instead of sprinting away from him screaming, Peter sat there offering him his condolences.
Jason didn’t understand what he was feeling right now. He did know that Peter severely lacked survival instinct and that was something they’d have to work on.
“It’s okay, Pete.”
All the tension Peter had lost over the course of their conversation went right back into him as he curled into himself even tighter, hunching his shoulders and squeezing his arms. In a voice so quiet Jason almost didn’t hear him, Peter whispered, “It doesn’t feel okay.”
Jason had a sick feeling he knew where this was going. “What doesn’t, Pete?”
“Dying.” Peter’s voice cracked when he said the word, and Jason’s heart cracked with it. He’d been hoping, desperately, that Peter hadn’t gone through that. There was no world in which what he’d gone through was good, not if he’d ended up in a Lazarus Pit, but Jason had been desperately hoping that for once, just this once, for this kid who was so young and who looked like Dick and was so overwhelmingly nice that things wouldn’t be the absolute worst case scenario.
Jason didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be honest, but there was very little he could say that was honest and also in any way positive. He was finding it very hard to tell Peter his death was anything other than a fucking tragedy.
“You’re right, Peter. It’s not okay. But it gets better. And I know, trust me, I know, it feels like there’s no way this could possibly ever be anything other than crushing. But it won’t always feel that way.”
Peter looked up at him with big, desperate eyes that were starting to fill with tears, and said “You felt like this?”
Jason knew exactly what Peter meant. He’d felt a lot when he’d first come back, largely rage, but he knew this feeling too. He understood the want to curl into a ball and just give up, or scream, or sob, because hadn’t he done enough? After everything that had happened to him, he had to keep going? Death was supposed to be the end, it was supposed to be rest; not more living, not after he’d experienced the very worst that living had to offer. So he nodded, because he got it. Even if he’d forgotten the feeling, buried it in rage and violence because they were easier, how could he not remember when it was staring up at him from wide, miserable eyes?
“But you’re better now?” Peter pleaded. Pleaded, because he needed it to be true for Jason so that it could be true for him too.
Jason nodded. He still had rough days sometimes, but the more time passed the fewer and farther between those became. And it had been a long, long while since he’d felt anywhere near as bad as he had in the beginning. He would have forgotten entirely that it was ever quite that bad, if it wasn’t looking right at him.
“How?” Peter whispered.
“How did I get better?”
Peter gave a tiny nod.
Okay, uh, fuck. Jason could not fuck this up, Peter was asking how to deal with it. All of it. It was kind of a huge question, and Jason should not be the one answering it, on account of he’d done absolutely everything wrong. But he was here, and Peter was breaking, and if he glossed over some of the more fucked up parts, Jason’s story might actually be helpful.
“Well, to be honest, at first, I made kind of a mess. Did some stuff I’m still not sure if I was justified in or if I was being batshit insane. But eventually…” Jason paused to think. What had gotten him through it? His family. That was obvious, but he couldn’t say that to the kid who either didn’t have a family or had a shitty one. And, really, Jasons’s family had been there the whole time, so what changed? When did he start letting them help him? “I realised…maybe I was blowing some things out of proportion. Dying…sucked. But it wasn’t the end of the world. I mean, it felt like it was, because it was, you know? My world should have ended. I died. That’s how it goes, you die and it’s over for you. Except it wasn’t, obviously, but…I think it took me a while to really get that. Everything seemed so small in comparison to my memories of dying, and it felt like I had nothing to lose because I’d already lost everything, so it took me…probably a lot longer than it should have to realise I’d also gotten it all back. So I guess…it gets better once you really get that you’re alive again, and dying’s shit, and it feels huge, and it is, but it’s nowhere near as big as the whole life you have ahead of you. You know?”
And even though literally nothing he’d just said made any sort of sense, Peter was nodding, because he did know. He got it, because he’d died. He knew what it meant to feel like your world had ended.
Shit, this was depressing. Jason had wanted to make Peter feel better, and he was feeling a lot like a failure right now. Peter was going to feel like shit for a while, but there had to be something Jason could do to make things better right now; some way to take the kid’s mind off it.
“Oh, Pete, I forgot. I meant to thank you.”
The kid looked up at him. His eyes were still blurry with tears, but he looked at least a little curious now instead of totally and overwhelmingly devastated.
“What? Why?”
“For punching Wing. I’ve been needing something new to bully him about.”
Now Peter looked bewildered. His cheeks were wet, but his eyes were clearer, and he didn’t look like a kicked puppy anymore.
“What? No, I shouldn’t have done that. And I’m really sorry. Can you tell him I’m sorry?”
“Sorry? Pete, you’re my hero. You beat up Nightwing.”
“What? I didn’t beat him up, I—“
“Do you have any idea how many rogues have tried to take him down? And then some thirteen year old—“
“I didn’t take him down—“
“Completely destroys him with one hit.”
“I didn’t destroy—he’s fine.”
“And now I get to hold that over him. Nightwing lost a fight with a kid.”
“It wasn’t a fight, I hit him once.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. And then, after you one hit KOed Boy Wonder, you outran him, too.”
“I…That…yeah.” There! It was fuckin’ tiny, but Peter was smiling.
Jason smiled too, continuing, “Now every time I see him, I get to remind him he lost a fight and a footrace in one night, to my new buddy Pete.”
Peter started worrying his lip, his little smile fading. “You really don’t think he’s mad?”
Dropping his jovial tone, Jason said, “No, Pete. He’s not mad. He gets it. He dealt with me when I came out of the Pit, and I did a lot worse than you.”
Peter wasn’t smiling, but he actually looked okay. Normal. “Yeah? What’d you do?”
Jason almost didn’t hear what Peter said, so focused the fact Peter was fucking finally pushing his arms into the jacket. Peter had been shivering this whole time and just…ignoring the jacket in his hand, and then he’d been crying while still shivering, and now he was okay and getting warmer. Jason didn’t understand why Peter hadn’t just put the jacket on to begin with, but thank fuck he finally had. He’d gone from the saddest little kicked puppy Jason had ever seen to looking a little more like a normal kid, and Jason had done that. At this moment Jason couldn’t think of any bigger achievement in his life, so it was kind of hard to play it cool and keep going.
Jason, in an attempt to get Peter from normal to happy, said. “Pff, oh, you know. This and that.”
Peter narrowed his eyes at him, and it was playful. Like he was joking. Jason actually kind of felt like a hero. That was assuming that all heroes felt overwhelming desperation, because Jason was desperate not to ruin this.
“Right. Like what, exactly?” And even though Peter was asking, it didn’t feel like he was actually looking for an answer. It felt like he was just having fun making conversation; doing something other than crying.
Which was why Jason, instead of answering, tilted his head back and groaned dramatically. “Pete. Buddy. Pal. Why must you dwell on the past? Can’t we live in the present?” Peter’s smile grew, and Jason felt almost giddy.
“How do we do that?”
“We could get some food? My shout.”
Peter’s eyes lit up, and he nodded.
~~~
Normally, Peter wouldn’t have so easily accepted the offer for someone to pay for his meal, but he was having kind of a shit night; he wouldn’t mind a pick-me-up. Actually he was having a shit week, and he really desperately needed a pick-me-up.
They were walking now, and wherever they were was slightly more modern, though there were still occasional gargoyles. Where even had gargoyles anymore? Did America ever even have them? Peter had thought those were a European thing.
Peter asked, “Hey, where are we?”
“Burnley, the Alley’s shit for food.”
Okay, not helpful. “Cool, where’s that?”
“Uh…Burnley? It’s on the north side.”
For the love of God. “North side of where?”
Hood looked at him, tilting his head like he was confused. “Gotham?”
Gotham? The city that Peter could only imagine had been designed by Dracula himself was called Gotham. Goth-am.
Peter’s brows scrunched together. “Which came first, the name or the gargoyles?”
Hood snorted. “I don’t know, you’d have to ask a history nerd.” Now he looked at Peter consideringly. “You don’t know Gotham?”
“Nope.”
Peter wasn’t concerned by this, he didn’t know loads of places. He wasn’t really very ‘worldly.’ This was literally his first time ever leaving the state of New York, and it had only happened because he’d died.
Hood seemed to be considering this with more weight than Peter was, so Peter asked, “Should I know about it?”
“Uh…well…I mean—probably, yeah.”
“Why should I know about it?”
“It’s the crime capital of America—“
Peter interrupted, “Horrendous title, but go on.”
Hood looked at Peter for a second. Peter assumed the man was rolling his eyes or glaring or something about Peter’s interruption, but it was impossible to tell with the mask over his eyes.
“And you’re from New York, right?”
“Yup.”
“Gotham’s the biggest city in Jersey.”
Peter stopped walking. “Oh God.”
Hood stopped too, his brows lowering with concern. “What? Are you okay?”
“I died.”
Now Hood looked panicked. “Yeah, but it’s not that bad, remember? You’re alive and it gets better—“
“I died and went to hell.”
“What? No, Peter. You’re not in hell, you’re in Gotham.”
“In Jersey.”
Huh, apparently Hood wasn’t entirely unreadable with the mask, because it was pretty clear now that he was rolling his eyes, since he had to move his whole head backwards to accommodate how far he was rolling them. Hood was obviously annoyed about Peter making that joke—too soon for death jokes? It’s been, like, an hour and a half—but he was apparently satisfied enough that Peter wasn’t actually freaking out, because once he was done with his dramatics he kept walking.
Peter had made a joke out of it—as doing this was his default setting—but it was an interesting point. How had Peter missed an entire metropolitan city so close to his home?
Something weird was going on, with the city he’d never heard of and the vigilantes that didn’t exist before and the bringing people back to life thing. Peter had three working hypotheses. Hoping to narrow it down he asked, “By the way, what’s the date?”
“February twenty first.”
Peter was attempting to sound casual, but he couldn't keep the wariness from his tone when he asked, “What year?”
Hood stopped walking and snapped his head towards Peter’s face. “Shit, kid. You’ve been thinking you missed years?”
He nodded.
“Jesus, I should have—it’s twenty-sixteen.”
There went Peter’s first hypothesis. He apparently hadn’t missed multiple years, or any time at all actually. His most recent memories from before he died were from today.
“Oh, okay. Cool.”
Hood stared for another second before his shoulders slumped with relief. Had he been waiting to see if Peter would lose his shit? That was…well it kind of sucked that that was necessary, but it was nice that Hood hadn’t mentioned it and was letting Peter keep his dignity. Hood faced ahead again and kept walking.
Okay, so without that hypothesis, Peter had two left. The first was that when he’d died, he’d suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury resulting in very specific knowledge gaps. This would explain why he couldn’t remember his death, and how he was unaware of so much.
The problem with this hypothesis was that Peter didn’t feel like he was missing anything. There weren’t holes in his memories where he’d forgotten this stuff, he just hadn’t known about it at all before.
Which led to his second hypothesis, which was kind of insane but so was the evidence he was working with; he was in an alternate dimension. Everything he knew to be true was true, and all this stuff he didn’t think existed didn’t exist—in his reality. This theory didn’t have any problems, it was perfect, besides the fact that it was nuts. That wasn’t really a problem, just…Peter was having a little trouble believing it. Mainly because, if this was a different universe, how the fuck did he get here?
“How do Lazarus Pits work?”
Hood glanced back down at him. “Fuck if I know. They’ve got dionesium in them, I know that.”
“What’s dionesium?”
“The element, dionesium.”
Okay, yep, that was that. Peter could maybe believe that he’d never heard of Gotham, though it seemed unlikely if it was the crime capital of America and right next to his home state.
He could maybe even, at a push, believe that he’d just never heard of these vigilantes. Maybe they weren’t really a thing outside of Gotham, maybe it was all very self-contained and it was normal for someone from New York to not hear about these things, even though that made no sense at all.
Peter had been, like, one percent willing to believe all of that, because it was possible. It was severely, insanely unlikely, but possible. So, one percent.
But an element? Peter knew, he knew, the periodic table; had known it since he was like five. And if there was a new element discovered, that’s not something he could not notice. He went to school, he had a phone and a computer and teachers and he would know if there was a new element. Which meant…
Okay, so, he’d died. He’d—on a surface level—accepted that. But somehow dying had sent him to be revived in a different universe? As Spider-Man, Peter had seen a lot of weird shit. Like, a guy who was made of sand. Peter could handle weird. But how the fuck had dying ended in dimension travel? This couldn’t possibly be common, or surely Hood would have mentioned it. So how the hell had Peter gotten here?
Nope, not thinking about it. It was fascinating, truly, and Peter was a scientist at heart. There was nothing he wanted more than to understand all of this; plus, on any other day, Peter would be pretty fucking psyched about proving the multiverse theory. And this universe had new things to study, to learn about. Peter was already itching to learn anything and everything about dionesium.
But there was only so much a guy could deal with in one day before going insane. Right now Peter’s main goal was keeping the evening on its upwards trajectory, and not freaking out again. Anything relating to his death would have to wait. Dimension travel would have to be a tomorrow problem.
Peter looked back up from where he’d unfocused his eyes on the ground ahead of him. So he wasn’t thinking about it, at least not what had caused it, but he could at least enjoy it, right? That was conducive to his goal of getting himself together and enjoying what remained of the night.
He was in a city that didn’t exist. What was different? Peter knew some of the big differences, like green goo that revived the dead. That one was sort of a sore subject right now, but maybe there were other, smaller, less life-altering details. Little things Peter could focus on and enjoy. Hell, maybe this version of Jersey wasn’t that bad. It was unlikely, but it was possible.
Peter was now staring at every shopfront they passed like a child in a toy store, trying to see something new. It all seemed like exactly what he’d expect from a big city, but he wasn’t looking for something glaring and obvious, he was looking for something small. He scanned absolutely everything he could possibly see, surely there’d be something? A chain restaurant he hadn’t heard of, a product he’d never seen before, something.
It was as they were walking past an electronics store that Peter stopped, Hood stopping a few steps later and turning to look back at Peter, confused.
The TVs in the window were playing the news; something about some billionaire, the ‘Prince of Gotham.’ That was cool, a celebrity that didn’t exist in his world. This was exactly what he wanted. Small, trivial differences he could find some joy in without being overwhelmed.
Hood strolled back to him, hands in his pockets.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Just, you know. Seeing if I’ve missed anything.”
The story changed to something about sports. Teams that didn’t exist in Peter’s world. This was kind of fascinating, actually.
Hood raised a brow. “Right, because Gotham losing to Metropolis again is big news.”
Metropolis? Another city Peter had never heard of. And apparently they were better than Gotham at football.
Peter grinned up at the vigilante. “Maybe I’m really into sports, you don’t know.”
Hood leveled him with a flat stare. Or Peter thought so. He was still working on deciphering facial expressions through the mask.
“You’re into sports?”
Peter bristled. “I could be.”
The story changed again, this time to a video. The video started on a man’s back, only showing his green hair and purple suit.
Green and purple, just like—
The man turned around, revealing his face; his face that was too pointy, his grin too wide to be natural. He opened his mouth, and though the TVs were muted, it was obvious that the man was cackling.
Green and purple, pointy features and a grin too wide, a laugh too manic.
It was the Goblin.
Peter saw green.