Chapter Text
The first time Peter swung into Gotham, it was supposed to be a one-night thing. A quick chase, a fleeing Hydra agent, and a malfunctioning web shooter later, he crash-landed on top of Wayne Enterprises.
The Bats were not amused. “Do I even want to know what species of idiot you are?” Red Hood had growled, dragging him out of the debris. “Uh, New York native?” Peter had offered. “Proudly radioactive?” Somehow, instead of a beatdown, he’d been dragged under armed vigilante escort into the Batcave.
That had been three weeks ago. Now, Peter was in sweatpants, curled up on a plush leather couch in Wayne Manor, sipping hot cocoa like this was normal. Like any of this was normal. And Bruce Wayne was sitting across from him with legal documents.
Peter blinked. “Okay. Wait. I get the roof thing was bad, and I appreciate not being arrested, but adoption? Like. Legally?”
Bruce didn’t blink. “You’re sixteen. Homeless. Actively injured. You’ve had no stable adult supervision since your aunt passed. You patrol without backup. You regularly skip sleep. And according to your vitals, you’re currently running on caffeine, trauma, and spite.”
“Spite’s calorie free,” Peter mumbled into his mug. Cass gave him a thumbs-up. Damian scowled. “He’s fragile. But tolerable.” “High praise from Damian,” Tim added.
Jason dropped onto the couch beside Peter and slung an arm over the back. “Look, kid, we’ve all got baggage. You fit the mold. We adopted a former assassin once. You’re practically wholesome.”
“I kill no people,” Peter said quickly. “See?” Dick said, walking in with a tray of muffins. “Wayne material.” Peter gaped at them. “This is a cult.”
“We prefer ‘trauma-bonded family unit,’” Tim said, deadpan.
Bruce finally spoke again. “You’re not obligated to accept. But the offer stands. Permanently.”
Peter stared down at the cocoa in his hands. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d been until now. That night, he stayed in the manor. He didn’t mean to. But there was a room. It had a real bed. Soft blankets. His own closet. No moldy ceilings or flickering lights. Just safety.
Peter stared up at the ceiling long after midnight, his spider-sense eerily quiet. For the first time in years, he let himself sleep. Living with the Batfamily was weird.
Cass said nothing but understood everything. Tim functioned entirely on coffee and the knowledge of everyone’s search history. Jason tried to be the cool older brother and failed spectacularly. Dick… hugged too much. And meant every single one. Damian challenged Peter to a duel on day three. Peter won by sticking to the ceiling and calling it a “strategic withdrawal.” Alfred had more authority in one raised eyebrow than Fury did in a full command room. And Bruce?
Bruce watched. Not in the scary, Bat-way. In the Dad way.The "I see you trying not to cry in the hallway at 2 am and left a blanket and cookies on the couch" way. Peter tried not to need it. But sometimes, he did.
The first mission in Gotham was a disaster. Peter got cocky. Webbed into a trap. Nearly broke a rib. Bruce got him out in under four minutes. Back at the Cave, Peter waited for the lecture. Instead, Bruce handed him an ice pack and said quietly, “You don’t have to prove anything here.” Peter stared.
Bruce added, “You’re a kid. You’re allowed to be one.” That night, Peter cried into his pillow. No one said anything when they found him asleep in the kitchen at 5 am. But there was a second mug beside him. Still warm.
Three months in, Peter called Bruce “Dad” by accident. Everyone heard it. No one mentioned it.
Except for Damian, who smirked and said, “Took you long enough.”