Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain drizzled down in sheets, slicking the cracked sidewalks of Gotham. Streetlamps flickered weakly, fighting to hold back the shadows.

Bucky Barnes walked with purpose, his coat pulled close, boots striking the ground in measured, soldier’s strides. His hair dark, long, with a single white streak cutting through it,was plastered damp against his face. His green eyesscanned alleys, rooftops, every shadow.

“Enemy territory,” the voice in his head said. Deep, Russian, cold. “City is choke point. Too many vantage spots. We are exposed.”

Bucky didn’t flinch at the intrusion. He’d long since stopped trying to silence Winter. I know.

“Boy limps. Weak side is left. Keep him behind you.”

Bucky slowed just slightly. Behind him, Peter was struggling to keep pace, his hood drawn up against the rain. The fabric clung to his hair, and when a gust of wind pulled it back for a second, a flash of white streak cut through his brown curls.

Peter hunched it back into place quickly, muttering, “Seriously—did New York get a redesign while we weren’t looking? Because this place is…way too Batman-y.”

“Not New York,” Bucky said, voice flat.

“No kidding,” Peter said, half to himself. He shifted, wincing faintly at the bruises blooming under his hoodie. “So what’s the plan? We got no Stark, no Strange, no Avengers…just us. And, you know, a very questionable Uber service through reality.”

“Step one: identities,” Bucky said.

“Identities?”

“We don’t exist here without them.” His tone was clipped, like he was reciting a briefing. “No records means we don’t last a week.”

Winter’s voice hummed like steel against Bucky’s thoughts. “Library. Public systems. Easy to breach. From there, we build.”

Bucky adjusted course. “Library.”

Peter gave a small, humorless laugh. “Only you would treat a library like a tactical objective.”

The Gotham Public Library loomed out of the dark like an old sentinel, its stone steps slick with rain. Inside, the glow of warm lamps cut through the gloom.

The quiet smelled of paper, polish, and dust.

Behind the front desk sat a young woman in a wheelchair, red hair pulled neatly back, eyes sharp behind glasses. Barbara Gordon looked up as the two entered, cataloguing them instantly.

The man first: tall, scarred, posture military. His green eyes swept the room automatically, noting exits before even approaching the desk. His hair carried a streak of white.

Then the boy: slim, shoulders hunched under a hoodie. His hands were shoved into his pockets, knuckles bruised. His hood slipped slightly as he moved, just for an instant,enough for Barbara’s sharp eyes to catch it.

A streak of white, buried in brown curls.

Her stomach dropped.

The Lazarus Pit. She’d seen the signs before, in Jason and in Damian when the Shadows tried to reclaim him. That unnatural streak. Those haunted edges to a teenager’s eyes.

And the bruise darkening under his cheekbone.

Her chest tightened.

“Evening,” she said, voice steady, though her fingers twitched against the desk. “Can I help you two?”

The man answered immediately, tone clipped, commanding. “We need to use a computer.”

“You’ll need a library card for that.”

“Then we’ll make one,” Bucky said simply.

Barbara blinked at his bluntness. “Do you have ID?”

“No.”

Her eyes flicked between them—the soldier and the (assassin?!)boy. She kept her voice calm. “Then I’ll need names and an address.”

For a moment, silence. The boy shifted nervously.

Winter’s voice pressed sharp in Bucky’s mind. “Cover story. Immediate. Keep it simple. Do not hesitate.”

“James and Peter Beck,” Bucky said smoothly. “Relocated from Metropolis.”

Peter blinked at him, but nodded quickly. “Uh—yeah. Beck.”

Barbara typed it in, keeping her face neutral, though her thoughts spun. Beck. A name too normal , too quick.

And the boy. The streak. The bruise.

Under the desk, her fingers moved on her phone.

Iseeall: New problem. Kid + man. Kid’s bruised.
Iseeall: Both have pit streaks. The man reads military.
Iseeall: Feels wrong.

Replies came rapid.

Goldy: Want me to check it out?
Deadmanshooting: Pit streak?! I’m coming.
Bloodson: Tt. Handle it carefully.
BigB: Observe. Don’t engage.

Barbara slipped the phone away as she slid two fresh library cards across the desk. “Here you go. Computers are in the back.”

The boy, Peter took his card carefully. His eyes lifted just enough to meet hers, shy, uncertain. Then he followed the man deeper into the library.

Barbara exhaled slowly, tension coiling in her chest.

Both of them. Streaks. Pit signs.
The kid looked fragile, bruised, and scared.

Her mind whispered the question she didn’t want to ask:

Is that man using the Pit to control him?

The library computers glowed pale blue in the dim light of the back row. Bucky sat down heavily at one, motioning Peter into the chair beside him. His green eyes swept the area again, noting the two exits, the placement of cameras, and the reflection of the room on the dark window behind them.

“Good. Always position back to wall. Full view of perimeter. Now move quickly.” Winter’s voice was precise, clinical. “You expose yourself too long, librarian will grow suspicious.”

Bucky’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, stiff, awkward.

Peter slid into the chair with a sigh. “Okay, grandpa, no offense, but you type like someone who still uses a typewriter.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “And you think you can do better?”

Peter raised his brows. “Uh, yeah. I built my own web shooters at twelve. Fake identities? Easy.”

“Arrogant,” Winter cut in, voice edged with disapproval. “But efficient. Let him handle.”

Bucky gave a short nod. “Fine. You do it.”

Peter cracked his knuckles dramatically before starting to type, the rapid clicking of keys filling the silence. He muttered as he worked. “Okay…new residents of Gotham. Family unit. James Beck, age thirty-five…occupation…hm. Security consultant? That sounds boring enough to be believable.”

“Make it clean,” Bucky said quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. And Peter Beck, age sixteen, student.” He grinned faintly. “Guess I’m doomed to algebra no matter what dimension we’re in.”

Winter’s voice rumbled low in Bucky’s head. “Do not joke. File must match school records. Cross-check will expose us.”

“Right,” Bucky muttered.

Peter glanced at him sideways. “You’re not talking to me, are you?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change. “Not exactly.”

Peter’s grin softened. He was used to it, the way Bucky went quiet, eyes flicking like he was listening to someone only he could hear. It didn’t scare him anymore.

He kept typing, pulling up public records, slipping false data into open fields with an ease that would have shocked anyone watching. “Okay. Got us in the system—enough to pass for temporary. If someone looks too close, we’re toast, but…” He leaned back, stretching. “It’ll do.”

Bucky scanned the screen critically. “Good enough for now. Tomorrow, we look for a permanent place.”

“Not tomorrow. Tonight,” Winter pressed. “Every hour without shelter is risk. Find cover. Establish safe house.”

“Tonight,” Bucky echoed aloud.

Peter groaned. “Right. Because sleep is overrated.”

Across the library, Barbara pretended to scan a catalog sheet, but her eyes stayed fixed on the pair at the computers.

She’d seen the way the boy deferred to the man. The way the man never truly relaxed, always on guard. And the way both of them had that mark, the streak of white in their hair.

Her stomach twisted.

Jason had come back from the Pit with that same mark. The streak, the rage simmering under the surface, the scars no one could see. And this boy—he was barely sixteen.

Her fingers itched toward her phone again.

Iseeall: kid’s definitely got pit signs. bruise on his cheek too.
Iseeall:the man’s controlling him. they’re making fake records right now.

Deadmanshooting: I knew it. Kid’s being used.
Goldy: Careful. We don’t know the full story.
Bloodson: Tt. You’re all too sentimental. If the Pit touched him, he’s dangerous.

Coffeislife: w h a t. pit streak?? hold on im in the middle of like…12 things but im coming.
Coffeislife: wait. where are you exactly?? library? which one?
 oh no i just made coffee 6 minutes ago i cant leave.

Don’tspoil: …Tim are you okay??
Newkid: Dude. What are you even saying.
Coffeislife: im f i n e. totally functional. analyzing pit signs. the kid has them?? babs u sure??
kid is bruised. pit + bruises = bad combo. possibly unstable.

Goldy: Translation: Tim is running on no sleep again.
Deadmanshooting : He sounds worse than usual.
Don’tspoil: Worse?? He texted me “slepe iz for teh week” at 4am yesterday.
Bloodson: Hn. He’s always like this.

BigB: Focus. Kid is priority.
Coffeislife : i am focusing bruce thx. urgh.

Barbara slid the phone back into her lap and forced her expression calm as Peter got up from the computer.

He caught her eye for just a second. His hood slipped again as he tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, and she saw the streak more clearly this time—startling against his dark curls.

His eyes looked tired. Younger than his bruises suggested.

He smiled faintly, like he was trying to reassure her.

Barbara’s chest ached.

He’s not okay.

Bucky rose smoothly from the chair, tucking the new library cards into his coat pocket. His hand rested briefly on Peter’s shoulder, not hard, but steady, guiding.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ve got what we need.”

Peter gave Barbara a small nod as they passed. She returned it with a polite smile, though her thoughts screamed louder than her words:

If he’s being controlled, I won’t let it continue.

Chapter Text

The Gotham night pressed in heavy, rain pooling along the gutters as Bucky and Peter walked deeper into the Narrows.

Peter kept close to him, hood up, sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. “So. Library cards, fake IDs…what now? Motel 6? Or do we just, like, break into Wayne Tower and hope no one notices?”

Bucky gave him a sharp look. “Cash?”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “…That’s a no.”

“Then no hotels. We need somewhere abandoned. Secure. Defensible.”

“Correct,” Winter’s cold voice pressed in. “High vantage. Few entrances. Shelter tonight. No delay.”

Bucky’s green eyes scanned the street, already weighing buildings by the tilt of their roofs, the placement of their doors, the darkness of their windows.

Peter groaned. “So basically Gotham real estate hunting, but with extra murder potential. Awesome.”

“We’re being watched”Winter hissed.

High above, the Nightwing followed across the rooftops.His comm crackled softly in his ear, the city’s storm whispering behind the voices.

Barbara’s voice came first, calm but edged with tension. “Confirmed visual.”

Nightwing crouched on the ledge, gaze following the pair. “I see it. He’s keeping the kid close. Guiding him. That’s…not nothing.”

Red Hood’s voice cut in sharp. “Or it’s control. You know what the Pit does. If the kid’s already showing signs, and bruised on top of it? That screams abuse.”

Damian’s scoff carried through the channel. “Tt. Or it screams danger. If he has been touched by the Pit, he cannot be trusted.”

Barbara snapped back, sharper than usual. “He’s sixteen, Damian. Sixteen. He’s not dangerous, he’s scared.”

Nightwing’s tone softened, a peacekeeper. “Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. We’ve been wrong before.”

A rustle came through the comm—Tim’s voice, muffled like he’d just woken up inside his chair. “—hhold on—’m here—don’t hang up.”

Jason groaned. “Oh, for—he’s asleep, isn’t he? He literally fell asleep mid-call.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Tim argued immediately, words running together too fast. “I was—just thinking—deeply. With my eyes closed. Look, I’ve been watching their patterns remotely. The guy’s too sharp to be civilian. Ex-military, definitely. Maybe special ops. The kid though? His gait’s light, like he’s trained, but those bruises are fresh. He’s not the threat. He’s being dragged along.”

“Dragged,” Jason echoed flatly. “Exactly what I said. The guy’s using him.”

“Or protecting him,” Dick countered. “Depends on your read.”

Damian’s voice was cool, detached. “My read is that both are unstable. Pit-touched always are.”

Jason muttered, “Look who’s talking.”

“Enough,” Bruce’s voice finally cut in through the chanel, low and commanding. “Observation only. No contact until we know more.”

“Bruce—” Barbara started, but he cut her off.

“Oracle. You’ve done your job. They’re in the system now. We’ll track them.”

Jason’s growl buzzed in the line. “If that kid takes one more hit, I’m going after him.”

“Stand down,” Bruce ordered, firm. “We do this carefully.”

Down below, Peter tugged Bucky’s sleeve, pointing at a brownstone with shattered windows and a half-collapsed fire escape.

“That one. Looks…uh, cozy.”

Bucky studied it. Two entrances. Windows intact enough to block the weather. Roofline tall enough to watch the street.

“Acceptable,” Winter approved. “Secure perimeter tonight. Fortify tomorrow.”

Bucky gave a curt nod. “That one.”

Peter smirked faintly. “See? Even house hunting can be tactical.”

For a moment, Bucky’s hand rested on his shoulder, grounding.

From the rooftops, Dick watched, his voice soft but resolute in the comm. “…Whatever’s going on, we make sure that kid’s safe.”

Chapter Text

The Batcave thrummed with quiet energy, screens glowing pale blue against stone walls. The family had gathered, shadows scattered across railings, chairs, and steps.

Barbara’s voice broke the silence first, edged with steel. “He’s hurt. The kid’s got fresh bruises, B. And a pit streak. Sixteen years old. Don’t tell me that’s nothing.”

Jason pushed off the wall, fists clenched. “She’s right. And standing right next to him? Some ex-military guy with the same streak. Call me crazy, but that doesn’t scream ‘concerned guardian.’ That screams abuse waiting to happen.”

Damian folded his arms, chin tilting higher. “Pit influence corrupts. The boy should be considered a threat as much as the man.”

Steph rolled her eyes, sitting backwards in a chair. “Yeah, great. Let’s lock up a traumatized kid before we even talk to him. Classic Bat plan.”

“Control is not cruelty,” Damian snapped.

“Sure,” Steph shot back. “Tell that to literally anyone who’s been locked in a cell.”

Duke leaned forward on the railing. “Look, I don’t know about Pit corruption, but that kid didn’t look dangerous to me. He looked…like he’d rather disappear. Tired. Beaten down.”

Tim, slumped over the console with one eye half-open, mumbled through a fog of exhaustion. “Mmm already ran him—them—through every system. Kid’s name is Peter Beck and the man is James Beck. Maybe. Records all over the place. Birth dates are inconsistent, service files half-redacted, no current address. Either a cover or they are very, very good at burying their trails.”

Jason’s head snapped toward him. “Beck? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Tim let out a flat noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Yep. Guy’s a shadow. Big, scary shadow with military-grade instincts. Not exactly screaming ‘trustworthy uncle.’”

Dick leaned his elbows on the railing, gaze fixed on the paused footage of Bucky’s sharp stance beside Peter. “Doesn’t necessarily scream abuser either. Could be protector.”

Jason rounded on him. “Protector? You call dragging a bruised, pit-marked kid through Gotham protecting?”

Cass finally spoke, soft but firm, her hands moving in deliberate signs. Kid trusts him.

Barbara frowned. “Trust? Cass, you’re certain?”

Cass nodded once, eyes never leaving the image of Peter, hood drawn low. She tapped her chest, then pointed at the boy’s shoulder where Bucky’s hand rested in the footage. Safe-with-him.

Jason scoffed. “Safe? With Mr. ‘Fake-ID-and-Mystery-Files’? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Cass shook her head. Scared. Hurt. But safe-with-him.

Dick let out a slow breath. “…So maybe it’s not what it looks like.”

Jason snarled. “It always is what it looks like in this city.”

Alfred arrived with quiet timing, tray in hand, the scent of tea and biscuits cutting through the tension. “Might I remind you,” he said smoothly, “that whether Mr. Beck is angel or devil, the boy remains sixteen years of age. Bruises do not lie, Master Bruce. And a child in need should always be our first concern.”

Steph raised a biscuit like a toast. “Alfie for the win.”

“Thank you, Miss Brown.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed at the screen. Peter, hood up, hair streak pale in the glow of a streetlight, leaning unconsciously toward the taller man at his side. His voice was calm but grim.

“Identity unknown. Motives unknown. But they’re in Gotham. That makes them our responsibility.”

The Cave fell silent, each of them digesting the weight of it.

Tim yawned without bothering to cover it. “…So what now? Babysit? Stalk? Or do we just knock on their new creepy brownstone and ask to borrow sugar?”

“Observation,” Bruce said firmly. “We watch. We wait. And we learn the truth.”

Jason muttered, “So stalking. Got it.”

Bruce didn’t correct him.

Chapter Text

The house creaked when Bucky pushed the door open. Dust swirled like ghosts, stale air heavy from years of abandonment. He scanned the room with a soldier’s eye—windows, exits, lines of sight, structural weakness.

Winter stirred in his head, voice sharp with a Russian edge.
“Weak walls. Good kill-zones. Not safe.”

Bucky grunted, shifting his pack higher. “It doesn’t need to be perfect. Just enough to keep us dry. And off the radar.”

“Radar finds you anyway.” Winter’s tone was flat. “Always finds you.”

Peter hovered behind them, hood still pulled up despite the heat of the afternoon. “Honestly? I’ve slept in worse. At least this place has a roof.” He tugged at the frayed strap of his backpack, trying to sound upbeat.

Bucky glanced back at him, the white streak of his hair catching in the shaft of light through the broken blinds. Peter’s hood shadowed his face, but Bucky didn’t miss the faint wince when the kid shifted his shoulder.

Winter hummed in his head. “Bruised. He hides it. You ignore it.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” Bucky muttered under his breath. “Just…picking battles.”

Peter blinked up at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Go check upstairs. See if any rooms still have doors that close.”

Peter nodded and bounded up the creaky staircase, the sound echoing.

Bucky set the bag down, pulling out what little they had—first aid kit, rations, blankets. His hand brushed the fake ID cards tucked into the side pocket: James Beck and Peter Beck. Both crudely printed, both just convincing enough.

Winter scoffed. “Weak cover. Amateur.”

“Best I could do on short notice,” Bucky replied quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’ll hold long enough.”

From upstairs Peter called, “Hey! One of these rooms actually has a bedframe! And, uh…half a raccoon skeleton?”

Bucky sighed. “We’ll burn that.”

The next morning felt like stepping into enemy territory.

Peter adjusted his hoodie as he walked through the imposing doors of Gotham Prep, feeling eyes on him instantly. The school was bigger, darker, and somehow colder than Midtown had ever been.

Don’t screw this up. Blend in. Normal kid. No powers. No injuries .

He kept repeating it in his head, but his Spider-Sense buzzed anyway—not danger, just the heavy weight of observation.

Tim Drake was leaning against a locker, dark circles under his eyes, sipping coffee like it was his blood supply. He clocked Peter instantly, gaze sharp despite the sleep-deprived slouch.

Duke Thomas and Stephanie Brown flanked him—Steph whispering something with a grin, Duke pretending not to laugh. And Damian Wayne stood a few steps away, arms folded, glare sharp enough to cut.

Peter tugged his hood lower. “Great. Already the center of attention.”

“New kid,” Steph said cheerfully, intercepting him before he could dodge. “Peter, right? Welcome to Gotham Prep, land of sarcasm and sleepless geniuses.” She jerked a thumb at Tim.

Tim grunted, muttering, “Not wrong.” His eyes scanned Peter—shoulders, gait, the faint edge of a limp. He said nothing, just filed it away.

Duke offered a small smile. “If you need help finding classes, I can show you around.”

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, clutching his bag strap.

Damian cut in like a blade. “You reek of deception.”

Peter blinked. “Uh…sorry?”

Steph smacked Damian’s arm. “Ignore him. He says that about everyone.”

“I do not,” Damian snapped. His green eyes narrowed. “Only those who earn suspicion.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, Spider-Sense flaring again. He forced a smile. “Well…good to know I’m making friends already.”

Tim finally spoke, voice dry. “Friends isn’t the word. But you’re interesting.” He took another sip of coffee. “And around here? That’s never a good thing.”

Peter swallowed hard.

For the first time since stepping through the doors, he missed the Avengers so much that it hurt.

Chapter Text

Peter hated school days. He hated them even more when they started in a brand-new building, in a brand-new city, with an alias that barely existed outside of a forged file.

“Peter Beck?” the teacher called, scanning the roll.

“Here,” Peter mumbled, tugging at his hoodie sleeve so it covered the bruise at his wrist. The bruise had bloomed dark purple after last night’s sparring session with Bucky—Winter had pushed too hard, and Peter hadn’t dodged fast enough.

Now, sitting in a sunlit classroom with the weight of thirty curious eyes on him, it felt like every mark screamed trouble.

He kept his head down, slouched in the back. His streak of white hair caught the morning light, and he yanked his hood further forward. Gotham kids were sharp; he couldn’t risk questions.

“Where’d you transfer from?” a boy two seats over asked during break.

“Queens,” Peter said quickly. “New York.”

For the rest of the day, he stayed quiet, keeping to himself, scribbling in the margins of his notebook whenever teachers droned on. He was good at math, decent at science, terrible at making friends.

When the final bell rang, he bolted for the door, slipping into the Gotham dusk where Bucky waited by the gate.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, green eyes scanning him from beneath the shadow of his hood.

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Totally fine. No one tried to kill me in gym class, so, you know… good day.”

Bucky smirked faintly, but Winter stirred in the back of his head. “Too exposed. School is liability. Enemy can use boy’s weakness.”

He needs school, Bucky snapped internally. He needs normal.

Winter only hummed, disapproving.

The city transformed after dark.

Peter pulled on his mask, the one he’d sewn together himself: rough, black fabric with dark red lenses. Crude but functional. He flexed his fingers, testing the web shooters hidden under his jacket.

Bucky wore a hooded jacket reinforced with Kevlar plates, the lower half of his face covered by a tactical mask. The metal arm glinted whenever it caught a stray neon light, every movement smooth and lethal. Knives lined his belt; a handgun rested snug against his hip.

They ran across rooftops together, Peter swinging ahead with webs, Bucky moving like a predator at his flank.

“Feels weird,” Peter admitted, landing beside him on a ledge. “New city, new rules.”

“Same rules,” Bucky said gruffly. “Bad men come out at night. We stop them.”

Winter’s voice pressed in, colder. “No. We eliminate. Gotham bleeds. Only ruthless survive.”

The shift came sudden. Bucky’s body language sharpened, stiffened. His steps became exact, almost mechanical. When he unsheathed a knife with silent precision, Peter’s chest tightened.

“Uh… Buck?”

Winter’s voice answered instead, laced with a thick Russian edge. “Stay behind. I clear.”

He dropped from the rooftop without hesitation, metal arm slamming into a mugger’s gun before it could fire. The man crumpled with a strangled cry. Winter’s knife flashed in the streetlight, pinning another thug’s jacket to a brick wall before the man could flee.

Peter swung down fast, shooting a web that yanked the knife away before it could do worse damage. “We don’t kill!” he hissed.

Winter’s head snapped toward him, green eyes glowing with something feral. For a heartbeat, Peter thought he’d lost Bucky completely.

Then the Soldier sheathed the blade. “Fine. Non-lethal. This time.”

The thugs groaned on the ground, webbed and bruised but alive. Winter melted back into the shadows, scanning for threats with a hunter’s patience.

Peter exhaled shakily, adrenaline buzzing. “Yeah. Totally normal patrol. Nothing terrifying about you at all.”

By morning, whispers were already spreading.

Two new vigilantes.
One with a metal arm.
One masked and agile as hell.

Oracle’s system flagged the chatter, dumping it into the Batcomputer’s feed.

“New players,” Bruce said quietly, standing over the console. “Gotham just got more complicated.”

Chapter Text

Two figures.
One tall, hooded, and armed. His left arm gleamed like steel.
The other—smaller, fast, moving like a shadow or an assassin.

“Two new players,” Barbara’s voice came from the console speakers. Her tone was brisk, but underneath it carried tension. “Word’s already circulating online. People are calling them ‘the Ghost with the Arm’ and ‘the Spider.’”

Tim leaned against the desk, pale and jittery, dark circles etched under his eyes. “Spider? That’s… wow, Gotham’s naming sense is trash. Also—” He stifled a yawn, waving vaguely at the footage. “That movement pattern? The kid’s not just some amateur with weird grappling hooks. That’s muscle memory. Years of training.”

“Or years of circus,” Dick muttered. He leaned on the railing above, arms crossed. “But the arm guy… that’s definitely military. You can tell by the stance. Everything about him screams black ops.”

“Correction,” Jason said flatly from where he sat cleaning his gun. “Everything about him screams problem. Military hardware arm, custom knives, carrying live rounds in Gotham? That’s not a costume vigilante. That’s an operator.”

Damian snorted. “Tt. If they were professionals, they would not have allowed themselves to be seen so easily.”

Steph flopped into a chair beside Tim, chin in her hands. “Okay, but assassin, spider kid with mystery-warrior? This has sitcom written all over it. Or like… Gotham’s worst buddy cop movie.”

Duke tilted his head at the screen, frowning. “Look at the guys hair. White streak. That’s not normal that could be Lazarus Pit.”

The room went still.

Alfred, polishing a glass at the nearby workstation, raised an eyebrow. “I hardly think it is coincidence, Master Bruce, that two Pit-marked strangers arrive in Gotham with forged documents at the same time as two new Vigilantes .”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They’re hiding. Forged records, new names.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah, because the kind of people with cybernetic arms and assassin knives don’t exactly file taxes.”

“Don’t underestimate the boy,” Barbara said, interrupting. “He’s young but he’s probably a meta. And the way the older one hovers near him… it could be control. Or protection. We don’t know which.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “So, child soldier. Wonderful. Just what Gotham needs.”

“Careful,” Dick warned quietly, shooting him a look. “He might not be in it by choice.”

Bruce said nothing for a long moment. His gaze stayed on the still frame: the hooded man mid-strike, metal arm extended, the teen swinging in behind him.

Finally, he spoke.

“We watch. No contact until we understand who they are. If they’re threats—we stop them. If not…” He let the sentence hang.

Alfred’s voice cut in smoothly, but with weight. “If not, then perhaps Gotham has gained two more lost souls who need a hand extended, rather than a fist.”

No one argued, but the silence that followed was heavy.

Because deep down, every one of them knew: in Gotham, hands extended often came back bloody.

Chapter Text

Peter had never hated mornings as much as he did in Gotham.
The city felt heavier than New York. The air carried something bitter—like smoke and old blood that even the sun couldn’t burn away.

He kept his hood up as he walked into Gotham Prep, eyes down, backpack slung over his shoulder. His hoodie sleeves were tugged over his wrists to hide fading bruises, and he shifted the strap so it pressed less on his sore shoulder.

“Beck, right?”
The voice snapped him out of thought. A  kid—smiling, easygoing—fell into step beside him.
“Duke Thomas,” he introduced himself. “You’re the transfer.”

Peter managed a small smile. “Yeah. New kid. Again.”

“Don’t worry,” Duke grinned. “This place is… survivable. You just gotta learn who not to piss off.”

“Sounds like Gotham in a nutshell,” Peter muttered.

The day went about as well as Peter could hope. He slipped through classes quietly, keeping his head down. A couple of kids eyed the white streak in his hair when his hood slipped, but he brushed it off as “genetics.” He wasn’t sure they bought it.

Lunch was worse. Bruises peeked when he reached for his tray. Stephanie Brown—all sunshine with hidden knives—spotted it instantly. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. She and Duke exchanged a look he didn’t catch.

By last bell, Peter was exhausted. Every smile he forced felt paper-thin. He hated hiding. He hated lying. But what else could he do?

They can’t know, he told himself. Not about me. Not about Bucky.

Night was easier.
Night was honest.

Peter crouched on a rooftop, mask pulled low, lenses glowing faint white. Below, Gotham’s streets pulsed with life—the kind that chewed people up.

Beside him, the hooded figure loomed. Metal gleamed faintly from under the cloak where his left arm shifted, knuckles scarred steel.

“Target, east corner,” Winter’s voice rumbled inside Bucky’s head. “Two armed. Smuggling exchange. Eliminate fast.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. No killing.

“Disable. Same result. Don’t be weak.”

Peter shot a webline and swung down first, landing between two startled men. He moved fast—fists, webs, disarming before they could blink. Behind him, Bucky Winter  dropped down. Knives flicked from hidden sheaths in his metal arm. Guns glinted under the cloak, though he didn’t draw them yet.

The fight ended in less than a minute. Criminals groaning, bound, weapons scattered.

Peter straightened, panting lightly. “That… went better than I thought.”

Winter’s growl slipped out of Bucky’s mouth before he could stop it. “Sloppy. Could have been faster.” His voice was rougher now and heavy accented.

Peter looked at him sideways, worried. He knew what that tone meant. Winter was rising.

High above, unseen in the dark, the Batfamily watched.

Dick’s binoculars caught every movement. “That kid… he’s good. Way too good for a teenager.”

Jason muttered into comms, “And Hood-Guy just pulled blades out of his arm. That’s not cosplay.”

“Guns, too,” Tim said, voice tired but sharp. “Military issue.And his stance… it’s not Gotham-born.”

Damian scowled. “They’re reckless. This city doesn’t need outsiders running unchecked.”

Barbara’s voice crackled in. “Careful. Watch, don’t engage. Remember the streaks. Pit signs.”

On the rooftop below, Winter’s green eyes scanned the shadows, head tilting. For a second, Peter thought he saw him sniff the air, like a wolf catching a scent.

Peter shivered.
“Bucky?” he whispered.

But the man beside him wasn’t Bucky anymore.

Chapter Text

The change was terrifying not because it was sudden, but because it was familiar. Peter had seen it before. He knew the exact moment when Bucky’s warmth drained out of his voice, when the soldier in him slipped into the driver’s seat and shut everything else away.

“Assessment,” Winter muttered, voice low, clipped, thick with Russian weight. “Shadows. Observers.” His metal fingers flexed around the hilt of a blade that slid free from his wrist like it had always been a part of his arm. “Do we strike?”

Peter’s throat tightened. No, no, no—don’t do this, not here, not now.
“Bucky, it’s me.” He edged closer, hands half-raised like he was talking to a cornered animal. “It’s Peter. You don’t need to… whatever you’re thinking, you don’t need to do it.”

Winter’s head snapped toward him so sharply Peter flinched.
Those green eyes glowed faintly, something pit-born, unnatural. They didn’t see him—they saw variables. Threats. Weaknesses.

“You are compromised,” Winter said flatly. “Your movements—hesitant. Emotional attachment interferes with efficiency.”

Peter’s heart cracked a little at that. “You sound like—like them,” he whispered, hating the wobble in his voice. “You promised me you weren’t going to sound like them anymore.”

The knife gleamed faintly under Gotham’s moonlight. Winter didn’t move closer, but he didn’t sheath it either.

Up above, the Batfamily crouched low, the comm line buzzing softly in their ears.

“Jesus,” Jason breathed, barely audible. “The kid’s—he’s begging. That’s not an act.”

Dick’s breath caught. “That wasn’t the same man as before.”

Jason muttered, “Yeah, I’ve seen enough split-personality cases to recognize one. That wasn’t a mood swing. That was a switch.”

Tim rubbed at his eyes, exhaustion sharpening his words. “He’s not just trying to calm him down. He’s fighting for him. That’s a relationship—whatever this is, it’s not one-sided.”

On the rooftop, Peter took one trembling breath and stepped closer. “Please. Don’t leave me with him. Don’t leave me with Winter. I need you, Bucky. Just you.”

For a moment, something flickered in those too-bright green eyes. A twitch in the soldier’s jaw. A pause in the way his blade hand shifted.

And Peter’s heart leapt at the faintest spark of recognition.

“B—” he started.

But then Winter turned away, cloak sweeping in the cold air, voice hard again.
“Mission continues.”

Peter stood frozen, fists trembling, watching the man who was his father-figure vanish deeper into the night—while the one he feared walked beside him.

And high above, the Batfamily stayed silent, the weight of what they’d just witnessed pressing heavy on all of them.

Chapter Text

Winter moved across the rooftops like smoke, every step silent, calculated. Peter trailed after him, webs tugging him forward, heart still hammering from the switch. He hated when it happened in the middle of patrol. He hated how quickly he could lose Bucky.

“Mission continues,” Winter repeated, voice like iron, head never turning back.

Peter clenched his fists. “I’m not your mission,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if Winter even heard him. Or cared.

They leapt a gap between buildings. Peter landed lightly, but Winter hit the gravel with the heavy certainty of a weapon. His green eyes scanned the street below, every flicker of movement drawing that hawk-like attention. He crouched, metal fingers twitching near his blade.

Peter eased closer. “There’s no one left to fight, you know. We did the job. They’re down, cops will find them… it’s done.”

Winter’s head tilted, listening. “You trust law enforcement to finish what you began?”

Peter bit his lip. He hated that Winter always had a point. “I trust you,” he whispered, voice catching. “At least—I trust Bucky. He’d never just… walk away from me like this.”

The knife in Winter’s hand stilled. He didn’t sheath it, but he didn’t raise it either. Slowly, his head turned toward Peter, the glow in his eyes dimming by a fraction.

“You are… attached,” Winter said at last, as though testing the words.

Peter swallowed hard. “Of course I am. You’re my family.” His voice cracked. “You’re all I have.”

For a long, tense moment, the rooftop was quiet. The soldier studied him the way one might study a fragile piece of machinery, something breakable but vital to the mission.

Then—barely, almost imperceptibly—Winter’s shoulders lowered. His knife clicked back into its sheath.

Peter’s breath rushed out in a shaky sigh. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare hope too much. But then Winter spoke again, voice still grating, still weighted with that Russian edge… yet softer.

“You are… not mission,” he said, halting, uncertain. His gaze lingered on Peter. “You are… priority.”

Winter looked down at him. Not through him. At him.

“You are shaking,” he said, voice still heavy with that Russian edge but quieter now. “Temperature is low. You need insulation.”

Peter blinked. His mouth went dry. It wasn’t Bucky’s voice—it was Winter’s—but there was something in it. Something… concerned.

“I’m fine,” Peter lied, tugging his hoodie tighter, trying to swallow down the panic clawing at his chest.

Winter tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he could see through the words. “You lie poorly.”

Peter’s throat worked. “…Bucky knows that too.”

The soldier’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he scanned the rooftops, then adjusted his cloak until it hung slightly over Peter’s shoulder, shielding him from the worst of the wind.

It was such a small gesture, almost clumsy. But it was human.

Peter’s eyes stung. “You’re still in there,” he whispered.

Winter said nothing. He didn’t confirm, didn’t deny. He only started walking again, every movement sharp and controlled, his metal arm gleaming faint in the city lights. But he didn’t walk ahead this time. He walked beside Peter, matching his steps.

Up above, the Batfamily tracked the strange shift in silence.

Jason muttered first, voice rough. “Did he just—did he cover the kid with his cloak?”

“Affirmative,” Damian said reluctantly, though his tone dripped with suspicion. “The soldier displays protective instincts. That does not make him safe.”

“Still,” Barbara said, softer, “it means something. He’s not all gone.”

Nightwing’s gaze lingered on the boy below, head ducked beneath his hood. “Yeah,” he murmured. “And that kid’s hanging on to that ‘something’ like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.”

“Thanks, Buck. I’ll take what I can get.”

And Winter—still Winter—gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, before vanishing into the night with Peter at his side.

Chapter Text

Movement across rooftops required precision. Weight distribution. Angles of approach. Variables accounted for. Winter moved as he had been trained—silence, certainty, control.

The boy followed. Sloppy at times. Too much sound in his landing, too much air in his lungs. But fast. Adaptable.

Asset.
Not liability. Yet

“Mission continues,” Winter stated. Fact. He didn’t look back. Looking back was a waste of energy.

Behind him, the boy’s voice wavered. “I’m not your mission.” Too soft, Too uncertain. Unreliable.

They crossed a gap. Winter landed with force calculated to anchor his body instantly, gravel crunching beneath boots. He crouched low, scanning. Metal fingers twitched near the blade on instinct. Always ready. Always efficient.

The boy came closer, words filling the air. “There’s no one left to fight, you know. We did the job. They’re down, cops will find them… it’s done.”

Naïve. Winter tilted his head, listening past the boy’s voice to the hum of the city below. “You trust law enforcement to finish what you began?”

Silence, hesitation. The boy bit his lip, heartbeat spiking. “I trust you,” he whispered. “At least—I trust Bucky.”

That name.
That name fractured the rhythm. The knife stilled in Winter’s grip. Not sheathed. Not raised. Just still.

The boy’s pulse jumped again, then broke into something jagged. “ You’re my family. You’re all I have in this world .”

Winter studied him. Analysis of stance. Breath pattern. Microtremors. Fragile, but… not useless. Fragile, but vital.

The knife clicked back into its sheath.
The boy exhaled shakily. His system relaxed, but not fully. Still wary. Still braced for violence.

“You are… not mission,” Winter said. Words foreign on his tongue, forced through static. “You are… priority.”

The boy’s eyes widened. Salt gathered in the corners. A reaction. Emotional. Attachment.

Winter did not look away. He measured his voice, let it cut cleaner, quieter. “You are shaking. Temperature is low. You need insulation.”

Denial. The boy tugged his hood tighter, voice sharp with panic. “I’m fine.”
Lie. Winter tilted his head, reading the truth in trembling hands, constricted pupils. “You lie poorly.”

A pause. Then a whisper, fragile as glass: “…Bucky knows that too.”

The name again. Winter’s jaw tightened, metal grinding faint in the night air. But instead of correction, instead of retribution, his hands adjusted the cloak at his back, shifting fabric until it fell over the boy’s shoulder. Small. Inefficient. But necessary.

The boy stilled, eyes burning. Winter ignored it. Scanned the rooftops again. Threats remained unseen, but not absent. Always observed. Always hunted.

He started walking. Movements sharp, controlled . But this time, not ahead.
Beside. Step for step.

The boy’s pulse eased into rhythm with his own.

Above, in the shadows, observers whispered. Identified movements. Misinterpreted intentions. Unimportant. They would analyze, they would judge. Let them.

Winter walked with the boy. Mission altered.
Protection. Priority.

Not alone.

They moved on.

Winter’s senses stretched across the streets. He heard the scuff of boots four rooftops away. Saw the glint of a weapon beneath a coat. He moved like a shadow, the soldier always in control, scanning, calculating.

The boy followed. Slower. Breath hitching. But when Winter drew his sidearm in one smooth motion, the boy was there—webbing a thug’s gun away, moving faster than thought. Covering his flank. Protecting him.

Like he trusted him.
Like he wasn’t afraid.

It made no sense. The soldier should have resented it. But instead, the mission adjusted. Adapted.

Protect the boy.
Not as weakness. As asset. As… priority.

Winter fired once, clean to the leg. Knife to the shoulder. The gang collapsed before they had time to scream. The boy flinched at the brutality but didn’t stop him. He’d seen this before. He accepted it.

When it was done, the soldier scanned the rooftops. Observers again. Hidden. Watching. He let them. He could feel their eyes. Gotham had defenders. Vigilantes.Heroes? Shadows watching shadows.

He should have hunted them down. Neutralized them.

But the boy was trembling. His hood pulled low, streak barely hidden. His hands shook when he thought Winter wasn’t looking.

“Safe,” Winter muttered at last, the word torn from him. Not part of any mission. Not in any programming. Just a word.

The boy looked up at him, eyes wide, and whispered, “Thanks, Buck.”

Winter didn’t correct him. Didn’t say the soldier’s name. Didn’t admit that for a moment—just a moment—the man inside wanted to answer.

They vanished into the night, leaving the Batfamily in stunned silence above.

Chapter Text

The rooftops stretched on. The city quieted as the hours bled away. No more targets. No more threats. Only silence, wind, and the steady rhythm of footsteps—his and the boy’s.

Priority.
Not mission.
Priority.

Winter slowed when he realized the boy was flagging. Lungs overworked, shoulders slumping beneath his hoodie. Too many micro-tremors in his muscles. Too much strain.

“Hydration levels—low,” Winter muttered. It wasn’t a question.

Peter huffed. “Yeah, well, kinda hard to carry a water bottle when you’re swinging across Gotham rooftops.”

Illogical. Improper preparation. Winter cataloged it as weakness… but his hand still reached into the pouch at his belt, producing a small flask. He didn’t remember stowing it—Bucky must have.

He offered it. “Drink.”

Peter blinked, wide-eyed, like Winter had handed him a grenade instead of water. “…Thanks,” he whispered, voice soft, reverent. He drank greedily, then tried to hand it back.

Winter shook his head. “Keep. You need.”

The boy froze. His eyes went glassy for half a second before he tucked the flask close, like it was worth more than steel.

They reached the last rooftop before home. The boy sank onto the ledge, drawing his knees up, breathing uneven. Winter stayed standing, scanning the skyline. Always scanning. Always ready.

But his cloak tugged again—shifted. He glanced down. The boy was leaning against his side, half-hidden beneath it. Small. Warm. Alive.

Winter did not move. Did not push him away. His metal hand twitched, uncertain, before settling—not on a weapon, not on a blade—but on the ledge behind the boy, anchoring him there.

“Safe,” Winter said at last, voice rough, breaking like old static.

Peter’s reply was muffled against his arm. “…Yeah. Because of you.”

Silence stretched. The boy’s breathing evened out, softer, calmer, like the fight had drained out of him. Like he trusted.

Winter’s green eyes lingered on him, searching for the weakness in that trust. The flaw. The crack.

There was none.

He did not understand it. He only knew that the boy’s weight against him did not feel like liability. It felt like… tether.

Priority.

For the first time that night, Winter’s shoulders eased. Just slightly.

When they rose to leave, he matched his steps again. Not ahead.
Beside.

Always beside.

Their safe house came into view—an abandoned two-story with boarded windows, the kind of place no one looked at twice. Winter checked the perimeter before they dropped inside through a second-story window.

The boy stumbled when his feet hit the floor. Winter’s hand shot out, metal fingers catching his arm. The boy’s hoodie sleeve crumpled under the grip. Too tight.

Peter winced.

Winter froze. Slowly, carefully, he eased his hold, letting go like he’d just realized he could break the boy without trying.

“…Sorry,” Peter whispered, rubbing his wrist.

Not his fault. Not boy’s fault. Fault… his.

The metal hand flexed once, twice. The world tilted—edges going soft, sharp all at once. Winter’s green eyes flickered, pupils narrowing. The mission pressed against his skull, commands like ghosts, static in his veins.

Then—
A voice. Familiar. Warm. Stronger than the static.

I’ve got it from here, pal.

Winter blinked—no, Bucky blinked—swaying on his feet as if stepping back into his own body. His shoulders sagged. His breath came heavy, uneven, human again.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Bucky?”

The steel edge in his chest cracked. He smiled—tired, worn, but real. “Yeah, kid. It’s me.”

Peter practically threw himself forward, arms wrapping around Bucky’s middle. “Don’t do that to me again,” he mumbled into his chest, voice muffled but shaking.

Bucky’s human hand came up slow, threading into the boy’s hair, feeling the faint streak of white. He pulled him in tighter. His other arm—the metal one—hovered awkwardly at first, then settled across Peter’s back, firm but careful.

“I’ll try,” Bucky said softly, voice rough with guilt. “I’ll try, kid.”

Peter nodded against him. “That’s all I need.”

They stayed like that in the dusty room, silent but steady. Two soldiers. One still fighting wars in his head. The other just a kid trying to hold his family together.

Bucky closed his eyes, holding on like he might lose him otherwise.

“C’mon,” he murmured at last, pressing a gentle hand between Peter’s shoulders. “Let’s get some rest. You have school tomorrow.”

For once, it sounded almost normal. Almost safe.

And Peter followed, still tucked close, because if Bucky was here—really here—then maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The house creaked in the morning chill, the kind of sound that came from a place left alone too long. Dust filtered through shafts of light leaking past broken blinds. The place smelled faintly of rust and old wood, but to Peter, curled on the sagging couch under a patched blanket, it was better than any hotel bed. It felt safe because Bucky was there.

The sound of metal scraping against a pan woke him.

Peter blinked, groggy, pushing his hood down. His hand flew instinctively to the streak in his hair, smoothing it back as if hiding it might erase it. He stumbled toward the makeshift kitchen area—really just a corner with an old hot plate Bucky had salvaged.

“You’re up early,” Peter mumbled, yawning wide.

Bucky was standing there in a dark henley, hair tied back, metal arm catching the dull light of dawn. He was stirring eggs in a battered pan, one boot braced against the counter.

“Soldier’s habit,” Bucky said, voice gravel but softer than last night. He didn’t look up. “You’ve got school.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “Still feels weird hearing that. Like, we’re hiding from half the world and your first priority is… algebra.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “Kid needs normal. And discipline.”

Peter groaned. “That sounded way too much like Winter. Tell me you didn’t let him pick the breakfast menu.”

Bucky actually huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head. He slid the eggs onto a chipped plate, pushing it toward Peter. “Eat. You’re scrawny enough.”

Peter plopped onto the crate they were using as a chair. “Wow. Thanks, Dad.”

The title slipped out, casual, unthinking. Bucky froze, spatula halfway to the sink.

Peter’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean—”

But Bucky just exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. He set the spatula down and sat across from him. “You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “Not sure I deserve it. But… you’re not wrong.”

Peter swallowed hard, biting back a smile as he shoved eggs into his mouth.

For the first time in a long time, breakfast almost felt like home.

By the time Peter made it to Gotham Prep, his nerves had caught up with him. He tugged his hoodie tighter, hood half up, streak hidden. He blended with the throng of students moving through the iron gates, clutching his forged documents—papers that read Peter Beck.

His stomach churned as he stepped inside.

The halls were sharp with disinfectant and chatter, lockers slamming shut all around.

“New kid,” someone whispered as he passed.

Peter ducked his head. Great. Exactly what he didn’t want—attention.

 English

He slid into a seat at the back. The teacher droned on about Gotham poets, but Peter’s attention was already split between the notebook in front of him and the faint buzz of his Stark-made phone hidden in his bag. He scribbled formulas in the margins instead of notes, web fluid calculations disguised as doodles.

When the teacher called on him—“Mr. Beck?”—Peter froze, before fumbling out an answer that made half the class snicker.

His ears burned.

History

Peter found himself sitting next ti Stephanie.She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing playfully.

Across the room, Tim Drake was hunched over his desk, dark circles carved under his eyes. He squinted at Peter like he was trying to solve an equation.

Peter felt the stare and shifted uncomfortably.

Tim jotted something into his notebook.

Peter sat alone at the edge of the cafeteria, tray untouched. The room was loud, kids laughing in clusters, trading gossip about last night’s news—something about two new vigilantes spotted on rooftops. Peter’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

He forced himself to eat, ignoring the pit in his stomach.

From across the room, Duke Thomas noticed the bruises peeking at Peter’s wrist when his sleeve slipped. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

 Science Lab

The one place Peter actually felt at ease. He leaned over the beaker setup, scribbling notes furiously, the equations in his head spilling faster than he could contain them.

The teacher looked impressed. “You’ve got a knack for this, Mr. Beck.”

Peter flushed, ducking his head. “Guess so.”

From the back, Cassandra Cain tilted her head, studying him silently. She noticed the way his hands moved, the way his posture curled in on itself like someone always expecting a fight. She didn’t say a word—but she filed it away.

Peter trudged home, hoodie back up, backpack slung over one shoulder. Gotham pressed down heavy around him—sirens wailing, shadows swallowing the streets.

Bucky was waiting on the roof of their safe house, cloak drawn tight, green eyes watching the city.

“How was it?” he asked.

Peter dropped his bag, slumping onto the ledge. “…Weird.”

“Good weird?”

“…Kinda.”

Bucky nodded. He didn’t push. Instead, he handed Peter a granola bar.

Peter smirked faintly. “Wow. Soldier dad strikes again.”

Bucky shook his head, almost smiling. “Eat. Patrol’s later.”

And as night crept over Gotham, the boy and the soldier sat side by side, the weight of their secrets pressing against the skyline.

Chapter Text

Peter shoved the door open with his foot, dropping his backpack with a groan. “School is exhausting. I don’t know how normal kids do it every day.”

Bucky, sitting at the wobbly table sharpening one of his knives, arched a brow. “You are a normal kid. Or at least, you’re supposed to be.”

Peter flopped onto the couch, limbs sprawled dramatically. “Please. Normal kids don’t have algebra tests the same week they’re fighting crime lords and dodging rooftop snipers. My life is like… if Ferris Bueller got dropped into The Godfather.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “Half those references go over my head, you know.”

“Half the time you pretend they do.” Peter cracked a grin, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. “But it’s okay. I kinda like teaching you stuff. Makes me feel smart.”

Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “Kid, you are smart. Too smart for your own good sometimes.” His voice softened. “But you did good today. Survived school. That’s harder than a firefight, trust me.”

Peter’s chest warmed at the praise. He ducked his head, hiding his smile.

The quiet hum of the city pressed against the walls. Peter was halfway through reworking a web-shooter design on his notebook when he noticed Bucky’s movements had gone… sharp. Too precise. The way he cleaned his gun was clipped, rhythmic. His shoulders squared. His green eyes flickered harder under the dim light.

Peter’s stomach tightened.

“Bucky?” he asked softly.

No answer. Just the click of metal against metal.

Peter slid off the couch, padding over carefully. “Hey. You with me?”

Winter’s head tilted, that wolfish edge creeping into his posture. “Mission parameters?”

Peter’s throat went dry. He hated when it happened suddenly, when Bucky was just gone. But he swallowed his fear and stood straighter.

“No mission,” Peter whispered. “Just me.”

Winter’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and cutting. For a long moment, Peter thought he’d lost him completely. But then—something shifted. His metal hand twitched. His jaw tightened.

“You are… not mission,” Winter rasped, words halting, rough.

Peter’s breath hitched. He stepped closer, carefully, like approaching a skittish animal. “…No. I’m not your mission. I’m your family.”

Winter blinked slowly. The knife in his hand stilled. His shoulders eased, just slightly.

“You… are priority,” he said at last.

Peter’s eyes burned. Relief rushed through him so fast it almost hurt. He edged closer until he was right beside Winter, tugging lightly on his sleeve. “…Then sit with me? Just for a while?”

Winter didn’t move at first. Then, almost awkwardly, he lowered himself beside Peter on the couch. His metal arm lay stiff between them until Peter, without hesitation, leaned against it.

The soldier went rigid. But when Peter didn’t pull away, when he just curled against the cold steel with a quiet sigh, Winter exhaled slowly. His hand flexed once… then rested lightly on Peter’s shoulder, the gentlest weight.

It wasn’t Bucky. But it wasn’t the weapon either.

Peter closed his eyes, whispering into the quiet: “You’re both still here. I know you are.”

Winter said nothing. But he didn’t leave. He sat there, steady, cloak slipping around them both.

And when Peter drifted off, cheek pressed against that unyielding arm, Winter stayed perfectly still. Guarding. Watching. Protecting.

When Peter stirred hours later, the knife and gun were gone, and he was tucked under a blanket .

Bucky’s voice, soft and low, rumbled above him. “You really can sleep anywhere, huh?”

Peter cracked an exhausted smile, not opening his eyes. “Only if you’re here.”

Bucky froze, throat tight, but his hand found the back of Peter’s hoodie and held on.

For the first time in a long time, the house felt like it belonged to both of them.

Chapter Text

Peter rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he shuffled into the kitchen. Bucky was already there, frying eggs with one hand and pouring coffee with the other, wearing that ratty gray hoodie pulled up to hide most of his face.

“You look like death warmed over,” Bucky muttered, sliding a plate in front of Peter.

“Good morning to you too, Dad,” Peter mumbled, voice muffled by a yawn. He dug into the eggs anyway, exhaustion losing to hunger.

Bucky smirked faintly. “You called me worse last week.”

“That’s because you made me run sprints at six a.m.”

“You lived.”

Peter groaned into his fork, then stood, tugging his hoodie over his head. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

“Library card’s still in your bag?” Bucky asked.

“Yup.” Peter patted his backpack. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the computer access today. You’ll have all the info you want.”

Bucky’s expression flickered, something sharper passing over his eyes—Winter, maybe, watching from behind. But he only nodded once. “Good.”

Peter didn’t let himself shiver. He grabbed his bag, muttered, “See you later,” and jogged out the door toward Gotham Prep.

The bell rang, and Peter slid into his seat in the back row, hoodie still pulled up. He prayed no one noticed the faint silver streak peeking through at the edge of his hairline.

Tim Drake did. Of course he did.

“New streak?” Tim asked from two desks away, voice casual but eyes razor-sharp despite the heavy bags beneath them.

Peter coughed into his notebook. “Bleach accident. Don’t judge.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “At the base of the scalp? While leaving the rest untouched?”

“Yep,” Peter said quickly. “I’m very precise.”

Tim hummed, jotting something in his notebook. Peter didn’t like the look of that hum.

Duke was already on the court, bouncing a basketball effortlessly. “Hey, new kid!” he called as Peter shuffled in. “You play?”

Peter hesitated. “Uh, sometimes. Not like… good, though.”

Duke grinned. “Good. You’re on my team.”

Peter sighed, tugging on the scratchy gym shirt. Half the period passed with him pretending not to be ridiculously better than anyone else at throwing, running, and catching rebounds. He slipped up once, catching a ball mid-air with a reflex that was too quick.

Duke narrowed his eyes. “That was… something.”

Peter forced a laugh. “Spider reflexes.”

“Spider—what?”

“Uh—hyper reflexes. You know. Just good coordination.”

Duke smirked. “Sure, Beck. Sure.”

Peter carried his tray to the usual table, where Steph was waving him over like he was a lost puppy. Cass sat quietly beside her, gaze sharp as always.

“Sit. Spill,” Steph demanded, grinning. “You’ve been all hoodie and gloom since you got here. What’s your deal? Secret emo band? Haunted by the ghost of your ex? Terrible haircut under that hood?”

Peter blinked. “…Yes.”

Steph nearly choked on her soda. “Wait—which one?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then laughed so loud half the cafeteria turned to look. “Oh, I like you.”

Cass tilted her head, studying Peter with those too-quiet, too-perceptive eyes. She didn’t say anything—just tapped two fingers to her temple, then pointed lightly at him, like she knew. Like she saw right through him.

Peter fumbled with his sandwich.

Tim had migrated closer somehow, sitting in the desk right behind Peter. He leaned forward, voice low.

“You’re hiding something.”

Peter stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Tim tapped his pencil, the sound steady despite his exhaustion. “You don’t walk like a kid. You walk like someone who’s… trained. Assassin , maybe. Or worse.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. He forced a laugh, shaky. “You really think I could keep up with them? Look at me, I’m scrawny.”

“Exactly,” Tim said softly. “And yet you don’t move like it.”

Peter swallowed, pretending to scribble notes.

When the final bell rang, Peter all but bolted for the exit. His hoodie was pulled low, his streak hidden, his nerves buzzing.

Duke called after him, “Hey, see you tomorrow!”

Steph shouted, “Bring your tragic backstory next time!”

Cass just raised her hand in a silent wave, eyes still following him.

Tim? Tim stayed quiet, but Peter could feel his gaze on his back, dissecting, cataloguing.

Peter tugged his hood tighter and hurried home.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open, and Peter stumbled inside, backpack sliding off his shoulders like dead weight. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair mussed, and his sneakers squeaked faintly against the old floorboards.

Bucky was waiting.

Not in the “sitting casually on the couch” sense—he was standing near the window, one hand resting on the sill, metal fingers glinting faintly in the dying light. His hood was up, shadows hugging his jaw. It was a pose that screamed Winter.

Peter froze in the doorway, pulse stuttering.

But then Bucky’s eyes softened. Green, not cold. Watching him—not assessing, not sizing up, just… watching.

“You’re late,” Bucky said, voice low but not sharp.

Peter kicked his shoes off and shrugged. “Got in trouble. For, uh… existing.”

Bucky’s brow arched. “That a rule here?”

“Gotham” Peter shrugged , dragging himself toward the couch. He flopped onto it with a groan, burying his face in a pillow. “I hate school.”

The floor creaked as Bucky crossed the room. A moment later, the couch dipped under his weight.

“Tell me,” he said simply.

Peter peeked at him through messy hair. “…You wanna hear about me failing at Basketball and Steph asking if I was haunted by my ex?”

“Yes,” Bucky said with absolute seriousness.

Peter snorted despite himself. “Okay, so—Duke thinks I’ve got freaky reflexes. Tim’s basically Sherlock Holmes with dark circles, I swear he’s onto me. Steph is insane. And Cass? Cass doesn’t even talk, but I swear she looked straight into my soul and filed it under ‘suspicious.’”

“Mm.” Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “You hold up?”

Peter shrugged. “Barely. I didn’t… slip. Too much.”

Something flickered in Bucky’s face. His jaw tightened, and when he looked back at Peter, the softness was edged with steel.

Winter.

Peter sat up straighter, chest tightening. “Bucky?”

The air in the room shifted. His posture, his breathing—everything sharpened. The hand on his knee twitched toward a knife that wasn’t there.

“Compromised,” Winter said under his breath, scanning the room like he expected threats in the walls. “They see. They know.”

“Hey—hey, no.” Peter scrambled forward, catching his wrist. The metal was cold under his fingers. “They don’t know. They just… they just think I’m weird, okay? That’s all. That’s not a compromise, it’s—high school.”

Winter’s head tilted, eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, Peter thought he’d lost him completely. But then the soldier’s gaze shifted back to him.

“You are… trembling.”

Peter swallowed hard. “I’m not scared of you.”

The words hung there, raw, unshakable. Peter’s fingers tightened on the metal arm. “I’m never scared of you.”

Winter stared. And then, slowly—so slowly—his posture eased. Shoulders lowering, jaw unclenching. The tension didn’t vanish, but it loosened, the storm behind his eyes pulling back just enough for something gentler to slip through.

“I believe you,” Winter said, the words clipped, mechanical… but real.

Peter’s throat ached. “Can… can Bucky come back now?”

Silence. Then Bucky’s hand—flesh, warm—rose to ruffle Peter’s hair clumsily.

“Already here, kid.”

Peter’s breath left him in a rush. He sagged forward, forehead bumping Bucky’s shoulder. “You suck. I was so freaked out.”

Bucky’s arm came around him, pulling him in against his chest. “You handled it. Better than me.”

Peter’s laugh was watery. “That’s a low bar.”

“Still counts.”

They sat like that a long while—Peter tucked against him, Bucky’s cloak draped loosely so it felt like a shield. The city outside was loud, messy, unrelenting… but here, in this quiet pocket of space, Peter felt safe.

Even when Winter flickered through, even when the mask slipped—Peter wasn’t afraid.

Because family wasn’t something you ran from. It was something you held onto, even when it shook.

And he wasn’t letting go.

Chapter Text

The fog clung to the rooftops, the kind that blurred neon into bruised streaks. Peter swung low, hoodie pulled tight, matching Buckys Winters pace without thinking. 

Winter moved sharp and precise, every step was silent.He didn’t check if Peter followed. He didn’t have to.

“Two blocks. East,” Winter said, voice like gravel scraped clean. “Six men. Armed. They move wrong. Not drunk.”

Peter landed beside him, calm despite the edge in the air. “Got it.” No joke this time. Just quiet acceptance. Because he’d learned: the fear didn’t help. The fear only widened the distance.

Winter didn’t wait. He leapt, a blur of dark fabric and steel, knife already loose in his hand.

The fight was over fast. A blur of webs, fists, and blades. By the time Peter webbed two thugs into the wall, Winter had the last pinned, knife to his throat.

Once, that would’ve frozen Peter cold. Once, he would’ve hesitated, terrified of saying the wrong thing, of the soldier snapping before he could reach him.

Not anymore.

Peter stepped forward, steady, voice low but sure. “He’s done. Mission’s over.”

Winter didn’t look at him. The blade hovered, green eyes bright and sharp.

Peter didn’t flinch. He let his hand rest lightly against Winter’s arm—careful, not controlling. Just there. “It’s me. You can stand down now.”

A breath. The faintest shift. The knife lowered.

The thug scrambled into the shadows, but Peter webbed him up.

Peter exhaled, relief threading into a small smile. “See? No blood. Mission accomplished.”

Winter’s gaze flicked down at him—studying, weighing. Then his shoulders dropped just a fraction.

And Peter knew: he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. Because Winter listened. Maybe not to the world, maybe not to reason, but to him.

By the time they climbed through the window, Peter’s suit was damp, hair wet under the mask. He dumped it on the couch and sprawled across the cushions.

Bucky was back—soft around the edges again, voice rough but human. “You held your ground tonight.”

Peter grinned faintly, eyes half-lidded. “Didn’t give you much choice.”

Bucky smirked, shaking his head. He unbuckled his knife harness, tossed it aside, and sat beside him on the couch, metal arm cool against Peter’s leg. “Still. You didn’t flinch. Even when he came out.”

Peter yawned, leaning sideways until his head landed on Bucky’s shoulder. “Why would I? You’re both still you.” His words slurred with exhaustion, but they were firm. “Winter’s just… less annoying.”

Bucky froze, caught off guard. Then, slowly, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His real hand came up, ruffling Peter’s curls until the boy swatted weakly at him.

“You’re too damn steady for your own good,” Bucky muttered, voice low, but there was something fierce beneath it. Pride.

Peter smiled into his hoodie. “Yeah, well… someone’s gotta keep you two from brooding each other to death.”

Bucky snorted. But he didn’t argue.

Instead, he tugged the blanket off the back of the couch, wrapped it clumsily over both of them, and let the city hum outside while Peter drifted against his shoulder—safe, warm.

Chapter Text

The alarm blared.
Peter groaned and slapped at his nightstand until the buzzing finally stopped. His body didn’t want to move. His legs ached from swinging patrol, his ribs still twinged from last night’s scuffle with Black Mask’s goons, and his hair stuck up like he’d been electrocuted.

“Kid.”

Bucky’s voice came muffled from the kitchen. He didn’t raise his voice—he never had to. Somehow, Peter’s spider senses (and maybe just the Dad-voice instinct) carried it straight through the walls.

“Up. Now. Or I’m coming in there.”

Peter sat up instantly. “I’m up!”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky called. The sound of a knife against a cutting board carried sharp and rhythmic.

Peter tugged on jeans and a hoodie, shoving his feet into sneakers before stumbling into the kitchen. Bucky was already at the counter, chopping fruit with terrifying precision—like the apple had personally offended him. His hair was still damp from a morning shower, tied back loosely, and he wore a plain black shirt under a jacket.

On the table sat a plate: scrambled eggs, toast, and the exact portion of fruit Peter would actually eat.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Sit.” Bucky didn’t look up. “Eat.”

Peter sat. He didn’t argue. His stomach growled before he even picked up his fork.

By the time he got to Gotham Prep, the halls were already a mess of chatter, sneakers squeaking on polished tile, and slamming lockers. Peter ducked his head, hugging his bag tighter.

Tim shuffled past him, yawning like he hadn’t slept in three days. His shirt was wrinkled, tie loose.

“Good Morning,” Peter offered.

Tim blinked at him like he’d forgotten how words worked. Then muttered, “Coffee,” and kept walking.

Peter smirked. “Guess that’s a no.”

Science was fine. Easy, even. The lab smelled faintly of chemicals and metal, sharp enough that Peter had to wrinkle his nose, but he lost himself in balancing formulas. He answered two questions out loud before remembering to dial it back. People stared when you got too many right too quickly.

He kept doodling web patterns in his notebook when the teacher wasn’t looking.

History dragged. Mr. Watkins lectured in his slow, monotone voice about the Gotham dock strikes of the 1920s, and Peter felt his eyelids drooping. Every time his head dipped, though, his hand twitched and stuck faintly to the desk surface. He had to peel his fingers free before anyone noticed.

Steph, sitting diagonally behind him, leaned forward and hissed, “Hey, Peter. If you fall asleep again, I’m drawing a mustache on you.”

Peter smirked without looking back. “Joke’s on you, I’d rock it.”

She snorted loud enough to draw a glare from Mr. Watkins.

Math was worse.

Peter stared at the equations on the board, numbers blurring together. He knew how to do it—knew it in his bones—but his brain was lagging. Patrol exhaustion pressed on him, heavy and dull. He solved the first few problems perfectly, then left the last page half-blank.

When the bell rang, his teacher, Ms. Alcott, stopped him.

“Peter.”

He froze. “Uh—yeah?”

“You’re very capable,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “But your work is inconsistent. Some days it’s flawless, other days it looks like you gave up halfway.”

Peter’s throat went dry. “Sorry. I’ll… try harder.”

Her smile was polite, but there was something sharp under it. “We’ll talk more tonight. Parent–teacher conference.”

Peter nodded quickly and ducked out before she could say more.

Duke and Steph waved him over at lunch. Duke had a tray piled high with fries; Steph stole half of them when he wasn’t looking.

“You look like death warmed over,” Steph said, pointing at Peter’s face.

“Gee, thanks,” Peter muttered, poking at his sandwich. “You always this nice, or am I special?”

“Special,” Duke said through a mouthful of fries. “Definitely special.”

Tim slid into the seat across from them, finally awake enough to function. He had a notebook already open, scribbling equations while chewing on cold pizza.

“Midterm schedules just dropped,” he said without preamble. “We’re all doomed.”

Steph groaned and flopped across the table dramatically. “I vote we drop out and start a vigilante support group. Way less stressful.”

Peter nearly choked on his drink. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Tim’s eyes flicked up at him, sharp for just a moment, before going back to his notes.

The apartment was quiet when Peter walked in—until he saw Bucky waiting at the table again.

“School call,” Bucky said immediately. “Conference tonight.”

Peter winced. “You already knew?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I hear things.”

“She thinks I’m inconsistent,” Peter admitted, dropping his bag. “Which… I mean, fair. Some nights I’m up until three—”

“Not an excuse,” Bucky said. “But not your fault, either.”

Peter gave him a wary smile. “Just… maybe don’t kill her, okay?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Which wasn’t reassuring.

The halls of Gotham Prep were too clean at night. Too quiet. Each footstep echoed like they didn’t belong.

Peter walked beside Bucky, who wore his hood low, his whole presence sharp and coiled. His eyes scanned everything—corners, ceiling vents, even the janitor sweeping down the hall.

“Relax,” Peter whispered. “It’s a school, not a Hydra base.”

Bucky grunted. Didn’t relax.

Ms. Alcott smiled when they entered. The smile froze when she saw Bucky. Something about him—stillness, that watchful way his eyes moved—made her posture tighten.

“You must be Mr. Beck,” she said, consulting her papers.

Bucky gave a single nod. “Yeah.”

Peter sat quickly, resisting the urge to hide under the desk.

Ms. Alcott folded her hands. “Peter is very intelligent. Exceptionally so. But his work is inconsistent. Some days, he excels. Other days, he’s unfocused, inattentive. It worries me.”

Bucky’s voice was low, iron edged. “He’s balancing more than you know.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “Buck—”

“No.” Bucky’s eyes locked on the teacher. “You see inconsistency. I see a kid who pushes himself past breaking and doesn’t quit. He works harder than anyone I know. That’s not unfocused. That’s survival.”

Ms. Alcott blinked, visibly unsettled. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Peter quickly raised his hands. “Right, okay, nobody’s failing here. I’ll try harder, I promise.” He tugged at Bucky’s sleeve under the table. “Dial it back, please.”

After a tense beat, Bucky leaned back, shoulders loosening just enough. His metal fingers flexed once before curling into his palm.

They walked in silence for a few blocks. Gotham’s streetlights cast long shadows, the city buzzing faintly in the distance.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered. “She wasn’t wrong. I have been distracted.”

Bucky’s stride didn’t slow. “Not your fault.” His tone had softened, just slightly. “You’re doing more than anyone should have to. She doesn’t see that. But I do.”

Peter glanced up, throat tight. “You don’t have to defend me like that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Peter smiled faintly, the tension easing from his chest. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky’s hood shadowed his face, but Peter caught the faint twitch of a smirk.

Peter crashed on the couch later, notes still in his lap. His hoodie was half-zipped, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked impossibly small like that, curled into the blanket.

Bucky walked past once, then doubled back. With a sigh, he tugged the blanket higher over Peter’s shoulders. His metal hand hovered for a second before brushing Peter’s hair back gently.

The soldier in him never rested. But the parent in him—Bucky—wouldn’t stop protecting this kid. Not ever.

Chapter Text

The first window shattered at midnight.

Then the second.

Within ten minutes, three jewelry stores, a bank, and half a block of high-end shops had alarms blaring across Gotham’s East End. Not the usual smash-and-grab—this was coordinated.

Batman was already moving. His comm buzzed with Oracle’s clipped report:

“Multiple hits, East End. Same crew, timed to the second. They’re using sonic charges—no residue left behind. At least twenty masked men, military formation.”

“On it,” Batman said, cape snapping in the wind.

He wasn’t the only one

Peter crouched on the edge of a rooftop, mask lenses narrowing. Below, the street was chaos—shattered glass, civilians scattering, sirens still minutes away.

“Big night,” he muttered, flexing his fingers against the cold. “So much for catching up on math homework.”

Beside him, Winter stood still as a statue. Hood drawn low, green eyes glinting faint in the neon, his metal hand rested near his knife holster. He scanned the street like a predator, not missing a single detail.

“They move like soldiers,” Winter said, his Russian-edged voice low. “Not thieves. Patterned strike. Objectives unclear.”

Peter glanced up at him. “Which is a long way of saying ‘bad guys, smash now,’ right?”

Winter’s lips twitched, almost humorless. “Yes. Smash now.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

They leapt.

The first group of masked men barely had time to react before a web snapped two rifles out of their hands and glued them to a lamppost.

“Hey fellas!” Peter called, flipping down into their midst. “Quick question: ever heard of shopping online? Way less mess.”

One lunged. Peter ducked, webbed his boots to the ground, and flipped him into his partner.

Then Winter landed.

No quips. No hesitation. His knife flashed in the streetlight, slicing a weapon strap before the soldier even realized he’d lost it. Metal fist met ribcage with a crack that sent the man gasping to the pavement.

“Non-lethal,” Peter hissed under his breath.

Winter didn’t answer. But the next blow stopped just short of breaking a jaw, turning it into a knockout punch instead.

A grapple line snapped past Peter’s ear.

He yelped. “Okay, not mine—”

Nightwing landed with a roll, baton already in hand. Red Robin followed a second later.Then Robin—Damian—blade gleaming. Spoiler and Black Bat took the flanks.

And Batman himself dropped into the center like a shadow made flesh.

The street froze for a split second.

Spider-Man stood awkwardly in the middle, holding a thug upside-down by his ankle. “Uh. Hi? Fancy meeting you guys here.”

Winter didn’t freeze. He slid smoothly in front of Peter, stance protective, knife ready. His green eyes tracked every Bat like targets on a board.

“Identify yourselves,” Batman ordered, voice steel.

Spider-Man set the thug down—gently-ish. “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Emphasis on friendly.” He gave a small wave. “This is my partner. He’s… uh…”

Winter’s knife gleamed as he twirled it back into his grip. “Not your concern.”

Spoiler muttered, “Creepy vibe guy says it’s not our concern. Great.”

“Shut up” Damian hissed.

But the argument broke as another wave of masked soldiers rounded the corner.

“Conversation later,” Batman snapped. “Fight now.”

The street exploded into motion.

Batman drove forward, cloak swirling. Nightwing vaulted over him, batons flashing in a blur. RR had his staff out and followed N. Cass and Steph moved like shadows at the edges, disabling three men in synchronized silence. Damian darted underfoot, blade flashing.

And through it all—Spider-Man wove. He snagged weapons with webs, flung enemies into neat little packages, and called out warnings before they came.

“Left! Two more on the fire escape!” Thwip! “Don’t shoot the red guy—friendly fire!”

Winter fought differently. No banter, no wasted movement. He was a storm of steel, metal arm smashing rifles in half, knives disarming with surgical precision. Twice, Batman’s gaze lingered on him—calculating, wary.

But Winter never struck fatal. He broke formations, forced retreats, kept Peter’s back clear like it was his only mission.

At one point, a soldier broke through the line, swinging a bat at Peter’s head. Winter moved before Peter even registered it, knife flashing to slice the weapon in two. His other hand shoved Peter back, taking the hit across his own shoulder without flinching.

Peter’s breath caught. “Thanks, Mr.Wolf.”

Winter didn’t answer, but his stance shifted closer.

By the time the last masked soldier was webbed, bound, or unconscious, sirens wailed in the distance. The Batfamily regrouped in the center of the ruined street, masked faces turning toward the strangers.

Spider-Man gave a sheepish little wave. “Sooo… good teamwork, right?”

Spoiler snorted. “Kid’s got jokes. Figures.”

Damian scowled at Winter. “You fight like an assassin.”

“Correction,” Winter said flatly, sliding his knife back into its sheath. “I fight like a soldier.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the cowl. “You’re not local.”

“Observant,” Winter said.

Peter quickly stepped in, hands raised. “Look, we’re not looking to step on any bat-toes here. We just… do the hero thing. Y’know, saving people, stopping bad guys. No big.”

“No big,” Jason repeated dryly.

Nightwing studied Peter—his height, his posture, the way Winter hovered near like a silent bodyguard. “You’re young,” he said carefully.

“I’m sixteen,” Peter shot back defensively. Then added quickly, “But like—a really responsible sixteen!”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Winter’s voice slipped rougher, Russian edges scraping through. “He is under my protection.”

That pulled silence across the group.

Batman’s eyes flicked between them—between the boy and the soldier with the green eyes and the streak of white hair. He didn’t press further. Not yet.

“GCPD will handle the cleanup,” Batman said finally. “But this conversation isn’t over.”

And with that, the Batfamily melted back into the night, leaving Spider-Man and Winter standing in the broken glass and flashing lights.

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

Winter didn’t respond. He just adjusted his hood, glanced once toward the rooftops where the Bats had vanished, and muttered, “Not mission.”

Peter nudged his arm gently. “Yeah. Family first.”

Chapter Text

The Batmobile’s engine echoed through the cavern, a low growl fading into silence as Batman stepped out. The others filtered in behind him—Nightwing, Red Robin, Robin, Black Bat, Spoiler.

The mission had gone well enough. The streets were clear, the GCPD had their criminals gift-wrapped.

But no one’s mind was on the job.

“Okay,” Steph broke the silence first, tossing her mask onto a workbench. “Excuse my wording, but what the fuck?”

“Spider-Man,” Nightwing said, tugging off his mask. “That’s what the kid called himself. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.” He gave a half-smile. “He’s… chatty.”

“Chatty is one word,” Jason snorted,he had arrived in the cave a bit earlier after a patrol in Crime Alley “Annoying is another.”

“Effective,” Cassandra said quietly, perched near the console. She tilted her head. “Fast. Clever.”

“Reckless,” Damian cut in, crossing his arms. His cape swished as he turned toward the group. “He flaunts his identity. Sixteen, at best. He has no business on a battlefield.”

“That didn’t stop you at ten,” Steph muttered.

Damian scowled. “I was trained from birth. He was not.”

“Training or not, kid held his own,” Duke said.He was still in his pajamas, having just woken up. “Webbing half the crew, coordinating mid-fight. That’s more than some rookies manage.”

Tim, still bleary-eyed but scribbling on a tablet, finally spoke. “His tech’s unique. Web shooters. Synthetic, probably custom-built.” He glanced at the notes scrolling down his screen. “Design’s advanced. He’s either a genius, or someone’s backing him.”

“Or both,” Dick added.

“But again the soldier,” Jason cut in, pacing. “What’s his deal? We have been watching him but it seems like the Guy has seen too many wars. Knives, hand-to-hand, those eyes…” He shook his head. “Not normal.”

“Assassin,” Damian said flatly.

“No,” Batman corrected. His voice carried across the cave, shutting them all up. “Not assassin. Soldier.He told you.He’s military. Experienced. That’s discipline you don’t fake.”

“Yeah, but military doesn’t explain the vibe,” Jason shot back. “Green eyes glowing in the dark? That streak of white in his hair? The way he guarded the kid like he was glued to his hip , I think Duke was right that screams Lazarus Pit.”

“He was protective,” Cass agreed softly.

“Overprotective,” Damian said. “Possessive.”

Nightwing rubbed the back of his neck. “Protective isn’t necessarily bad. Did you see how fast he moved when one of the goons went for the kid? He took the hit himself. That wasn’t just tactics. That was… parental.”

Jason barked a laugh. “Parental? He looked like he was two seconds from gutting anybody who breathed wrong near the kid.”

“And yet,” Dick countered, “he didn’t. Not once. Every strike was controlled.”

Steph glanced at Bruce. “You’ve been quiet. What’s your read?”

Batman’s gaze lingered on the massive screens, replaying silent clips of the fight. Spider-Man flipping through the air. Winter smashing rifles in half with his metal arm. The way the man hovered close to the boy, a shadow that never left his side.

“We already knew that they’re not ordinary vigilantes,” Batman said at last. “The boy is young, but not inexperienced. The soldier… he’s dangerous. But not to the boy.”

Duke frowned. “You think they’re family?”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “Something like it.”

Jason groaned. “Great. Another Gotham duo. Just what we needed.”

“They’re not from Gotham,” Tim said, tapping his stylus.

“Which means,” Batman said, his voice final, “we continue towatch them. Closely. Before Gotham decides for us whether they’re allies or threats.”

The cave fell quiet again, the hum of computers filling the silence. Each of them replayed the night in their heads—Spider-Man’s quips, Winter’s knife glinting, the way the boy smiled up at the man with trust that was too raw to fake.

Jason shook his head, muttering, “Kid’s gonna get himself killed. And the soldier? He’s gonna take half the city down with him if he snaps.”

Batman didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the frozen screen, Winter’s green gaze locked in pixelated stillness.

Chapter Text

The door to the safehouse slammed shut behind them, muffling Gotham’s noise to a distant hum.

Peter ripped off his mask, hair sticking damp against his forehead, lungs burning from adrenaline and the bite of the night air. He threw himself onto the couch, sprawled out like a cat that had barely survived a rainstorm.

“Well…” he wheezed, trying to find some humor through the pounding of his heart. “That was… not awkward at all. Just a casual evening patrol, fighting crime, definitely not fighting side to side with a small army of ninja-bats.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He stood near the window, cloak still drawn around him, metal arm gleaming faint in the lamplight. His shoulders were taut, every muscle locked. The white streak in his dark hair caught the glow, his green eyes sharp and faraway.

Peter bit his lip. That wasn’t Bucky. Not all the way.

“Hey,” Peter said softly. “You back?”

No response. Only the faint scrape of a knife leaving its sheath, steel sliding against leather.

Peter sat up slowly, careful not to startle him. His chest tightened, but this time… not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. Winter wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t something to run from. He was… complicated. Hurt. Wired wrong, sometimes. But still his.

“You don’t have to stay in soldier-mode,” Peter whispered. “It’s just us now. No mission. No targets. Just me.”

For a long beat, the soldier’s profile didn’t move. His knife glinted, steady in his hand.

Then, with deliberate control, he slid it back into its sheath.

The air eased. Just a fraction.

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “See? Progress. I should make you a sticker chart. ‘Didn’t stab anyone today—gold star!’”

A sound escaped Bucky’s throat—low, almost like a scoff—but Winter’s sharpness still clung to him. He turned finally, gaze sweeping over Peter like he was assessing damage. His metal hand flexed, then stilled.

“You are unharmed,” Winter said, voice clipped, each word heavy.

It wasn’t phrased as a question but Peter answered regardless.

“Mostly. Bit bruised. Probably look like a human piñata tomorrow.” Peter tugged his hoodie tighter around himself. “I mean, I’m fine.”

The soldier stepped closer, movements precise. He crouched, resting on his heels, green eyes scanning Peter’s face. Too close. Too intense. Peter’s heart thudded.

But then the smallest thing shifted—the knife-calloused hand reaching out, hesitating just above Peter’s hair before brushing the edge of his hood down. Not rough. Not cold. Just… grounding.

Peter swallowed hard. “You’re doing that thing again,” he murmured.

“What thing.”

“Looking at me like I’m… not your mission. Like I’m your—” His voice cracked. “—your person.”

Winter’s jaw tightened. He didn’t speak. But his hand lingered at Peter’s hood, thumb catching in the fabric, like he couldn’t quite pull away.

For a long time, silence stretched between them.

Then Winter’s voice came low, quieter than steel should sound. “You are not mission. You are… priority.”

Peter’s throat went tight. He shoved his face into Bucky’s shoulder before he could cry, muffling the wet sound against leather and fabric. “God, you can’t just always say stuff like that,” he mumbled.

Bucky—or Winter—didn’t move at first. Then the cloak shifted, wrapping around Peter, pulling him in close. Not crushing, not trapping. Just holding.

Peter’s fists knotted in the fabric. “You’re still in there,” he whispered. “Even when you’re him… you’re still you.”

There was no reply. But the cloak stayed around him, the arm—cold, metal, immovable—resting carefully at his back like a wall that nothing could get through.

And for Peter, that was enough.

By the time Peter dragged himself into bed, his bones felt like jelly. He collapsed face first onto the mattress, groaning.

From the doorway, Bucky leaned against the frame, now fully himself again. The hardness had drained from his eyes, leaving only the quiet weight of exhaustion.

“You sleepwalk again, I’m bolting your feet to the floor,” Bucky muttered.

Peter peeked up, muffled by the pillow. “Not my fault, okay? Spider-things get weird. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“You stuck to the wall last time,” Bucky deadpanned. “Upside down. Snoring.”

Peter snorted into the pillow. “Bet it was majestic.”

Bucky shook his head, but there was a tug at his mouth. He crossed the room, pulling the blanket up properly over Peter’s shoulders. “You’re too trusting,” he said quietly.

Peter’s eyelids drooped, fighting sleep. “With you? Always.”

Bucky settled himself on the edge of the bed, just for a moment, hearing the kid’s heartbeat settle into a calm rhythm.

Peter twitched once, like he was dreaming.

“Sleep,” Bucky said softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

Peter murmured half-asleep, curling deeper into the blanket. “’Night, Buck. ’Night, Winter.”

And for the first time, Bucky didn’t flinch at the name.

Chapter Text

Peter felt like death warmed over.

Not the dramatic kind, not the “I just fought an alien invasion with Tony Stark” kind. No, this was the bone-deep, teenage brand of kind you only got from doing algebra homework at 11pm and then immediately fighting armed military guys with your part-time assassin guardian and ninja-bats.

Which was why, when his alarm blared at 6:30, Peter tried to stick to the wall and ignore it. Literally stick.

By the time Bucky pried him off the plaster, muttering about “spider habits” and “ruined paint,” Peter was already late. Again.

The hallways of Gotham Academy were colder than Midtown’s, all polished stone and Gothic arches. Peter tugged on his sleeve, he wasn’t used to uniforms yet—the blazer still felt stiff, like it belonged to someone else.

He trudged into homeroom and nearly face-planted into the desk.

“Wow,” Stephanie Brown’s voice piped up from the seat behind him. “He looks like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Zombie #4.’ You good, Peter? Or did Gotham scare you already?”

Peter groaned into his folded arms. “I’m good. Totally fine. Just… long night.”

“Long night?” Tim appeared on Peter’s left like a ghost, plopping into the desk with a notebook already open. His eyes had that bloodshot, caffeinated glaze that said he’d been up for days. “Define long night. Because, like, I spent five hours cross-referencing Wayne Enterprises’ financial filings with—”

“Tim.” Duke sat down in front of Peter, turning in his chair to face them. “You realize you just trauma-dumped on a kid who barely knows you, right?”

“Not trauma,” Tim said seriously, scribbling something down. “Research.”

Stephanie snorted. “Sure. Totally normal to do deep dives into corporate espionage at 3 a.m. You ever sleep?”

Tim blinked. “Define sleep.”

“See?” Duke waved at Peter. “This is what you’re walking into,Peter.”

Second period was English Lit, and Peter was fighting to keep his eyes open when Cassandra slipped into the seat beside him. She didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head, dark eyes narrowing like she could read him without him speaking.

Peter shifted under the stare. “Uh… hi?”

She pointed at his sleeve.

Peter glanced down—bruise blooming beneath the cuff of his blazer. He winced, tugged the fabric lower. “Walked into a door,” he said quickly.

Cass’s lips pressed thin. She didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

But she didn’t press either. She just handed him a pen—his had rolled off his desk unnoticed—and settled into her seat.

Peter swallowed, grateful and uncomfortable all at once.

Peter carried his tray, scanning for somewhere safe to sit, when Damian voice cut through the din.

“You’re blocking the table.”

Peter blinked. Damian was seated with Duke, Steph, Tim, and Cass—all crammed around one too-small cafeteria table. Damian looked up at him like Peter had personally offended the Wayne legacy by existing.

“Oh, uh… sorry. I’ll just—”

“Sit, Beck” Damian interrupted.

Peter hesitated.

Tim yawned, already shoving his books aside to make room. “Ignore him. He sounds like a Bond villain, but he’s actually inviting you.”

Stephanie grinned. “Yeah, come on, Peter. You’re officially one of us now. Which means we get to judge your food choices.” She peered at his tray. “Oh my god, is that meatloaf? You’re braver than I thought.”

Peter flushed, sliding into the seat. “It was either that or the mystery stew.”

“Both are death sentences,” Duke said gravely.

Cass nudged his tray closer to her side of the table. Without asking, she took his apple and swapped it with her bread roll. Peter blinked.

“Uh… thanks?”

She gave the faintest nod, like it was a contract.

Damian stabbed his fork into his salad. “If you die from cafeteria food poisoning, it will not reflect well on the rest of us.”

Peter laughed weakly. “Nice to know I’ve got such a supportive group.”

Stephanie leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for the others to hear: “Careful, Peter. You hang around us too much, you’ll start developing Wayne-level circles under your eyes. It’s contagious.”

“Too late,” Tim muttered around a mouthful of coffee he definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

By the end of the day, Peter had survived history (barely), dodged three awkward questions about his bruises, and successfully avoided falling asleep in class.

When he walked out the front gates, Bucky was already waiting, hood up, cloak hiding his arm. His green eyes flicked over Peter like he was cataloguing injuries.

Peter raised a hand, grinning sheepishly. “Hey. Didn’t punch any teachers. That’s a win, right?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, low and quiet. “Get in the car, kid.”

From the steps, Stephanie, Tim, and Duke all watched.

“Overprotective much?” Steph muttered.

Tim frowned faintly, eyes narrowing on the man’s gait, the way his shoulders moved under the cloak. “Something’s… off about him.”

“Everything’s off about everyone in Gotham,” Duke replied. But his gaze lingered on Peter. “Still. Kid’s hiding something.”

Chapter Text

By the time exam season hit, Peter Parker looked like a walking corpse.

Dark circles carved permanent shadows beneath his eyes. His uniform was wrinkled, tie loose, blazer shoved into his backpack most mornings. Between late-night patrols, bruises that bloomed faster than they healed, and trying to keep up with Gotham Academy’s ridiculous course load, he felt like he was constantly ten seconds away from face-planting in the hallway.

Even his Spider-healing couldn’t keep up with the stress.

The Batkids noticed.

Peter’s pencil slipped out of his hand for the third time. His eyelids drooped, body swaying slightly.

“Beck,” the teacher barked.

He jolted upright, muttering, “Sorry, sorry—quadratic equations are just so… soothing.”

A couple of kids snickered.

Tim didn’t laugh. He frowned at Peter’s shaking hands, the way his leg bounced under the desk. It wasn’t just exhaustion it was running on fumes.

 Tim leaned across the lunch table and casually said, “Study session. Wayne Manor. Tonight.” Peter almost choked on his juice box.

“Uh… Wayne Manor? As in, literal castle-on-a-hill Wayne Manor?”

“Yeah,” Stephanie said, grinning like it was no big deal. “ snacks,  coffee, and the best Wi-Fi in Gotham. Trust me, you’ll want in.”

Peter blinked. “You guys… know the Waynes?”

Duke smirked. “Something like that.”

Cass gave the faintest nod, confirming it without saying a word.

Damian just sniffed. “You’re fortunate we’re even extending the invitation,Beck. Don’t waste it.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, but his chest warmed a little. A study group. With actual friends. He wasn’t about to say no.

Bucky was waiting at the gates, hood pulled up, green eyes scanning the crowd like he was evaluating threats.

Peter jogged up to him, tugging his bag higher. “Uh, so… I got invited to a study group. Exams and all that.Could you drop me off?”

Bucky’s gaze narrowed, sharp and searching. “Where.”

Peter bit his lip. “Wayne Manor. Promise it’s just school stuff. I’ll text.”

For a moment, Bucky didn’t move. The Winter edge flickered across his face—calculating, assessing.

Then he exhaled slowly. “You stick close. Watch exits. Keep your phone on.”

Peter smiled faintly. “Yes, Dad.”

Bucky’s lips twitched despite himself. He ruffled Peter’s hood up over his streak of hair, hiding it.  “Come on , kid.”

Bucky dropped him off in front of the massive gates, hood up, hands deep in his pockets.

“This isn’t just some ‘study session,’” Bucky muttered.

“It is,” Peter promised, clutching his bag. “Look, they’re good people. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. Winter flickered behind his eyes, sharp and restless. Finally, he sighed. “Text me every hour. You don’t—I come in.”

Peter grinned. “Yes, sir.”

He jogged up the long driveway, trying not to gape at the sheer size of the place. This isn’t a house. This is Hogwarts 2.0.

When Alfred opened the door, Peter almost tripped over his own feet.

“Good evening, Master Peter,” Alfred said warmly, as though Peter was a regular guest. “The others are waiting in the library. May I take your bag?”

“Uh, no, I—uh—thanks,” Peter stammered, clutching it tighter. Who even has a butler?

The library was the size of Midtown’s entire public library, leather chairs and floor-to-ceiling shelves. Tim had already claimed a massive oak table, spread with textbooks, laptops, and color-coded notes.

Peter dropped his bag, blinking at the spread. “Okay, wow. This looks like mission control.”

“Because it is,” Tim said, not looking up from his laptop. “We’re going to break down every exam by category, probability, and pattern recognition.”

“Translation,” Stephanie cut in, “he’s going to overanalyze everything, and we’re going to make flashcards while he mutters about statistics.”

Peter snorted, relaxing a little despite himself. “That… actually sounds kind of nice.”

And it was. For the first hour, at least.

They quizzed each other, traded notes, shoved snacks back and forth. Steph teased Damian until he snapped at her in clipped syllables, Cass silently corrected Peter’s handwriting, and Duke cracked bad jokes whenever Tim got too intense.

But under it all, Peter could feel it—the watching. The way Tim’s eyes lingered on him too long, the way Cass tilted her head like she could see through him, the way Damian kept circling back to pointed questions about his “guardian.”

“Where do you live, Beck?” Damian asked suddenly, voice cool.

Peter froze. “Uh… south side. Near Robinson Park.”

“Unstable neighborhood,” Damian pressed. “Who are you staying with?”

“My Dad,” Peter lied smoothly. “Name’s… Beck. James Beck.”

Tim’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “Huh. Never heard of him.”

“Not everyone makes Forbes’ top list,” Peter shot back, forcing a laugh.

Steph smirked, but her eyes softened. “Hey, we’re not interrogating him, Damian. We’re supposed to be helping.”

Damian sniffed but didn’t push further.

Peter bent over his notes, but his hands trembled slightly. He hated lying. He hated how easily they all assumed something was wrong.

And most of all, he hated that part of them wasn’t wrong—just not in the way they thought.

By the end of the night, Peter’s brain felt fried, but he’d actually absorbed more than he expected. As he packed his bag, Steph clapped him on the shoulder. “See? You’re gonna survive exam season. Thanks to us.”

“Yeah,” Peter said softly. “Thanks.”

As they walked him to the gates, Cass lingered close, eyes steady on his hood. She reached out suddenly, brushing her fingers against the white streak of hair that had slipped loose.

Peter startled. “Oh, uh—genetics. Runs in the family.”

Cass’s gaze lingered, suspicious but quiet.

When they reached the gate, Bucky was waiting—hood still up, arms crossed. His gaze swept over Peter, then flicked past to the group of Batkids. Sharp. Assessing.

“Everything good?” Bucky asked.

Peter smiled. “Yeah. They helped me a lot.”

Tim, Steph, Duke, Cass, and Damian all exchanged looks in the dark.

None of them bought it. Not for a second

Chapter Text

The elevator hissed open, the steel doors sliding back to reveal the cavern’s endless shadows. Screens glowed, data streams humming, the familiar rhythm of the Cave a comfort to most of them.

But tonight, the air was thicker.

Bruce sat at the console, fingers steepled, the cowl pushed back but still in full gear. Dick leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed already in his Nightwing suit ready for patrol, Jason pacing the room, helmet discarded but suit already on. Damian , Steph , Duke, Cass and Tim gathered near the lower steps, each one uncharacteristically quiet.

Barbara’s voice filtered through the comms, tinny but sharp. “Alright. You all got your turns with Beck. Report.”

Tim pushed his glasses up, opening his laptop. “He’s academically competent. Smarter than he lets on. But he’s exhausted. His hand was trembling when he wrote, and he’s operating on more caffeine than me. That’s not just exams.”

Stephanie nodded. “And he’s covered in bruises. Fresh ones. He keeps making excuses about being clumsy, but—come on. No way.”

“Concur,” Cass said softly. She shifted her weight, eyes shadowed. “Not clumsy. Hit.”

Jason swore under his breath. “Knew it. The guy at the gate—his ‘Dad.’ You saw the way he looked at you? That wasn’t some harmless guardian. That was predator eyes. Assessing threats.”

Duke frowned. “But… Peter smiled at him. Like, really smiled. Not fake. That didn’t look like fear.”

“Stockholm,” Damian snapped. Arms folded, jaw tight. “He has normalized the abuse. Children adapt. It is not uncommon.”

Dick cut in before anyone could fire back. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Yeah, something’s off. But we don’t know what yet.”

Bruce’s gaze stayed fixed on the massive central screen, but his voice was low, steady. “Hn, What do you think?”

“Mercenary,” Damian said flatly.

“Assassin,” Cass added, her voice calm but certain.

Jason’s pacing sped up. “So we’ve got a half-dead sixteen-year-old covered in bruises, living with a walking armory who gives off ‘I’ve killed men with a butter knife’ vibes, and you all still want to play nice?”

“Jay,” Dick warned.

“No—don’t ‘Jay’ me!” Red Hood snapped, ripping his helmet off and pointing toward the console. “We’ve seen this before. Kids stuck with guys who treat them like tools. Peter’s scared to talk. You think bruises that consistent come from tripping on stairs?!”

Duke shifted uncomfortably. “But he doesn’t act scared. I mean… I saw the way he looked at the guy. That wasn’t fear.”

“Confusion,” Damian corrected coldly. “Or loyalty, bred through violence.”

Barbara’s voice softened through the comms. “One way or another, the kid’s not safe. And if that man is dangerous—and he is—we need to figure out who he really is.”

Bruce finally spoke, voice cutting through the argument like a blade. “Then we watch. Closely. Every movement. Every patrol. Every contact.”

He leaned forward, shadows cutting hard across his face.

“Peter Beck and his so-called guardian just became Gotham’s newest case file.”

The cavern was silent for a long moment. Only the whir of the Batcomputer filled the space.

Then Jason muttered, dark and certain: “If that bastard lays one more hand on the kid, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.”

“Jason.” Bruce’s voice was steel.

But no one disagreed.

Chapter Text

flashback (2 months ago late at night after they found their new home)

The library’s computers whirred like tired machines. The glow of the screen lit Peter’s face as he hunched forward, hoodie pulled up, fingers tapping rapidly across the keyboard.

Gotham’s news feeds weren’t like New York’s. They didn’t brag about the Avengers or splash glossy photos of Iron Man across every page. Gotham’s headlines were darker. Murders in alleys. Gang wars.  

And always, at the center of it—
Batman.

Peter clicked through grainy photos. A silhouette against lightning. A cape trailing like smoke. Yellow-tinged eyes caught by a reporter’s lucky flash.

He swallowed. “Creepy.”

A voice hummed over his shoulder. “Who?”

Peter yelped, nearly knocking over the mouse. He turned, clutching his chest. “Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Bucky raised an unimpressed eyebrow, hood shadowing most of his face. “Your heartbeat spiked. You were looking at something you shouldn’t.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, super-senses. It’s just—look.” He spun the screen toward him.

On the monitor was a blurred still of Gotham’s vigilante. Cape, cowl, pointed ears.

“Batman,” Peter said.

Bucky frowned. “You know him?”

“You don’t!? Back home he’s… fictional.” Peter scratched the back of his neck. “I used to read the comics when I was younger. He’s this dark, broody guy. No powers, just a rich genius, scary as hell. Works alone. Beats criminals half to death and disappears before anyone blinks.”

Winter stirred at the back of Bucky’s skull, voice like cold iron. Efficient. Ruthless. Not unlike us.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He ignored the echo and nodded at the screen. “And here, he’s real.”

“Looks like it,” Peter said. “Only—” He hesitated. “He’s… different. In the comics, he’s alone. No family left , no partners. But here…” Peter pulled up a different article. A blurry shot of two figures on a rooftop with Batman. One smaller, cape trimmed shorter. Another taller, staff in hand.

Peter’s brows knit together. “That’s new. I didn’t even think he had help.”

Bucky studied the picture with a soldier’s eye. The smaller figure—lightweight, fast. The taller—disciplined stance, well-trained. Not civilians. Not kids playing dress-up.

“Maybe they’re assets,” he said quietly. “Like strike partners.”

“Partners?” Peter chewed his lip. “So Batman does trust people here.”

Winter’s voice slid sharp into Bucky’s mind: Trust is weakness. Attachment breeds compromise.

Bucky’s metal fingers twitched against his coat. “…Or maybe he just uses them.”

Peter glanced at him. “That doesn’t sound like much of a team .”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Peter leaned back, staring at the screen. “Still. It’s kinda cool. A real-life Batman. Guess Gotham really is different from New York.”

Bucky pulled the hood lower over his face. “Doesn’t matter. He stays out of our way, we stay out of his.”

Peter nodded, but his eyes lingered on the screen. On the dark figure looming over Gotham’s skyline.

For the first time since arriving, the kid looked almost… excited.

The next morning, they sat in a dingy diner, Bucky flipping through the classifieds like it was 1943 again.

Peter sipped his hot chocolate. “You know you could just, like, DoorDash or Uber, right?”

Bucky squinted at him. “What’s a DoorDash?”

“Oh my God,” Peter groaned.

Most jobs required a clean record, paperwork, background checks—three things Bucky Barnes did not have. He found one listing that didn’t care: security guard at a shipping yard.Day shifts. Paid cash.

Winter approved. Guarding. Watching. Easy kill zones. Acceptable.

Peter smiled:”this is great you would be out while I am at school and it pays well.”

They found the thrift store off Crime Alley—boards half-rotten, the smell of mothballs clinging to racks of faded suits and oversized coats. Peter wrinkled his nose.

“Uh… not to be rude, but some of this stuff looks like it survived the Great Depression.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said. He flipped through the jackets like a man on a mission. “Cheap, sturdy, and no paper trail. We don’t stand out.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally a six-foot assassin with a metal arm. You stand out everywhere.”

“Keep talking, kid, see what happens,” Bucky grumbled.

Winter’s voice brushed across the back of his skull, Russian accent curling cold: This fabric is weak. Tear easy. Not suitable for combat. Choose leather. Reinforced seams.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” He pulled out a heavy coat with a hood deep enough to shadow his face. It was frayed at the hem, but it would do. He slipped it on, testing the movement of his arm. Perfect.

Peter, meanwhile, was holding up an atrocious plaid blazer. “You think I could rock this at school? Y’know—‘distinguished academic’ vibes?”

Bucky deadpanned. “You look like a rejected extra from Clue. Put it back.”

In the end, Bucky left with a long dark coat and hood that shadowed his face, while Peter managed to find a school uniform that mostly fit and didn’t smell like moths.He also found an old sewing machine along with a blue shirt, a red jacket and a bit of red and blue fabric.

After the clothes, Bucky dragged Peter to a pawn shop that looked like it doubled as a front for half the city’s black-market trade.

Knives. Old pistols. Shotguns with the serials filed off.

Winter was humming in the back of his mind, practically purring at the sight. Yes. This is better. Useful. Take two blades. Balanced weight.

Bucky picked up a combat knife, flipping it effortlessly in his hand. The balance was just right. He grabbed another, strapping it against his thigh.

Peter frowned. “Don’t you think this is a little… intense? I mean, I’ve got webs. You’ve got, like, twenty years of assassin training. Do we really need more?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just tested the sights on a small handgun, then slid it into his coat.Next he went to the automatic weapons.

“Yeah,” Peter muttered. “Cool. Definitely not overcompensating.”

Chapter Text

Peter was fourteen, still getting used to the suit that Stark had whipped up for him. It was a little too slick, too clean. He missed the clumsy goggles and sweatshirt he’d started with, but he couldn’t complain—not when he got to walk through Avengers Tower like he belonged.

The common room buzzed with noise that night. Clint and Sam were bickering over Mario Kart. Natasha sat on the sofa with a book, pretending not to be listening. Wanda laughed softly at something Vision had said. And in the kitchen—of course—Tony was holding court with a drink in his hand and a grin that spelled trouble.

Peter slipped inside, mask pulled up to his nose so he could eat the slice of pizza in his hand.

“Hey, Underoos!” Tony called, spotting him immediately. “Suit check. Any holes? Any tears? Any humiliating rips that would make me liable for emotional damage?”

Peter groaned. “Hi, Mr. Stark. And no, it’s fine. No rips. You don’t have to ask every time.”

“I do, actually,” Tony said. “Legal says I should.”

Sam snorted from the couch. “Legal also said you shouldn’t bring a kid into firefights, but here we are.”

“Not helping, birdie!” Tony shot back.

Peter ducked his head, but his grin was impossible to hide. This was what he loved—the noise, the teasing, the normalcy.He’d gone from a kid in Queens to the Avengers’ tag-along little brother, and he never wanted it to end.

The elevator pinged, and Bucky walked in—hood down for once, hair tied back, metal arm catching the light. He looked like he was ready to chew glass.

“Buck,” Steve greeted from across the room. “You good?”

Bucky gave a nod and dropped into a chair by the window. Peter hesitated, then padded over with his pizza.

“Hey,” Peter said softly. “Rough mission?”

Bucky glanced at him, then at the slice of pizza being nudged toward him. “You always feed strays?”

Peter shrugged. “Only the dangerous ones.”

For a second, Bucky’s eyes softened. He took the slice, muttered, “Thanks, kid,” and ate in silence.

Later that night, Peter perched upside-down from the ceiling, watching Tony tinker with something that looked dangerously unstable. Sparks flew, music blared, and Tony’s focus narrowed to a fine point.

“You’re gonna blow us up,” Peter pointed out.

Tony didn’t look up. “You’re not wrong, but you’re also upside-down, so your opinion is invalid.”

Peter grinned. “You’re just jealous I can hang out up here rent-free.”

“Kid,” Tony said, wiping his hands on a rag, “the day you start paying rent, you can sass me all you want. Until then, I’m still the genius billionaire with the lab.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said, flipping down to land lightly on the floor. “And I’m the guy who saved your butt from falling masonry last week. You’re welcome.”

Tony blinked, then smirked. “Alright, point to the kid.”

”Not a kid.”Peter pouted.

”Sure, kid”

Bucky had been watching from the corner. Later, when Tony left the room, Peter found himself standing beside him, fiddling with his web-shooters.

“You’re good with him,” Bucky said suddenly.

Peter blinked. “With Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah. He… he gets wrapped up. Doesn’t always see what’s around him. You cut through that.”

Peter ducked his head, cheeks warm. “He’s… kind of like a dad. A really annoying, bossy dad, but… yeah.”

Bucky gave a small grunt that could’ve been agreement. Or maybe just acknowledgment. Then, after a pause, “You need anything, kid—you come to me.”

Peter looked up, startled.

“I mean it,” Bucky said, voice low, steady. “Stark might make you laugh. Steve might give you speeches. But me? I’ll keep you safe.”

Something in Peter’s chest eased at that. He smiled, wide and bright. “Thanks, Buck. You’re like—” he hesitated, then blurted, “you’re like the cool dad.”

Bucky blinked. “…The what?”

“Yeah! You know. The one who takes you to baseball games, doesn’t ground you for sneaking out, probably owns a motorcycle—”

“I do own a motorcycle,” Bucky muttered.

“See? Cool dad.”

For the first time all night, Bucky actually laughed. Quiet, a little rusty, but real.

And Peter thought, in that moment, that maybe the Tower wasn’t just a base. Maybe it was home

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not!” Clint shouted, throwing down his controller. “That’s cheating!”

Sam laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch. “It’s not cheating if you’re bad at the game, old man.”

“I had a red shell—he dodged it!” Clint accused, pointing at Peter like he’d just committed a felony.

Peter held his controller defensively. “Hey, it’s called skill! Reflexes, remember? Spider-sense?”

“That is literally an unfair advantage,” Sam said, still cackling.

Natasha didn’t look up from her book. “You both sound like children. He beat you fair and square.”

“Thank you!” Peter beamed.

“Also,” Natasha added, flipping a page, “you should stop before you embarrass yourselves further.”

Sam and Clint exchanged a look. Then, together: “Rematch.”

Peter groaned. “You guys are gonna regret this—”

And he won. Again.

Tony, passing by with a drink, clapped Peter on the shoulder. “That’s my boy. Don’t let the geriatrics drag you down.”

“Hey!” Clint and Sam chorused.

The next morning, Peter found himself in the training room with Steve and Bucky. Cap was patient but firm, barking instructions while Peter clumsily copied the movements.

“Weight on your back leg, kid,” Steve corrected.

Peter shifted, nearly toppling. “Like this?”

“Not like you’re about to faint,” Steve muttered.

Bucky crossed his arms, smirking. “You’re teaching him wrong.”

“Oh?” Steve arched a brow. “And you think you can do better?”

Bucky stepped forward, grabbing Peter’s wrist. His grip was firm, cool, but careful. “Knife comes in close, you don’t block with your arm. You redirect. Like this.”

Before Peter could blink, the knife Bucky had drawn was at Peter’s side—then gone again, sheathed as quickly as it appeared.

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Whoa. That was—kinda awesome.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Steve said flatly.

But Peter leaned closer, whispering, “You gotta show me that again.”

And Bucky—who rarely smiled—smirked like a conspirator.

That night, Peter padded into the kitchen for a snack and found Wanda making tea. She smiled at him softly.

„Nemohl jsi spát, pavoučí mládě?“

He shrugged: „ne, příliš mnoho energie.”

she handed him a mug of cocoa.

Bucky shuffled in not long after, hair loose, hood down, looking more exhausted than Peter had ever seen. He opened the fridge, grabbed leftover Chinese takeout, and sat at the counter like a shadow.

Peter perched beside him. “Hey, uh… wanna share?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, then slid the box over without a word.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, broken only when Tony wandered in, already talking.

“Okay, listen up—new idea for the suit, Underoos: parachute deployment system in case you forget how to web. Don’t give me that look, it’s genius.”

“I’ve never forgotten how to web,” Peter protested.

“Yet,” Tony said.

Bucky snorted. “Kid doesn’t need a parachute. He needs someone watching his back.”

Tony eyed him. “That supposed to be you, Frosty?”

“Maybe it is,” Bucky said evenly, and Peter blinked between them, stunned.

For once, Tony didn’t fire back. He just clapped Peter on the shoulder and muttered, “Guess the kid’s got more dads than I thought.”

Peter’s heart swelled so much he thought it might burst.

Chapter Text

The alarm klaxons rang through Avengers Tower like a bad dream. Peter nearly tripped over his own sneakers as he scrambled into his suit, hands fumbling at the mask, heart hammering with equal parts terror and excitement.

“Kid, you ready?” Sam called, strapping on his wings.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Peter squeaked. His voice cracked. Clint, already grabbing his bow, snorted so loud it echoed down the hall.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha said smoothly as she holstered her pistols. “We’ll keep you alive.”

“Gee, thanks,” Peter muttered, cheeks burning.

“Relax dítě pavouka,” Wanda murmured, brushing past him to grab her jacket. She reached out, straightening the edge of his mask like a sister fussing before school. “Budeš v pořádku. Jen poslouchej. A zůstaň se mnou, kdyby se to pokazilo.”

Peter blinked up at her, nerves settling just a fraction. “...Díky, Wanda.”

Midtown was chaos when they arrived. Smoke poured from shattered storefronts. Cars swerved wildly to avoid the hulking figure stomping through traffic. His armor looked like it had been welded together out of spare car parts, with glowing gauntlets pulsing dangerously.

“Name’s Shrapnel,” Tony supplied, hovering overhead in the suit. “Explosive fists, bad attitude, probably skipped breakfast.”

Shrapnel slammed a fist into the pavement, sending concrete shards flying like shrapnel (the irony wasn’t lost on anyone). Civilians screamed, scattering.

“Team, you know the drill,” Steve barked. “Contain him, clear the streets, minimize damage.”

Peter darted into motion. He swung onto a lamp post, fired two quick thwips, and yanked a civilian clear of flying debris. “Go, go, go!”

“Nice save, kid!” Clint shouted, loosing an arrow that detonated into thick smoke, blinding Shrapnel.

Bucky moved like a shadow, dropping low, metal arm flashing. His knife slid between plates of armor, sparks bursting. Shrapnel roared and swung wildly, swatting him back. But Bucky rolled with the hit, already circling for another strike.

“Barnes, left flank!” Steve ordered, shield ricocheting hard against the glowing gauntlet.

Peter landed beside him, adrenaline making his knees shaky. “What do I do?!”

Steve’s eyes sharpened. Then he gave a short nod. “Trip him. Web the legs. Keep him down.”

Peter gulped but grinned. “On it!” He launched forward, webs firing in rapid bursts. Sticky strands tangled around Shrapnel’s knees, binding him.

The villain snarled. “Get off me, brat!”

Before Peter could answer, Wanda’s scarlet magic lanced through the air, yanking Shrapnel’s arm wide so he couldn’t blast. “Don’t call him that,” she snapped, voice like fire.

“Whoa,” Peter whispered, in awe, even as he doubled down with more webbing.

Bucky was suddenly there again, blade flashing against a joint, sparks showering. Tony’s repulsor followed immediately, hitting the exposed weak spot.

Shrapnel toppled like a building, crashing to the ground.

The team closed in fast. Natasha disabled his gauntlets. Steve pinned him with his shield. Sam finished clearing civilians. Wanda hovered a little over Peter, one protective hand still glowing, ready in case the villain moved.

And Peter—
Peter was shaking, lungs burning, but grinning so wide it nearly split his face.

“We won!” he shouted. “We actually won!”

Bucky cuffed him lightly on the back of the head, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Calm down, kid. Fight’s not over until he’s in cuffs.”

“Still counts,” Peter said breathlessly, buzzing with joy.

Wanda ruffled his curls affectionately through the mask. “Not bad, little brother.”

Peter flushed crimson.

Hours later, back at the Tower, Peter sprawled across the couch, his hoodie torn and his knees bruised. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

“Not bad,” Clint admitted, handing him a soda. “For a rookie.”

“High praise,” Sam muttered from the floor.

Tony’s hovering over the fridge, digging through the snack bin.

Bucky walks in, kinda silent until the crinkle of a potato chip bag gives him away. He opens a bag of original Lay’s potato chips. The sound is loud in the quiet room.

Sam looks over, eyes brightand looked on the chips.

Bucky turned to Natasha and asked in Russain “Hey Natalia...do you like these chips or the ones in the green instead?”

Natasha answered confused“I prefer the brown ones actually.” She glances at Sam. “Why are we staring at Sam?”

Bucky was practically growling “I want him to think we’re talking about him. I like the plain ones on sandwiches. What about you?”

Natasha grinned evilly at Sam: “I eat sandwiches with the dill pickle flavor, so it tastes like a picnic.”

At this point Sam was already sweating bullets.

Peter snorts and almost drops his own chip.

Bucky glares at Sam from across the table. Sam waves a chip, grinning awkwardly.

Tony walks in, drink in hand. “What’s this? You guys planning the next world-domination summit with Lay’s as the diplomats?”

Natasha holds up a chip between her fingers. “Plain or green?”

Tony eyes the bag. “Original Lay’s... man. That crunch hits.”

Peter smiles. He eats a chip, lets the salt crunch echo in his mouth. For a moment everything’s easy—war stories and fights and guilt forgotten.

Later, when the night deepens, Peter curls up in his room with a Batman comic. The smell of potato chips still lingers. He flips the pages, looking at Batman alone, fighting in the rain, no sidekicks, no big family.

He thinks about how different Gotham must be. How this Batman probably doesn’t get chip diplomacy, doesn’t get people protecting him because they like him, or laughing with him.

Peter closes the comic, places it on his bedside table, and drifts off, chip crumbs in the sheets, feeling full—not just of chips, but of something warm.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up glued to his sheets.

Not in a metaphorical, "ugh, Mondays" kind of way. Literally stuck.

“Every. Single. Time,” he groaned, yanking and twisting until the comforter tore free, half of it still webbed to his arm. “At this rate, I’m gonna need Stark to invent anti-stick pajamas.”

From outside his door came Bucky’s voice, flat as ever. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

“I’m not!” Peter shouted back. “I’m talking to the universe.”

Silence. Then the heavy sound of a knife sliding into its sheath. “The universe isn’t listening, kid.”

Peter sighed. “Figures.”

The kitchen was chaos, as usual.

Clint was perched on the counter eating leftover Chinese food for breakfast. Sam was pacing like an angry dad, ranting about nutrition. Natasha sipped tea, ignoring him with practiced ease. Wanda was reading a book while levitating her toast.

Peter slumped into a chair. “Morning.”

“Morning,” they chorused, barely looking up.

He grabbed a pancake from the stack… and immediately realized his mistake.

The syrup bottle was missing.

“Where’s the—” he started.

“Don’t,” Sam warned darkly.

Across the table, Tony strolled in with a mug of coffee and the syrup bottle in his pocket.

“Tony,” Steve said without looking up from the paper. “Return the syrup.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony said, pouring it directly onto his eggs.

Peter’s eyes widened. “On EGGS?!”

Bucky, sipping his pitch-black coffee like motor oil, muttered, “Psychopath.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Dracula,” Tony shot back.

“Dracula was Transylvanian, not Russian,” Bucky deadpanned.

“Close enough,” Clint said through a mouthful of lo mein.

Wanda reached over and tugged the syrup away with telekinesis, sliding it to Peter. “Ignorujte je. Snězte je, než vám je někdo ukradne.”

Peter grinned at her. “Jsi nejlepší, Wanda.”

“Samozřejmě, ” she said, smirking like an older sister who just won something.

Ten minutes later, Peter was halfway through his breakfast when the inevitable argument broke out.

“Who left the knives in the dishwasher?!” Steve barked, holding up a combat knife like it was Exhibit A.

Peter froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Wasn’t me.”

“Who else owns knives sharp enough to slice through the rack?” Steve demanded.

“…Sam,” Bucky said instantly.

Sam gawked. “ME?!”

Natasha hummed, sipping her tea. “Checks out.”

Sam threw his arms up. “You’re all insane.”

Peter grinned into his pancakes, heart warm despite the chaos. This—this was the kind of family he never thought he’d have. Loud, ridiculous, a little dangerous… but his.

When Bucky finally muttered, “Eat faster, kid, before Tony puts ketchup on it,” Peter couldn’t stop smiling.

Chapter Text

Movie night at Avengers Tower was always a battlefield.

Not in the literal sense (though once, Thor’s hammer did break the flatscreen).

Peter was curled into the couch with a bowl of popcorn almost as big as his head, trying desperately not to be noticed. He knew how this went — if you took a side too early, you became a target.

“I vote action,” Clint declared, sprawled across the floor like a cat.

“You always vote action,” Wanda said, not looking up from braiding her hair.

“Yeah, because explosions never get old!”

“They do when you live with Tony,” Sam muttered.

“Excuse me,” Tony said from behind the bar, where he was pouring himself wine and definitely spiking Peter’s soda with more sugar. “My explosions are cinematic art.”

“They nearly leveled the tower last week,” Steve deadpanned.

“Still counts,” Tony said.

Peter hid a grin in his popcorn. He loved this.

“Romance,” Natasha said suddenly, just to watch Clint choke on his drink.

“No,” Bucky said flatly from the armchair. He hadn’t even looked up from sharpening his knife.

“Yes,” Natasha countered, eyes glittering.

“I’ll gut myself before I watch The Notebook,” Bucky said.

“That can be arranged,” she murmured, smiling.

Sam raised his hands. “Okay, okay — how about comedy?”

“Depends,” Wanda said thoughtfully. “What kind?”

Before anyone could answer, Thor’s booming voice shook the room. “I have procured Finding Nemo!”

A beat of silence.

“…Thor,” Steve said carefully, “that’s not exactly—”

“IT IS A CLASSIC TALE OF FAMILY AND TRIUMPH!” Thor roared, already slotting the DVD in like the matter was settled.

Peter couldn’t stop it — he snorted popcorn out of his nose. “Sorry, sorry!” he wheezed, waving his hands as everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly. He leaned over, plucked the bowl out of Peter’s lap before he choked himself to death, and muttered with a little smile “Breathe, kid.”

Peter, still coughing, managed a sheepish, “Thanks, Buck.”

And so, somehow, Avengers Tower ended up with a group of assassins, super soldiers, geniuses and a literal god crammed together on one couch watching Pixar.

Natasha pretended to be unaffected, but Peter caught her wiping her eyes during the “Just keep swimming” scene.

Clint and Sam made bets on whether Bruce would fall asleep halfway through (he did).

Wanda kept whispering the whale lines dramatically until Peter collapsed in giggles.

And Bucky?

Bucky never looked away from the screen, but Peter noticed his grip on the armrest ease whenever Dory reminded Marlin: You’re not alone.

Chapter Text

Midterms at Gotham Prep hit like a sledgehammer.
Peter had fought tech-armor villains, bank robbers, and an alien parasite once —maybe twice…thrice but nothing compared to staring down a packet of eighty multiple-choice physics questions under fluorescent lights.

Across the row, Tim looked like he was thriving in misery — caffeine-wired, hair a mess, dark circles making him look like the patron saint of overwork.
Peter thought they were doomed.

By day three, the entire crew was dragging.

Stephanie slammed her books down on the cafeteria table. “If I have to memorize one more date from Gotham’s history, I will literally set fire to the school.”

Cass gave her a thumbs up and nodded solemnly, her head pillowed on her folded arms. She hadn’t said a word since morning — just groaned into her sleeve whenever someone mentioned the word “exam.”

Duke dropped into the seat beside Peter and immediately stole his fries. “If anyone asks me to explain chemical bonds again, I will commit a crime.”

“You would commit a crime,” Steph muttered.

“Guys,” Peter groaned, pressing his face into his notes, “we still have math tomorrow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tim croaked. “I’ve got advanced calculus and literature essays. I think I saw God halfway through physics this morning.”

Damian, of course, wasn’t suffering. He wasn’t even in their grade. Which didn’t stop him from looming over the table like a smug gargoyle.

“You all look pathetic,” he announced.

Steph threw a pencil at him. “Shut up, gremlin.”

“I would have finished your exams in half the time.”

“You’re like 12,” Peter mumbled into his notebook.

“Still,” Damian said with a smirk, “I am superior.”

Cass lifted her head just enough to glare at him. He wisely took a step back.

By Friday, when the last exams ended, the group staggered out of the building like survivors of war.

Tim’s hands were shaking from too much coffee.
Steph was chanting “never again” under her breath.
Cass just signed dead and leaned on Duke’s shoulder.
Peter clutched his bag like it had personally wronged him.

In the hallway, Stephanie dramatically threw her arms up. “WE LIVED!”

“Barely,” Peter muttered.

“I think I hallucinated the last three questions,” Tim admitted.

Duke groaned. “Pretty sure I answered a chemistry essay with Batman quotes. Hope the teacher likes metaphors.”

That got Peter to actually laugh, which made the others grin despite their exhaustion.

That night, Peter practically collapsed face-first onto their couch, textbook still clutched in his hand.

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching. He could hear every heartbeat in the room — Peter’s was slow, tired, but steady. Relief bled into it like sunlight after rain.

“Midterms done?” he asked.

Peter groaned into the pillow. “Yeah. Cass and Steph are probably dead. Tim’s probably… calculating our grades already. But we survived.”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Good. You need friends like that. Makes the fight worth it.”

Peter peeked up, cheeks pink. “You sound like a dad.”

Winter stirred in the back of Bucky’s mind, cold and sharp, but for once not violent. The boy needs protecting, the soldier whispered.

Bucky just tossed a blanket over Peter and muttered, “Sleep, genius.”

Peter grinned into the pillow before drifting off.

Chapter Text

The morning of results day was worse than the exams themselves.

Peter sat in the cafeteria clutching his orange juice like it was the last shred of hope he had left. Around him, the Batkids were in various states of impending doom.

Steph was pacing. “If I bomb history, my GPA’s gonna tank. My dad will find a way to make it my fault and then I’ll have to move to—what’s the worst place I can think of—Blüdhaven.”

“Dramatic,” Duke muttered, scrolling through his phone. “You’re fine.”

Cass signed death, then mimed being buried under an avalanche of textbooks.

Peter groaned, forehead hitting the table. “If I failed physics, I’ll never recover. Physics is supposed to be my thing. It’s like—if Batman suddenly forgot how to brood.”

Tim slid into the seat next to him, looking barely alive but smug in that terrifying, sleep-deprived way of his. “Relax. We aced it.”

“You don’t know that,” Peter mumbled.

“I do,” Tim said with absolute certainty, sipping coffee like it was the nectar of gods.

Results came out at noon. A crowd swarmed the bulletin board.

Steph came back waving her paper dramatically. “B-minus in history! B-minus! That’s practically an A in Gotham Prep’s grading scale.”

Cass gave her a thumbs up, showing her own row of solid Bs. She looked more relieved than anything.

Duke slung his paper down with a grin. “ One A, two Bs. I’m calling that a win.”

Peter stood there staring at his page, blinking hard.

Tim leaned over his shoulder. “Well?”

“…A in physics. A in math. A-minus in English,” Peter whispered, like if he said it too loud, it might vanish.

Tim smirked faintly. “Told you.” He held up his own paper. Identical scores, plus an A in literature.

Peter squawked. “Oh, come on! You beat me?!”

“Technically, tied.”

“Not tied if you got an extra A.”

Steph leaned between them, grinning. “Oh my god, you are competing. You’re literally Tim 2.0.”

“I am not!” Peter yelped, flushing scarlet.

Tim just sipped his coffee again, looking insufferably smug.

That night back at the apartment, Peter collapsed onto the couch with his results still crumpled in his pocket.

Bucky glanced over from where he was cleaning his knife, metal arm gleaming faint in the lamplight. “So?”

Peter hesitated. Then pulled out the paper and held it up like proof of life. “I…did good.”

Bucky took it, scanned the neat columns of As and A-minuses, then nodded once. “Knew you would.”

“…You’re not mad about the A-minus?” Peter asked nervously.

“Kid,” Bucky said, tossing the paper back at him. “When I was your age I barely passed with C’s and D’s an A-minus is nothing.”

Winter stirred faintly, the soldier’s cold voice echoing in the back of Bucky’s skull. The boy is strong. Do not let him doubt.

Peter ducked his head, cheeks pink. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky reached out, ruffling his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Proud of you, kid.”

Peter’s grin stretched so wide it hurt his cheeks

Chapter Text

Peter had begged for weeks.
Not for much — not Disneyland, not a Stark-funded Avengers vacation. Just…a weekend away. Something that wasn’t Gotham’s gray skyline and constant sirens.

And against all odds, Bucky said yes.

They left on Saturday morning. The city stretched behind them, grim and sharp, until it melted into trees and open highway. Bucky kept his hood up and his metal arm gloved, driving with the kind of hyper-focus only a soldier could have.

Peter had his face pressed against the window, grin splitting his face. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. A normaltrip. Just like—like a family road trip.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid,” Bucky said, but his voice was softer than his words.

Winter hummed faintly in the back of his mind. Roads clear. No pursuit. Mission…peaceful.

It almost startled Bucky, how gentle that whisper sounded.

They ended up in a tiny lakeside town a few hours north of Gotham. The kind of place where people actually smiled at strangers. Peter nearly tripped on the cobblestone sidewalk staring at everything.

“Buck,” he said breathlessly, tugging at his sleeve, “they’ve got a boardwalk. With funnel cake. Funnel cake.”

Bucky raised a brow. “That’s what excites you? Fried dough?”

“Yes,” Peter said with absolute conviction.

They spent the day wandering. Peter bought secondhand comics from a shop that smelled like dust and coffee. Bucky lingered in a military surplus store longer than Peter wanted to think about. They ate greasy fries on the pier, watching the water lap against the wood.

For a while, Peter let himself believe it was normal. Just him and Bucky. No Spider-Man. No Winter Soldier. No secrets.

That night, in the motel room, Bucky insisted on the bed nearest the door. Peter was sprawled on the other, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey, Buck?” he asked quietly.

“Mm?”

“You ever…wish it was always like this? Just…quiet? No fighting, no missions, no people staring at you like you’re about to break?”

Bucky froze. Winter stirred, sharp and restless in his chest. Not safe. Never safe.

But Bucky looked at Peter’s tired face — at the way his eyes had dulled a little since they’d come to Gotham — and said, “Yeah, kid. I do.”

Peter smiled faintly and rolled over, mumbling, “Me too.”

Back in Gotham, the Batfam noticed the absence.

“They’re gone,” Barbara reported from her Oracle feeds. “No activity on the Peters phone. No sightings in the city. It looks like they left town.”

Jason frowned. “What, like a vacation? That doesn’t scream Beck.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “ maybe…” His voice softened. “Maybe it’s just a dad taking the kid out for a trip.”

“No proof of that,” Bruce said flatly.

But for a second, even he sounded unsure.

Sunday evening, Peter and Bucky drove back into Gotham. The city loomed large again, swallowing the horizon. Peter sighed, slumping against the seat.

“Back to reality,” he muttered.

Bucky reached over, squeezed his shoulder briefly. “We’ll make it work.”

Peter’s smile was small, but real.

Winter, unusually quiet, whispered one word in Bucky’s mind as the skyline swallowed them whole: Family.

Chapter Text

I am sorry but I am out of ideas, is there anything you want to read in the next chapters?

 I just don’t wanna continue this endless cycle of school and patrol. 

Please comment ideas 💚💚💚💚💚

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon.

Peter was stuck in history class, trying not to fall asleep while the teacher droned on about the founding of Gotham. His phone buzzed once, twice, three times in his pocket — he snuck a glance and froze.

Breaking News: Midtown Gotham Bank Robbery. Hostages Inside.
And the blurry photo that came with it — Peter’s stomach dropped.
At the center of the crowd outside, unmistakable even under a hood, was Bucky Barnes.

“Crap,” Peter whispered, heart hammering.

Inside the bank, the situation was tense. Masked men waved guns, herding civilians against the wall. The vault door was half-opened, alarms screaming.

Bucky had been unlucky enough to be inside when it started. He kept his hood low, hands half-raised, metal arm hidden under his sleeve.

Winter stirred immediately, sharp and ready. Eliminate. Neutralize. End threat.

No, Bucky bit back, clenching his teeth. If Winter took over here, people would die. He couldn’t risk it. Not with kids crying, not with innocents caught in the crossfire.

“Beck.” The voice came from behind him — deep, controlled. He turned slightly.
Of all people, Bruce Wayne was crouched low behind an overturned desk, eyes sharp even in civilian clothes.

“You have a plan?” Bucky muttered.

“Working on it,” Bruce said coolly. His public face was billionaire idiot — but those calculating eyes said something else.

Winter snarled in Bucky’s mind. Take control. Kill them all. Quick. Efficient.

Shut up, Bucky thought, jaw tight.

Across Gotham Prep, Peter shoved his books into his bag and bolted.

“Beck! Where are you going?” the teacher called.

Peter muttered something about the bathroom and sprinted.

By the time he ducked into the alley behind school, his suit was on and his backpack was discarded.

“Hang on, Buck,” Peter muttered, launching a webline into the skyline. “I’m coming.”

Red Hood got there first.

Jason dropped from his bike, helmet gleaming in the sun , guns drawn. He stormed into the bank before Gordon’s men could even set a perimeter.

“Alright, scumbags!” Jason barked, firing a warning shot into the ceiling. “Drop it before I drop you.”

The robbers froze. Civilians gasped.

But then Jason’s gun swung — and pointed not at the robbers, but at Bucky.

Jason’s voice was low, furious . “Beck.”

Bucky stiffened. His hood slipped back just enough for his white streak to catch the light. Jason’s finger tightened on the trigger. “You really think you can do something like that in my city? With a kid?”

“What are you talking about?,” Bucky growled.

Jason snapped. “You don’t get to—”

The nearest robber took advantage of the standoff and fired.

Bucky shoved Bruce Wayne down and dove sideways, his jacket ripping open as his metal arm caught the bullet with a clang. Gasps erupted. Guns pointed at  him. Bruce, trying to act civilian like followed the others out of the Bank

Winter surged. End them!

Bucky gritted his teeth, fighting the pull. Not civilians. Not the kid’s city. Not like this.

Then the glass above shattered, and a webline thwipped down.

“Hey jerks!” Spider-Man yelled, slamming a robber into the floor with a kick. “Didn’t your moms ever tell you bank robbery is cliché?”

Peter landed in a crouch, chest heaving, eyes immediately locking onto Bucky. “You okay?”

Bucky didn’t answer — he was trembling with the effort of holding Winter back.

Jason swung his gun toward Spider-man now. “You working with him too, kid?”

Peter flinched. “What? No! Yes!He’s my—he’s my—” His voice cracked. “Don’t shoot him!”

“Hood,” Bruce Wayne’s voice cut sharp but calm from the floor sounding nothing like the playboy Gotham makes him out to be. “Lower the gun.”

Jason snarled but didn’t move.

Peter fired two quick webs, yanking Jason’s gun clean from his hand and plastering it to the wall. “Time out, Red Power Ranger. We’ve got civilians to save!”

Jason turned on him, fury in his shoulders. But Peter stood his ground, mask hiding the panic in his eyes.

Behind them, the robbers finally realized they’d lost control of the room. Sirens wailed outside.

“Kid,” Bucky rasped, voice low, metal arm flexing as Winter clawed at the edges of control. “Get them out.”

Peter swallowed hard and nodded. “On it.”

By the time the cops stormed the building, the robbers were webbed to walls, the hostages freed.

But tension still hung like a storm. Jason’s jaw was tight behind his helmet. Bruce Wayne — somehow managing to look shaken and perfectly composed at once — slipped away before anyone noticed too much.

And Peter stayed planted firmly between Bucky and Jason, shoulders squared.

“Back off,” he snapped. His voice cracked, but it was steady. “He’s with me.”

Jason glared. “This isn’t over.”

Winter whispered in Bucky’s skull, cold and certain. He is threat.

Chapter Text

The bank reeked of gunpowder and fear. Civilians were being ushered out by the cops now, but inside, the fight still lingered in the air like static.That’s the moment one of the robbers managed to escape the webbing and lunged at Bucky, knife in hand.

In the blink of an eye Winter had the man pinned and the knife raised like an executioner’s pendulum. The robber thrashed and sobbed, the knife’s edge flashing. Time narrowed—

“Hostile target,” Winter growled, voice thick with that brutal Russian edge. “Neutralize.”

The robber sobbed, clawing at the floor. “Please—don’t—”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “Bucky! Stop!” He fired a desperate web, catching at the knife. But Winter sliced through it like it was paper, arm jerking back for the killing blow.

“Don’t—don’t do this—” Peter’s voice cracked.

Jason’s voice cut sharp across the chaos, pistol aimed steady at Winter’s head. “I told you! He’s not safe! Kid, move!”

“Don’t shoot him!” Peter screamed, throwing himself in front of Bucky. “Don’t you dare!”

Winter didn’t flinch. His knife rose higher. His chest heaved. He wasn’t hearing them. He wasn’t seeing them.

Peter’s throat closed. He didn’t want this. He hated this. But if he didn’t stop it—

“Sputnik.”

The word dropped from his lips like a stone into black water.

And Winter froze.

Everything locked at once — knife still raised, metal fingers tight around the hilt, boot pinning the robber to the ground. His breath caught mid-inhale. His pupils shrank to pinpoints.

“Awaiting orders,” he rasped, monotone, empty.

Peter’s heart lurched into his throat. This wasn’t Bucky. It wasn’t even Winter. It was the Soldier.

“No…” Peter whispered, backing a step closer, tears stinging his eyes behind the mask. “I didn’t want this.”

The robber wheezed beneath Winter’s frozen stance, terrified and confused, but alive. Jason lowered his gun a fraction, frowning behind the helmet. “…what the hell did you just do to him?”

Peter shook his head furiously, voice raw. “I didn’t—! It’s not—! He’s not a weapon!”

But Winter just stood there, knife gleaming in the light, waiting. Not moving. Not even blinking.

Peter’s breath hitched. His hands shook as he reached out, gently pushing the blade down. For a second, Winter resisted, but then his arm yielded under Peter’s touch — not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice without an order.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Peter turned and shoved Jason’s gun aside with a snarl. “Don’t you ever say he’s a monster again. He’s not. He’s mine.”

Jason bristled but said nothing.

Finally, Peter swallowed hard and whispered, “Bucky… stand down.”

Winter’s boot lifted. His posture straightened. The words carried weight he hated, a chain around Bucky’s neck — but they worked.

Peter’s chest ached like it would split in two. He brushed his sleeve across his eyes, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Winter didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

The silence inside the bank was worse than the gunfire. The civilians were gone, the cops were holding the perimeter, and yet it felt like the world had narrowed to the three of them—Peter, Jason, and the frozen thing wearing Bucky’s face.

Jason’s jaw was tight beneath the helmet. He didn’t lower his gun, not really. Just shifted it a little to the side. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp.
“You see it, don’t you, kid? He’s a time bomb. You just pulled the pin yourself.”

Peter rounded on him, chest heaving. “Shut up. You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s—what we’ve—” His throat caught. He didn’t want to cry in front of Red Hood  of all people, but the words scraped out raw. “He’s not just… this. He’s more. He’s mine.”

Behind them, Winter was still locked in place, eyes blank, breath mechanical. Peter hated looking at him like this. Hated the way his shoulders didn’t move unless ordered, the way the soul in his gaze had been hollowed out.

Peter stepped closer, voice trembling. “Bucky… at ease.”

The Soldier obeyed instantly, shoulders loosening, arms dropping to his sides. His eyes never moved, not until Peter whispered the name again—“Bucky”—like it was a plea. Something flickered there then, faint but real.

And just like that, Peter broke. He ripped off his mask, dragging air into lungs that couldn’t seem to fill. His eyes shone wet in the harsh light.
“I hate it,” he whispered, so soft Jason almost didn’t hear. “I hate that I have to do this to him.”

He blinked, stomach twisting. Wait… that’s the kid Bucky’s been “with.”

Pieces snapped together in Jason’s mind. The bruises—how Bucky kept Peter close, how Peter seemed obedient, how the other kids had tried to intervene once or twice.

Abuse. That was the word that had floated through their conversations, whispered but pointed. Bucky wasn’t abusive, Jason knew that know. The injuries were from patrols.But the way he had seen Barnes’ cold demeanor in the past—the protective violence, the snap of a jaw, the steel in his eyes—it made the story believable.

And yet, seeing Peter rip off his mask, seeing the panic and love and fear etched across his face, Jason realized something else. Peter wasn’t afraid. Not really. Not of Bucky. He was fighting to protect him.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Kid… you’re really wrapped around him, huh?” Jason muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone.

Peter’s hands shook, eyes wide behind the mask he’d shoved back on, as he crouched close to Bucky’s side.

Tim, Steph, Duke, and Damian’s faces floated in Jason’s memory. He’d seen Peter laughing with them, joking about exams, teaming up for pranks, leaning on each other in ways only kids their age could. That connection—friendship, trust—was real. Not forced.

Jason let out a slow, bitter breath. The puzzle was clearer now. Peter chose this. He trusted Bucky. He leaned on him. And the Batfamily’s assumption—misguided as it was—had almost made them the enemy.

His fists clenched in gloves. He wasn’t ready to forgive Beck for the chaos he brought into Gotham. But he had to admit something grudging, almost painful: the kid wasn’t lying, and Bucky… Bucky wasn’t the monster they’d been told to fear.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Of course it’s you, Parker. Of course it’s you…”

Jason’s fingers flexed on the trigger. He wanted to say it—wanted to tell the kid that sometimes mercy wasn’t keeping someone alive, that sometimes pulling the trigger was the only kindness. But when he looked at Peter, shaking and furious and cradling the Soldier’s knife like it was poison, the words died in his throat.

“Kid…” Jason started, but stopped. He holstered the gun with a sharp, angry movement. “This’ll come back to bite you. Both of you.”

Peter didn’t answer. He reached out, carefully, slowly, like approaching a cornered animal, and pressed his hand against Bucky’s chest. He could feel the mechanical stillness under his palm—waiting, listening.

“Come back to me,” Peter whispered. His voice cracked. “Please.”

For a moment, nothing changed. Then Bucky blinked. A shudder went through him, stiff and awkward, like someone rebooting after a crash. His pupils widened, breath coming harsh and uneven. He looked down at Peter—really looked—and his knife-callused hand trembled as he raised it, hovering uncertainly before finally gripping Peter’s wrist.

“…Pete,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

Peter choked on a sob and shoved his mask back on before the tears spilled over. He couldn’t let Jason see. Couldn’t let anyone see. He just nodded, quick and jerky, holding onto Bucky’s wrist as if it anchored him to the moment.

Jason’s voice was low. “You can’t save him from what he is.”

Peter spun, mask hiding his face but not the venom in his tone. “Watch me.”

Chapter Text

Flashback about two months ago a few weeks after arriving in Gotham 

It was late. The safehouse creaked under the hum of the city outside, headlights flashing faintly through the blinds. Peter sat on the old plaid couch, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, watching Bucky pace.

He only ever paced when Winter was too close.

Bucky’s steps were sharp, deliberate. His metal arm flexed open and shut, open and shut, as if testing restraints. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

Peter hated it — not because he was scared, but because he could see the war happening behind those green eyes. Bucky was still in there. He always was. But sometimes Winter pressed too close, and then…

Peter swallowed. “You’re fighting him again, aren’t you?”

Bucky stilled. For a moment, his profile was just shadow — sharp, not soft at all. Then he turned, crouching in front of Peter.

“ маленький паук,” he said, voice rough. “I need you to listen.”

Peter’s heart lurched. He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Anything.”

Bucky’s mouth flattened. “There’s a word. A trigger. Hydra built it in — something to lock me down when Winter’s out. It doesn’t… fix me. It doesn’t bring me back. It just—” he gestured sharply at his own chest, like he couldn’t bear to say it “—switches me off. Turns me into the Soldier. No one home. No choices.”

Peter felt cold all over. “That’s—Bucky, that’s—”

“Awful,” Bucky finished for him. He looked so damn tired. “Yeah. But it works. If I lose control, if civilians are at risk, if I’m about to do something I can’t come back from—you can use it.”

Peter shook his head hard, curls bouncing. “No way. No way, I’m not doing that to you. You’re not a machine. You’re you.”

„Pete,“Bucky’s voice snapped like steel, then softened. His hand rested heavy on Peter’s shoulder, warm and grounding. “If it’s between me and innocent people, you use it. No hesitation. Promise me.”

Peter’s throat ached. He wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered, “What’s the word?”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight. Saying it looked like it hurt more than a knife wound. “…Sputnik.”

Peter blinked. “Like the satellite?”

“Yeah.” A humorless twist of a smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth. “They liked their symbols. Cold, efficient. It stuck.”

Peter tried it, the syllables awkward and heavy on his tongue. “…Sputnik.”

Bucky flinched, just barely. But he nodded. “That’s it. Don’t use it unless you have no other choice. Swear it.”

Peter’s eyes stung. He balled his fists into his sleeves. “I swear.”

Bucky exhaled slow, shoulders lowering just enough to look human again. He ruffled Peter’s curls, muttering, “Good kid.”

But later, when Peter was alone, he wrote the word in the corner of his notebook, circled three times.

Sputnik.
The word that could save the world.
The word that could take Bucky away from him.

Chapter Text

Deadmanshooting: You’re not gonna believe this.

Goldy: You say that every time, and every time, I do believe it.

Don’tspoil: Please tell me it’s good gossip and not “I found Joker’s toenail collection” again.

Deadmanshooting: Bank robbery. Got there first. Should’ve been routine. Except guess who was already inside?

Coffeislife: …Penguin?

Deadmanshooting: Beck, Winter Soldier.

Iseeall: …Winter Soldier? Confirmed?

Deadmanshooting: 100%. And he wasn’t alone.

Goldy: Who?

Deadmanshooting: Spider-Man.

Don’tspoil: HOLD UP

Goldy: wait wait wait… like our Spider-Man??

Newkid: annoying, quippy, webs-everything Spider-Man??

Deadmanshooting: yep. mask came off. it’s Peter.

Coffeislife: PETER. BECK. 

Goldy: as in Tim’s little study buddy??

Newkid: the kid who eats his lunch at like… 10am every day??

Bloodson: Tt. I told you he was hiding something.

Cass: …Yes.

Don’tspoil: …Cass?? You KNEW??

Cass: Not my secret.

Goldy: oh my god.

Deadmanshooting: focus. Beck lost control. full assassin mode. had a knife to some guy’s ribs. about to gut him.

Newkid: holy sh—

Deadmanshooting: Peter tries stopping him. webs, yelling, nothing works. then he drops ONE word. russian. “Sputnik.”

Iseeall: …that’s a trigger word?

Deadmanshooting: Beck froze. like a statue. eyes empty. voice went monotone.

Don’tspoil: ohhhhhh NO.

Goldy: You’re saying Peter has Becks’  kill-switch??

Deadmanshooting: bingo.

Newkid: He’s FIFTEEN.

Don’tspoil: 😭😭 this poor kid…

Bloodson: Or complicit.

Don’tspoil: shut UP, demon.

Deadmanshooting: he threw himself in front of Barnes. said “He’s not a monster. He’s mine.”

Goldy: …HIS??

Coffeislife: excuse me WHAT.

Don’tspoil: screaming

Bloodson: That’s… concerning.

Cass: Not abuse. Fear is real. But different.

Iseeall: Cass. He looked desperate.

Iseeall: Regardless, kid knows trigger words. That’s dangerous.

Goldy: and Beck is unstable. this is a mess.

Newkid: guys… he’s our friend. like, cafeteria jokes, walking home from class friend.

Don’tspoil: 😔 and all this time he was Spider-Man.

Bloodson: Tt. At least it makes sense now.

Deadmanshooting: bottom line: James twitches, civilians die. right now, the only leash is Peter.

Iseeall: We start surveillance. Quietly. If Peter’s in danger, we intervene.

Deadmanshooting: and if not? I still put a bullet in him.

Don’tspoil: Cass you’ll stop him…right??

Cass: 👍

Goldy: thank god.

Chapter Text

Flashback 

The Avengers Tower at night was quiet and incredibly loud at the same time (at least for those with super hearing). The hum of reactors, the faint buzz of Stark’s latest half-finished project left on a workbench, and the muted sounds of New Yorks night life through the open window.

Peter loved it. From up here, the whole city looked like a circuit board, alive and electric.

He was sprawled upside down on the couch, physics textbook balanced on his chest, mumbling formulas to himself. Across the room, Bucky sat in an armchair, metal arm gleaming faintly in the lamplight as he sharpened a knife with that hyper-focused patience that made Peter think of cats watching birds.The rest of the Avengers (minus Hawkeye and Black Widow who stayed with Clints family for a few days) were on a mission in Germany, leaving only Peter and Bucky behind.

“You know,” Peter said, voice muffled by the book, “for someone who says he’s trying to live a normal life, you sharpen that knife way too much. Normal people use butter knives. Or plastic.”

Bucky arched a brow without looking up. “Normal people don’t fight aliens for a living.”

“Touche,” Peter muttered, flipping a page.

There was a pause. A heavy one.

Winter growled in Bucky’s head, the Russian accent slicing sharp. You are weak. You get attached. I keep us alive.

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Not tonight,” he muttered aloud.

Peter tilted his head. He didn’t ask who Bucky was talking to. He already knew. Instead, he dug into his hoodie pocket and tossed something at him.

Bucky caught it out of reflex—a small pack of Pop-Tarts.

“Eat,” Peter ordered, mock-stern. “You’re grumpier when you’re hungry.”

Bucky blinked. “…Ты говоришь как Стив.”[you sound like Steve]

Peter smirked. “Ого, спасибо. В следующий раз я вместо этого кину тебе в голову щит.”

[Wow, thanks. Next time I’ll throw the shield at your head instead.];

That earned a real chuckle, low and tired, but warm.

An alarm cut through the tower before Peter could say more. Red lights strobed against the glass, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice sharp and urgent:

“Unauthorized breach. Sublevel access. Multiple hostiles detected.”

Peter shot upright. “Враги? Здесь?[Hostiles? Here]

Bucky was already moving, knife vanishing into a sheath, his metal arm flexing like it had a mind of its own. “HYDRA,” he growled.

And he was right. By the time they reached the lab floor, the place was chaos—smoke, shouting, HYDRA soldiers swarming in through a ruptured service tunnel.

But worse was the machine they dragged with them: a hulking, half-rusted arc of steel and wires, humming with unstable blue energy.

Peter’s eyes widened. “That’s not Stark tech.”

Bucky froze mid-step, recognition slamming into him. “No. It’s theirs. An old project. Dimensional gate. They tried to build one years ago, failed—”

“Guess they’re giving it another shot,” Peter muttered, webbing a soldier to the wall.

Winter snarled in Bucky’s head, loud and sharp: It’s for me. For us. Back to the cage.

Bucky gritted his teeth, firing a stolen rifle into the console. “Not happening.”

The machine screamed, light flaring white-blue. The floor cracked. Air bent and twisted into a spiral.

Peter’s spider-sense went nuclear. “It’s gonna blow!”

“Peter!” Bucky lunged as the pull started, wind howling through the lab. Stark’s equipment flew first—tools, metal crates, a desk sucked into the vortex. Then a soldier screamed as he was dragged off his feet, vanishing into the light.

Peter’s sneakers slid on the floor. He shot webs, anchoring himself, but they snapped like brittle string.

“Buck!” he shouted, panic sharp.

Bucky slammed his arm into the floor, anchoring himself deep, the other hand seizing Peter by the back of the hoodie.

“Понял тебя!” [Got you]

“Не отпускай!” [Don’t let go]

“Не отпущу” [I won’t]

The machine roared. The pull intensified. And in one violent snap—

The vortex swallowed them both.

They landed hard, skidding across wet asphalt. Rain hammered down, cold and unrelenting, neon lights bleeding color into puddles.

Peter groaned, rolling onto his back. “Okay… ow.”

Bucky dragged himself upright, scanning the skyline—no Avengers Tower, no Stark logo, no familiar cityscape. Just jagged rooftops, shadow-drenched alleys, and a feeling in the air like the whole place was holding its breath.

Winter stirred inside Bucky, hungry. New mission. New Place. Same kill list.

Bucky’s grip tightened on his knife. He exhaled slow, shaking his head. “Где бы это ни было... мы не одни”

[Wherever this is… we’re not alone.];

A siren wailed in the distance. And Gotham’s shadows closed in.

Chapter Text

flashback: 2 weeks ago 

It had started with little things.

Tim’s text habits — half the time he replied within thirty seconds, half the time he ghosted for twelve hours with a “sorry, got busy.” Busy with what, exactly? Peter thought. Nobody had that many “family emergencies.”

Stephanie always had mysterious bruises she brushed off with terrible excuses. “I fell off my bike” would have worked — if Gotham Prep even had a bike rack.

And Duke? Duke would show up to study sessions looking dead on his feet, then somehow bounce back the second someone cracked a joke. No normal teenager ran on that little sleep.

Damian was worse. He spoke like he’d been alive for forty years, carried himself like he was a soldier, and had the meanest glare Peter had ever seen on a twelve-year-old.

It all nagged at Peter — the late-night vanishing acts, the inside jokes that stopped whenever he walked in. He didn’t want to be nosy, but his Spider-sense itched whenever they lied. And Peter… well, Peter couldn’t not notice patterns.

It happened one rainy evening in the library.

Tim had nodded off over a pile of textbooks, pen still in hand. His sleeve slipped up, and Peter’s eyes snagged on something faint but undeniable: a scar across his forearm. Not the random kind from a scrape or accident. A blade scar. Clean, sharp, deliberate.

Peter froze. His mind raced.

Then Steph plopped down beside Tim with a grin. “Don’t tell me he fell asleep again?” she whispered.

Peter blinked. “Uh… yeah. Guess so.”

But when she reached out to shake Tim awake, Peter noticed her wrist. Bruised. Like someone had grabbed her too hard.

It didn’t take long. Peter wasn’t just smart — he was obsessive when it came to puzzles. That night, back at the apartment, he booted up his laptop and cross-referenced everything he knew: Gotham’s vigilantes, their patrol patterns, injuries reported on the news.

Every single time Red Robin vanished? Tim Drake was “too busy with homework.” Spoiler’s sightings lined up exactly with Stephanie’s absences. Duke had to be The Signal — the build matched perfectly, not to mention the timing.

And Damian… Damian had to be Robin. The attitude was a dead giveaway.

Peter sat back in his chair, stunned. His friends. His friends were Gotham’s vigilantes.

That means he was IN BATMANS HOUSE. Holy shit!!

The next day, he couldn’t keep it in.

They were sitting on the school steps when he blurted, “So… how’s the cape life?”

The silence was immediate. Tim choked on his coffee. Steph froze mid-laugh. Duke dropped his notebook. Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Peter winced. “Uh. Surprise?”

Steph leaned forward, eyes wide. “You— you know?”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you figured it out. You’re you.”

Duke groaned. “Man, B was gonna kill us if this ever got out.”

Damian’s voice was sharp, accusing. “If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t!” Peter said quickly, hands up. “Cross my heart

Chapter Text

Peter sat on the couch with his mask dangling from one hand, knees pulled up. He kept staring at the fabric like it had betrayed him. His chest still heaved from swinging across half the city, but the adrenaline had long since soured into nausea.

Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed tight. His hood was shoved back, hair a mess, the streak of white catching in the lamplight. He hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Peter broke first. “They know.” His voice cracked. “All of them. Tim, Steph, Duke… even Cass. They know it’s me.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look up. “And?”

Peter’s throat worked. “And they think you’re hurting me. That you—” His breath hitched. “That you’re some monster dragging me around.”

Bucky’s silence was heavy.

Peter continued, voice sharp in the way little kids get when they’re about to cry. “Jason’s had his gun pointed at you since the second he saw you. And when they looked at me—” He squeezed the mask hard in his fists. “They thought I needed saving from you.”

That finally made Bucky glance over. His face was stone, but his eyes weren’t.

“You don’t owe them explanations,” he said lowly.

“I don’t want them to think that about you!” Peter snapped. “You’re not— you’re not what they think you are.”

For half a second, Bucky’s expression broke, just enough for guilt to bleed through. He turned away quickly, shoulders stiff.

Peter hugged his knees tighter. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Jason had a gun to your head. I had to stand in front of you. And they still didn’t believe me.”

Bucky said nothing. His silence was worse than shouting.

Peter’s grip on his mask tightened until his knuckles ached. “I hate it,” he admitted, voice small. “I hate using it.”

That made Bucky freeze. His metal hand clenched at his side, but his voice was steady. “I know.”

Peter finally looked up, eyes glassy. “Then why does it feel like one day… I’ll have to say it again?”

Bucky had no answer. The sirens outside Gotham’s windows did it for him.

Chapter Text

The second the first gunshot cracked, Bucky knew he was screwed.

Not because of the masked idiots waving rifles around — he could handle them. He wanted to handle them. Tear them apart, one by one, until the floor was slick with blood. That was Winter’s voice, coiled like barbed wire in the back of his skull, whispering for release.

No, the real problem was the people. The civilians pressed against the walls, clutching each other. The crying kids. The tremor in the air that smelled like fear.

If Winter took over here, they’d all die.

Bucky clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, hands half-raised as if he were just another bystander. His metal arm stayed tucked under his jacket, hidden. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give Winter an opening.

Eliminate. Neutralize. End threat.

The Soldier’s voice was louder now, stronger than it had been in months. Hydra’s ghost always came back when the smell of gunpowder hit.

“Beck.”

Bucky’s head jerked. Behind an overturned desk, crouched low but steady, was Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s golden idiot son. Except his eyes weren’t the glazed kind Bucky expected from some billionaire who’d wandered into the wrong place. They were sharp. Calculating. Dangerous.

“You have a plan?” Bucky muttered under his breath, not daring to move too much.

Wayne’s reply was cool, measured. “Working on it.”

That only pissed Winter off more. Weak. Talk. Always talk. End them. Quick. Efficient.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed in his own head.

But the tension was shredding him apart. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t focus. Every second stretched longer, every trigger-finger twitch pulling Winter closer to the surface.

Then the glass above shattered.

Bucky’s chest dropped out when he saw red and blue. Peter. Of course it was Peter.

The kid landed in a crouch, cracking a joke like he wasn’t surrounded by automatic weapons. “Didn’t your moms ever tell you bank robbery is cliché?”

For a heartbeat, relief hit Bucky like a sucker punch. Peter was here. Alive. Moving. His.

Then the relief curdled to terror. Because Peter wasn’t just here. He was putting himself between Bucky and the rest of the room.

And Jason Todd was standing ten feet away, gun aimed square at Bucky’s head.

“Beck” Jason growled, finger white-knuckling the trigger. “You even twitch wrong, and you’re dead.”

Bucky wanted to snarl back. He wanted to tell Jason to mind his own damn business. But Winter surged, drowning out thought. His pulse pounded in his temples, demanding violence.

The first robber flinched, gun snapping up. Instinct swallowed everything. Bucky moved — jacket ripping open, arm raised, catching the bullet with a metallic clang. Gasps ripped through the room. Eyes widened. Guns swung toward him.

And Winter laughed. Now. Now. Kill them all.

Bucky’s knees shook with the effort to hold back. Not civilians. Not kids. Not Peter. Never Peter.

He glanced up once, just once, to see Peter’s wide white eyes staring back at him. Pleading. Terrified. And that look—

It anchored him.

Barely.

But not enough.

Because a minute later, Winter had a man pinned to the marble, knife raised, bloodlust boiling up his throat—

And it was Peter’s voice, shaking, cracking, that ripped through everything:

“Sputnik.”

And Bucky’s world went black.

Chapter Text

Peter had hoped—really, really hoped—that maybe, by some miracle, everyone would just… forget.

The news cycle in Gotham was fast, right? Joker gas one day, mysterious ninja assassins the next. Maybe no one would care about a spider-kid pulling a bank robber off the ceiling. Maybe—

Peter tried to make it through the morning without drawing attention. Keep his head down, finish his math quiz, pretend like he hadn’t nearly cried himself to sleep after saying that damn word to Bucky.

It almost worked.

Until lunch.

He carried his tray to his usual spot by the window, but when he got there, Tim, Duke, Stephanie, Cass, and Damian were already waiting. All of them.

The hair on the back of Peter’s neck prickled. “…Hi?”

Stephanie leaned forward, chin in her hand, smile sharp. “So. Spider-Man.”

Peter almost dropped his tray. “Wh—what?”

“Don’t bother,” Tim cut in, tired voice flat as stone. “Jason told us everything. The mask, the webs, all of it.”

Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach. Jason. Of course Jason couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“He what?!” Peter squeaked.

Duke shrugged, though his eyes were serious. “Yeah. He said you ripped your mask off to protect James.”

Peter’s ears burned. He wanted to crawl under the table. “That—uh—that doesn’t sound like me.”

Damian snorted. “Do not insult us with lies. You fought like a fool, quipped like a fool, and endangered yourself like a fool. The mask was incidental.”

“Thanks, kid,” Peter muttered, burying his face in his hands.

Cass tilted her head, watching him with that piercing, wordless gaze. “Scared,” she said softly. “Not of them. Of us.”

Peter flinched. His mouth opened, closed. “…You don’t get it.”

Tim leaned in, sharp. “Then make us get it. Why hide? Why stay with him?” His tone dropped lower. “Jason thinks he is abusing you. So do half of us.”

Peter’s chest clenched. He looked around the table — at Steph’s too-wide, too strained grin hiding concern, at Duke’s steady patience, at Damian’s judgmental glare, at Cass’s quiet eyes, at Tim’s sharpened suspicion.

“He’s not,” Peter said, voice rough. “He’s not hurting me. He’s—he’s all I’ve got left.”

That quieted them. Even Damian blinked, taken aback.

Peter shoved a hand through his hair, hood tugging forward to hide his face. “I’m Spider-Man because I want to be. Because it’s my choice. And Bucky—he’s my family. If you can’t understand that…” He swallowed hard. “…then I don’t know what to tell you.”

The table went silent for a beat. Then Stephanie leaned back, arms crossed, and blew out a breath.

“Well,” she said, “this is going to make group projects way more interesting.”

Peter groaned into his hands.

Chapter Text

Peter bolted the second the bell rang.
Not a casual “oh, class is starting, better walk fast” kind of exit. A full-on, tray-abandoned, backpack-half-zipped, sprint-down-the-hall kind of exit.

Because they knew.
Tim. Steph. Duke. Cass. Damian.
His friends.
His only actual friends in this world.

And Jason had told them.

He shoved his way into the boys’ bathroom and locked himself in a stall, pressing his forehead against the cold metal. His chest felt too tight, his breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts.

They knew. They all knew.

“Okay, Parker,” he muttered to himself, voice shaking. “Think. They don’t hate you. They don’t—no, wait, they definitely hate you. Damian called you a fool. That’s basically death in Robin-speak.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled it out.

Group Chat: “Batlings + Stray”

Not the new kid anymore: u good spidey?

Don’t spoil : We didn’t mean to corner you like that.
Coffe is life: But we are going to talk later. Don’t think you’re off the hook.
Bloodson: The fool is ignoring us. Typical.
 The favorite: 💚

Peter slammed the phone down like it had burned him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the stall door until his knuckles hurt. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone here know. He wasn’t supposed to drag them into his mess. Gotham was already too dangerous without Spider-Man drama thrown in.

“Bucky’s gonna kill me,” he whispered. “Clint’s gonna make popco—”

He swallowed trying to hold back a cry, Clint isn’t here no one is, they are alone.

The bell rang again, echoing through the halls. Peter shoved his hood up and slipped out the back door instead of heading to class. The Gotham chill slapped him in the face as he ducked into the alley behind the science wing, trying to breathe.

He felt like he was standing on a rooftop with no web-shooters.

Batkid POV

Tim had barely dropped his bag on the desk before he started.
“Spider-Man. Peter Parker is Spider-Man.”

Stephanie threw her arms up. “CALLED IT. I CALLED IT. You all said I was paranoid, but boom—Steph was right again.”

Duke groaned. “You’ve also accused the lunch lady, three teachers, and half the chess team of being vigilantes.”

“Okay but THIS TIME I WAS RIGHT,” Steph fired back, grinning like she’d won the lottery.

Damian crossed his arms. “You’re all blinded by sentiment. Beck lied. He concealed his identity and put us in danger. Typical.”

Cass signed, not liar. scared. 

Tim nodded quickly. “Exactly. If you were Spider-Man living with the Winter Soldier—who, by the way, half the city thinks is a terrorist—would you trust anyone with that?”

Jason, leaning against the pillar, scoffed. “Yeah, well, he’s trusting the wrong people. James is dangerous. I’ve seen it.”

“You almost SHOT him!” Steph snapped. “You don’t exactly scream trustworthy, Jason.”

Jason’s helmet tilted toward her. “Excuse me for not wanting the Winter Soldier running around Gotham. You didn’t see him at the bank. He was gone. Killed mode,ready to kill. If the kid hadn’t dropped the magic word—”

 “Okay, but what’s the plan then? Do we just sit on this? Do we bring it to Bruce?”Duke asked no one in particular.

“Tell him,” Damian said instantly. “Father must know. He’ll shut this down.”

“NO,” Tim snapped. “Bruce finding out means interrogation, lockdown, the whole nine yards. Peter will never trust us again.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bruce is going to notice sooner or later. He always does. And when he finds out we kept it from him—”

“Then we deal with it,” Steph interrupted, glaring. “But right now? Peter’s our friend. He’s Spider-Man. He saved people. I’m not throwing him to BatDad’s Trust Issues Incorporated.”

Jason barked a laugh. “Friend? He’s a kid tangled up with a killer. That’s a liability, not a friend.”

Cass suddenly slammed her hand flat on the desk. The sound cracked through the room. Her voice was low, but absolute: “He’s family.”

Everyone shut up.

Jason exhaled hard through his nose, muttering, “Family gets hurt around here.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, voice sharp. “That’s why we protect him.”

The room bristled with tension—Jason glaring, Damian scowling, Tim pacing, Steph smirking like she’d die on Peter’s hill, Duke still frustrated, Cass calm but immovable, and Dick caught between them all.

Finally, Tim muttered, “So it’s unanimous then. No Bruce. Not yet.”

“No,” Damian growled.

“Yes,” Steph, Duke, and Cass said at once.

Jason crossed his arms. “You’re all out of your minds.”

Chapter Text

Tim slammed another file down. “Look, Peter’s a genius. I’ve seen the way he solves problems in class. He’s not reckless, he’s strategic. We could actually work with him.”

Damian sneered. “Work with him? He deceived us. And he associates with the Soldier. Do you want Gotham’s criminals to learn we harbor Spider-Man?”

Stephanie leaned across the table, pointing at him. “Oh my god, get over yourself, Gremlin. You lie about where you go every other night and somehow that’s fine?”

“At least I don’t—” Damian started.

“—eat Pop-Tarts in bed like a gremlin raccoon? Yeah, you do,” Steph cut him off.

“ENOUGH,” Duke snapped, running a hand over his face. “Focus! The question isn’t whether Peter’s Spider-Man—we know that now. The question is: do we keep covering for him, or do we loop him into us?”

Cass signed, loop him in. Then said softly: “Trust builds trust.”

“Yeah, let’s just give the teenage bug-boy our secret identities too. Great idea.” Jasons voice dripped with sarcasm.

Stephanie froze. Her eyes darted toward Tim, Damian and Duke, then Cass. “…Well.” She dragged the word out, biting her lip. “About that.”

Jason’s helmet tilted toward her. “What the hell does ‘about that’ mean?”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Oh no, here we go.”

Duke raised a cautious hand like he was in class. “So…funny story. He, uh…he kind of already knows.”

Jason straightened so fast his chair scraped against the floor. “WHAT?!”

Cass nodded once, confirming it. “He knows.”

Jason whirled on her. “You let him?!”

Cass just shrugged. He figured it out.

“Of course he did,” Tim confirmed, tapping his temple. “The kid’s basically me with spider-powers. He connected the dots weeks ago.”

Dick blinked, looking between them. “Wait—wait—hold up. Are you telling me Peter Beck, the fifteen-year-old knows who we all are?!”

Steph winced. “Surprise?”

Jason barked a harsh laugh and raked a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. You’re all unbelievable. you hand him the keys to the kingdom?”

“He earned them,” Duke shot back, standing. “He’s been saving lives right under our noses. He’s not stupid, Jason. He hasn’t said anything because he respects us.”

Jason jabbed a finger at him. “Respect doesn’t stop bullets, Duke. Respect doesn’t stop James when he flips into murder mode.”

“Neither does pointing a gun at him!” Steph snapped.

Chapter Text

Jason paced like a caged animal, helmet tucked under one arm. “Do you guys even hear yourselves? You’re telling me some fifteen-year-old outsider knows more about us than Superman does! And you’re okay with that?”

Steph crossed her arms. “He’s not just ‘some outsider.’ He’s Peter. He’s—”

“A kid,” Jason snapped. “A kid who lives with an assassin. Tell me again how this is a stable situation?”

“Stop.” Cass’s voice cut sharp, calm but firm. Everyone turned. Her gaze pinned Jason like a blade. “Peter is safe… with Bucky.”

Jason’s mouth opened, then shut. He didn’t argue with Cass often — she never spoke unless she meant it.

Tim leaned forward on the table, exhaustion etched into every movement. “Look, Jason, the fact is: Peter knew who we were before we even suspected him. He could have outed us. He didn’t. That tells me he’s trustworthy.”

“Or it tells me he’s good at playing the long game,” Jason shot back.

Duke groaned. “God, you’re impossible. Do you even hear yourself? He’s not using us, Jason. He’s been… trying. He’s trying to juggle school and powers and keeping Bucky from going full murderbot, and you think he’s plotting against us?”

Jason bristled, fists clenching. “I don’t trust James. And if the kid’s tied to him, then—”

“Then maybe you should get your head out of your ass and see that Peter’s not a victim here,” Steph interrupted, fire in her tone. “He’s a hero. Just like us. The difference is, he actually had to do it alone.”

The words stung. Even Jason flinched.

Dick finally stepped in, voice low but carrying. “Enough.” He looked around at all of them, blue eyes steady. “We can argue all night, but the reality doesn’t change. Peter knows who we are. We need to decide what to do with that, if we really shouldn’t tell Bruce or at least Alfred.”

“Tell Bruce,” Jason said immediately.

“No!” Steph, Duke, Tim, and even Cass snapped in unison.

Jason threw his arms up. “You’re kidding me.”

Tim’s voice was sharp despite the bags under his eyes. “If Bruce finds out, his first move will be to pull us off Peter entirely. He’ll isolate him. Maybe even put eyes on Bucky 24/7. That won’t help anyone. It’ll just make Peter shut down.”

Duke added quickly, “And the kid trusts us. If we betray that? We lose him. And probably Bucky too. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

Jason stared at all of them like they’d lost their minds. “…You’re all siding with him over Bruce?”

“No,” Dick said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re siding with Peter.”

The silence after that was heavy.

Jason didn’t respond. He just shoved his helmet back on, muttered, “This is gonna blow up in our faces,” and stormed out.

The others exchanged uneasy looks.

Because, deep down, they all knew he might be right.

Peter was trying his best to look normal. Hoodie up, earbuds in, textbook open on the bench like he was actually reading it. In reality, his leg was bouncing, his eyes kept flicking to every shadow, and his stomach was in knots.

The bank robbery hadn’t left his mind. Not the guns. Not the screaming. Not even Winter’s knife.
No — it was Jason’s gun pointed at Bucky. Jason’s fury. Jason’s words.

He’s not safe.
He’s a monster.

Peter shut his book harder than necessary.

“Rough day?”

Peter flinched so hard his earbud nearly flew out. He looked up to find Tim Drake standing there, sleep-deprivation bags under his eyes and coffee in hand like always.

“Oh—hey,” Peter said, voice too high, too fast. “Didn’t see you.”

Tim arched a brow. “You did. You just weren’t paying attention.”

Peter winced. “…Fair.”

Tim sat down beside him, not asking permission. He sipped his coffee and studied Peter like a math problem. The silence stretched long enough that Peter squirmed.

Finally, Tim said, “So…Spider-Man.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. His face went hot. “I—I—uh—” He stammered, fumbling his book closed like it could shield him. “Look, I—“

“Kill me now,” Peter muttered, burying his face in his hands.

Tim leaned back, still watching him. “Relax. No one’s gonna out you.”

Peter peeked between his fingers. “…Really?”

“Really,” Tim said, serious now. “You’ve been juggling classes, patrols, Bucky, and hiding all of it from us. That’s… impressive.”

“Or stupid,” Peter muttered.

Tim gave a tiny smirk. “Those overlap more than you think.”

For a beat, neither said anything. The buzz of the courtyard filled the air — kids laughing, lockers slamming, someone blasting music from their phone. But it felt like the world had narrowed down to the bench.

Peter finally whispered, “You all thought Bucky was… hurting me, didn’t you?”

Tim hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. We were wrong.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “He’s all I’ve got. You don’t get it. If you’d shot him—if Jason had—” His throat closed.

Tim’s voice softened. “Hey. No one’s going to take him from you. Not while you’ve got us watching your back.”

Peter blinked at him. “…You’re really not gonna tell Bruce?”

Tim smirked again, sipping his coffee. “Let’s just say the Bat doesn’t need to know everything.”

Peter let out a shaky laugh. For the first time all day, his shoulders eased. “…Thanks, Tim.”

Tim shrugged, hiding the faintest smile behind his cup. “Don’t thank me yet. Finals are coming. And I fully expect you to help me crush the curve.”

Peter groaned. “You’re evil.”

“Genius,” Tim corrected.

For a little while, at least, the weight on Peter’s chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Chapter Text

flashback

The mission in Germany had ended faster than expected. But as they approached the Tower, something felt… off.

Tony hovered in with his suit, sensors humming. “Guys… Tower’s quiet. No light, no energy signatures —nothing.”

Steve’s shield was already out, hand on the console as he scanned. “No life signs. What the hell happened here?”

Natasha frowned, arms crossed. “Did someone hack the security system? Or was this an inside job?”

Thor’s hammer swung idly, lightning crackling faintly along its edges. “By Odin’s beard...”

Tony’s fingers danced across the console. “Yeah… and someone or something left without leaving a trace. That’s new.”

Then Wanda stepped in from the landing bay, her cape brushing the floor. Her eyes were half-lidded, skin pale, breathing shallow. She was clutching something tightly against her chest.

“Wanda?” Steve called, rushing to her side.

“Peter, Bucky,” Natasha breathed. “Where ARE THEY?”

Thor’s brow furrowed. “This is ill-omened. Even Heimdall would struggle to locate the fallen.”

Steve scanned the room again, eyes narrowing. “No signs of struggle beyond the lab floor and… this vortex thing?”

Tony gritted his teeth, zooming in on the lab feed that F.R.I.D.A.Y. had automatically saved before being shut down. “Guys… look at this.”

The screen flickered, showing a swirling, impossible spiral of energy, chunks of metal and HYDRA soldiers getting pulled inside. “This… this is a dimensional displacement. Whoever built it—HYDRA or not—they made it partially operational. And Peter and… Bucky?”

Thor whistled low. “By the All-Father… they were consumed.”

Natasha’s lips thinned. “Consumed? You mean—gone. Just… gone?”

Wandas powers flickered, a soft red glow escaping from her hands. “Peter…” she whispered, voice weak, barely audible.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “We need to find them. Now.”

Tony slammed a fist against the console. “Great. Just great. Our Tower’s empty, Peter’s gone, Bucky’s gone, and the kid’s literally out there somewhere in God-knows-where. F.R.I.D.A.Y., trace that energy signature.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s calm, mechanical voice replied: “Energy source dispersed beyond conventional dimensional parameters. Tracing will require alternative methods.”

Natasha groaned. “So… we’re looking for a needle in an infinite haystack.”

Thor’s hammer rumbled. “Then we begin the search, as warriors must. No matter the realm!”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.”Why...”

Wanda’s fingers twitched, the picture sliding again in her lap. Her lips moved silently, whispering a name: Peter…

Steve’s eyes hardened. “Whatever it takes, we get them back.”

Natasha sighed“. We need to find the kid, find Bucky, and figure out what kind of Hydra stupidity created a dimensional portal in our lab.”

Thor’s hammer glowed faintly as he stomped toward the Quinjet bay. “Then we ride, comrades! Let us pierce the veil between worlds and retrieve our allies!”

Tony muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing at the swirling photo in Wanda’s hand: “Yeah, and if we find Peter, I swear, I’m never letting him climb anything ever again.”

The team moved as one, determination sharp and unyielding. Somewhere, in a reality not their own, Peter and Bucky were clinging to each other in a world that wasn’t theirs, unaware of how many people were already searching for them.

Chapter Text

Wanda floated in a half-dream. The world around her bent and bled red, voices flickering through static: Tony calling her name. Steve shouting orders. Bucky’s voice, distorted and fading.

She reached out, fingers trembling.
“Peter…”

Her magic responded to the name.

A spark ignited — wild, instinctive, desperate. The scarlet energy flared outward, tearing through the veil between worlds, searching through her bond with the boy she had come to see as her little brother.

The spell grabbed hold of something solid. A heartbeat. A memory. A version of Peter.

And then it pulled.

With a soft, reality-bending crack, a burst of crimson energy erupted between two crumbling brick walls. A woman fell through it, crashing to the wet pavement.

Wanda gasped, clutching her head. The world around her spun, too loud, too alive — like it wasn’t the right world at all.

Her hands glowed faintly red as she pushed herself up, dizzy. “Kde…Kde jsem ?”[“Where… where am I?”]

The city didn’t answer. Only rain.

A stray cat hissed and bolted.

Her magic flickered again — weak, unfocused. The last thing she saw before she fainted was a neon sign flickering in the distance: “Welcome to Gotham City.”

Constantine stubbed out his cigarette and squinted at the glowing dot that pulsed across the map.

“Bloody hell. That’s not supposed to be there.”

Chas looked up from across the room. “What’s not supposed to be where?”

Constantine leaned closer, tapping the map. “Scarlet chaos magic. Real old, real dangerous. Not from this plane, either. Just popped into bloody Gotham.”

Chas frowned. “Gotham? Isn’t that Batman’s turf?”

“Yeah,” Constantine muttered, already grabbing his coat. “And last time I checked, the Bat doesn’t like visitors who break reality on his doorstep. Which means I’ve got about six hours before he finds her and decides to start asking very inconvenient questions.”

Chas sighed. “So, what’s the plan?”

Constantine lit another cigarette, eyes flicking with faint amusement. “The plan, mate, is to get there before Batsy does — and before that magic decides to chew through the city’s ley lines.”

He blew out smoke, the map still glowing red.
“Because if it does…” He smirked grimly. “We’re all in for a right nasty bit of chaos.”

Tim was typing at the Batcomputer when an alert flickered across the screen. Dimensional fluctuation detected. Subtle, almost like a hiccup in reality.

He frowned. “Weird…”

Duke looked up from a case file. “Something wrong?”

“Maybe,” Tim said, scanning the readings. “But it’s faint. Probably just a glitch.”

He hesitated, then shrugged it off.

Somewhere far above, the air shimmered faintly red.

Wanda lay hidden beneath the shadows of Gotham’s skyline — unconscious, alone, and carrying magic powerful enough to rip open the world again if it wasn’t contained.

And the only person who noticed her arrival was a chain-smoking magician in a tan trench coat heading straight for the city.

Chapter Text

Rain had stopped, but the clouds still pressed low, choking the moonlight.

Wanda stirred on the rooftop, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. Her head pounded, and every nerve screamed like she’d been pulled through fire. When she opened her eyes, red light flickered behind her irises before fading.

She sat up slowly, back pressed against the rough brick. Her hands trembled — the magic underneath her skin was wrong, restless, almost sentient. Gotham wasn’t just another city. It had a pulse. A dark, ancient one that whispered like ghosts in her ears.

“Ne...domů” [Not… home]” Wanda breathed, voice hoarse.

Her powers flickered out of her control — tendrils of scarlet energy crawling up her arms like veins. Neon lights down the alley sputtered, cracked glass, and the air shuddered.

A few blocks away, Peter Parker shot upright in bed.

His spider-sense hit him like a thunderclap.

He gasped, hand gripping his head as the world blurred into waves of danger and static. Every nerve lit up in red.
“What the—”

His breath caught. It wasn’t like the usual sense — no gun, no mugger, no knife in an alley. This was familiar.

Wanda.

He didn’t even think. Shoes, hoodie, mask. The window was open before he realized it.

Peter swung fast, wind tearing at his hoodie. His chest tightened. The signal was faint but wild, like static in his brain. She shouldn’t be here — Wanda was home, with the others.

Unless…

His heart sank.
Unless the portal grabbed her, too.

He landed on the edge of an apartment building, crouching low as lightning flashed far off over the river. The sense was stronger here, leading toward the Narrows.

Peter squinted. “Wanda?” he whispered into the night, voice small against the roar of the city.

No answer. Just the hum of the rain gutters and the faint crackle of electricity that shouldn’t have been there.

Then he saw it — faint red light spilling from between two buildings, pulsing like a heartbeat.

He webbed across.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered open again as Peter landed at the mouth of the alley, boots hitting the wet pavement with a soft thud. His mask was already off, the cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Wanda?” he said softly, stepping closer.

She blinked up at him, confused, dazed. “Peter?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He crouched down beside her, worry all over his face. “You shouldn’t be here. What happened?”

“I… I tried to find you,” she whispered. “The magic—it—”

Her voice broke off as another surge of chaos rolled through her veins. The streetlamps flickered again, and Peter’s spider-sense screamed.

“Whoa—hey—hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, reaching for her shoulder. “You’re safe now. Just breathe.”

Her breathing hitched, her fingers clutching at his sleeve. “This world… it’s sick, Peter. It’s heavy. It’s like it’s alive and it doesn’t want me here.”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Welcome to Gotham.”

She managed a weak, humorless laugh.

Peter steadied her as she tried to stand. “Come on. You can’t stay out here—”

Before he could finish, a low voice drawled from the alley mouth.

“Bloody hell, kid. You sure know how to attract trouble.”

Peter froze, eyes darting up to the man leaning in the shadows. Trench coat. Cigarette. Smirk that didn’t belong in this kind of city.

“Constantine,” Wanda murmured, eyes fluttering as her knees buckled.

Peter caught her before she hit the ground, glaring at the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”

Constantine stepped closer, the streetlight catching the edge of his smirk. “Name’s John. And if you don’t want this whole city turning into a magical sinkhole, kid, you’ll let me help her before she tears a hole clean through your fancy little Gotham.”

Peter’s spider-sense didn’t stop buzzing. But for once, he didn’t move.

He looked down at Wanda — pale, trembling, magic still sparking around her hands — and then back at the magician.

“Fine,” Peter said, voice tight. “But if you hurt her—”

Constantine held up a hand, amused. “Yeah, yeah. Got it, Spider-Kid. Now move aside. The witch and I have a long night ahead.”

Peter didn’t. Not right away. His jaw clenched as Gotham’s skyline rumbled with thunder again.

Chapter Text

The rain had picked up again, turning the alleys slick and silver under the streetlights. Peter moved fast, Wanda’s arm looped around his shoulder as he webbed across rooftops. Constantine followed below, somehow always managing to show up at the next corner without ever looking winded.

“Y’know,” Constantine called up, flicking ash off his cigarette, “you could just walk like the rest of us.”

Peter huffed, adjusting Wanda’s weight. “Sorry, not all of us have the luxury of trench coat teleportation, Mr. Occult Detective.”

“Oi, I don’t teleport. I just know shortcuts.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Wanda stirred slightly, mumbling against Peter’s shoulder. “The city… it’s humming. I can feel it.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “Yeah, it’s Gotham. Everything hums here. Usually because it’s cursed, broken, or about to explode.”

Constantine chuckled darkly. “He’s not wrong.”

Finally, Peter swung down into a narrow alley that ended at an old boarded-up bookstore. He landed lightly, nudging the door with his foot. It creaked open, revealing a dusty but surprisingly well-kept interior — half-hidden tech, some patched-together furniture, and a small cot in the corner.

Constantine whistled low. “Nice place, mate. Cozy.”

Peter ignored him, gently laying Wanda down on the cot. “This place was abandoned before I got here. Figured I’d use it for emergency stuff. Nobody comes around this part of the Narrows.”

He grabbed a worn towel and gently pressed it to Wanda’s forehead, trying to cool the feverish glow under her skin. Her fingers twitched — red energy pulsing faintly with every heartbeat.

“Easy,” Peter murmured. “You’re safe now.”

Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “I… tried to follow the portal. I thought if I anchored to your energy, I could—”

“Wanda, you shouldn’t have tried,” Peter said, a rare sharpness in his voice. “That portal almost tore Bucky and me apart. It’s a miracle you didn’t—”

“I had to,” she interrupted weakly. “Jsi moje rodina, Petře.“

[You’re my family, Peter.”]

The words hit harder than he expected. Peter swallowed, looking away. “Yeah, well. Family shouldn’t risk their lives for stupid science experiments gone wrong.”

Constantine leaned against a bookshelf, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled like lazy ghosts. “Hate to break the moment, lovebirds, but your witch here is bleeding chaos energy. Gotham’s already reacting — I can feel the ley lines pulsing from here.”

Peter frowned. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning this city’s practically allergic to magic,” Constantine said flatly. “If we don’t stabilize her soon, Gotham’ll start coughing blood. She’ll be drawing from the city’s energy just to stay conscious.”

Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Great. So what do we do?”

Constantine flicked his lighter shut. “You let me work.”

Peter immediately stepped between him and Wanda. “Not without me.”

Constantine groaned. “Bloody hell, kid. You’ve got a hero complex worse than Superman.”

Peter crossed his arms. “I’ve met him. He’s taller.”

That earned the faintest smirk from the magician. “Fine, have it your way. But when she starts glowing like a nuke, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Constantine kneeled beside Wanda, murmuring something low and old under his breath — words that made the shadows in the corners twist slightly. Wanda flinched, then stilled. Her breathing evened out, the light dimming under her skin.

Peter hovered close, watching anxiously. “Is she…?”

“Stable,” Constantine said, standing and brushing dust off his coat. “For now.”

Peter exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging with relief.

Constantine gave him a long look. “You’re hiding her, aren’t you?”

Peter hesitated. “…Yeah.”

“From who? Those batty vigilantes?”

Peter grimaced. “…Yeah.”

“Smart lad,” Constantine said with a wry grin. “But you can’t hide her forever. Magic like hers doesn’t just sit quietly. It calls. Sooner or later, Gotham’ll come knocking — one cowl or another.”

Peter looked at Wanda again, sleeping peacefully now. His voice was soft but firm. “Then I’ll protect her until she can go home.”

Constantine studied him for a moment — the too-young kid in a hoodie and mask, trying to carry the world. Then he sighed. “Bloody heroes. Always thinkin’ they can save everyone.”

Peter looked up at him, tired but smiling faintly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Constantine smirked, flicking his lighter back open. “Only when you’re right.”

He turned toward the door. “Get some rest, Spider-Kid. Tomorrow’s gonna be hell.”

When the door shut, Peter slumped into the chair beside Wanda, head dropping into his hands. The chaos magic had faded, but his spider-sense still hummed faintly, restless.

Somewhere deep inside, Gotham was shifting — reacting — to the arrival of another power it didn’t understand.

Peter sighed, glancing at Wanda. “Guess I’ll have to tell Bucky we’ve got another problem…”

Her fingers twitched, red light brushing over his hand in her sleep.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Definitely another problem.”

Chapter Text

Rain drummed against the cracked windows of the safe house — the rhythm slow, steady, and maddening. Gotham always sounded like a place half-asleep and half-screaming.

Peter sat on the windowsill of the old bookstore hideout, hoodie up, eyes half-closed. Below him, Wanda slept fitfully on the cot, the red glow under her skin dim but not gone.

He’d barely slept — spider-sense buzzing on and off all night, guilt chewing at him.

When the door creaked open, he didn’t need to look up. He already knew who it was.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Bucky said quietly.

Peter sighed. “Good morning to you too.”

Bucky’s boots were silent on the old wooden floor, but his presence filled the room anyway. The tension rolled off him like static. “Constantine told me,” he said flatly.

Peter turned his head slightly, frowning. “You talked to him?”

“He found me,” Bucky muttered. “Said my ‘kid’ was harboring a magical nuke in a broom closet downtown.”

Peter winced. “Okay, that’s—maybe fair phrasing.”

Bucky sat down in the corner chair, eyes fixed on the cot across the room. Wanda’s breathing was shallow, but steady. Her magic still flared under her skin — faint red light flickering whenever she dreamed.

He’d seen power her power before . Felt it. The way it twisted people up from the inside out.

And he’d lost too many people to it already.

Peter moved quietly around the room, tucking a blanket closer to Wanda’s shoulders. He looked small — smaller than Bucky ever wanted to admit he was. Hoodie too big, hair a mess, guilt written all over his face.

“She’s stable,” Peter whispered, as if afraid speaking louder might wake her. “Constantine said the backlash from the portal drained her. She’ll be okay after some rest.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just stared at Wanda a moment longer. She looked young again — not the Scarlet Witch, not the weapon Hydra tried to twist. Just Wanda. The kid who once made him laugh over burnt coffee in Sokovia. The one who always tried to help him feel human when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

He finally exhaled through his nose. “You should’ve told me.”

Peter flinched. “I—didn’t have time. She showed up out of nowhere.”

“Peter.” Bucky’s voice wasn’t angry — not yet. Just rough. “You brought her here. Into this world. With magic we don’t understand and no backup. Do you have any idea what could’ve gone wrong?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “She followed us. She didn’t mean to end up here. I just—” he swallowed. “I couldn’t leave her, Buck.”

Bucky’s hands curled, flesh and metal both tense. “You think I don’t get that?”

Peter blinked, surprised.

Bucky stood, pacing, his boots creaking on the old wood. “She’s my family too, kid. You think I wanted to leave her back there? You think I don’t lay awake at night wondering if the team’s still looking for us, if they think we’re dead?”

Peter said nothing. The hurt in Bucky’s voice was enough to fill the silence.

He turned, meeting Peter’s eyes — steel-blue and tired. “Wanda’s like a sister to me. I watched her grow up fighting ghosts I can’t even imagine. I promised myself I’d never let Hydra or anyone else use her again.”

He looked back at the cot, the faint red glow on her fingertips. “And now she’s here, half-dead in some Gotham basement because of that damn machine.”

Peter’s throat felt tight. “…She’s alive. You saved her, Buck.”

Bucky gave a humorless laugh. “We got lucky.”

Peter stepped closer, voice steady despite the tremor. “We got each other. That’s not luck — that’s family.”

For a moment, the tension cracked. Bucky’s shoulders slumped just slightly. He rubbed his temple with his metal hand, voice quieter now.

“You sound like Steve,” he murmured.

Peter grinned faintly. “Yeah, that’s what you said last time.”

“Guess I wasn’t wrong,” Bucky said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

They stood in silence again, the kind that only two people who’d been through hell could share.

Finally, Bucky broke it. “We keep her safe. No one finds her — not the Bats, not Constantine, not anyone. Gotham’s already crawling with eyes.”

Peter nodded. “She won’t go anywhere. I’ll watch her when you need rest.”

Bucky looked at him for a long second, then sighed. “You remind me of her sometimes, you know.”

Peter blinked. “Me? How?”

“Too much heart,” Bucky said softly. “Never know when to give up on people.”

Peter smiled a little. “Guess I learned that from both of you.”

Bucky shook his head, sitting back down beside Wanda. The red glow from her fingertips painted faint light on the metal of his arm. For once, it didn’t look dangerous — it looked human.

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, the way a brother would. “We’ll get home, Wanda,” he whispered. “One way or another.”

Peter leaned against the wall, watching the two of them — and for the first time since the portal, he let himself believe that maybe they could.

Chapter Text

Somewhere far off, sirens wailed, but down here in the dim light of the safehouse, the world felt small — almost safe.

Peter had drifted off on the couch, curled in his hoodie, a half-finished cup of cocoa (that Bucky had quietly made) sitting beside him. His hand still twitched when he dreamed, probably fighting off invisible monsters even in his sleep.

Wanda stirred before dawn.

Her fingers twitched first, a faint crackle of red energy rippled across the blanket. Her breath hitched, the first sign of consciousness since she’d fallen into the vortex. Bucky was on his feet before she even opened her eyes.

“Wanda?” he said softly, voice low and rough.

Her lashes fluttered, unfocused. “…Buck?”

He exhaled, tension leaking out all at once. “Yeah. You’re safe.”

Her brow furrowed, eyes darting around. The peeling wallpaper. The rain-slick window. The faint hum of city traffic that wasn’t New York. “Where—?”

“Gotham,” Peter said sleepily from the couch, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “You, uh, kinda crashed through reality. Like… literally.”

Wanda blinked, trying to sit up. “Gotham…?” Her accent thickened with confusion. “That’s… not real.”

Peter winced. “Yeah, so, about that…”

Bucky crouched beside her, steady hand on her shoulder. “It’s real here. Whole different universe. Don’t ask me how ,Hydra tech, portal explosion, it’s a mess.”

She closed her eyes, focusing, and the red light flared faintly under her skin again. “I tried to follow you,” she whispered. “When the energy wave hit the Tower, I felt it. I saw… you both disappear. I reached for you, and—”

Her voice broke. “And then everything shattered.”

Bucky’s hand tightened just slightly, grounding her. “You shouldn’t have followed us, kid.”

She looked at him then,  really looked, and for a heartbeat, he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t the weapon Hydra made. He was Bucky Barnes, the man who used to make her tea when nightmares kept her awake in the compound.

“I couldn’t lose you,” she said softly. “Either of you.”

Peter swallowed hard, guilt flashing across his face. “You almost did. The portal— it almost tore you apart.”

Wanda reached out, brushing her fingers against his sleeve. “And yet… here we are.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, voice quiet. “Barely.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was full of everything they didn’t know how to say. The kind of silence that carried love and fear and too many shared scars.

Finally, Wanda broke it. “There’s… something wrong with this place.”

Peter tilted his head. “Yeah, it’s Gotham. The whole city’s like… depression flavored with crime.”

She didn’t laugh. Her gaze went distant, the red in her irises flickering faintly. “No, not that. It’s… thick. Like the air itself hums with fear. Magic doesn’t flow right here.”

Bucky frowned. “You mean like Hydra tech?”

“No,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “Like something old. Something watching.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “That’s… not creepy at all.”

Bucky stood, scanning the rain-streaked window as if the darkness might answer her. “Then we keep low. Constantine’s sniffing around, and if this world’s got its own demons, I don’t plan on adding you to the target list.”

Peter got up too, stretching, voice softer.

Vymyslíme to, Wando. Vždycky to vymyslíme

[“We’ll figure it out, Wanda. We always do.”]

She looked at him and smiled faintly — the tired, aching kind of smile that said you don’t know how much I needed to hear that.

Bucky turned back toward them, crossing his arms. “Alright. Rules are simple. No magic outside the safehouse, no wandering off, and no picking fights with caped weirdos.”

Peter smirked. “Too late for that one.”

Wanda’s lips curved slightly. “Caped weirdos?”

Peter’s grin widened. “Long story. Involves a billionaire vampire dad and like seven ninja kids.”

Wanda giggled quietly, the sound soft and bright in the gloom. For the first time since the Tower fell silent, it felt almost like home again.

Almost.

Because when Wanda looked out the window, her magic hummed again.
And for just a second, through the fog and city lights, she thought she saw something staring back.

A shadow. A shape. A man.

Watching.

Chapter Text

The rain eased into mist, the city’s skyline shrouded in ghostly silver. But Gotham never truly slept, it only shifted, breathing through the cracks of stone and smoke.

Far above the flickering streetlights, on the ledge of a crumbling cathedral, two figures stood cloaked in the dark.

One was a man in a long gray coat and brimmed hat, his posture calm and demanding. The air around him shimmered faintly, not magic, not quite, but something older. The other was a woman draped in black lace and shadow, her eyes glowing faintly beneath her veil.

Lady Gotham. The city’s soul, born from centuries of blood and devotion.

“You should not be here,” she said softly, her voice echoing through stone and rain. “This realm is mine.”

The man inclined his head, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. “I do not interfere,” he said, his tone calm, deliberate. “I observe.”

She tilted her head, amusement rippling through the mist. “And yet here you stand, in flesh rather than vision. Observation takes on a curious form, Watcher.”

He didn’t deny it. “Something is shifting. A breach not born of your world or mine. Two threads have fallen through — not by fate, but by design.”

Her expression darkened, voice low and cold. “The boy and the soldier.”

He nodded. “Yes. Both tethered by grief. Both manipulated by forces they cannot yet see.”

“And Hydra,” she murmured, and her tone twisted into disdain. “Mortals with the arrogance to touch what lies between worlds.”

The Watcher’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where Wayne Tower stood gleaming through the rain. “It was no accident. The device that drew them here carried the mark of something older. An echo of the Multiversal.”

Lady Gotham turned toward him sharply, her veil rippling. “That force was sealed long ago.”

“It was,” the Watcher agreed. “Until someone began tearing at the threads of reality itself.”

The mist thickened, the city’s heartbeat slowing. Somewhere below, sirens screamed, human noise beneath cosmic weight.

Lady Gotham stepped closer, her voice soft but seething. “Do you mean to tell me this child — this Spider-Man — carries a spark of what was once forbidden?”

The Watcher looked at her, his eyes glimmering faintly gold beneath the brim. “He and his family carry something far more dangerous.”

Silence.

And then, like thunder rolling over the city, his words cut through the night:

“They carry potential. The kind that can save worlds — or destroy them.”

Lady Gotham’s eyes flickered, shadows coiling at her feet. “Then your kind should have kept them .”

“We tried,” the Watcher said simply. “But destiny doesn’t obey us.”

For a moment, they stood there — cosmic observer and urban goddess — watching the same storm.

Then her form began to fade, her voice slipping through the air like smoke. “The Court stirs again.If your boy and the other two are the spark, this city will burn before it heals.”

The Watcher didn’t move. “Then perhaps it must burn.”

When the lightning flashed, the ledge was empty. Only the whisper of wings — bats and something else — echoed into the night.

Below, Peter stirred uneasily in his sleep, a faint tremor of red light glimmering across Wanda’s fingers where they rested near his arm.
Bucky, still awake, turned toward the window — his instincts screaming that something had just shifted.

Chapter Text

The lightning faded, but the rain did not. Lady Gotham breathed uneasily,  the kind of breath before a scream.

Her presence lingered as a chill in the air, she was still beside the Watcher. Her form wavered, as though even the city’s own spirit feared to take full shape.

“Tell me the truth, Watcher,” she whispered. “This breach… it is not Hydra’s doing alone, is it?”

The Watcher’s gaze drifted skyward, toward the stars hidden by Gotham’s clouds. “No,” he said. “Hydra was merely a vessel. The hands pulling the strings belong to something”, he hesitated for a moment “older, ancient.”

Lady Gotham’s veil rippled like smoke. “Name it.”

The Watcher’s voice was almost reverent when he spoke.

“They call it the Convergence Protocol, a failsafe written by entities who existed before either of our universes were born.”

Her shadow stilled. “You speak of the Architects.”

He nodded once. “When the first worlds split, when your Gotham became its own nexus point and my universe its own sphere, the Architects created anchors in every reality. To watch. To maintain balance. But one anchor has been corrupted.”

Lady Gotham’s eyes flared with pale blue fire. “Corrupted by whom?”

The Watcher’s jaw clenched. “By one who learned to consume realities instead of observe them.”

A pause, a shiver in the air.

Her voice came out soft, cold, and utterly terrified. “…the Devourer.”

Chapter Text

“He is not like Galactus,” he added quietly. “Something far worse. The Echo of Null. The first consciousness to wake when the void itself learned to think.”

The ground trembled faintly, lights across the skyline flickering as though the city itself flinched at the name.

Lady Gotham’s hands curled into fists. “You would dare bring that shadow into my dominion?”

“I didn’t,” the Watcher said. “But your city now sits at a crossroads of two universes. The gate Hydra built tore a seam wide enough for the Echo to notice. It will come for the energy, for the boy, for the link between worlds.”

“The spider,” she murmured. “He carries the thread.”

“Exactly.” The Watcher’s eyes glowed faintly golden. “The dimensional residue fused to his core. It marks him. Wherever he goes, the boundary weakens.”

Lady Gotham’s form solidified, a being of stone and smoke. “Then he cannot stay.”

“And yet,” the Watcher replied, “he must. Because if he leaves too soon, the rift will widen and consume both realities.”

For a long moment, Gotham’s guardian said nothing. Then her head tilted, her voice low and edged with something like curiosity.
“Your kind swore never to interfere.”

The Watcher turned, the faintest shadow of a smile playing across his face. “I am not interfering. I am warning.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what of the others? The soldier. The witch.My knights.”

“They are already pieces in motion,” the Watcher said. “Some will fight to protect him. Others… will try to control him. And when the Echo finally breaks through—” He looked toward the skyline, where lightning split the sky in two. “—both worlds will need them united.”

Lady Gotham’s voice softened. “And if they fail?”

The Watcher finally met her gaze. “Then everything falls into silence.”

”We need to guide them—“ Lady Gotham concluded.

Thunder cracked across the city, so loud it shook the gargoyles from their perches. And when the sound faded, the cathedral was empty, save for a faint shimmer of gold in the air.

The convergence has begun.

Peter sat cross-legged on the couch, mask tossed aside, web-shooters open on the table beside an empty pizza box. Bucky leaned against the wall, arms folded, his metal one glinting under the dim lamp. Wanda sat at the edge of the bed, pale and tired but awake again, eyes still red from overusing her magic.

““…I think I overshot.”

Bucky gave a low grunt, rubbing his temple. “You almost didn’t make it, kid. You were burning up when you landed. Next time, don’t follow random Hydra wormholes.”

Wanda smirked faintly. “Next time, maybe don’t fall into one.”

Peter snorted, instantly regretting it when both of them shot him twin looks. “Okay, okay, too soon.”

The room went quiet again, the hum of the radiator filling the silence. Bucky watched Wanda carefully, part soldier, part brother. There had been a time he’d seen her as a kid who’d lost everything too young. The way she looked now, older, scarred, and yet still trying, hurt more than he’d admit.

The air grew heavy, pressing in from every direction, until the shadows rippled across the far away wall.

And then… they stepped out of them.

A man in a dark cloak and a woman pale as moonlight, her gown dragging over the floor.The Watcher and Lady Gotham.

Peter nearly fell off the couch. “Okay, this is… new. Buck, please tell me you can see them too.”

“I see them,” Bucky said warily, already moving slightly in front of Wanda and Peter. His instincts screamed protect.

Wanda rose slowly to her feet, power flickering red around her hands. “You,” she whispered. “Watcher. You never interfere.”

“I do not,” the Watcher said calmly, his gaze drifting across all three of them. “But this world is a wound now — and wounds fester.”

Lady Gotham stepped closer, eyes soft but dark as obsidian. “And my city bleeds because of it.” Her gaze lingered on Peter, then on Bucky . “You brought echoes with you. Shadows of another war.”

Peter frowned, confused. “We didn’t mean to! We were just— it was an accident, I swear! We were fighting Hydra and—”

“The accident is not what concerns us,” the Watcher interrupted, his tone grave. “It is what followed.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “What followed?”

“The thing your Hydra woke,” Lady Gotham said softly. “Something ancient. It crawled between your worlds. It whispers to the broken and the angry. It is hungry.”

Peter swallowed. “Like… how hungry are we talking? ‘Eat a planet’ hungry or—”

“Peter,” Bucky warned.

But the Watcher’s faint smile held no comfort. “Your fear is not misplaced. It feeds on chaos. On loss. It survived by wearing many names — Leviathan. The Hollow One… The Devourer.”

Wanda’s eyes flared scarlet, her voice low. “Then we stop it.”

“You cannot stop what you cannot find,” Lady Gotham said. “But you may hold it at bay — for now. Together.”

The Watcher’s eyes glowed faintly, stars flickering in the void. “Both your worlds will feel its reach. The threads are tied. Heroes and villains, gods and demons — the boundary between them will fall.”

The light around them dimmed. Lady Gotham turned to Peter last, her expression unreadable. “You are not meant for this city, Spider. But this city… may yet need you.”

Then, like smoke caught in a breeze, they were gone.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Peter slumped back into the couch. “Okay, so we’re… dealing with an interdimensional grief demon that likes chaos. Great. Totally fine. No big deal.”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “I miss when our biggest problems were just nazis.”

Wanda looked out the rain-streaked window, her reflection shimmering faintly in the glass. “Whatever it is… it’s not done. We need to find it before it finds us.”

Bucky’s hand landed on her shoulder — steady, protective. “Then we start tomorrow.”

Peter groaned softly. “Can tomorrow maybe start after breakfast?”

Wanda gave a small, tired laugh. “Fine. But I’m not eating whatever Bucky calls eggs.”

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, glaring. “You’re lucky I’m feeding you at all.”

Peter smirked faintly. “Ah yes, truly the face of brotherly love.”

Bucky tossed a cushion at him without looking.

Chapter Text

The cushion hit Peter square in the face.
He blinked, then let out a muffled, “Worth it,” from behind the fabric.

Wanda shook her head, amusement flickering in her tired eyes. The faint red glow from the streetlights outside made her reflection shimmer, giving her an almost unnatural look.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he turned toward the tiny kitchen. “You two keep this up, and I’m sleeping on the roof.”

Peter sat up, grinning. “You say that like you haven’t done that before.”

Bucky paused at the fridge. “…Fair.”

For a few quiet minutes, the apartment felt almost normal. Just rain tapping at the windows, the hum of the old radiator, and the occasional creak of pipes in the walls. Gotham’s version of peace.

Peter leaned back into the couch cushions, exhaustion finally catching up to him. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “Do you think Tony’s mad we broke the universe?”

Wanda smiled faintly, settling onto the edge of the bed. “Mad? No. Worried? Always.”

“Steve’s probably pacing holes into the floor by now,” Bucky muttered, rummaging through cabinets until he found a dented kettle.

“Natasha’s worse,” Wanda added, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. “She probably hides it, but when she gets worried, she starts researching everything. Probably already has six separate files on how to punch dimensional portals.”

Peter laughed quietly, then fell silent again. His hands twisted in his hoodie sleeves. “You think they’ll find us?”

Bucky’s gaze softened. “They’ll try. But we’re not gonna wait around to be rescued, okay? We’ll figure this out. Like we always do.”

Peter nodded, though the uncertainty didn’t leave his face.

Wanda watched him for a long moment, then said gently, “You don’t have to carry everything alone, Peter.”

He blinked, meeting her gaze. “I know.”
A pause.
“Doesn’t stop me from trying.”

That earned a small, sad smile from both of them.

Bucky poured hot water into three chipped mugs. “Drink this and go to bed. We start looking for answers in the morning. No webs, no magic, no hero stuff till then.”

Peter eyed the steaming mug suspiciously. “Is this… tea or some kind of ex–Soviet mystery potion?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You want to find out?”

Peter took the mug immediately. “Nope. Tea’s fine. Totally tea.”

Wanda chuckled quietly, shaking her head as Peter took a cautious sip. “You two are impossible.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, setting his own mug down on the counter, watching them both with that quiet, protective look that never left him. “But we’re family. That’s worse.”

Peter grinned tiredly. “You love us.”

“Not saying I don’t,” Bucky muttered, turning off the lights.

The room dimmed to the soft gold of the streetlights outside. Wanda curled up under a blanket on the bed, Peter stretched across the couch, and Bucky took the chair by the window, metal arm resting on the sill, watching Gotham breathe in the rain.

And for the first time since they’d landed in this strange, haunted city, all three of them let their eyes close.

Just before sleep claimed them, Peter murmured softly, “ Завтра разберемся.”

[“Tomorrow, we figure it out.”]

Bucky’s voice came quiet from the chair.
”Да, детка. Завтра.”
[“Yeah, kid. Tomorrow.”]

Wanda’s lips curved faintly, half-asleep “Doufejme, že nás zítřek neodhalí dřív“

[“Let’s hope tomorrow doesn’t figure us out first.”]

Chapter Text

Peter was sprawled across the couch in his usual upside-down position, flipping through a physics book he definitely wasn’t reading. Wanda sat cross-legged on the counter, levitating her mug of coffee lazily while Bucky stood at the stove, cooking like a man preparing for war.

Well. A very small war.

“Okay,” Peter mumbled, peering at the pan. “You realize that’s not actually eggs anymore, right? That’s… post-egg. That’s evolution.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “It’s breakfast.”

“It’s a war crime,” Wanda corrected, not even looking up. Her coffee swirled in midair, red light flickering faintly beneath it. “Peter’s right. That’s carbon with seasoning.”

Bucky jabbed the spatula toward her. “You’re welcome to cook next time, Maximoff.”

“I would,” she said, smiling faintly, “but the last time I used magic near a stove, it screamed.”

Peter snorted into his mug. “In its defense, I would’ve screamed too.”

Bucky groaned, turning off the burner. “You two are insufferable.”

Wanda’s lips twitched. “You love us.”

“No,” he said immediately. “I tolerate you.”

Peter grinned. “He means he loves us.”

“I mean I tolerate you,” Bucky said again, stabbing his spatula at Peter for emphasis.

But underneath the easy rhythm of teasing, the tension still hummed — a quiet weight they all felt.

They didn’t talk about it anymore, not out loud. Not since the meeting.

They all remembered the Watcher’s calm, hollow voice.
They all remembered Lady Gotham’s whisper.

And now, even with the morning sunlight slanting through the curtains, it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

Peter’s spider-sense hadn’t stopped buzzing since sunrise. Not sharp enough to warn him of danger, but constant like a background vibration. A countdown he couldn’t see.

He glanced toward the window, voice softer now. “How long do you think we have?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He scraped the pan clean, the rhythmic sound of metal on metal filling the room. “If the Watcher and lady Gotham are right?” he said finally. “Not long.”

Wanda’s magic flickered faintly around her fingers, nervous energy she didn’t bother hiding. “It’s already moving,” she murmured. “I can feel the shift. The boundaries between this world and the next—they’re… thinner.”

Peter frowned. “So, like… spooky interdimensional monster thin, or I-dropped-my-phone-in-the-bathtub thin?”

“Somewhere between the two,” Wanda said dryly.

“Cool,” Peter muttered. “Super comforting.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “We knew this was coming. Doesn’t make waiting for it any easier.”

There was a long silence. The hum of the city outside, the faint drip from the leaky faucet, Wanda’s soft, rhythmic breathing as she steadied herself.

Then Peter exhaled, breaking the tension. “So… breakfast before apocalypse?”

Wanda smirked faintly. “If you call that breakfast.”

Bucky glared. “You’re eating it anyway.”

Peter poked the charred eggs with a fork. “…We’re definitely doomed.”

“Eat,” Bucky ordered.

“Dad voice,” Peter muttered, taking a reluctant bite. “Gross. Tastes like despair.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “Builds character.”

Wanda hid her laugh behind her mug, eyes soft despite the exhaustion. “If the Devourer doesn’t kill us,” she said, “your cooking might.”

Peter pointed his fork at her. “Finally, someone said it.”

Bucky sighed, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, I survived the Winter Soldier program for this?

The moment was painfully normal for three people waiting for the world to end.

But in the corner of the room, unnoticed by all three, the shadows seemed to twist ever so slightly, as though something heard them.

Something patient. Something hungry.

Chapter Text

Bucky had left early, leather jacket and worn gloves, muttering something about “stupid civilians” and “the world’s most boring job interviews.”
Peter had waved him off with a dramatic salute. “Good luck, Mr. Barnes, may the HR gods be ever in your favor.”

Now, the apartment felt too quiet.

So Peter had decided that the best cure for existential dread and impending interdimensional doom was… a walking tour.

Of Gotham.

Wanda wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

“Peter,” she said as he led her through a crowded street, hood up, hands in her pockets, “I don’t think the best way to calm down is by walking through this city. Everyone here looks like they’ve committed at least one crime.”

Peter grinned beneath his hoodie. “That’s just Gotham’s charm. It’s like New York—if New York had worse lighting and more people with trench coats.”

“I noticed,” she said dryly.

He stopped beside a food cart, inhaling the smell of fried dough and questionable oil. “Okay, rule one of Gotham: if it smells good but looks like a health code violation, it’s probably amazing.”

“You’re going to get food poisoning.”

“I have super healing,” Peter said cheerfully. “You have chaos magic. Between us, we’re practically invincible.”

Wanda arched a brow but followed as he handed her a paper cone of mini-donuts. She took one, hesitant, then blinked in surprise. “This is… good.”

“Right?” Peter said through a mouthful. “Gotham might be run by crime lords, but the street food? Ten out of ten.”

They walked for a while, the air damp and cold but not unpleasant. Gotham was strange that way,it always looked half-asleep, half-ready to bite.

Wanda’s gaze followed the skyline. “You know… when I imagined other worlds, I didn’t think they’d all feel this heavy. The energy here—it’s old.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. You feel it too, huh?”

“It’s not magic,” she murmured. “Not like mine. It’s something—” she paused,looking for  the right word “—different.”

Peter stuffed another donut in his mouth. “Cool, cool, cool. Love that. Nothing like casual ancient energy stalking us on our sightseeing trip.”

Wanda’s lips twitched. “You make jokes when you’re scared.”

“Yup,” Peter said brightly. “And when I’m tired. And hungry. And breathing.”

She laughed quietly, the sound light despite the weight in her voice. “You remind me a lot of—” she stopped, eyes softening. “Of Pietro. He never shut up either.”

Peter’s grin faltered, but only a little. “Then I’m honored.”

They stopped by the waterfront, the gray water reflecting the crooked skyline. Peter leaned on the railing, looking out. “You know… it’s kind of nice,” he said after a while. “I mean, minus the part where there’s probably a crime happening behind us.”

Wanda smiled faintly. “It’s peaceful. Almost.”

“Yeah.”

A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but quiet. A moment where the world slowed down.

Peter reached into his backpack and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, a hand drawn map of Gotham he’d been making himself. “So,” he said, waving it like an excited tour guide, “today’s itinerary includes at least two rooftops, a sketchy antique store that may or may not be haunted, and a place that sells the best hot chocolate ever.”

Wanda blinked. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yeah. They use actual melted chocolate and whipped cream thicker than Tony’s ego.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “Lead the way, tour guide.”

He did, swinging himself up onto a low wall and offering her a hand. She rolled her eyes but took it. His fingers were warm, steady.

“Welcome to Gotham,” Peter said grandly, making jazz hands.

“Feels like home already,” she murmured.

As they crossed into the next block, the clouds thickened above them, the light dimming slightly. Wanda’s eyes flicked up, just for a second.

Something shimmered faintly on the edge of her vision, like a distortion in the air. A pulse.

She blinked, and it was gone.

Peter was rambling about how Gotham’s pigeons were somehow meaner than New York’s. She let him.

But as she glanced once more at the skyline, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was looking back.

Chapter Text

Wanda looked at the massive doors of Gotham Central Library like she was about to face a final boss. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

Peter grinned, pushing them open. “It’s the best idea. Nobody ever suspects people making fake identities in a library.”

“That’s… very specific,” Wanda said flatly.

“Yeah,” Peter admitted, “because Ned and I got caught trying to reprogram the cafeteria vending machine once. So—lesson learned: libraries don’t have hallway cameras.”

They stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of paper. Peter led Wanda to a corner table with a computer hidden behind the history section, pulling out a USB drive labeled TotallyNotIllegal.exe.

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “That name inspires confidence.”

Peter grinned sheepishly. “It’s fine. Ned helped me code it back in high school. It’s like… a friendly ghost for the internet.”

Wanda sat next to him, arms crossed. “A friendly ghost that commits cyber crimes.”

“Technically,” Peter said, cracking his knuckles over the keyboard, “we’re helping society by… bending the rules for survival.”

“You sound like Tony.”

Peter smiled.” I take that as a compliment.”

The screen glowed faint blue as Peter typed furiously. “Alright… pulling into the Gotham education database. God, this city’s firewalls are from the stone age.”

“Maybe don’t insult them while you’re breaking in,” Wanda said, glancing nervously toward the librarian’s desk.

“Relax,” Peter said, smirking. “This isn’t my first fake identity rodeo.”

Her expression deadpanned. “How many rodeos have you been to?”

He hesitated. “...Enough to know that if anyone finds out, Bucky’s gonna ground me for at least week.”

“Okay!” Peter whispered, spinning the screen toward her. “Behold — Wanda Beck. Born in Queens, currently attending Gotham Prep as a transfer student. You’ve got a GPA of 3.7 and a totally fake history of being on the robotics club.”

“I was never in a robotics club.”

“Yeah, but it sounds cool,” Peter said. “And believable. People here think I build drones for fun.”

Wanda tilted her head. “You do build drones for fun.”

“Details,” Peter replied cheerfully.

She leaned closer, scanning the file. “What about an address?”

Peter pointed proudly. “Same as ours, but I tweaked the landlord registry so it looks like you’ve been there for three months.”

“Is that… legal?”

He grinned. “Wanda. None of this is legal.”

She sighed. “Right.”

Just as Peter uploaded the last set of ID numbers, a familiar voice echoed through the stacks:

“Peter?”

Peter froze mid-keystroke. “Oh no.”

Wanda blinked. “Who is that?”

He whispered, clearly panicking, “Barbara Gordon. Smartest person in Gotham. And the last one who can find out what we’re doing.”

Wanda frowned. “Why?”

“She’s basically Batman’s Google with legs,” he hissed.

Barbara’s voice grew closer. “Peter, are you hiding behind the history section again? You know I can hear you.”

Peter shut down the computer, whispering furiously, “Act natural.”

Wanda stared at him. “Define natural.”

“Like you’re not building a new identity!” he whisper-yelled.

Barbara rounded the corner, giving them both a skeptical look. “What are you two doing?”

Peter grinned way too fast. “Homework!”

“Homework?” she repeated.

“Yup! History paper. About… fake names!”

Wanda winced.

Barbara raised a brow. “Fake names.”

“Uh-huh!” Peter nodded quickly. “You know, like… uh… historical pseudonyms! Shakespeare, Mark Twain, that one guy from Gotham who faked his death three times—”

Barbara stared for a long second, then sighed. “And who might your friend be?”

Peter hesitated for a moment, “That’s my sister, Wanda.”

”…Yes, I am his sister.”

She gave Wanda a skeptical look, before smiling” Nice to meet you,Wanda.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Wanda replied relieved.

”Then have fun with your…Homework.”Barbara said before rolling back to the reception.

Peter didn’t breathe until she was gone.

Then Wanda looked at him, lips twitching. “That was impressive. In a tragic way.”

He slumped back in his chair. “Yeah. I’m like, ninety percent sure she knows.”

“Then why didn’t she stop us?”

“Because,” Peter said, pulling the laptop open again, “she’s probably watching us on a hidden camera, waiting to see if I’ll screw up. Which means we have—”

“Three minutes,” Wanda said, glancing around. “You’ve got three minutes, Peter.”

“Challenge accepted.”

They stepped out into the drizzle, Wanda holding her brand-new ID card. The laminated surface caught the gray light like it was something fragile and precious.

“Wanda Beck,” she murmured, testing the name. “That’s going to take getting used to.”

Peter smiled softly. “You’ll get there. Now you can exist without the entire Batfamily asking why I hang out with mysterious red-haired girls who cause static in the air.”

Wanda smirked faintly.

They started walking down the street toward the train station, passing the glow of coffee shop windows and damp posters for WayneTech fundraisers.

“You think she’ll tell Bruce?” Wanda asked suddenly.

Peter winced. “If she does, I’m faking my own death again.”

Wanda gave him a side-eye. “Again?”

He smiled nervously. “You know… long story.”

Batlings + Stray

Coffee is life: hey why is barbara being    suspiciously quiet
Don’t spoil : probably because peter’s doing something illegal again
Dead man shooting : bets on what it is this time
Not the new kid anymore : last time it was hacking the school system
Bloodson : that was your fault,Beck
New Kid: I’M RIGHT HERE and I’m INNOCENT
I see all: he’s lying.
Coffee is life: lmao caught
Don’t spoil: what’d he do
I see all: let’s just say we’ll have a new “Beck” at Gotham Prep next week
Dead man shooting: …bro cloned himself??
Goldy: congrats on the sibling, Peter!! 🥰
Bloodson : Unacceptable.
New kid: 😭

Chapter Text

Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of weird things in his life.
Aliens, portals, robot armies… hell, he’d once fought himself in a Siberian snowfield.

But walking into their small Gotham apartment after work to find two teenagers frantically trying and printing papers ?
That was a new one.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Should I even ask?”

Peter froze mid-typ, a guilty smile plastered on his face. “Heyyy, Buck! How was work?”

“Don’t ‘hey Buck’ me, kid,” Bucky said, eyes narrowing. “What are you two doing?”

Wanda looked up from the laptop on the table, blinking like a deer caught in headlights. “Art project.”

Peter nodded too fast. “Yeah! Totally. Modern art. We’re, uh, exploring themes of… privacy… and bureaucracy.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You hacked something, didn’t you?”

Peter groaned. “Can we not jump to conclusions?”

Wanda tilted her head. “He’s not wrong.”

Peter pointed at her. “Traitor.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say which thing you hacked.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a sigh. “Alright. Out with it before I check the laptop myself.”

Peter winced, pulling out a freshly printed ID card from under a stack of notebooks. “Okay, fine. But before you get mad—just… look.”

Bucky took the card carefully. It was official-looking. Perfect, actually.
The name printed was:

Wanda Beck.

A clean school photo, address matching theirs, a student number.
A life. A name that would pass every scan and background check.

He stared at it for a long moment, the silence stretching.

Peter shifted nervously. “I… just thought she deserved something normal, y’know? To exist here. Not be some stranger who has to hide in shadows.”

Wanda glanced down, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table. “He’s right. It’s… nice. Having a name again.”

Bucky’s jaw worked for a second before he exhaled, setting the card down gently. “You two could’ve at least told me before you went full hacker.”

Peter winced. “Yeah, about that… Barbara may have found out and told some people.”

“Barbara?”

“The redhead. Oracle. Knows everything. Sees everything. Might actually be the internet.”

Bucky blinked. “You mean the one who’s always fifteen steps ahead of everyone else?”

Peter nodded miserably.

Bucky stared at him for a moment, then…
To Peter’s utter confusion, he chuckled.

“You’re lucky she didn’t shut your system down remotely.”

“Wait—so you’re not mad?”

Bucky sighed, sitting down across from them. His expression softened. “Kid, I’ve been a lot of things in my life. Hacker wasn’t one of ’em. But you…” He looked between Peter and Wanda. “You’re just trying to give her something solid to hold onto. That’s not something I can be mad about.”

Wanda smiled faintly, relief softening her shoulders. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned, though his tone was gentler now. “Next time, tell me before you hack something , okay?”

Peter grinned. “No promises.”

Bucky shot him a look that could’ve cut steel.

Peter coughed. “I mean—yes, sir. Totally. Full permission forms. Official briefings. Maybe even snacks.”

Bucky couldn’t help it; he smirked. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to lecture you properly.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms, watching the two of them bicker lightly over who’d technically “forged” the better fake address. For the first time in weeks, the apartment didn’t feel so heavy.

Wanda sat by the window, staring at her new ID in the dim light. Bucky came up beside her, arms folded.

“It suits you,” he offered quietly.

She smiled her eyes warm. “It feels strange. But good.”

“Good’s a start,” he murmured.

Peter was already passed out on the couch, a blanket half-falling off.

Chapter Text

Wanda looked effortlessly calm, which was deeply unfair. Her hair was braided, uniform crisp, smile polite. The only thing betraying her nerves was the faint red flicker that rolled across her fingers whenever someone stared too long.

“Okay, remember,” Peter muttered under his breath. “You’re Wanda Beck. We moved here from Queens. You have two cats. You’re definitely not an Avenger or a sorceress or anything remotely—”

“—world-ending?” Wanda finished dryly.

“Exactly.”

Steph, who had apparently been waiting at the front steps with a grin that could power a small city, waved them over. “Hellooo, new Parker! I’m Steph, professional chaos agent and your new best friend.”

Wanda blinked. “You seem… energetic.”

“Caffeine,” Steph said proudly, flashing a to-go cup. “Also Gotham.”

Peter groaned. “Please don’t scare her before first period.”

“Too late,” muttered Damian, appearing from seemingly nowhere like the tiny demon he was. “She lives in Gotham.”

Cass smiled softly from beside him and signed, You’ll get used to us.

Wanda chuckled quietly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Tim showed up next, tablet in hand, eyes flicking over Wanda like a scanner. “So this is the mysterious sister,” he said, tone halfway between curiosity and detective mode.

“Yup!” Peter chirped, too quickly. “Totally normal. Nothing suspicious here. Just siblings. Ordinary human siblings. Definitely—”

“—not forged into the system two nights ago by you and your suspiciously good hacking skills?” Tim said smoothly.

Peter tried to argue his case. “I only do questionable things when morally necessary. Or when physics demands it.”

Duke laughed. “So like… 99% of the time?”

Peter accepted it. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Wanda looked around at the group, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “You’re all… close,” she said softly.

Cass nodded. Family.

Something in Wanda’s expression softened at that. For a moment, just a flicker of emotion before she blinked it away. “I like that,” she murmured. “Family.”

Damian crossed his arms. “Do not become attached to them, Beck. They’re insufferable.”

Steph immediately hugged Damian around the shoulders. “He loves us, really.”

“Unhand me, woman!”

Wanda giggled, actual, genuine laughter and Peter looked at her like he’d just seen a miracle.

By lunchtime, word had spread that “Peter Becks sister” was gorgeous, mysterious, and possibly psychic (thanks, Duke). Wanda handled it gracefully, fielding questions with poise while Peter tried very hard not to have an aneurysm.

Halfway through lunch, his phone buzzed in the Batkids’ group chat.

Don’tspoil : your sis is like… weirdly chill about the chaos here
Not the new kid : she literally stared Damian into silence. respect.
Coffe is life : her enrollment papers are technically perfect. how did you even do that?
New kid: uh. YouTube tutorial. and maybe Ned helped.
Deadmanshooting: so the witch is real then? 
New kid:JASON.
Gold: don’t worry, kiddo! we’ll keep her safe!
Bloodson: tt. she does not need protection. 

Peter looked up from his phone, half exasperated, half fond, and found Wanda chatting with Cass across the table, laughing softly about something.

For the first time since Wanda appeared , everything looked… normal.

Well. Normal for Gotham.

Chapter Text

Wanda sat beside him in English, neat handwriting all over her notebook, pretending to listen while Tim and Steph whispered behind them like the world’s most incompetent secret agents.

Peter could just feel them staring holes into the back of his head.

Finally, he turned. “Can I help you two?” he hissed.

Steph grinned. “No, we’re good! Just observing your perfectly normal sister who definitely doesn’t radiate weird magical energy.”

Wanda didn’t even look up. “If you’re trying to be subtle, you’re failing spectacularly.”

Tim coughed into his fist. “Noted.”

Duke, sitting two rows up, muttered without turning around, “She’s scarier than B.”

Wanda’s lips twitched. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Cass, seated beside Duke, signed It is.

The teacher, Mr. Collins, began writing on the board. “Today we’ll be analyzing symbolism in the Middle Ages with a focus on the witch hunts.”

Peter, looking slightly amused leaned toward Wanda, “Well that’s fitting.”

Wanda just gave a tired sigh as a response and smacked him lightly on the arm with her pen.

Behind them Steph and Duke were trying to hold in their laughter, while Tim was already asleep.

Halfway through class, while Mr. Collins droned on about the old laws and stuff a paper airplane hit Peter in the back of the head.

He unfolded it carefully.

So, how do you two explain the “mysterious new sister” thing to the teachers?
Because Mr. Collins literally just told the class you transferred from “Midgard Academy.”

Peter glanced at Wanda, she looked innocent, maybe a bit too innocent if he thought about it.

“What did you tell them??” He hissed.

Wanda glanced over and mouthed, “I panicked.”

Peter slapped a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

Duke, watching from two desks away, snorted so hard he nearly dropped his pen.

When class ended, Tim immediately cornered Peter by the door. “You forged her records and failed to prepare her cover story?”

“She was nervous!” Peter whisper-yelled. “And I was tired! Do you know how long it takes to fake a transcript from a nonexistent European school?”

Wanda calmly adjusted her bag strap. “For the record, ‘Midgard Academy’ sounded legitimate at the time.”

Steph giggled. “Yeah, sounds super legit. Totally not made up.”

Duke smirked. “You two are going to give Barbara a heart attack.”

Cass patted Wanda’s shoulder and signed You’ll fit right in.

Wanda smiled, small and genuine.

A few students passed them, whispering excitedly about “the new Parker girl,” and Damian made a low noise of irritation. “If anyone else approaches, I’m deploying fear tactics.”

“Please don’t terrorize the students ,” Peter said wearily.

“No promises,” Damian muttered.

By the end of the day, Wanda had collected three new friends, five curious stares, and one detention slip, for accidentally “short-circuiting” a classroom projector with her magic when it startled her.

Peter sighed, holding the pink slip. “You lasted six hours.”

Wanda folded her arms. “It buzzed at me.”

Steph just smirked. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Chapter Text

I am a out of ideas, I have a few but only for later since I don’t want this to end soon.

If you have any ideas please comment them 💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Chapter Text

The sky was low and orange, rain holding off just enough to let jack-o’-lanterns glow along the sidewalks. Kids darted across the street in costumes, parents laughed from the stoops, and even the usual background sirens seemed… quiet.

Peter couldn’t quite believe it.
“This is so weird,” he whispered, adjusting his hoodie and mask as they walked. “It’s too quiet. Is this, like… a trap?”

“Gotham Halloween,” Tim said beside him, smirking. “One night off. No crimes. No chaos. Not even Joker wants to ruin trick-or-treating.”

Bucky grunted behind them, grocery bags full of candy hanging from his metal arm. “City’s got rules I’ll never understand.”

“Think of it like a truce,” Steph said cheerfully. “The one night everyone pretends we’re normal.”

“Yeah,” Peter muttered, “because nothing screams normal like sharing a Snickers with Two-Face.”

That earned him a snort from Duke. “You’ll get used to it.”

They were walking through Robinson Park now, Peter, Wanda, Bucky, and a very casual Batfamily entourage. Wanda wore a hockey mask and a scarf that nearly swallowed her, her wide eyes tracking every pumpkin display they passed.

Tim was dressed as a vampire (fittingly pale, coffee in hand).
Stephanie had gone full witch mode, sparkly hat and all.Both of course with domino masks
Duke wore a full Flash suit.

Cass had cat ears and a faint smirk.
Even Damian was there, not in costume, of course, just his normal Robin outfit but holding Titus’s leash and glaring at anyone who looked like they might offer him candy.

Jason and Dick walked a few feet away at a food stand, Jason with a caramel apple, wearing a Wonder Woman hoodie and matching trousers and Dick was wearing a Superman costume.

Peter blinked. “...Is this a trap?”

Tim looked up from his phone, smirking. “Nope. It’s Halloween. You’re safe.”

Wanda tilted her head. “You don’t… fight crime on Halloween?”

Steph shook her candy bucket dramatically. “Gotham Rule Number One: even criminals need a day off.”

Peter snorted. “So this is like… Christmas, but with ghosts?”

“Exactly,” Duke said.

Cass, silent as ever, held out a small pumpkin-shaped bucket toward Peter. “Trick or treat,” she said seriously.

Peter froze, looking between her and the bag in his hands. “Wait, you’re trick-or-treating from me?”

Cass nodded. “You’re Spider-Man. You owe candy.”

That logic, somehow, made perfect sense.

Peter dug through the bag Bucky was holding, found a fun-sized Snickers, and solemnly dropped it into her bucket. Cass smiled. Damian muttered, “Ridiculous,” but didn’t stop Titus from licking Peter’s hand.

“ rumor says Ivy gives out chocolate roses.”Steph said.

Peter blinked. “Wait. Poison Ivy?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, straight-faced. “She loves Halloween. Something about the harvest.”

Bucky gave him a look. “You’re telling me we’re going to walk up to a known eco-terrorist’s greenhouse and ask for candy?”

“Yup,” said Steph cheerfully. “She’s super polite about it. Last year, she threatened to feed Damian to a Venus flytrap but still gave him caramel corn.”

Wanda’s lips twitched. “I like her already.”

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “I didn’t think Gotham could be… this.”

Peter smiled faintly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Cass again appeared silently at his side, holding out the tiny pumpkin-shaped candy bucket. “Trick or treat,” she said in that calm, steady voice of hers.

Peter blinked. “…you’re trick-or-treating from me again?”

Cass nodded, perfectly serious.

Peter sighed and handed her a fun-sized Milky Way. “Fine. But next time, I’m charging.”

The vines opened before they could even knock.
Poison Ivy stood in the doorway in a velvet green robe, holding a bowl of chocolate truffles. “Ah. The little bats… and Spider-Man.”

Peter froze. “Hi?”

“I’m off duty,” she said simply, offering him a truffle. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Wanda accepted hers with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Ivy said, her tone softening when she looked at Wanda. “Always nice to meet another redhead who can kill a man with a thought.”

Bucky choked on air.

Harley appeared from behind the greenhouse door, waving a lollipop. “Don’t scare the kids, Red! It’s Halloween!”

“Harley,” Peter said weakly, “you’re a ghost.”

“Duh. Classic look. Boo.”

Steph mentioned there was a rumor Riddler gave out the “best” candy, if you could answer his question first. Naturally, Peter couldn’t resist.

The group stood in front of a modest apartment with glowing green lights in the windows. The door opened automatically, and a mechanical voice said:

“Riddle me this! What’s full of holes but still holds water?”

“Easy,” Peter said, grinning. “A sponge.”

A pause. Then, “...Correct.” The door buzzed open.

Inside, the apartment was… strangely cozy. Cluttered with puzzles, books, and a few glowing question marks for mood lighting. The Riddler himself, glasses on, wearing a cardigan instead of his usual suit,looked mildly annoyed at being disturbed.

“Well, well,” he said, adjusting his tie. “The spider, the soldier, and a small coven of bats. Come for my brainteasers or my candy?”

“Both?” Peter offered.

Riddler sighed like a tired professor and handed him a small green box. “Answer another and you get the good chocolate.”

Peter perked up. “Deal.”

“What runs but never walks, has a bed but never sleeps?”

Wanda whispered, “A river.”

Riddler blinked. “…correct.”

Peter pointed at her proudly. “That’s my sister.”

Riddler sighed again, gesturing toward a bowl. “Fine. Take a Kit-Kat and go before I regret partaking in this civic nonsense.”

“Thanks!” Peter called as they left. “Happy Halloween!”

“I hate this holiday!” Riddler yelled after them.

They sat on the apartment roof that night, surrounded by empty wrappers and half-finished mugs of cocoa(or coffee in Tims case).Gotham glowed below them, flickering with pumpkin lights.

Peter leaned back against the railing, mask half-off. “You know,” he said softly, “I think this might be the first night in forever that no one tried to kill us.”

Bucky grunted, sipping his coffee. “Don’t jinx it.”

Chapter Text

Gotham was quiet again.
The candy wrappers had been swept off the sidewalks, jack-o’-lanterns flickered their last candlelight, and the chill of November crept in through the alleys.

Down in the Narrows, in a tidy little apartment meticulously decorated for the season, Julian Day , Calendar Man sat alone at his table.

Orange candles burned low. A pumpkin pie, untouched, rested beside a bowl of neatly wrapped candy bars labeled “For the Bats”.
He’d spent hours making sure each piece was arranged in date order, 10/31 stamped on tiny stickers. He’d even made one specially marked “For the little spider.”

But no one came.

Not a shadow on the window.
Not a rustle of a cape.
Not even a web on the sill.

Calendar Man sighed, marking the date in his worn leather planner.

October 31, 11:59 PM — No visitors this year.
Note: Must improve invitations. Perhaps themed riddles next time. The boy might like those.

He stared at the pie again. “Maybe they’re busy,” he muttered. “Big city. Lots of crime. Even on Halloween, someone has to… schedule things.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, low and self-deprecating.

He turned the calendar page with a careful hand. November began in stark white.
Another month. Another chance.

He picked up a pen and wrote across the top margin:

Next year — add apple cider.

Then, just before extinguishing the candles, he murmured to the empty room,
“Happy Halloween, Bats. You’re late.”

The clock struck midnight.
Outside, a lone bat fluttered past the frosted window, briefly silhouetted against the moon.

Chapter Text

The city was quiet, sugar-hungover, and littered with the ghosts of candy wrappers and smashed pumpkins.

Peter blinked awake to the smell of coffee and the faint clatter of Bucky in the kitchen. Wanda was curled up on the couch in one of Peter’s hoodies, a spellbook in her lap and hair a wild halo.

Then Peter noticed something on the windowsill.

A brown paper bag, folded neatly, tied with orange ribbon. The tag read, in perfect block lettering:

 For the little spider.
— C.M

Peter blinked. “Uh… Buck? Did you put this here?”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder. “Nope. Why, did we get egged again?”

Peter opened the bag. Inside were individually wrapped,homemade candies, each with a tiny calendar date sticker on them and one chocolate shaped like a bat.

Wanda smiled softly, recognizing the handwriting from Gotham’s files. “Calendar Man,” she murmured. “He was waiting for you.”

Peter’s expression softened. “That’s… actually kinda sweet. In a creepy kind of way.”

Bucky sipped his coffee. “You get used to it in this city. Everyone’s either trying to kill you or give you a themed gift basket.”

Across town, the Waynes were having a similar morning.

At the Wayne Manor, Tim found an identical brown bag taped to the cave elevator doors, labeled:

For the Bats

He stared at it, brow furrowed. “Uh… guys? Did any of you invite a rogue over last night?”

Stephanie leaned over his shoulder. “If you’re about to tell me Calendar Man broke into the most secure house in Gotham to give us candy, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Check the bag,” Damian said flatly. “Could be poisoned.”

Cass, expression unreadable, opened it first. Inside were more candies, all perfectly wrapped plus one caramel apple labeled “For Robin (whichever one’s in charge now).”

Jason snorted. “Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”

Dick laughed, shaking his head. “Guess even rogues have their traditions.”

Tim pulled out a tiny folded note at the bottom.
It read:

You’re good kids. Try not to skip next year. It’s rude to leave an old man waiting.
— C.M.

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Then Stephanie grinned. “...Okay, we’re totally trick-or-treating next Halloween.”

Jason muttered, “Over my dead—”

“—body, yeah, we know,” Tim interrupted dryly.

Later that night, as the city lights flickered on and the first snow threatened to fall, Peter, Bucky, and Wanda sat together on their tiny balcony. The brown paper bag sat between them, half-empty.

Peter popped a candy in his mouth and mumbled, “Y’know, for a guy obsessed with dates and murder, he’s not a bad chocolatier.”

Wanda smiled, eyes warm. “Maybe Gotham isn’t so bad after all.”

Chapter Text

Gotham’s Saturday morning light slanted through smog and cloud, the air already freezing enough that Peter could see his breath. He tugged on his hoodie, hands jammed in his pockets as he waited in front of Wayne Manor’s enormous gates.

“You know,” he said to Wanda beside him, “this feels vaguely illegal.”

Wanda arched an eyebrow, scarf tucked around her chin. “Going to the mall?”

“With them,” Peter clarified as the black Wayne SUV rolled up. 

The window rolled down to reveal Stephanie grinning way too wide. “Hop in! We’re doing retail therapy!”

Duke was in the front seat, already eating chips. “You guys ever been to the Diamond District Mall?”

Peter hesitated. “No, but I’m guessing there’s at least one store that’s secretly a front for a mob.”

“Two, actually,” Tim said dryly from behind the wheel. “But one of them has the best pretzels in Gotham.”

Wanda climbed in with a small, amused smile. “They’re… loud.”

“That’s one word for it,” Peter muttered as Damian made a noise of disgust from the backseat.

“Do not touch my sword, Beck.”

“I wasn’t going to—wait, why did you bring a sword to the mall?”

Two hours later, the group had successfully hit:

• One bookstore, where Peter and Tim debated quantum physics textbooks until the store clerk gave up.

• One café, where Wanda ordered tea and watched with quiet horror as Stephanie put six sugars in hers.

• One comic store, where Peter stared at a rack of Batman comics and whispered, “You guys have fan merch?”
  Duke replied, deadpan: “Oh yeah. There’s even a Red Hood Funko Pop. Jason hates it.”

Tim was the one who caught Wanda smiling quietly at a display of scarves, her hand hovering but never quite touching. Without saying anything, he handed her one it was  soft, dark red, just like her magic’s hue.
“Consider it an early gift,” he said softly.
Her eyes softened. “You’re kind.”

From three aisles away, Stephanie yelled, “TIM’S BUYING GIFTS FOR WANDA!”Wanda’s lips twitched. “Less kind now.”

Meanwhile, Peter and Duke were trapped at a candy stand, arguing about whether taffy or chocolate was the superior snack.

“It’s science,” Peter insisted, pointing with a lollipop. “Chocolate gives your brain endorphins. It’s literally chemistry.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You mean the code.”

Bruce nodded, gaze unreadable. “That kind of conditioning doesn’t vanish easily. I know what it’s like… to carry something you can’t control.”

“Yeah,yours wears a cape,” Bucky muttered, then winced. “Sorry.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “He has been called worse”

The silence stretched again, filled with the faint tick of the grandfather clock.
Bruce studied him like a detective and a father all at once, weighing not just what Bucky said, but how he didn’t say it.

“You care about the boy,” Bruce said quietly.

“Peter saved me,” Bucky replied, voice low. “And… he reminds me what normal’s supposed to look like. Even if neither of us get much of that.”

Bruce looked down, eyes distant. “Normal doesn’t exist in Gotham.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to notice,” Bucky said dryly. “But… he’s a good kid. He doesn’t deserve the kind of weight people like us carry.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed, something almost pained flickering in his eyes. “No. He doesn’t.”

For a moment, the two men sat in silence, soldiers who’d fought too many wars, both still trying to raise children in the aftermath.

Then Bruce said quietly, “If you ever lose control again—”

“I won’t,” Bucky interrupted sharply.

Bruce met his eyes, unflinching. “If you do… we’ll help you get it back.”

Bucky blinked, surprised. “You trust me?”

Bruce turned toward the window again. “No.”

When the kids came back hours later, carrying too many shopping bags and too much sugar, Bruce was standing by the door, arms crossed.

Stephanie was laughing mid-sentence, “—and then Peter accidentally walked into a cardboard cutout of Batman and screamed—oh, hey Bruce!”

Peter froze mid-step, cheeks pink. “In my defense, it was life-sized! And intimidating!”

Wanda floated a shopping bag toward Bucky, smiling faintly. “We bought you gloves. The kind that don’t rip when you punch people.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Useful.”

Bruce’s eyes scanned over them all. He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, very quietly:
“You all made it back alive. That’s good.”

Jason muttered under his breath, “That’s as close to a hug as he gets.”

Peter grinned. “Progress!”

Bruce’s lips almost,  almost ,  twitched.

Chapter Text

Buckystood stiffly by the door, adjusting his sleeve over his metal arm as Alfred handed him a crystal glass of cider.
“No need to look so alarmed, Mr. Barnes,” Alfred said calmly. “It’s only dinner. Though, do be warned — the family does get… competitive.”

“Competitive?” Bucky echoed, glancing at the long table in the dining room.
Tim and Stephanie were already arguing about whether sweet potatoes counted as dessert.
Damian was sharpening a carving knife while glaring at a very terrified turkey.
Jason and Dick were arm-wrestling across the table.
And Peter,Peter was trying to stop Duke from putting gravy on pie.

Wanda, meanwhile, was seated gracefully at the far end of the table, looking very out of place but perfectly composed. Her red dress was understated but elegant, her magic faintly glowing around her fingers as she helped Alfred levitate plates to the table.

“Dinner smells amazing,” she said softly to Alfred.

“Thank you, Miss Maximoff,” Alfred replied, smiling faintly. “I find the secret to good turkey is to ignore the chaos around it.”

An hour before dinner, Alfred had been in perfect control.
Then the kids decided to help.

“Alfred, we can totally handle the mashed potatoes,” Stephanie had declared, wearing an apron that said ‘Bite Me, I’m Festive.’
“I don’t trust her with a peeler,” Damian said immediately.
“You stabbed a pumpkin last time ,” Steph shot back.

Tim was multitasking, stirring cranberry sauce in one hand, typing code on his tablet with the other. “I’m optimizing the oven temperature curve for maximum flavor retention.”

“Translation,” Duke said, sprinkling salt over everything, “he’s making us late again.”

Jason, lounging against the counter, smirked. “You’re all doing great. Real Gordon Ramsay energy in here.”

“Why aren’t you helping?” Dick asked, elbow-deep in stuffing.

“Because last time I did, Alfred banned me from the kitchen,” Jason said matter-of-factly. “Also, Damian almost lost a finger.”

“That was an accident!” Damian snapped. “He startled me!”

“By breathing,” Jason countered.

At that exact moment, Peter walked in, webbing holding a precarious stack of plates and tripped over Titus the dog.
The plates exploded against the floor.
Wanda, trying to help, instinctively used her powers… and accidentally lifted all the food into the air.

Alfred walked in just as a cloud of cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes hovered menacingly above everyone’s heads.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t frown.
He just… sighed.

“Out,” he said flatly.

“Wait—” Dick started.

“Out. All of you. Now. Before I revoke dessert privileges for the entire manor.”

There was a chorus of defeated groans as the world’s most dangerous collection of vigilantes trudged out of the kitchen like scolded toddlers.

Peter muttered to Wanda, “I think we just got grounded by the scariest man alive.”

Wanda whispered back, “Scarier than Hydra.”

Bucky, watching from the doorway with an amused smirk, murmured, “Told you he was tougher than Stark.”

Bruce entered last, wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Peter’s entire existence. He gave everyone a quiet nod, sat at the head of the table, and, against all odds, actually smiled when he saw Peter talking animatedly with Tim about tech.

“Let’s begin,” Bruce said, voice even. “Alfred, as always—thank you.”

Alfred inclined his head, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “My pleasure, sir.”

As everyone began passing dishes around, Peter tried his best to keep up with the conversation (he failed miserably).

Bucky caught Bruce’s eye from across the table. For a moment, the two men sat in silence, two soldiers, two protectors, watching their families devour Alfred’s masterpiece.

Bruce broke the silence first. “You’ve done well with them.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “With them? You mean Peter and Wanda?”

Bruce’s lips twitched faintly. “I mean keeping them alive. In Gotham, that’s no small feat.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You mean you haven’t noticed me breaking your ‘no killing’ rule yet?”

“That too,” Bruce said dryly.

Wanda turned her head slightly, catching their exchange. “We’re all trying to adjust,” she said softly. “But… it’s not easy being in a w-city that isn’t ours.”

Bruce’s expression softened to the kind of rare sympathy he only gave to people who’d lost as much as he had.
“Then maybe,” he said, “it’s time to stop surviving… and start living.”

Wanda smiled faintly. “Maybe.

 “Who the heck put marshmallows on the potatoes?!” Steph half asked half shouted.

Duke tried to convince them “It’s a Southern thing, don’t knock it!”

“It is culinary blasphemy.” Damian argued.

 “I’m just impressed nobody poisoned the gravy.” Jason said.

 “That’s next course.” Tim smiled.

Peter was panicking “Wait, what—”

BANG!

Everyone froze as the kitchen door slammed open and something small and white rolled out across the floor.

Everyone turned to see
Harley Quinn, in a glittering red sweater with “Gobble Me Crazy” written on it, holding a covered dish.

“Heya, Batsy!” she chirped, waving a spoon. “Heard it was family dinner night, so I brought pudding!”

Bruce sighed the long, suffering sigh of a man who’d fought gods and lost.
“Harley.”

“Relax!” she said, plopping the dish on the table. “It’s not poisoned, promise! Ivy said I should ‘try to socialize more’ and not break into banks for one night.”

 “Why is she here?” Damian questioned.

 “’Cause your butler invited me, short stack! Ain’t that right, Alfy?”

Alfred answered completely unfazed“Indeed. Miss Quinn arrived with a cranberry pie and remarkably good manners.”

Harley grinned. “See? Good manners! Oh, and Riddler said ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ — he’s sad y’all never RSVP’d to his riddle dinner.”

Tim groaned. “We knew Calendar Man was gonna take it personally.”

Jason snorted cider through his nose. “You invited Harley but not Calendar Man?”

Bruce looked heavenward. “Never again.”

Chapter Text

Thanksgiving dinner had been… successful, somehow. Alfred had outdone himself, the table had been full, and there had been actual laughter, genuine laughter, echoing through the house. Even Damian had looked vaguely amused at one point (before glaring again when Steph tried to put a pilgrim hat on Titus).

Now, dinner was over, everyone was sluggish and overfed, and Alfred was quietly gathering the carnage in the kitchen.

Until the kids, all of them, decided to help, as if the first time hadn’t been worse enough.

“Alright, team!” Dick clapped his hands like a coach rallying his players. “Let’s show Alfred we can clean up like responsible adults.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jason muttered, still lounging at the table. “I’m not ‘responsible’ or ‘adult.’”

“Yeah, you’re just the walking embodiment of Thanksgiving leftovers,” Tim said dryly.

Jason shot him a glare. “Keep talking, Drake. I’ll throw you in the dishwasher next.”

Duke leaned over to Harley. “Place your bets. Two minutes before someone gets banned from the kitchen?”

“Thirty seconds,” Harley grinned.

Meanwhile, Peter and Wanda had also joined in Wanda stacking dishes telekinetically, Peter zooming between the table and the sink like a caffeinated raccoon.

Alfred stood at the edge of the room, eyes narrowing in slow, growing horror.

“Master Richard,” he said with deliberate calm, “I truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but—”

A crash.

Wanda’s floating stack of plates wobbled midair. Peter darted to catch them and did, mostly, but the gravy boat splattered spectacularly across Jason’s shirt.

Jason froze. Looked down. Slowly turned his head toward Peter.

“Kid,” he said with terrifying calm, “did you just baptize me in turkey juice?”

“It’s— it’s gravy,” Peter said weakly. “Technically.”

“Same difference!”

Tim sighed. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Damian, from his perch on the counter, muttered, “We never had nice things.”

Harley chimed in, completely unbothered, lunging on the couch. “Alfie had nice things. Pas’ tense.”

Alfred’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a batarang.

“OUT. All of you.”

The Batkids froze like scolded puppies. Alfred pointed toward the door. “Living room. Now. All except—” He paused, his gaze landing on Bucky, who had been quietly standing by the sink, sleeves rolled up, watching the disaster unfold with detachment.

“Mr. Beck,” Alfred said crisply.

Bucky blinked. “Me?”

“You are the only one who appears capable of handling dishes without committing a felony.”

Jason, wiping gravy off his shirt, smirked. “Aw, come on, Alfie, you’re not seriously trusting him with the fine china—”

“You may stay as well, Master Jason,” Alfred interrupted smoothly. “Since you seem to have volunteered as a mop.”

Jason froze mid-retort. “Wait, what?”

Alfred handed him a rag. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted.”

Jason looked like he was about to argue, but one look from Alfred shut him up.

Harley left the second Alfred promoted Jason to avoid him from handing over the job “Have fun puddin’.”

When the rest of the Batkids (and Peter, still apologizing) had shuffled out of the kitchen, Jason turned to Bucky with a sigh.

“Guess it’s you and me, Frostbite.”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Lucky me.”

Jason scrubbed at a casserole dish like it had personally wronged him. “Y’know, this is exactly why I didn’t join any of Bruce’s team-building crap. First comes the mission, then comes the group cleanup, and then suddenly it’s ‘family bonding.’”

Bucky snorted. “You think this counts as family bonding?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s either that or therapy.”

“Fair point.”

They worked in silence for a while. The clinking of dishes and running water filled the room.

After a bit, Jason glanced sideways. “You were military, right?”

“Was,” Bucky said.

“Yeah. Kinda got that from the haircut and the whole ‘haunted thousand-yard stare’ thing.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself, kid.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason muttered, “sunshine gets shot in the face.”

Bucky’s hands stilled. He looked over at Jason — really looked. The tension behind the sarcasm, the quiet defensiveness that only came from someone who’d been through too much, too young.

“…You got brought back too, huh?” Bucky said quietly.

Jason blinked. “What?”

Bucky’s voice was low, even. “You said ‘shot.’ You didn’t say ‘died.’ You said it like it was both.”

Jason hesitated. His jaw tightened. “You’re good.”

“I’ve been where you are,” Bucky said. “Maybe not exactly, but close enough.”

Jason gave a humorless laugh. “Let me guess — lots of trauma, bad dreams, and a crippling sense of self-loathing?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “And a therapist who gives up after two sessions.”

Jason snorted. “Okay, yeah. You get it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said softly. “I get it.”

The sound of running water filled the pause. Then Jason said, almost grudgingly, “Kid’s lucky, you know. Peter.”

Bucky raised a brow. “How so?”

Jason shrugged. “He’s got you. Someone who actually… gives a fuck.”

Bucky looked down at the plate in his hands. “He deserves better than me.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Wow. You and Bruce really are cut from the same broody cloth.”

“Hey,” Bucky protested mildly.

“It’s true!” Jason said. “You both sit there, look like you crawled out of a noir film, and act like every bit of happiness has an expiration date.”

Bucky gave a dry chuckle. “That’s because it usually does.”

Jason set the dish down with a clink and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “You ever think maybe it doesn’t have to?”

Bucky blinked. “You saying that to me?”

Jason shrugged again, smirking. “What? You think just ‘cause I’m the walking definition of bad decisions I can’t learn things?”

“I think you’ve got potential,” Bucky said, half-smiling.

“Careful,” Jason grinned, “flattery like that’ll make me sentimental.”

They finished the dishes in companionable silence. When Alfred returned to inspect their work, he paused, actually impressed.

“Well,” he said finally, “I stand corrected. You’ve done a commendable job.”

Bucky dried his hands on a towel. “Thanks. You run a tight ship.”

Jason shot him a look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps if the rest of the family demonstrated similar competence, we might avoid next year’s gravy incidents.”

From the hallway came a faint, guilty, “Sorry!” — Peter’s voice.

Alfred sighed, long-suffering. “Children.”

Jason smirked. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you,” Alfred corrected.

Bucky chuckled. “That’s basically love.”

When Jason finally flopped onto the couch, Wanda and Peter were half-asleep under a blanket, Dick was dozing in a chair, and Tim had passed out with his laptop open on his chest.

Jason sank down beside Bucky with a quiet sigh. “Weird night.”

Bucky nodded. “Weirder than most. But… nice.”

Jason glanced around at the half-asleep pile of kids,the warmth, the light, the strange, family that somehow worked.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Kinda nice.”

Bucky looked at him. “You think Bruce knows how lucky he is?”

Jason smirked faintly. “Probably not. But I think we do.”

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the high windows. Dust drifted lazily in the warm golden light. Everything was blissfully silent.

Until a fork scraped a pie tin.

“Dude, stop making that noise like you’re banishing a demon,” Jason muttered, slouched at the kitchen island in pajama pants and a too-large hoodie.

Bucky glared at him over the forkful of chocolate pie. “This is breakfast.”

Jason snorted. “It’s dessert.”

“It contains eggs,” Bucky countered.

“You’re not wrong,” Jason muttered, digging into his slice.

The kitchen door swung open.

Both men froze.

Bruce stood in the doorway, wearing a robe, hair slightly messed up, looking like the world’s grumpiest billionaire who absolutely did not sleep enough.

He saw them.

He saw the pie.

He exhaled the deepest, world-weary sigh known to humanity.

“…It’s five in the morning,” Bruce said flatly.

Jason didn’t look up. “Good morning to you too, Batsy.”

Bucky gave a tiny wave, very polite. “Morning.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Pie. For breakfast.”

Jason chewed loudly. “It’s the breakfast of champions.”

Bruce stared at him tiredly. “Jason, you died once. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t provoke the universe again.”

Jason pointed his fork at Bucky. “He made me.”

“I did not,” Bucky said, offended. “You started eating it first.”

“You cut the pie.”

“You set the plates out!”

Bruce closed his eyes. “I am too tired for this shit.”

Bruce moved to the counter and began making coffee, or more accurately, began glaring at the coffee machine with the intensity of a tired father of many.

Insert emotional conversation here( I may write one later but I am tired af)

Jason grinned. “Aww, look at us. One big trauma-riddled family.”

Bruce smacked the back of Jason’s head lightly.

“HEY!”

The kitchen door creaked.

Dick shuffled in, bleary-eyed with bed hair in all directions. “Morning…” he mumbled.

He blinked when he saw the scene.

“Why does it feel like I just walked in on a support group?”

Jason held up his plate. “Pie?”

Dick pointed at him, nodding sagely. “Breakfast of champions.”

Bruce groaned.

Bucky sighed.

Jason beamed. “See? Someone gets it.”

Peter stumbled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes, wearing mismatched socks and his hoodie half-zipped, he was closely followed by a dead to the world looking Tim.

Peter froze when he saw Bruce, Bucky, Dick and Jason staring at him from the table.

“…Did I miss a meeting?” he asked nervously.

Jason threw an arm around his shoulders dramatically. “Kid, welcome to breakfast.”

Bucky handed him a plate of pie.

Tim, father like son, started at the coffee machine, a white monster (it’s the best flavor,,if you prefer Redbull you’re a psychopath) till the holy brew flooded his cup