Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Green! Green! Green!

It’s all he could see, it polluted his vision. He was trapped, it appeared to be a glass cylinder, that much Peter could make out.

Peter tried to scream but the green liquid kept drowning him in it.

Ok,ok. Don’t freak out Peter. he told himself trying to keep the last tinges of his mind free of the green liquid that surrounded him everywhere else.

Peter took stock of himself he was still in his spidey suit. Not the one mr stark had given him most recently but the one that mr stark gave him for the civil war with mr Captain America,
He had his web shooters and his mask was in his hand.

Peter realized again that he was trapped in the cylinder still. He touched the glass, it was thick but he could maybe break through.

Peter pushed through the glass hard enough to break it.
The green liquid started pouring out creating a puddle with glass shards. Peter carefully stepped out he realized he shouldn’t wear his spidey suit. Peter didn’t know how he would be treated, where everyone loves him in New York, he could be in New Jersey. Peter repressed a gag for comedic value.

Peter decided that he would wear a hoodie that he happened to find in the lab that he was in and some shorts that were underneath his spidey suit.

He was wearing running shoes that he already had on just so he didn’t have to change into them later. These were the ones Peter had really wanted from aunt may. Wait, wasn’t aunt may dead, wasn’t Peter dead? He knew he felt himself flake away on titan if flake was even the right word. It felt more like he was becoming sand and slowly he was being grated by a cheese grater.

How is he alive? F*ck!
How is he alive?!!

Does he even still have his abilities?
Peter ran to the exit, desperately trying to get away from the green following him. In his head he felt the inky green substance still there. It was like thick putty was stuck in his mind.

Peter ran up to the steel doors and pushed. He pushed like his life depended on it probably because it did.

When he reached the surface his mind felt fuzzy, almost numb.

“-ey, ki-” there was a figure standing there almost fumiliar. He had a tight spandex suit on. It was black with a blue bird on rhe chest, the chest bird span accors his whole wingspan.

“S-stay b-back.” Peter said, although he could barely hear them. That’s strange, he could usually hear everything but now he could barely even her his own words.

“-ey ki-? Ca- you -ear me clearl-?” The man in the spandex suit tried.

Oh sh*t peters voice is probably not clear right now. He can’t really hear so he shakes his head and gives the guy who Peter assumes is either vigilante or a cosplayer a so so sign with his hands.

The guy proceeds to pull out a little metal thing from his utility belt. Peter takes a clooser look and realizes that it’s a hearing aid. What does Peter have to lose? So he shakes his head yes and the very kind vigilante/cosplay man puts it on him.

It feels weird, but then he feels the man touch his shoulder
“Hey kid?” The guy asks
“Yeah?” Was all Peter could respond. He still found it hard to speak after almost drowning like a gazzilion times.
“Where were you coming from bud?” The guy said squatting down to peters level.

F*ck! How had he now just seen that he is this small. Based on the size that Peter is, he would say that he is about thirteen.

The vigilante guy looks safe so Peter starts to ask for help
“mr? I Don’t know Where I’m”
“It’s ok, and I haven’t introduced myself yet, I’m nightwing. Where do you live?” Nightwing spoke in a way that made Peter feel like a little kid.

“Why would I tell you? Stranger danger!” Peter said. If this so called nightwing was gonna treat him like a little kid, he was gonna act like one, and a petty one at that.

“Here kid, here’s a map for you.” Nightwing paused
“You have an accent… hmm… alley?”
Peter had no idea what he was talking about so he just nodded.

“I’m assuming you don’t have a guardian?” Nightwing asked. Peter just shook his head in response
“Ok… I’m pretty sure hood has a safe house around here…” nightwing trailed off reaching into his belt to see what safe house was closest.

That was all Peter needed. For all he knows, nightwing could be a pedophile!

Peter runs, no sprints with all his might the other way. He makes it to a place that the map he swiped says crime alley?

What kind of a name is that?

***

“Hey nightwing?”
“Yeah rr?”
“There is a unexpected power surge at a abandoned power plant. Can you check it out and report back?”
“Yeah I’ll try.”

By the time Dick gets there he already spots a kid. The kid is young not much older than thirteen and has a mop of messy brown curls stuck to his hair.

“Hey kid?” Nightwing tried.
“S-stay back.” The kid responded however Nightwing could hear that his voice was kind of muffled as if he couldn’t hear it.
“Hey kid?” No response
“Can you hear me clearly?” He tried again. The kid just shook his head no.
He sighed and pepper out a hearing aid that for some reason rice makes them keep in there utility belts at all times. I guess now he knows why.

He quickly puts it on the boy and then rests a hand on his shoulder so he couldn’t bolt.
“Hey kid?” Nightwing asked the small boy in front of him.
“Yeah?” Was the only response he got. When the kid spoke it sounded like he hadn’t in years. Like when they first adopted cass and she wasn’t allowed to speak. Whenever he thought about it, it always made his heart sink. Who would do that to this child?

“Where are you coming from bud?” Dick asked, slightly crouching down to his level. He recognized the kid was scoping out him and analyzing so he just let him.

“Mr? I don’t know where I am.” The kid said, avoiding Dicks question with ease. Damn somebody did train this kid.
“It’s ok, and I haven’t introduced myself yet, I’m nightwing. Where do you live?” Nightwing stated, his tone gentle.

“Why would I tell you? Stranger danger!” The kid said, crossing his arm.
God this kid was an alley kid through and through. He almost reminded him of himself when Bruce first took him in.

“Here kid, here’s a map for you.” He said fishing for one in his utility belt.
“You have an accent… hmm… alley?”

The kid just nodded.
“I’m assuming you don’t have a guardian?” The kid looked away in response. “Ok… I’m pretty sure hood has a safe house around here…”

Dick reached into his belt trying to see if he had the list of Jason’s safe houses at their ready.

Apparently that meant run away in the kids mind.

***
It was getting dark and Peter needed a place to sleep. He made it all the way to an abandoned fire house. It looked safe. Well as safe you could probably get in this city.

He realized that no one else was squatting in it so he figured he was just lucky. Well it did have running water and a semi working fridge along with a spare pile of scrap parts. That would be great for Spider-Man.

Peter had found a $50 bill lying around on the ground and decided to go out and buy a few things. He looked around while keeping his head down. Now Peter did recognize that he looked suspicious but who would ever suspect a kid?

When he finally made it to the store, he bought a sleeping bag, a tarp and a bucket pocketing the rest for food later on.

After he got back and set up his camp, he decided that he should sleep so hopefully his spider healing would heal whatever had happened to him that day.

He took out his hearing aid and climbed into his sleeping bag letting the dark void of sleep over take him.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up to the feeling of his stomach gurgling. God he was hungry, and an enhanced metabolism won’t be very helpful.

Peter had a little money but how was he gonna keep getting money?

Peter took a breath. He could get money legally, probably. Peter put in his hearing aid and got out of the off brand sleeping bag.

Peter decided that he would fix electronics. It was easy enough when he did it during high school so why couldn’t he do it again?

Peter put on his hoodie and shorts and decided to set off looking for supplies.

His first few stores were either way too high in his price range or way way way too sketchy.

Peter did in fact, make a stop at the electronics store and bought a phone and they were surprisingly cheap.

In the end, Peter ended up with a cheap tool box, a couple pens (curse you three packs) and poster paper.

When he arrived back in his dilapidating building he set all his stuff out and began working.

After what felt like an eternity, he went out and put the posters up.

Peter pulled out his phone and took the number that it has on it and wrote it down on the board.

After he returned to his living shelter (with only a few concerned looks from a red head wheel chair user librarian)
He finally had time to think.

He thought about May and how he had let her down by not saving Ben, he thought about MJ and Ned. He thought about Mr Stark and how he was probably right about how Peter isn’t ready. But Peter needed Spider-Man.

Mr. Stark couldn’t recognize that Peter needed an escape. But now Peter needed to get back but how could he know where he was? Peter thought he was on earth. Wait, what if they were still on titan?

The thought of that place made Peter's vision polluted with green. It was inky and thick and in escapable.

Peter needed an escape so he took out his hearing aid. It was still there. The green it kept surrounding him like a thick green cloak. It one that was under his skin and made him feel like his blood was green! It was green, green! Green! Green!

“Breath Peter.” Peter felt the words reflect off him. He needed to breath. Where was that voice coming from. Was it heaven?
“Not to you kid.” The magical voice from above cut through with a chuckle. Wait Peter recognized that voice… mr falcon wilson?
“Yeah kid, just call me Sam.”

Peter was gonna circle back to that later but still how? And why can’t he see more than just his torso? And why is it faded? How does the orange magic tinge the end of same torso and head and arms?

“Mr sam?” Peter asked looking at the ghost. He was wearing his falcon outfit and the wings.
“Yes Peter?” Sam speaks back.
“How are you here, are there others?”
“Yes peter there are. Everyone who got dusted is here. Only the hero’s or anti hero’s in lokis case.”

Peter was only slightly shocked at that but we was fine. Probably.
“Can anyone else hear you?” Peter asked as he sat down on the run down floor.
“No only you.”
“Why are you the one talking to me?” Peter asked, suspiciousness creeping into his voice.
“Because I’m the one that volunteered and the other ghost are not that friendly .” That makes sense in peters mind because out of pretty much all the people that were dusted, Peter liked Sam the most. Sure Peter fought in a war against him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t respect or find Sam kind of likeable.

When Mr stark at first briefed him on mr falcon Wilson he felt respect. He was a veteran that quit and was perfectly content with staying that way. But when mr captain America- a voice snickering in the back of his mind cut him off but Peter just rolled his eyes- needed his help, he got right back into it with no warm up and dismantled one if not the most secure organizations in the world.

“I’m honoured.” Sam said, half jokingly.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Can you hear my thoughts?” Peter said dramatically.
“Yes.” Several voices called back to him.

“Peter?” A deep voice startled him. Peter turned his head to see the king of wakanda. He was presented just like Sam however he was wearing a black panther suit.

“Peter, you should try going to a library. From there you can find out who that strange man that you talked to yesterday was. I believe from context clues he is a vigilante. How about searching for family? Your aunt, uncle or even parents could be alive here and some might even be willing to help you get home my friend.” T’challa spoke with the wisdom of a king.
“I can try.” Peter said back.

Peter checked his phone and discovered it was only three pm. He could totally fake it that he is just there for a school project and get to use the computers.

Peters walk there wasn’t all too bad. He had scored a backpack sitting by a dumpster. One of the zippers was jammed but besides that it was fine. Peter decided that he would in fact take it and he slung it over his shoulder.
The rest of peters walk was fine. In the part of this town, you don’t look at people and they don’t look at you.

Peter finally arrived at the library, and it wasn’t as busy as he expected.
“Miss?” Peter asked at the red headed librarian in a wheelchair. From what he could tell, her hair was in a messy bun and she was wearing a turquoise shirt and she was re organizing books. She spun around and Peter discovered a warm smile on her face.

“Hi, I’m Barbara.” She said, looking at Peter expectantly.
“I’m Peter.” He returned.
“What can I help you with today?” She asked Peter warmly. She kind of reminded him of aunt may, the way she smiled and the way her hair was pretty but not neat because aunt may could never be bothered to do it ‘nice’.

“Umm. I need to use the computer.” Peter said sheepishly.
“Ok, there are some on the second floor. It’s your first left.” She explained. Peter quickly thanked her and begun his journey up the dreaded stairs. Only slightly falling up them.

Peter wished he had his powers right now. Especially because now he had returned to his original health. He had his asthma again and he needed glasses.

Luckily, he found one that was about his old prescription. They were dirty and old but Peter washed them and cleaned them so they worked.
“What is it with him and finding stuff on the side of the road?” A voice in the back of his head spoke. Peter just rolled his eyes.

Peter chose a computer out of view of the cameras just in case. He sat down and began googling.

Spider-man

No results

Avengers

No results. Did you mean the justice league?

No Peter did not in fact mean the justice league. What was that even? Curiosity ruled over his pride on his knowledge and he clicked on the article.

20 minutes of google searching later and he finally discovered that vigilante cosplay guy that called himself Nightwing was actually part of a clan being called the bats and birds.

They were basically all vigilantes like Peter was and they had a moral code like Peter did to not kill.

While Peter was scrolling he found out that another member of the clan was Batman. Wait that name sounded familiar.

Peter remembers reading comics about Batman and robin with uncle Ben. So Peter guesses it’s confirmed. Peter is in a different dimension.

Wow and not only that, he is in the dc dimension. So that means no familiar faces or anything.

“What about your education?” T’chala ever the wise one started.
Peter than went on a googling rabbit whole.

He eventually ended up at the Wayne scholarship page and Peter applied.

The scholarship was for gifted children. The school was called Gotham prep. Ugh even the name made it sound posh but the weekly allowance of 500$ helped a little. Peter had to take a test tomorrow and that would decide if he got it or not. So he better head home.

Chapter Text

The next morning was fine. Peter didn’t oversleep. In fact, Peter woke up way too early, which gave him extra time for travel. And on a Saturday? Normally, the very idea would have revolted him. up early without the reward of cartoons or pancakes made by aunt may. Even though they were always burnt, he somehow loved them more than any other food in the world, but for free education at a very prestigious school? He’d suffer.
The nearest bus stop was a kilometre away, and Peter, being Peter, almost didn’t make it on time. He sprinted the last twenty feet, practically vaulting into the crowd just as the doors hissed shut behind him. Luckily, the ride was free. He didn’t even have to web himself under the chassis and hang there like a raccoon with a PhD in bad decisions. Not that he even could without his powers.
The bus was crowded, of course. Gotham apparently specialized in “public transport sardine cans.” Some people looked like locals, they were pale, tense, suspicious of everything, while others looked just as out of place as he did. The only spot left was the very back corner, and Peter squished in with a handful of commuters who were way too busy scrolling on cracked phones to notice him.
When he finally arrived at Gotham Prep, he was immediately shepherded into a testing hall. It was the most boring room Peter had ever seen: beige walls, gray desks, fluorescent lights that buzzed in the exact pitch to make your brain leak out of your ears. Thank f*ck that he didn’t have his powers or like literally any hearing without a hearing aid. He couldn’t imagine having full hearing in this room. Who designed it? A beige mom?
Most of the kids looked like they were dressed by stylists, ready to pay tuition with pocket change. Meanwhile, Peter Parker? He could absolutely-rooten-toonly not.
This was his golden ticket and while he wasn’t ‘all my grandparents live in a shack with me and they all share one bed’ poor, he was exactly that but less family. This is his one-way pass out of “living in an abandoned firehouse” and into “maybe not starving.” If this school didn’t pan out, his next best option was, what, working as a vigilante IT guy in Gotham? Hard pass. And now he couldn’t even work as a vigilante, with his powers being gone and everything
He slid into his assigned seat and realized, to his relief, he wasn’t surrounded by the rich crowd. Instead, he was with what he’d recently learned were called “alley kids.” Born and raised in Crime Alley. The kind of kids who grew up scrappy and sharp-eyed, used to dodging both fists and questions. Peter wasn’t exactly born there, but Queens was close enough in Peter's mind. Alley kids had a whole vocabulary, apparently. Sometimes they even called themselves “alley trash” to each other, which was either depressing or the purest form of bonding.
“Jesus Christ, this kid could give a TED Talk on this,” Peter heard one of his ghosts say but he was just way too concentrated to figure it out. So he ignored it.

Peter had also recently figured out his ghost situation. So according to ghost mr falcon wilson, all the people that had been dusted (like the gardians, avengers and fantastic four)
The test itself? Easy. Almost insultingly easy. Peter didn’t even need the help of his ghosts. And now he knows how just not normal his life is here. There is no way in h*ll he would say that back on his earth. But this wasn’t his Earth. Probably. Parallel universes were the most plausible theory, but Peter didn’t exactly have a chalkboard and red string conspiracy wall to confirm it.
He finished early, handed his test in, and returned to his uncomfortable chair. The plastic creaked every time he shifted, and he was hyper-aware of the ticking clock and the shuffling of pencils. All he could do was sit there and wait, nerves buzzing like the lights overhead.
Finally, the teacher stood up, papers in hand. She would remind Peter a lot of Mrs Potts if he wasn’t so focused.
“Attention.” Her voice cut through the chatter, and every head in the room snapped toward her. The silence that followed was so sharp it might’ve been weaponized.
“I would like to thank everyone who came out to try today. The Wayne foundation is very generous; however, we only have one spot open. And we are very happy to announce we have three students that met requirements this semester. And as I have stated there can only be one. So we went with the highest test scores. The highest scoring individual was…”

Peter braces himself for disappointment. If aunt may were here he would tell him that he is always the smartest in the room. And if bed was here he would reassure Peter. And right now? Right now Peter was definitely still doubting himself.

“It is Peter Parker!” Every student looks shocked. It’s like they had it all planned, but no school would ever take extortion money.

“A big round of applause for Mr Parker.” The teacher speaks. Her smile is … warm. It’s like she’s trying to invite him. Isn’t that what kidnappers do? But she would never kidnap him. His spider sense would go off. But yet again, it has been quite quiet ever since he arrived in Gotham.
As all the kids filled out with frowns on their faces, the teacher called Peter over. “Mr Parker? A word?”she calls.
As he walks over to her desk, Peter looks baffled. He is. He can’t believe it. How can this happen? How did this happen?
“Now, you're aware that this scholarship requires at least one active participation in any club or sport?”
“Yes ma’am. I am.” Peter tried his best to be polite but the white streak in his hair and the fact that he was from the alley or lived in the alley didn’t help. He just looked like trouble.
“Have you chosen what you would like to do?”
“I have not, why?”
“I think you would be a perfect fit for the academic decathlon. You could also try mathletes. Or both perhaps?” She paused, looking at Peter.
“I would love to.” Peter said. He figured it would be the best option. And while Peter could play all the sport physically (not that he'd ever want to) back at midtown, he still wont.
“And here's your tour guide” she said as a lady skinny boy who looked way too sleep deprived for his own good stepped in. “He will show you around and oh! How could I forget names? Peter, this is Tim, Tim drake.”

Chapter Text

“So Peter,” Tim starts.
Peter can’t tell why, but whenever Tim speaks he feels a roar of anger inside of him. It’s green and angry. Rough. Rigid. Suffocatingly infuriating. Just Tim’s voice alone makes his chest tighten and hands twitch “Calm down, Peter,” a deep voice says.
Peter breathes. It’s hitched and not smooth, but it’s a breath. He recognizes the voice immediately. How could anyone not recognize the king of Wakanda. Somehow, just hearing it, the roar quiets slightly. He exhales slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease.
Peter takes a deep breath again, trying to smooth it out. He needs to focus. There’s a new person he has just been introduced to. Tim.
“Hey Tim?” Peter ventures cautiously.
“Yeah?” Tim says nonchalantly, shrugging.
Peter swallows. He wants to ask something but has to find the words. “The person doing the test… they mentioned mathletes and an academic decathlon. Do you know anything about that?”
Tim’s eyes light up slightly. “Yeah! I’m actually on both teams!” He leans a little closer. “Are you interested in joining?”
Peter feels a thrill of excitement, tempered by shyness. “Yeah… I think I am,” he admits softly.
“Great! The mathlete meetings are before school on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and the academic decathlon meetings are after school on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday,” Tim rattles off.
Peter frowns, trying to remember. “Ok… so three mornings and three afternoons?”
Tim nods. “Exactly. It starts next week and the practices die down when there is not a competition coming up. You’ll get used to it quickly.” He smiles. “It’s not like we’re asking you to run marathons or anything.”
Peter chuckles softly. “Do I… do I have to test for it?”
“Nope,” Tim says, waving a hand. “We can use your test you just took. Grade nine only. In grades ten through twelve, they send invitations personally. So you’re in for now.”
Peter nods, relieved. “Oh… okay. That’s… good.”
Tim shrugs. “Older students have extra stuff. Don’t worry about it yet.”
Peter adjusts his backpack straps. “Do I… do I have to wear a uniform?”
“The grade nines don’t. Only grades ten, eleven, and twelve. So… next year.” Tim grins. “Anyway, I can show you your classes for tomorrow. What’s first?”
“Grade ten science,” Peter says, standing a little taller.
Tim’s eyes light up. “Oh! My friend is in that class.”
Peter’s curiosity piques. “What’s their name?”
“Stephanie,” Tim says. He shrugs. “But everyone just calls her Steph.”
Peter nods slowly. “Steph… okay. Got it.”
Tim grins. “She’s smart and super competitive. Not in a mean way, but she likes to win.”
Peter shifts slightly. “I guess I can handle a little competition.”
Tim glances at him. “Good. You’ll fit in. It gets intense sometimes, but it’s fun.”
Peter glances at the library. It looks intimidating—tall, wide, endless. He swallows. “Do we meet in there?”
“Nah, Mathletes meet upstairs on the third floor reserved for clubs, and academic decathlon also meets upstairs. There’s signs on the doors it’s so cool.”
There’s a pause. Peter fidgets with his backpack.
“Yeah,” Peter confirms.
Tim flips open a notebook. “Here’s how it works: Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings are mathletes. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday afternoons are decathlon. There either before school or after. Sometimes after term 1, when the schedule gets close to completion, they switch people’s schedules around so their free period is aligning.
“And Friday morning too. You don’t need to go every day if homework conflicts. But mathletes before school is a good start.”
Peter tries to keep up. “And the decathlon… Tuesday, Thursday, Friday afternoons?”
“Right,” Tim confirms. “It’s flexible. Fridays are the busiest because both clubs meet.”
Peter scribbles, glancing at Tim. “Okay… got it.”
They start walking down the hallway. Tim gestures around. “Here’s the third floor, the one hallway is student council stuff and music, and this one is academics.”
Peter peers around, absorbing the surroundings. “It’s bigger than I thought.”
Tim chuckles. “Yeah, it can be overwhelming. But after a week, you’ll know your way around.”
Peter’s stomach twists slightly. Nervous energy mixes with curiosity. Tim shows him a door with a little plaque on the outside that reads; ‘Academic Decathlon’. He then showed Peter another one that read; ‘Mathletes’.
“These are the club hallways. Almost all the clubs are held here.”
They reach a corner. Tim points to doors on either side. “Those are the science classrooms. You’ll start in that one tomorrow. This hallway leads to the cafeteria and main office. I’ll show you later.”
Peter nods. “Okay… thanks.”
Tim smiles. “Also, if you have any questions, just ask. Everyone’s used to new students.”
Peter swallows. “Alright. Only if social anxiety doesn’t kick in.”
Tim chuckles at the last bit, then flips his notebook back open. “Let’s see… your free periods. Wednesday, Thursday… that’s lunch and study hall. You’ll figure out where to eat. The cafeteria’s big but crowded. Just look for a table, usually someone will let you join.”
Peter jots notes. “Okay… free periods. Got it.”
“Good,” Tim says. “And next week, we have a field trip. Since you're 13, you don’t need a parental consent form.

Peter swallows again. He can feel his nerves fading slightly, replaced by anticipation.
“Tim?”
“Yeah?” Tim says taking off his back pack and putting his note book back in it.
“Where’s the field trip to?”
Tim slumps his shoulders the proceeds to respond:
“Uggghhhhh, Lexcorp.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker had seen some weird things in his short, spider-bitten life. Alien invasions? Check. Giant purple guys with magic rocks? Double check. Tony Stark giving him fatherly attention before Peter turns into dust? Triple check with extra trauma. #parkerluck!!
But this?
This was Gotham.
And Gotham was a whole new level of weird.
The bus screeched to a halt in front of him with a sound that suggested someone had been neglecting the brakes since, oh, maybe 1985? Now Peter's internal monologue was reminding him of trends about showing your fathers photo.

The door hissed open like it was exhaling cigarette smoke, and Peter climbed aboard with his backpack slung over one shoulder, trying not to wince at the smell. Peter was thankful he didn’t have his super smelling ability.

Crowded was an understatement. When Peter said crowded, he meant super-duper, can-you-even-breathe crowded. He was pretty sure if he sneezed, someone across the aisle would say “Bless you” because of how close they all were.
Thank freaking God he’d been one of the first at the stop. Being early was the only thing saving him from standing for the whole ride.
And the only seat available was at the very front of the bus.

Not bad, front seats were usually good. Except… the people sitting next to it.
On his right was a man in smudged clown makeup. His face looked like it had gone through a fight with a car wash and lost. His hair was neon green, slicked back like he had dunked it in radioactive slime and just rolled with it. He wore a purple tuxedo with green accents that screamed I shop exclusively at Haunted Party City. And he was scrolling on his phone. Calmly. Nonchalantly.
Peter swallowed.

‘Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say anything. Pretend he’s just a normal guy who had a rough night at a carnival.’ Peter told himself.
To the clown’s right was another man. This one wore a green tuxedo with purple accents, a massive top hat with a golden question mark, and carried a gold cane like he’d just walked out of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Peter remembered when he and uncle Ben started reading the book together.

The green suit guy was flipping through a glossy magazine, ignoring everyone else.
Peter sat down gingerly, trying to look like he wasn’t sitting next to what his spider-sense was basically screaming were two red flags in human form.

“Morning, kid,” the clown muttered, not even looking up from his phone. His voice was casual, like a friendly uncle. A friendly uncle who might also shove you into a vat of acid.
Peter forced a smile. “Uh. Morning.”
The other guy—Mr. Question Mark—glanced over the edge of his magazine. His eyes gleamed, calculating. “What has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?”
Peter blinked. “Uh… a human?”

The man’s lips twitched, impressed. “Smart boy.”
Peter shifted in his seat, clutching his backpack tighter. Yup. Totally normal bus ride. Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man sitting next to Gotham’s greatest nightmares like it’s casual Tuesday. Well for all Peter this could be the average person in Gotham. Could you imagine? What’s next, a giant doc Conners rip off?
***
By the time he got off the bus, Peter’s nerves were fried. His spider-sense had been buzzing the entire ride like an angry phone alarm. He practically stumbled onto the sidewalk, gulping fresh(ish) Gotham air like he’d been underwater.
He checked the time. Early. Too early for class. Which meant only one thing: coffee.
Starbucks sat on the corner, a glowing green siren calling him in. Peter had been saving his scholarship money like a responsible adult, but hey, caffeine was survival. And survival trumped budgeting.
The line was short, thankfully. He ordered a caramel macchiato,extra caramel (because life was short) and found a seat by the window. For a few minutes, Peter let himself relax. The hum of voices, the smell of roasted beans, the warm cup between his hands. Normalcy.
Except normal never lasted long for Peter Parker.
At the table next to him, two men in suits were whispering heatedly. One had a scar running down his cheek. The other kept nervously glancing at the door. Words like “Falcone” and “shipment” floated through the air.

Peter sipped his coffee. Nope. Not his circus. Not his monkeys. Not his mafia war. Just a guy enjoying overpriced caffeine.

Still… his fingers itched. Back in Queens, he would’ve followed them. Snapped some pictures. Tried to help. But Gotham wasn’t Queens. Gotham had rules. And one of those rules was: Don’t get involved unless you want to end up as a chalk outline. Also the fact that Peter didn’t have his powers?

He finished his drink and tossed the cup. “When in Gotham,” he muttered, “be boring. And powerless.”

His school loomed ahead like a castle out of a fairy tale (fairy tales included a tuition fee that could buy three cars and a butler named Alfred or Charles or Oliver). The gates were tall, wrought iron, and definitely enchanted with some kind of “no riffraff allowed” spell.

Peter adjusted his backpack and tried not to look too impressed. He imagined all the kids here drove fancy cars and had underground hangouts. Maybe even actual caves. Could you imagine?

Inside, the halls gleamed with polished floors and towering windows. Students in blazers and ties streamed past, talking about yachts and ski trips.
Peter stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Good morning, miss,” Peter said as he passed a teacher.

“Good morning,” she replied, with a smile that was polite but distant.
Peter sighed. This was going to be a long day.
First period was science. He found the classroom easily, slid into a seat near the back, and tried not to stare at the kid across the aisle who was sketching… was that a purple bat emblem?
“Hey,” the kid said, noticing Peter. “New?”
“Yeah. Peter.”

“Steph.” The kid smirked. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it here.”
Peter arched a brow. “Used to…?”
Steph just grinned and went back to doodling.
The second period was French . Peter sat beside a nice dude.
He was wearing a yellow sweater and had short hair.
“Hi I’m Duke!” The guy greeted.
“I’m Peter!” Peter greeted back.
The rest of the class flew by. Only for the fact that the bell rang pulled Peter out of his conversation with Duke. Peter really liked Duke, in someway he even reminded him of ned!

By lunch, Peter’s head was spinning. The cafeteria looked more like a five-star restaurant. Silverware. Chandeliers. Kids with last names that probably opened doors in Congress.
He sat alone at a table, pulling out the peanut butter sandwich he’d packed. As he unwrapped it, he overheard kids talking about their “family business.” One mentioned Cobblepot. Another mentioned Maroni.
Peter froze mid-bite. What the actual ticitty tack frock fracture snick snack Rick rack.
The day dragged on. Teachers talked. Students whispered. Peter felt like he was walking through someone else’s comic book.
By the time the final bell rang, he was exhausted.
But one thought kept circling in his head:
If this was just day one… what was coming next?

Chapter Text

Gotham mornings never really start. They just smudge from night into a paler version of themselves.
Peter sat on the city bus with his hood up, The sky outside was a bruised gray, clouds stacked like dirty snow, and the whole ride smelled faintly of wet metal and coffee someone spilled six stops ago. He watched the city crawl by — the narrow alleys, the flickering neon, the man yelling at pigeons with the confidence of a prophet. Luckily no crazy clown or dressed up people in green suits this time.
No one looked twice at him. Which was good. He liked being background noise.

Class was the usual blur: equations that made sense until they didn’t, whispered gossip about who was dating who, a substitute teacher who looked one bell ring away from quitting forever. Peter took notes he’d never read again, eyes drifting to the clock every five seconds.
Once class finished, he jogged up to Duke who was also alone. Peter was not excited for this field trip but he had to go. How could he not? Peter only had very few absences with his scholarship and everything. And new universe, new track record with field trips.
“Hey dude!” Duke greeted as their class was boarding the bus.
“Hi Duke! How do you think the field trip is gonna be?”
“If it’s anything similar to my previous track record, I dont think it’s gonna be good.” Duke said with a light chuckle.
if only Peter could tell him about his track record. Although, he probably wouldn’t believe him.

If Peter could go back in time and tell 12 year old Peter about what has happened in the past 5 years, he wouldn’t believe him. At all. Like he’d probably send Peter to a mental hospital.

But Peter could imagine telling little him about uncle Ben, getting powers, becoming a superhero, fighting captain freaking America, meeting Tony stark then fighting his homecoming dates dad, and then sort of fading away in his mentors/ father figures/ person they have idolized for almost there entire life. Wow Peter had a hard life.
Then came the field trip.
Because, apparently, the best idea anyone ever had was to load thirty teenagers onto a yellow school bus and take them to LexCorp, the shining symbol of “definitely not evil corporate science.” Peter thought of it as like oscorp.

“Remember, students,” said Ms. Bell, the supervising teacher whose patience was as thin as her smile, “this is a learning opportunity, not a social outing.”

The bus smelled like body spray and despair. Peter slid into a seat near the middle, head against the window, forehead against the cold glass. The glass vibrated as the engine started, and someone behind him was already trying to start a rap battle using a lunchbox.

He tuned it all out. Tried to, anyway. Gotham buzzed differently than Queens. The city wasn’t just alive, it was twitching.

LexCorp Tower was sterile in the way hospitals envy. Polished floors, chrome everywhere, and guards who looked like they’d taser you for breathing too confidently.

A woman with a headset greeted them in a voice that had been surgically optimized for customer service. “Welcome to LexCorp’s Gotham branch, future innovators! Today, you’ll see cutting-edge genetic researc…”

Peter zoned out halfway through the speech. The lab was full of glass cases, glowing panels, and the faint hum of machines pretending to be harmless.
And then he saw them.

A row of spiders. Not regular ones. Sleek, strange things, their legs marked with faint blue lines that pulsed softly, like veins under light. Each one sat in a tiny containment cube labeled with complicated names that sounded like someone lost a fight with a thesaurus.

Peter lingered. Everyone else had already drifted toward the next exhibit something about stem cell robotics but he couldn’t help it. There was something hypnotic about the spiders. Maybe it was the fact that he used to be biologically half spider?

One of them twitched, and he swore it looked right at him.

“Creepy little guy,” he muttered. His breath fogged the glass. “Guess you’re used to being stared at.”
He didn’t notice the corner of the case where the latch wasn’t fully sealed.

Didn’t notice the faint crack in the containment glass.

Didn’t notice the spider until it wasn’t inside anymore.

Something sharp grazed the side of his hand.
He jerked back, swatting instinctively, but whatever it was, it was gone. The skin on his hand burned for a second, then went numb. It hurt though.

“Ow.” He looked down. A pinprick of blood bloomed in the center of his palm. He wiped it on his jeans. “Okay, rude.”

He caught up with the group, pretending nothing happened, but by the time they reached the biotech display, the world had started to tilt.
His head throbbed like someone had stuffed it full of static. His vision swam. Peter felt so nauseous that he couldn’t even spell the word if he tried.
He heard the tour guide talking about “gene editing advancements,” but the words were just noise, dissolving at the edges.

“Mr. Parker?” Ms. Bell’s voice floated in, fuzzy and distant. “You’re pale. Are you feeling alright?”
Peter blinked. “Yeah. I, uh… maybe not. Can I- can I go home?”

Her frown softened. “You don’t look well. Go ahead, but make sure someone’s there to pick you up.”

He nodded, shouldering his bag, the motion heavier than it should’ve been. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright, humming too loud, like the world itself was vibrating wrong.

The walk out of LexCorp blurred — glass doors, shiny lobby, the cold slap of outside air.
By the time he made it to the bus stop, his hand was shaking. His skin itched like electricity was crawling underneath.

He pressed a hand to the bite. The spot was red now, angry and raised, little lines of blue creeping from it like cracks in glass.

“Guess that’s… not great,” he mumbled. Then the ground tilted.

He sat hard on the curb, breathing through his teeth, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Gotham traffic roared by like a thunderstorm. He wasn’t sure if the sweat on his face was from the fever or the panic.

The spider bite pulsed again.
Peter closed his eyes and thought, not for the first time, that the universe really needed to get a hobby that wasn’t him.

Peter loved helping people. He missed being a superhero/vigilante, but Peter could help Gotham. He was confident in Batman’s abilities but at the same time? He knew he could help.
***
(Fast forward to Peter taking his stop back to his fire house 🏡)

All Peter could do was sleep. Peter knew he shouldn’t. He knew when you have an injury that it’s important when alone to stay awake. Peter remembers DD telling him this. And when has the devil of Hell’s Kitchen ever been wrong?
But Peter was so tired. He took his hearing aids out and curled into his sleeping bag. It was so warm and cozy and comfortable that it just led him right to sleep.

Chapter Text

Duke couldn’t believe he’d actually slept in. He must’ve been exhausted from pulling a day *and* night shift yesterday. The kind of tired where you wake up and wonder what year it is. His eyes were still bleary and he bet if he didn’t have a big distaste for coffee he’d consume twice the amount of his caffeine addict brother.

There’d been a bank robbery, and Tim had gone to deal with it. Of course, he’d needed backup, and of course, Jason, Dick, Steph, Cass, Damian, *and* Bruce were all conveniently unavailable. So it was Duke’s problem by default. Typical Batfam scheduling chaos. Aren’t they supposed to be a great in sync team?

At least he didn’t have to patrol today. Small miracles. Though, today was also *field trip day*, which honestly felt worse. At least on patrol, the bad guys didn’t make you sign permission slips.

He only had one class he actually needed to pay attention to, and luckily, he got to skip it. Alfred had declared he’d “earned a reprieve” after the night shift, which in Alfred-speak meant ‘you look like you’re about to collapse, please sit down before I sedate you.’

Duke dragged himself out of bed and got dressed at the speed of a dying snail. His hoodie was inside-out twice before he managed to fix it. By the time he made it downstairs, Tim and Steph were already heading out, Steph waving a Pop-Tart like a victory flag.

“Don’t die at school!” Steph called.

“No promises!” Duke shot back, voice still gravelly from sleep.

He grabbed his backpack and flopped down on the couch, scrolling through his phone until Alfred inevitably summoned him to breakfast, or, as Duke liked to call it, “pre-prison meal prep.”

The Manor was quiet, that rare morning calm that only happened when Bruce was off brooding somewhere (probably with the jl) and Damian hadn’t started an argument yet (probably because he was occupied playing with his *cough cough* friend *cough cough* Jon Kent). Duke let himself enjoy it for a second. The sunlight through the tall windows looked fake, too peaceful for Gotham.

He checked the time and groaned. Still had to go to school. Still had to get on that bus. Still had to pretend he was just another normal student and not someone who spent last night dodging bullets and bad puns (done by a visiting bird from Blüdhaven).

Maybe, if he was lucky, today would be boring.

But knowing his luck? Probably not.

After Alfred brought him to school, luckily letting him skip first period, he immediately saw Peter.

“Hey dude!” Duke greeted as their class was boarding the bus.

“Hi Duke! How do you think the field trip is gonna be?” Peter said back, looking a little wairy.

“If it’s anything similar to my previous track record, I don't think it’s gonna be good.” He said with a light chuckle.

If only he could tell Peter that ever since he started living with the Wayne’s, no field trip, not one has gone smoothly. It’s a wonder why Alfred doesn’t just stop signing the forms.

First there was that chemistry museum and the scarecrow attack. Then the camping trip that got cut short because apparently poison ivy wanted to find poison ivy and where better to do that then a camping ground occupied by 8th graders.

Now here they were, boarding the school bus that would take them across Gotham to the “educational wonderland” that was LexCorp’s Gotham branch. Duke sank into a seat near the front, letting the bus lurch him awake as the engine roared to life.

He glanced around at the other students, mostly chatting excitedly about what they hoped to see, robots, gadgets, maybe a few explosions if they were lucky. Duke couldn’t help a small smirk. He’d learned long ago that “educational trips” in Gotham always ended with something going sideways.

His eyes drifted to Peter, who had taken a seat a few rows back, hunched over and quietly staring out the window. There was something… different about him. Quiet, almost fragile. Duke felt a pang of concern. He’d spent enough time around Gotham’s craziness to recognize when someone looked like they were about to get swallowed whole by it.

Peter almost reminded Duke of someone. He couldn’t put his finger on it but it feels like he was familiar some how.

The bus ride passed in a blur of traffic noise, the occasional complaint about “boring field trips” echoing from other students. Duke half-listened, more focused on Peter’s small figure in the back.

Finally, they arrived. LexCorp’s lobby gleamed in sterile perfection, all chrome and glass and the kind of lighting that made your reflection look like a ghost. Duke followed the tour group, vaguely impressed despite himself, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that Peter was wandering off again.

Duke glanced at the tour guide babbling about LexCorp’s latest biotech marvels, then turned back just in time to see a small movement in the spider display… and then a faint sting on Peter’s hand.

Before Duke could react, Peter’s face paled further. He stumbled back from the display, whispering something incoherent about “feeling weird.”

“Peter?” Duke started, but the boy didn’t respond, like at all. Like if Duke didn’t know better, he’d think that Peter was deaf. Wait was he?

Duke now carefully looking at Peter, for the first time discovered that his friend has hearing aids. He was a bat! How in gods green earth did he not notice it. He cannot tell Bruce about it.

***

By the time Duke managed to nudge him toward Ms. Bell, Peter was shaking, clutching his stomach. The supervising teacher’s eyes widened, and she immediately excused him, letting Peter leave to go home.

Duke watched him go, a sinking feeling in his chest. Something about the way Peter moved, slow, unsteady, almost feverish, didn’t sit right. He’d seen enough bad luck follow quiet kids in Gotham to know this wasn’t “just a little sick.”

The rest of the trip blurred around him. He kept one eye on the group, the other scanning the exit doors, half-expecting Peter to collapse or call for help. He wanted to follow, wanted to make sure the kid got home safely, but what could he say? He wasn’t a teacher, he wasn’t supposed to intervene. Still, he made a mental note: check on Peter later. Eventually ms bell asked him if he was feeling well. Peter ended up going home. But that wasn’t the end of this feild trip.

Any hope Duke could ever have with a field trip going his way, was gone.

Now, Duke was normally a really positive person. He trued to be but when joker interrupted his field trip to lex Corp of all places (didn’t they have an alliance?)? That’s when Duke got a little less positive.

Chapter Text

(Peter’s POV)
Peter wasn’t sure how he made it home.

The bus ride blurred together, faces, sounds, even colors melting into a fuzzy, feverish soup. His skin burned, his head felt too heavy for his neck, and every muscle in his body screamed in languages he didn’t know existed. He also felt so nauseous.

His vision was awful. And full of swirls. His head screamed with dissyness.

The fire house was ok. It wasn’t overly hot. Considering it is October, it wasn’t overly cold. Peter still longed to go home. In New York, aunt may would have had his head for not being careful. But she also would have cooked him delicious burnt food. And taken care of him. He’s all alone. He missed may so so so much.

He groaned and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.

Hot.

Definitely not good.

Also, why did the room look like it was… vibrating?

He shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. His senses buzzed, electric and sharp, like the world had turned its volume up to eleven and ripped off the knob. He could hear things, the sounds of crime from the city around him, a mugging happening nearby, even a struggling store getting robbed just down the street. This wasn’t normal.

He wasn’t normal.
Peter’s brain (the small logical part that hadn’t melted) immediately leapt to the spider. The bite, the sting, the weird pulsing under his skin.

F*ck! Why does in every universe Peter have to get bit by a spider. When it happened last time it didn’t hurt this bad.

He yanked up his sleeve. The bite mark was red, angry, and glowing faintly blue.

“…Oh, that’s so not good.”

He tried to get up, the world tilted sideways. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the wall. He managed to stagger toward his room, half crawling, muttering, “Okay. Okay. You’re fine. Totally fine. Just… spontaneous radioactive allergic reaction. Normal day in Gotham. This has happened before, I should probably be able to handle it.”

He barely made it to his desk before collapsing into the chair. His eyes drifted to the small pile of scrap fabric and old tech parts he’d been collecting for months, “just in case” he ever needed to fix something for class.

Now it looked less like junk and more like… options.
He didn’t know what was happening to him, but if weird powers and danger were involved, and he was living in Gotham, then having a mask ready didn’t sound so bad.

Peter grabbed scissors, trembling, and began cutting into an old red hoodie. He should be able to do it. He made one once before.

(Meanwhile — Duke’s POV)

The second Duke heard that laugh, he felt every single ounce of hope drain out of his body like someone had unplugged him from life itself.

Joker.

Because of course it was Joker.

He didn’t even like LexCorp. The guy had no business being here. Wasn’t this supposed to be Luthor’s territory? Did Gotham villains have some kind of field trip coordination group chat he wasn’t aware of?

The teachers froze. The air felt too tight. The building, once all sterile and shiny, now felt like a glass box ready to shatter.

Duke crouched lower behind the sleek display table showcasing LexCorp’s “safe and innovative” energy weapons. Yeah, safe his butt.

“Good morning, my curious little molecules!” Joker’s voice rang out over the PA, distorted and too bright. “You’re probably wondering, ‘Why’s Joker here? Don’t you usually terrorize the clowns downtown?’ Well, I figured, why limit myself? Science deserves a smile too!”

His laugh was manic. It was a cackle and Duke understood why Jason hated him so so so much. Duke had every reason to hate jokers stupid smeared makeup. And he did. Maybe it was because of duke’s ‘summer I got kidnapped by the joker’ or maybe it was his parents. Duke really couldn’t tell.

The sound system crackled and fizzed. Students screamed. One kid dropped their phone; another was sobbing already.

Duke forced himself to breathe. Civvies. He was in civvies.

He couldn’t blow his cover. Couldn’t risk anyone connecting the dots between Duke Thomas, random Gotham high schooler, and The Signal.

He stayed low, scanning the floor. His eyes caught Ms. Bell, pale and shaking, trying to corral thirty panicking teenagers toward the far door. Bless her, she didn’t even realize Joker had already sealed the exits.

A green puff of gas hissed from the ventilation system. Duke yanked his hoodie sleeve up to cover his mouth.

Joker venom. Of course there was joker venom. There was always joker venom. Who did he think he is, scarecrow?

He grabbed the nearest fire alarm and yanked it down. Nothing. No sound, no flashing lights. Someone had cut the power.

Joker’s voice echoed again, playful and grating.

“Let’s start the show, folks! Step right up, test your luck! If you make it out alive, you win… your continued existence!”

Duke clenched his teeth. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He peeked around the corner. Three of Joker’s goons had entered from the side hallway, all wearing those disgusting, half-melted clown masks. One carried what looked like a paintball gun, but Duke knew better. Joker gas rounds.

Duke scanned the room, calculating. He didn’t have his Signal armor, but he had training by the worlds best detective and a brain.

The nearest display case housed LexCorp’s new “AI-assisted drone prototype.” In other words, a glorified camera drone with a taser attachment.

Perfect.

He slipped along the edge of the display, heart pounding. The glass squeaked under his fingers, and he winced. Come on, stealth mode, don’t fail him now.

He reached the back panel of the drone display and found the latch. Locked. Because, of course.

He fished a bobby pin from his hoodie pocket — courtesy of Stephanie’s “just in case you ever need to break into something mid-disaster” kit. A few twists and a small click later, the lock gave.

“Thanks, Steph,” he muttered under his breath.

He powered on the drone and ducked behind the counter as it hummed to life. The machine beeped, whirring its little rotors, lights blinking like a confused puppy.
He tapped the touchscreen on the display , manual control. Nice. Tim would be proud.
He guided the drone upward, barely breathing. It buzzed over the goons, one of them pausing to swat at the sound. Duke smirked.

“Hey, who left this thing-”

The goon didn’t finish his sentence before the drone zapped him right in the shoulder. He yelped, flailing backward into a display of LexCorp-branded mugs.

The other two spun around, shouting. “What the hell-?”

“Security system!” one of them barked. “Smash it!”

They fired a round of gas toward the drone. Duke moved fast. He redirected the drone’s taser again, jolting the second guy right in the leg. He dropped instantly.

The third one pulled out a knife, because apparently Gotham criminals hadn’t heard of innovation.
Duke ducked under the counter as the gas spread lower. His eyes watered; the sleeve over his mouth wasn’t doing much anymore.

He couldn’t hold out like this for long.

Then, through the fog of chaos, a window shattered.

Glass rained down, glinting like stars, and a familiar voice cut through the madness.

“Man, you guys really can’t do anything without me, huh?”

Duke looked up, nearly laughing out of relief. There he was , Dick Grayson, the human trapeze and permanent optimist, flipping through the broken window like he owned the place in all his golden child glory.

Nightwing landed with a thud, twin escrima sticks already charged with electricity. The lights from the taser sticks reflected off his mask, and for a second Duke thought he’d never seen anything cooler. But then he remembered he can literally do the same thing.

“Everyone down!” Nightwing shouted, voice firm but calm. The kind of calm that only someone used to weekly explosions could manage.

The kids dropped. Ms. Bell stared in shock like she’d just witnessed an urban legend come to life.

The remaining goon tried to aim his gas gun, but Nightwing disarmed him with a single twirl and a smack that was way too smooth to be fair.

Duke couldn’t help but grin, crouching lower to stay unseen.

“Gotta say,” Nightwing said, blocking another punch, “field trips weren’t this exciting when I was a student.”

“You mean they were and you just caused them,” Duke muttered under his breath.

Within minutes, the chaos started to settle. Joker was gone, slipped out in the confusion, as usual. But the goons were down, the students were safe, and the gas was finally dissipating through the broken windows.

Nightwing stood tall amid the wreckage, hands on his hips like this was just another Tuesday.

Duke stayed hidden, heart still thudding, waiting for the right moment to sneak back into the group without anyone noticing. He didn’t want Nightwing calling him out in front of half his school.

He peeked around the edge of a display, and, of course, Dick was looking right at him.

Blue mask. Amused grin. Tiny head shake.

Duke mouthed, don’t.

Dick just raised a brow and mouthed back, later.

Then, before the cops arrived, Nightwing was gone , out the same shattered window he came in through, leaving nothing but broken glass and whispers of “did that really just happen?”

Duke exhaled and stood, pretending to look as dazed as the rest. Ms. Bell was already trying to herd everyone toward the buses, talking fast, voice trembling.

As they shuffled outside, Duke glanced up at the skyline, and for a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of blue swinging away.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to smile.

Another field trip disaster survived. Barely.

He should’ve been used to it by now, but deep down, he knew something about today felt different.

The way Joker showed up here of all places, how Peter had left sick right before it all went down… it wasn’t coincidence. Nothing in Gotham ever was.

He’d check on Peter later. Just to make sure.

For now, he climbed onto the bus with the rest of his class, letting his head rest against the window.

He could already hear Damian teasing him for this later ‘You couldn’t even go on a school trip without a criminal attack, tt.’

Duke groaned quietly.

He needed a nap. A long one. Preferably in another dimension.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up to the sound of Gotham breathing.
At first, it’s just a hum. Then a roar.
Every car engine outside, every footstep on the pavement, every rat skittering across cracked brick, it’s all there. Layered. Loud.

His eyes snap open. He’s not in his and May's warm, filled with love apartment. He’s in his firehouse. The peeling paint on the ceiling, the half-dead space heater, the familiar smell of damp cement. All exactly where it should be.

But it doesn’t feel right.

It feels like someone took the world’s volume knob and cranked it to max.

He sits up too fast. The blanket slips off his shoulder, and the sound of it dragging on the floor is deafening. His heart lurches into his throat. His chest tightens. His fingers twitch like they’re trying to grab the air and it’s too thin. Too sharp.

“Breathe, Peter.”

The voice isn’t in the room. It’s in his head. It’s smooth, steady. T'Challa.

Peter’s breathing hitches again. “I… can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” T’Challa says. “Focus on my voice.”

He clamps his hands over his ears. Bad idea. The world doesn’t stop, his own pulse just joins the orchestra. His skin tingles. There’s a prickle on his palms and the back of his neck. He drags in another breath.

Then something sticks.

His hand.

To the floor.

Peter yanks — and the floor comes with it. Or at least, the cracked piece of paint and plaster does, tearing up with a sickening rrrip.

“…oh no.”

The ghosts don’t answer. Probably trying to give him space.

He scrambles up, but now his foot sticks to the leg of a chair, sending it clattering into the wall. The echo is like a gunshot in his skull. Peter flinches so hard his head hits the brick wall behind him.

He ends up in a crouch, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, hands pressed to the floor — and this time, they stick there too.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Not great. We’re back to this. Do I have to get spider powers in every world?”

🦇 Meanwhile — Across the River
Duke Thomas’s phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t even get a chance to sip his orange juice before the call connects.

“Tell me you’re not already in the suit,” Dick Grayson’s voice comes through, way too chipper for Gotham’s morning gloom.

“I literally just woke up,” Duke says. “Some of us sleep.”

“Shocking. Anyway, we need to talk. About yesterday.”

Duke leans against the counter, staring at the half-burnt toast he hasn’t eaten yet. “Let me guess. Joker got away, again, GCPD is mad, again, and you decide to stress-eat waffles, again?”

“Rude. But accurate.” There’s a beat of silence. “Also, the kid. Parker.”

Duke’s shoulders stiffen. “What about him?”

“I ran background. He’s got nothing. No records that make sense. And you saw how he left before everything went down? That can’t be just a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Duke says slowly. “He’s weird.”

Dick huffs out a laugh. “Coming from us, that’s saying something. You suiting up?”

Duke glances at his half finished glass of orange juice that Alfred would not be pleased if he didn’t consume in one shape, way or form. “Yeah. Gimme ten.”

“Cool. Meet me at the clock tower. And, uh… keep an eye on the kid when you're in school. Just in case.”
“On it.”

🕸️ Back at the Firehouse
Peter finally peels himself off the floor. His hands are shaking. The hearing aids keep feeding him static, like they can’t process the new input. He yanks them out.
Silence doesn’t come. Not really. But it dulls. Just a little.
He leans against the peeling wall, forcing his breath to even out.

This isn’t new.

This is old. Familiar. He knows what’s happening.
Spider-sense. Strength. Everything. It’s back.
But Gotham is louder than Queens ever was.

He slides down the wall until he’s sitting again, head in his hands, whispering, “Why now?”
In the back of his head, Sam Wilson’s voice hums low and calm. “Kid, you know why.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Because the universe hates me.”
“No, It’s because you have a good heart. You know. Now, you have a great power, so go out there and take your great responsibility spiderling.”

Peter slowly pushes himself to his feet, palms still tacky from the floor. His head is spinning less now. His breathing’s uneven, but he’s used to pulling himself out of spirals. Sam’s voice fades, replaced by the faint creak of old floorboards and the distant clang of a passing train.

He stares down at his hands.

They’re trembling, but not weak. No, they feel charged. Warm. Alive.

He curls his fingers into a fist, then opens them again, half expecting them to glow or explode.
Nothing happens.

“…okay,” he mutters. “Cool. Great. Just… slightly radioactive superhands. Again.”
Peter tests his weight on the balls of his feet. Something feels different. Lighter. Like gravity decided it didn’t care about him anymore.

He takes one cautious step forward. His foot sticks to the floor. Another step. Sticks again.
“Okay. That’s fine. We’ve done this before. Just walk normally. No pressure.”
The second he tries to unstick both feet at once, he accidentally launches himself into the air.
“OH NO-!”

Peter’s hands flail like one of those inflatable tube men outside a used car dealership. He smacks the ceiling with a thud, sticks to it upside down like a confused gecko, and dangles there for a beat, staring at his own blanket crumpled on the floor.
“…I hate this part.”

He tries to unstick one hand. It works. He tries the other hand. It also works.
Unfortunately, both feet choose that exact moment to give up too.
“Nononononononooooooo”

He falls.
He does not land.
He somersaults (accidentally) into a perfect front flip, then lands in a crouch like some sort of Olympic gymnast possessed by a spider.

Peter just sits there in stunned silence for a second, staring at his own hands.
“Did I just?”

He stands, cautiously raises his hands like he’s facing a wild animal (the wild animal being, apparently, his own body). Then he jumps again, this time on purpose. It’s like pushing off a trampoline made of adrenaline. He lands halfway up the wall. Sticks. Flails. Yells.

“Oh my god WHY IS THIS SO NATURAL? I HATE THIS! I LIKED IT BETTER LAST TIME WHERE I JUST RIPPED A DOOR OFF!!!!!!!”
He tries a backflip to get down. It’s flawless. He hates how flawless it is.

“Stop it. Stop being good at this,” he scolds himself, pointing dramatically at his own feet. “We are normal. We do normal things. Like trip over curbs and fail gym class.”

He tries walking across the ceiling again, muttering under his breath the whole time. “I’m not Spider-man. I’m Spider–‘What the hell is happening.’”

When he finally unsticks and lands on the floor (this time somewhat gracefully), he’s out of breath, but laughing. Just a little. The sound bbounces around the empty firehouse, softer now that he’s found a rhythm to his breathing.

“Okay,” he pants. “Fine. Great. I’ve got powers again. In Gotham. Because my life can never just be normal.”
He looks around at the mess he’s made, chair knocked over, chunks of plaster missing, a suspicious handprint on the wall. He could practically hear Mr. Stark giving him the irondad Glare™.
Peter sighs.

“Guess I need a mask.”

Chapter Text

Peter knew he should probably see a doctor, or at least someone who could explain what the heck was happening, but he had gone through this before. Not exactly “this,” but… something similar. His life had a long history of weird, completely inexplicable events, and, well, let’s face it, powers weren’t new to him. Not really. He had dealt with them before. He knew the drill, the chaos, the sudden panic, the way your brain just refuses to process that “this is happening again.” And now, staring down at his sticky hands and the small smears of web residue clinging stubbornly to his fingers, he could only come to one conclusion: he probably had organic web shooters. His own body had decided, for reasons he could neither articulate nor fully understand, that he was going to produce this… stuff. Naturally. Automatically. Conveniently, terrifyingly.

Peter took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. There was no reason to freak out. There really wasn’t. He could handle this. He had handled worse. Or, at the very least, he had survived worse, which was probably the same thing in this context. Maybe he had had these powers before and had simply forgotten. That was plausible. Brain fog? Suppressed memories? Too much trauma for a twelve-year-old (or technically seventeen, depending on which timeline or dimension you counted)? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Not right now. All that mattered was the sticky, awkward reality of having powers and… well… being back here, in a place that was still strange to him, still new, but still familiar enough that he could reason with himself.

After the ceiling incident™—and he put the little trademark in his head, because if there was ever a moment worth commemorating, it was that exact one—Peter wisely decided not to try out his so-called “powers.” He had a very clear memory of the chaos that ensued the last time he had attempted something similar. The furniture had been broken. A few innocent bystanders had been terrified. Aunt May had raised an eyebrow, full of judgmental worry. It wasn’t a situation he wanted to repeat. No. Not again. He was perfectly content living with them like this. Waking up with his hands sticking to his sleeping bag? Odd. Slightly alarming. But manageable. Totally fine. Thank you very much.

If he could hide his spider powers from his very overprotective aunt while living in a small, cramped apartment with her, then surely, logically, absolutely, he could hide this from superheroes he barely even knew. Superheroes who shared a city with him temporarily, maybe even accidentally. It wasn’t like they were actively monitoring him, or at least, he hoped they weren’t. He wasn’t ready for that kind of scrutiny yet. Not while he was still… adjusting.

Peter’s spider-sense buzzed faintly, like a mosquito tap-dancing on his skull. He flinched slightly at the sensation but shook it off. Not yet. Not yet. He told himself firmly. First… First, he needed to decide whether or not to even go out as Spider-Man again. Maybe, if he dressed the part like a normal superhero, like someone who had a system, a method, then perhaps he could venture out into Gotham without immediately causing chaos. Maybe he could save the city. Maybe.

He dug through his pile of scavenged fabrics and tech parts, muttering to himself in a tone that was somewhere between focused concentration and borderline lunacy. “Red hoodie… check. Mask… check. Old goggles… check. Uh… what’s the protocol on web fluid cartridges? Do I even need to use them… oh.” His voice trailed off as he performed the motion he used before—before he had, admittedly, terrorized the cleaning staff of his previous building—and, to his utter amazement, it worked. Somehow, inexplicably, perfectly. How? He had no idea. The universe had clearly decided he was allowed this small mercy. Or curse, depending on how you wanted to see it.

Next came the flips. Physical exertion was unavoidable, and Peter had to make sure he could move without killing himself before leaving the firehouse. Which, as far as test arenas went, was simultaneously terrifying and perfect. He crouched, inhaling deeply, and then jumped.

And landed perfectly on the ceiling beam.

“…oh no.”

He froze, staring at the peeling firehouse ceiling like it had personally insulted him. There was a moment—just a fraction of a second—where he imagined the ceiling sneering, like it knew he had absolutely no control over what came next. Then, his gaze slid downward, and the floor seemed impossibly far away. A slow, panicked grin spread across his face, teeth showing, eyes wide. “Oh… ohhhh. Okay. That’s… fine. Totally fine.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, he let go. Gravity took over, and he flipped once midair, landing on his feet as though he’d been doing it his whole life. His heart raced. His hands trembled. He looked down at his hoodie and realized it was on backwards. Perfect. Classic. Exactly the kind of thing that made him feel simultaneously heroic and absurd.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, voice a little shaky but filled with a sense of victorious pride, “I don’t think Aunt May would approve. But I approve!”

He practiced one more jump, a cautious, calculated, definitely-not-overconfident leap—and stuck to the ceiling again. Then, when attempting to get down, he swung a little too enthusiastically and smacked the firehouse ladder. It clanged. Loudly. Reverberated through the old, hollow beams. Freaked him out.

Peter clung to the ceiling, whispering rapidly, “Okay. Calm. We’re calm. Totally calm. Nobody saw that. Just… me being graceful. Totally normal. Absolutely not an insane spider kid clinging to the ceiling in the middle of the night.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of careful experimentation, he settled into a crouch on the floor, hands resting on his knees as he tried to regulate his breathing. His hoodie was askew. His hair was sticking out at odd angles. But his spider-sense hummed now, contented and steady, like a cat curled up by a fireplace. He felt powerful. Terrifyingly, intoxicatingly powerful. Scared, yes. A little insane, maybe. But ready.

***
Meanwhile, Tim personally didn’t mind it when Dick was in town. His company was enjoyable, actually. He appreciated his presence, the banter, the familiarity. But going out on patrol with him? That was a form of torture. Pure, unadulterated, self-inflicted torture.

Dick often liked to make dad jokes. Now, Tim didn’t have anything against dad jokes in principle. But it became a very different matter when they came at you 24/7, with quips and witticisms punctuating every moment. It was exhausting. It tested the limits of patience. And patience was a finite resource, especially when Tim was already navigating the chaos of his life as Red Robin, tech genius, and occasional sarcastic voice of reason.

Today, however, Tim was having a relatively chill day. He had been hacking into the Pentagon while on a call with Kon. The dare had been simple: hack into the headquarters building of the United States Department of Defense. Seemed like an easy task. Probably. Until he got interrupted. Of course. That was Tim’s luck. By the time he was ready to continue, he was called on patrol with Duke and Dick. Just his luck. He sighed but shrugged it off. Sometimes life wasn’t about finishing your hacking projects, its was about saving the city. Or at least pretending to.

Tim quickly put on his Red Robin suit, meticulous as ever. Each piece had a place, a function. He brushed his hair, adjusted the domino mask, and zetaed himself to the location where Dick and Duke were waiting.

“Red Robin, B-13,” the Zeta tube announced, its robotic voice echoing slightly off the alley walls. Who, exactly, would be standing in this alleyway marked for ‘construction’? No one. That was the point.

He quickly took out his grapple gun, shot it up to the roof, and did what he did best: moving efficiently, silently, purposefully. Not with theatrics. Not with unnecessary flair. Just precision.

Before long, he was looming over the edge of a rooftop, flanked by Dick in the Nightwing suit to his left and Duke in the Signal getup to his right. The night stretched out before them. Dark. Quiet. Foreboding. Perfect. Dangerous.

“RR?” Dick asked, probably gauging Tim’s mood, trying to anticipate whether the moment would be filled with sarcasm or just simple efficiency.

“Yeah,” Tim said, already focused. “Have you checked recent activity in the Bowery?” He hoped that their combined efforts might locate the Joker. The city had suffered enough. Arkham was a revolving door of chaos, and he wasn’t about to let its most notorious resident slip away again.

“No. The last spotting o could find was in Amusement Ville. Let’s hope we find him before Harley does.”

Tim chuckled lightly. “N, Harley’s with Ivy now, in Robbins Ville. She hasn’t been to Amusement Ville besides grabbing some of her stuff. They moved in together. You didn’t know?”

Dick froze briefly. “What? I’m so happy for them! But… When did they start dating?”

“Since late 2021,” Tim said, shaking his head slightly, amused. “How did you not know?”

Tim perched on the edge of the rooftop, arms crossed, gaze scanning the streets below. Dick and Duke were talking quietly behind him, but his mind was elsewhere, running through possibilities, patrol patterns, contingencies and when he could get back to hacking the pentagon. The city was alive beneath him, chaotic and unpredictable, but somehow manageable if you stayed sharp. He adjusted his domino mask, a small, almost subconscious habit, and let out a quiet breath. For all the noise, the dad jokes, the constant chaos, there was a rhythm to it, a sense of purpose he couldn’t deny. Tonight, they were ready. He didn’t need excitement, didn’t need flair, just focus, strategy, and timing. And as long as he kept his head in the game, maybe, just maybe, the city would stay one step ahead of the madness. For now, that was enough.