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Chapter Text

When Peter was five years old, his Uncle Ben had come to visit his parents’ home looking like he had walked through a hurricane. His hair was standing in all sorts of angles, his good suit was soaked in what Peter could only describe as mop water infused with the smell of dog piss and poop, and his tie looked like it was fed through a paper shredder before it was pulled back out. His pants and shoes weren’t spared either– if the charcoal black stains on the knees of his pants and how the soles of his shoes flopped like tongues whenever his uncle would lift his feet didn’t make that obvious enough.

Parker luck, his uncle had coined the term. It’s Murphy’s law, but for the men in the Parker family. It will stay quiet for months and nothing will be amiss. They will have peaceful days, and they’ll eventually forget about it. Then like a dam had opened up, all the bad luck that had accumulated hit all at once.

Peter believes today was his Parker luck day.

“Our universe is on the verge of collapse, Peter! I can’t stop this with the same spell anymore,” Stephen explained pointedly, visibly struggling to hold the gaping tears in the sky. In the distance, other sorcerers were casting same binding spell that he had, but all they were doing was putting a proverbial bandage on the problem. It eased the stress of having to hold their universe together on Stephen, and it allowed him a moment to think of a solution– any that wasn’t the cruelest thing you could do to a kid, because it was the only solution he could think of.

“Al-alright, what do you suggest we do? Can–maybe,” Stephen watched as a resolute expression washed over the kid in front of him, “They’re here because of me, right? Because I’m Peter Parker? Then make everyone forget I exist. Make it so no one knows who Peter Parker is.”

Stephen had to bite back a scoff, “I’m sorry, Peter, but even making everyone forget you exist won’t be enough. Your very existence is the problem now. To fix this, we need to– I will need to erase you.”

“What-what? What do you–”

“I’m sorry, Peter. If I had more time, maybe I could find another solution, but at our current state, all I could do, is make it so you never existed in our universe.”

“Never exist? You mean, I-I’ll die? Again?” Peter’s voice trembled.

“I’m-I’m sorry, kid–” but at that moment, an idea struck Stephen. It would be reckless, and there was no guarantee it will work, if it would succeed– it’s not exactly a spell he can practice casting willy-nilly, but if it does work, then Peter wouldn’t need to die, he can live even if it’s not in this universe.

“You won’t have to. I can send you to a different universe, one where Peter Parker– where Spider-Man has never existed. You won’t have to die, you won’t exist here anymore, but you can still live.” Stephen chose to omit how low the success rate was. He wanted to give the kid hope.

Ironic that the multiverse decided then to rear its ugly head and bite back, ripping the fractures in the sky bigger. Sorcerers from all over the globe simultaneously reinforced their spell– and Stephen had almost done the same, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have enough time to cast the transmigration spell.

“I have to do the spell now!” Stephen apologised as he performed the somatic components of the spell. Runes materialised around the sorcerer and vigilante, glowing bright like they can burn at a touch.

“Wait– can-can’t I say goodbye first?! Ned and MJ-sir–”

“We don’t have much time, kid!” The runes circled around the teenage vigilante, faster and faster until they were no different than the rims of a sorcerers’ portal. Peter’s spider-sense was ringing alarm bells in his head, and he could feel something was happening to his body, something achingly familiar.

Peter’s breath hitched as he saw the rifts try to tear bigger in between the runes circling him, but in the corner of his eye, he saw an expression that was out of place in the moment. He saw Stephen’s face relax in relief, and he gave Peter a comforting smile.

“Live a good life, Peter.”

Peter blinked as he watched his hands materialise from dust in front of him, much like the time on Titan, when he blipped back after five years. It was the familiar sensation he felt– getting dusted. Peter had to bite back the laugh brewing at the back of his throat.

If I had a nickel for every time I get dusted out of existence and back, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t much but it’s weird that it happened twice.

Peter let his hands drop to his side before attempting to inhale air. He promptly stopped that attempt as soon as he felt a sharp pang on either of his sides, and he tasted the putrid smell of the alley on his tongue. Instead, he took short and sharp gasps of air through his mouth, and used his arms to drag his body towards the nearby wall and forced himself to lean back. Now that he had time to let the adrenaline wear off, he was beginning to feel everything hurting in his body. A broken rib or three, maybe a fracture in his arm. His back is most certainly bruising really bad. Still, nothing a day or two of rest and fast healing won’t fix.

What he wouldn’t do to go home to May and have her smother him with her worry, get buried in layers of blankets, and hold a cup of hot chocolate. But he can’t do that. He can’t go home, he can’t see May anymore, or Ned, or MJ.

…danger lurking…

Peter winced as his spider-sense warned him of nearby danger from, well, everywhere. New York gave him a similar ever-lurking tingling sensation– he’d expected it– but this place, this city gave off a sharper prickling, like he should expect to be attacked at every corner.

Not concerning, at all, Peter chuckled in his mind, where the hell is this place? Am I still in New York?

Peter reached for his mask and pulled it over his face to see the heads-up display inside.

「Location unavailable.」

「Network unavailable. Stark Industries satellites not found. Connect to compatible satellites as compromise.」

「Sensors damaged. Utility at 24%.」

「Suit power at 14%. Heating, functional. Nano-tech, functional.」

“That's… not great. But not too bad.” Peter huffed as he pulled his mask back off.

I'll have to get information the old-fashioned way, and I'll need to find somewhere I can fix my suit, Peter thought. At least the heating still works.

It was a small silver-lining. If he didn’t have his suit on, he would be feeling the cold tenfold, but that also meant he couldn’t take it off. Stephen said he would be sent to a universe with no Spider-Man– he may very well be in a universe with no heroes or vigilantes, but wearing a bright red, blue, and gold spandex suit while roaming the streets might not be a good idea.

“Alright, Parker. Time to get a move-on.” Peter gritted his teeth as he forced himself up. He looked around, trying to decide which direction to head to. His decision was made for him when one direction made his spider-sense scream No! And he made his way to the other direction.

He was fortunate enough to find a discarded brown coat on a nearby dumpster to hide his suit underneath. It had burn marks at the bottom, and holes here and there, but it will suffice.

Peter stopped in his tracks the moment he walked out of the alley, and he was met by the unique cityscape. Alongside the sleek, modern glass and steel skyscrapers were gargoyles and other sorts of gothic architecture. You could be looking at one part of the street that looked stuck in the 1800s, then look slightly to the side and see something more 21st Century appropriate.

“Am I… even still in America?” Peter asked himself. He’ll figure it out soon enough, if he can find a public library. He can access the Internet there and figure out where he really was.

Luckily for him– maybe the first time that day– he wasn’t that far from one. It was a block away, and he could see the the bold letters on the building GOTHAM CITY PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Gotham… not a city I’m familiar with, Peter thought to himself as he made his way to the building, passing a few people who had the distinct scent of gunpowder on them– concerning, or people who had just the scent of a gun on them.

Peter stumbled as he gave the library door a good push. He held onto the door handle, treating it like an anchor, and almost breaking it off before remembering his strength. He shook his head to ward off the creeping fog in his mind.

Focus, Parker. Rest later. He told himself.

Peter looked around, seeing nobody in the immediate distance. The clock on the wall behind the reception desk told Peter it was 9:15pm, so it wasn’t unexpected. He felt the cold bite from behind him, and he instinctively stepped further into the building, letting the door swing close by itself. His suit must’ve gone to power-saving mode if he was starting to feel that. It was good timing that he found this place.

He was glad the reception area was abandoned when he came in, though he could hear a voice coming from the other side of the wall with the clock. He planned to be in and out of there anyway, he just wanted to look up information.

He made his way to the nearby computers and did a double-take when he saw they still had monitors that took up half the tablespace. He shook away the incredulous look he probably had and sat down, instead, hoping they even connected to the Internet.

It took long for the ancient thing to boot up, way too long for Peter’s liking. He wanted to be gone before the receptionist came back, and he kept looking back at the reception desk while waiting. Fortunately, it seemed like whoever was on shift was busy on a call with someone, and might have even been playing an online game? Peter could hear distinct commands of where to go and message relaying from the office behind the reception, but he didn’t pay much attention to what was being said, only listening so he’d know if the librarian would come out anytime soon.

Peter was just relieved when the computer finally booted up. It asked for a library card number to log-in, but Peter didn't need that. Instead, he guided the nano-tech that Doc Ock embedded into his suit into the computer tower, letting it settle. And within a few seconds, the monitor displayed a welcome message.

「Device Connected. Bypassing Authentication.」

Peter’s eyes narrowed when given the choice of programs to use. He didn’t recognize any of them.

Of course. Peter let out a sigh. What part of different universe did he not understand? There were only three icons on the desktop, and he clicked on one that looked the most likely to be a browser– Horizon. It did open up to a search engine, thankfully. Peter started typing the important stuff.

Gotham City. Gotham is a city in New Jersey, USA. Home to the Justice League founder and member, Batman, and his numerous Robins over the years. Dubbed the “Crime Capital of America,” it is also home to rogues like the Joker, Scarecrow, Two-Face, and others…

“Okay…” Peter breathed out in disbelief. Good news was he’s still in America. Bad news, he somehow ended somewhere so bad it gained the title “Crime Capital of America!” That explains the intense prickling his spider-sense was giving him. Peter has never heard of Gotham before, or the Justice League, or Batman, so if he didn’t believe he was in a different universe before, he definitely did now.

He briefly looked up the rest of the names that interested him. The gist of it is that the Justice League is this universe’s Avengers. Batman is the resident protector of the city, leading his own team of vigilantes. Peter wasn’t surprised they would have so many, considering the ridiculous crime rate, and frankly, abhorrent list of rogues they had. He only read a few articles about some of the rogues, and he felt like he was going to get a headache– or it was just making his already-existing headache worse.

He’d have to do more research on the rogues and the Justice League another time. At the moment, he was more interested in another pillar of Gotham. Bruce Wayne. A local billionaire celebrity and philanthropist. He owns Wayne Enterprises and its branch Wayne Industries. No doubt, if Peter wanted to fix his suit, everything he'd need would be in their labs. He can even look into connecting his suit to Wayne's satellites. The guy probably won’t mind, right? He’s not planning to do it for evil purposes. If it was Mr. Stark, he’d be encouraging Peter, if only to compare the two companies’ tech.

“Huh.” Peter couldn’t help but be reminded of Mr. Stark. If he’d wanted to fix or work on his suit, he could just walk into the building and do his business. He can’t do that anymore. He’s no longer in his universe, he doesn’t even exist in his own universe anymore. His whole existence, erased, because of what Beck did. Because of Mysterio. Because of Peter’s own choices.

Stark Industries. No results.

Iron Man. No results.

Tony Stark. No results.

Avengers. No results.

Spider-Man. No results.

Peter Parker. No results.

May Parker. No results.

Stephen did say he has never existed in this universe. He can accept that, but Peter felt a pang in his chest as it hit him that everything he’s ever known also did not exist here. He’s also relieved, because that meant he wouldn’t be tempted to go to the people he would’ve known in his home universe and try to make things like they were. He wouldn’t need to put people around him in danger.

Peter leaned back on his chair as much as he could, craning his head back to look at the ceiling. At least now he knows what to do the next day. And once he has suit 100% operational, he'll be able to go out as Spider-Man again. He'll have to find somewhere to squat for the night, but if it wasn’t going to be a long-term thing, it shouldn’t be too hard to find one.

He’ll build his new life, one step at a time. “Live a good life, Peter.” Stephen had told him.

…looking nearby…

Peter straightened his posture and looked over to the receptionist desk, where he saw a young woman with ginger red hair with green eyes looking at him. He didn’t realise how quieter it had gotten, she must’ve finished her call and game already.

“Hi,” she greeted Peter with a kind and warm tone, “I didn’t notice you come in earlier.” 

Peter just waved at her weakly and greeted her, “Good evening, miss. Um, I’m-I’m almost done.” He looked back at the computer and closed the Horizon program. Since his nano-tech bypassed the security, he wouldn’t be leaving any records that he'd used the computer. He just had to make sure it crawled back to him before the older woman saw.

“You didn’t need to rush. I wouldn’t have minded waiting an extra ten minutes if you weren’t done yet. We barely have visitors as it is. It’s nice to see someone taking advantage of public resources.” She chuckled, but as she got closer to Peter, her eyes widened.

“Oh, no no no.” Peter waved his hands in front of him apologetically. “It’s already very late anyways. It’s what, like–” he looked back at the screen for the time, and only then he realised the date– specifically, the year. 2015.

Peter shook away the shock in his mind. He just experienced multiversal travel, time travel isn’t that out of the question.

“It’s 9:55,” the librarian answered as she looked at her own watch. “Kid, are you okay? Do you need a first aid kit? I can help you clean your wounds and bandage them. You look… terrible.”

“No, no need for that. I feel fine, really, I’m great.” Peter huffed.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. 100%.”

She narrowed her eyes, then shook her head, “Kid, you do know there’s a curfew for minors, right? You’re supposed to be home by 8pm.”

“Hm?” Peter looked at her in surprise, “A curfew? Uh, I-I didn’t know that. I’m kind of, just moved here, I guess. And I’m, I’m eighteen so, you know. Doesn’t apply to me.” Peter tried to playfully shrug it off while he wrapped his coat tightly around him, trying to make sure she doesn’t see his suit under it. And sure, he exaggerated his age a bit. He’s turning seventeen soon, but that’s close to eighteen.

She raised a brow at him. “Right, and I’m in my 50s. Kid, you don’t look older than 15. And you moved to Gotham?”

“Yes, ma’am, sure did. And I’m eighteen.” Peter made sure to reiterate his age, but it ended up backfiring on him anyways.

“Eighteen-year olds are still bound by the curfew.” She bluntly told him with narrowed eyes.

“Oh,” Peter felt his face flush a shade of red, and he couldn’t help but chuckle too as Barbara let out a chuckle.

“You still haven’t told me your name, kid. Or would you prefer I keep calling you kid?” Barbara joked as she crossed her arms in front of him. Peter couldn’t stop a half-smile forming on his face. “My name is Barbara, but you can call me Babs.”

“My name is Peter, Ms. Barbara, nice to meet you,” he introduced himself.

“Babs is fine, Peter. No need for the miss.”

“No way, Ms. Barbara, my aunt would kill me if I don’t use proper honourifics. Best I can do is Ms. Babs.” Peter gave a proud smile.

“I’ll take it,” Barbara shrugged. Peter nodded along, but stopped as the older woman’s face dropped her smile and put on an inquisitive face.

“So why did you move to Gotham? You didn’t move here alone, did you? Do you live with a parent? A guardian?”

Peter froze at the questioning. If she didn’t believe he was actually eighteen, will she call CPS on him? If she did, it’s not like they can just look him up on government databases– Stephen had said Peter Parker did not exist in this universe, they would’ve turned up with nothing. And they’ll know something was wrong.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter looked away as he answered, realising he had stayed silent too long, “Um, there was a- my aunt is, um, I used to live with her, but she’s– there was an accident, so I– so I had to move in with a family friend, and now, I’m here.”

“Oh,” Barbara blurted as she realised what Peter was implying, “I’m so sorry about your aunt.”

“It’s, it’s alright, she’s- she’s,” Peter forced out while fighting the lump in his throat. Peter could see Barbara’s hands hover slightly at the corner of his eyes, probably debating whether to give him a comforting hand or not.

“What’s your guardian’s name?” Barbara asked, “Do they know you’re not at home?”

Peter froze again, and he fought the urge to bite the inside of his cheeks. He couldn’t say May’s name, he’d already blurted out that she’s– and he didn’t want to act like she’s not his family and that she’s not– should he say Mr. Stark’s name? But it’s the same problem again, he didn’t want to act like Mr. Stark was still alive when he’s not.

“Stephen,” Peter blurted out Doctor Strange’s name, “His name is Stephen. And I kind of snuck out, so he doesn’t know.”

Barbara let out a hum as she looked Peter up and down– did she notice his suit somehow– but then she fished out her phone from her pocket, “Do you know his phone number? I can call him for you if you don’t have a phone. You really need to get home. It’s too dangerous out in the streets.”

“Huh? N-no, no need. He’s still at work. And I haven’t memorised his phone number yet. I-I only live a few blocks down, shouldn’t take ten minutes if I run real fast.” Peter lied through his teeth.

Barbara furrowed her brows, “Where do you live? I can call a cab for you, Peter.”

“I-I haven’t really memorised the address, new place and all. But-but I do know where it is. I can find my way home fine, really.” Peter said as he stood from his seat, and slowly backed away from Barbara. “Thanks for letting me use the computers, Ms. Babs. I’ll head on out, curfew and all.”

“Have a good night, Ms. Babs! Have a safe trip home too!” Peter’s instinct was to run to the door and get out as soon as possible, but his body betrayed him. Peter let out a loud yelp, and he instinctively raised his arms to his sides, feeling the sharp pangs dig onto his torso.

“Peter?”

“Still fine, Ms. Babs.” Peter said in the brightest tone, brushing off her concern and never looking away from the exit. He recomposed himself again, and ran out the door.

Barbara was left looking dumbfounded. The way the kid had reacted, she had no doubts he didn't have terrible injuries under his coat. She pulled up a group chat on her phone.

BATCHAT

Babs: B and Dick still out tonight?

Timmy: Yeah, B and Dick are still out, everyone’s heading back to the cave like they last reported

Timmy: Why?

Babs: can you radio them and ask if they can check on this kid? he’s maybe 13-15, curly brown hair, brown eyes wearing a worn-out tan coat way too thin for the weather, he just ran out of the library

Timmy: What’s the deal with the kid?

Babs: he said he just moved to Gotham, says he’s living with a family friend

Babs: this kid came in with his face covered in bruises and cuts, and when he tried to leave, he reached for his ribs and sounded in pain

Babs: was also very skittish when I asked about his guardian, could be a run away, could be abused, I just want someone to check up on him, make sure he doesn’t get into more trouble

Timmy: Did he look like he was hiding in the library?

Babs: he was doing something on one of the computers

Babs: i have to check what he was doing, then I’ll get into contact with B and Dick

Timmy: Okay, Dick is the closest to you, I’ll let him know in the meanwhile to check on the kid

Timmy: Dick says he’s on the way

Peter shoulders trembled as he blew hot air to his hands and rubbed them together. He opted to turn off the heating on his suit at the moment in order to conserve power. He’ll need his nano-tech to hack into the security at Wayne Industries the next day so he couldn’t afford to have it die on him beforehand. It will mean having to suffer the cold and face his unfortunate lack of thermoregulation, but he hopes finding shelter should mitigate that problem.

After a while of walking, Peter began to see more run-down buildings. Windows and doors boarded up and yellow condemned tape covered some of them. He adjusted his hearing’s sensitivity, and he was able to tell most of the buildings didn’t even have running water or working electricity. Yet despite fitting the definition for ‘neglected and abandoned,’ these buildings were everything but. Most of them already hosted a person, or five– sometimes, one on each floor. Peter huffed. With his current progress, he won’t be find somewhere to sleep anytime soon. He needed a change of plans.

Peter looked up to the rooftops. If the buildings haven’t received water from the city in months, he should be able to find a dried up water tank to crash in.

watching

Peter turned his head and looked up where his spider-sense told him someone was watching him. He narrowed his eyes at the dark figure perching at the ledge, then he realised who he was looking at and immediately turned back around and avoided the figure’s gaze. A tall figure in a black and blue suit wearing a domino mask– definitely sounds like a vigilante, one of Gotham’s many.

How long have they been there? Am I being tailed? Couldn’t be, I haven’t committed a crime–yet–but there’s no way for them to know I would be sneaking into Wayne Industries. I’m not even planning to steal anything, just borrow a few tools and recharge my suit! Peter reasoned to himself. It must be a coincidence. I just happened to be where they’re going on a patrol!

“The kid just looked straight at me.” Peter heard the figure whisper to himself. “Did O find any info on this kid yet?”

Peter felt his blood run cold. He had to stop himself from looking back at the vigilante. Why… why are they trying to find information on me? I’ve only been here a few hours, why am I being targeted by vigilantes? Is it my suit? Did they see it under the coat? Did they think I’m a threat?

Should I confront the guy? Wait, no– that’s… reckless. I need to conserve power. Besides, if I do anything non-civilian-like, then I’d be painting a bigger target on myself!

Then realisation struck him. It’s very non-civilian-like to sense a vigilante hiding in the shadows, isn’t it? Ughh, if I was him, I’d definitely be freaked out!

Peter continued walking, acting like he hadn’t just made eye contact with the vigilante on the roofs, but remaining aware of the latter’s location. Meanwhile, he trusted his spider-sense to lead him away from danger, and his heightened hearing to locate the dried-up water tank he was looking for. Multitasking like this was really pulling on his remaining energy, which was already preoccupied with healing his injuries from the beginning.

Finally, it seemed like Peter’s luck turned around, because he found a dried-up water tank not too far from him. He just needed to lose the vigilante on his tail.

Surely, there are people needing saving somewhere, right?!

Peter shook the thought out of his head, he was wishing there would be someone in trouble out there just so he could get rid of the persistent vigilante behind him. Ben and May would be very disappointed in him. I need to breathe fresh air, he thought. He didn’t forget he was already outside– the cold wouldn’t let him, but the rancid and chemical smell of Gotham’s air was starting to get to him.

Peter looked around trying to find a fire escape. It was as good a time to get to higher ground after his spider-sense had warned him that continuing on his path was a very very bad idea.

watching

Yeah, yeah, watching. What exactly is there to watch? The guy hasn’t busted me for anything yet, and I don’t exactly have anywhere I could be leading him to.

Peter found a fire escape that he could reasonably reach without needing to rely on his superhuman-spider abilities, and as a bonus, his spider-sense wasn’t warning him of any danger. He climbed up at a reasonable pace, and he noted that the vigilante hadn’t moved from his location since Peter decided to get to the roof.

Peter’s whole body trembled as the cold wind met him on the top. Maybe turning on his suit’s heating would be fine, if it was only for a minute or five. He even made sure to set a timer.

Then his stomach growled. Damn it.

In the time that he’d arrive in this universe, he was too busy trying to find information, trying to find shelter, and trying to keep tabs on the vigilante on his tail– that he’d completely neglected to find something to eat. Hell, even before he ended up in Gotham, he’d been too busy fighting and trying to cure his villains from other universes, trying not to die, and trying–and almost failing–to save his universe!

Peter wasn’t sure why realising he was hungry was the last straw, but the dam that was holding back all his feelings finally broke. He couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face nor hold back the sob in the back of his throat. He’d lost his family and friends–his own universe– in the same night. He can never return even if he found a way to. His existence would destroy his universe, not just his name, not just knowing who he was. And maybe it was better this way. Ned and MJ can live normal lives, and his world probably wouldn’t miss Spider-man– they had the Avengers to protect them, after all. They don’t even want him anymore. They called him a menace, public enemy #1– everywhere he goes, he’s followed by calamity.

Peter’s knees buckled under the weight of the reminder that he can never go back, that his universe may very well be better without him. Ned, MJ–they’re safer without him. If he was never there, maybe May would have never died. He had tried to stay positive, try to look forward and focus on laying down the foundation for his new life– but he couldn’t pretend like nothing happened forever.

He missed May, he missed Ned, he missed MJ– he missed his life before Mysterio revealed his identity to the world. He missed home.

Peter hadn’t realised that he was on his knees and crying to the palms of his hands, and he hadn’t realised that the vigilante on his tail had closed the distance between them until his spider-sense alerted him–

nearby

–and he’d heard the gentle footfall by the roof’s ledge. Peter’s head snapped up and he was face-to-face with the vigilante he was trying to pretend to have not noticed. Peter stayed still in the presence of the older man, like that would somehow make the latter believe he wasn’t there.

“Hey,” the black-and-blue vigilante greeted in a soft and gentle voice, keeping his arms in the air likely to show Peter he was no threat. “You okay, kid?”

Peter furrowed his brows at the vigilante, and his eyes narrowed at the guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Peter had decided to answer as he roughly wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hands, and standing back up. I need to get away from this guy, Peter decided as he shook his head.

“Wait, wait, kid– just talk to me, okay?” The vigilante told Peter in a panicked voice as Peter looked at a farther ledge. Something in the man’s tone made Peter double-take, and his next words did not do well to stop Peter from raising a brow at him.

“Let’s… stay away from the ledge, shall we? Please?”

Peter looked at the man incredulously. “Did you just think I was going to jump? I wasn’t going to jump, sir.”

“I, I didn’t think you were– what were you going to do?”

“I don’t know, just run away? I wasn’t going to jump,” Peter clarified to the man. “I just, you caught me in a very vulnerable moment, sir, and I didn’t want to stay and make this more awkward as it is.”

Now that Peter has the chance to look at the man from nearby, he noted how the man had an even tan–something that Peter almost missed, if not for the light from a nearby street light. Part of his face, from the top of his brows to his cheekbones and to the tip of his nose, was covered by his mask. He had wavy black hair that was styled back to stay out of his face, and he had a build similar to Captain America or Black Panther.

The vigilante stayed quiet for a moment, then he offered Peter, “Would you like to talk about it? What’s on your mind?”

“I don–” Peter wanted to reject, but he was reminded of all the times that he was the one offering to lend an ear to a kid that he finds alone and obviously struggling with something. He’d feel like a hypocrite if he refused this guy and felt offended.

“I, I guess my whole world just got turned around within a few hours! I had friends–good friends! I had my best friend and my girlfriend. We were ready to take on the world, face anything the world would throw at us together. I had my aunt, I had my family! But then this guy just had to make everything implode– everything just fell apart, every bit of my life was picked apart and– and now, I’m stuck in this godforsaken city, and I can’t go back home, because I don't have anything!” Peter spouted, pacing back and forth, and throwing his hands out as he blurted everything out to this vigilante. He’d likely be sharing protecting this city with this man in the future, but at that moment, he was talking to him as Peter Parker, not Spider-man.

“I want to get my old life back,” Peter huffed before ultimately falling on his butt and sitting criss-cross on the floor.

“You don’t think Batman and the Justice League has something like a time machine, do you?” Peter joked, knowing fully well that even if they did, he couldn’t even use it since he won’t be in his universe anyways.

The vigilante was wide-eyed for a moment, but when it looked like the joke finally landed, he let out small chuckle and sat criss-cross on the floor too across Peter.

“They probably have one somewhere, but they usually call on the Speedsters for time travel.”

“Speedsters?” Peter chuckled at the nickname. “They must be able to run impossibly fast if they’re able to break the laws of the universe by themselves. They’d be gods if they can do that anytime they want… you think I can get their number? Just need them to go back and stop me from doing dumb stuff.”

“They try not to do it much as a rule. Time travel can be fickle, they said.” The vigilante shrugged.

Peter sighed. “So I really am out of luck.”

“Why are you even out here in this hour? Don’t you know there’s a curfew?” Peter winced at the vigilante’s reminder.

“Yeah, I had no idea there was a curfew. Just got here in the city. You’re the second person to tell me about it, actually.”

“What about your guardian? Did they not tell you about it?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. He hasn’t mentioned having a guardian, he only told the lie to one other person, the only other person he’s met in the city. “Why did you assume I have a guardian? You didn’t assume I have parents?”

“Oh– you mentioned your aunt earlier, you didn’t mention a mom or dad, so I assumed you moved to the city with a different relative. Where is your guardian? Do they know you’re out in the city at this hour?”

“Ah, he’s, my Uncle Stephen.” Peter avoided the vigilante’s gaze as he reused the lie. “He works night shift, so he wouldn’t have known I was out. I'm really sorry, sir. I won't break the curfew after this.”

“I see. So is your uncle good to you? Is he treating you good since you came under his care?”

“Y-yeah, of course he is–” And it wasn’t a lie. Stephen has treated him right in the time he’s known the sorcerer. “He brought me here as a service after I lost everything. If he hadn’t, I’d probably…” Peter tensed at the thought. He’d be dead, and no one would have known he was dead– “well, I wouldn’t be here in Gotham, definitely.”

Realisation struck Peter. “Why are you asking how he’s treating me?”

“Oh, I’m not trying to accuse him of anything, just making sure,” the vigilante defended, and Peter narrowed his eyes at the vigilante before looking down at the coat he’d grabbed from a dumpster– and like if he could see through clothing, the nasty bruises under his suit.

“Stephen didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you thought,” Peter explained. “I don’t think the guy’s even allowed to harm another person,” non-genocidal person at least, unlike Thanos and his goons– they were fair play– “taking the hippocratic oath and all that.”

“So he’s a doctor?” The vigilante sounded interested, and Peter realised his mistake. They were already trying to find–non-existent–information about him, and now he’s giving them all this info that would certainly lead them to figuring out he’s not supposed to exist.

“I think so? He says a bunch of medical jargon, so I just assumed he took the oath.” Peter shrugged, and hoped their suspicion died with that.

The vigilante slowly nodded. “Alright then, so how'd you get your injuries?”

“I just… fell down some stairs.” Peter cursed himself for the lame response. Really, Parker? You couldn’t think of a better answer!

“Stairs.” The vigilante raised an eyebrow. “With those injuries?”

“It was… a very long flight of stairs.” Peter nodded proudly at his answer, all while looking like he had just realised what had come out of his mouth.

“Kid, I go out and fight crime every night, you think I don’t know what injuries caused by another person looks like?” The vigilante looked at Peter incredulously. “So did you get in a fight?”

Peter groaned internally. He had a point. If Peter had refuted the domestic violence theory, then it would only be expected for them to assume it was a different type of violence– but violence nonetheless.

“Something like that,” Peter admitted through gritted teeth, but before the vigilante could say a word, he continued, “Coz the stairs might as well beat me up, coz I look like someone beat me up, coz the stairs beat me up. When I fell down. It’s really not that important. I made a decision, and it came with bad consequences. I’ve learned my lesson, sir.”

The vigilante looked like he more to say, but Peter’s tone at the end must’ve convinced him to let the conversation move on.

“I’ll be fine, sir, no need to worry about me,” Peter assured him with a smile. “I’ll keep out of trouble.”

The vigilante let out a sigh as he pinched his brows together, “Alright, if you say so. But just in case, there's a clinic nearby– if you also don’t plan on talking about this with your uncle. The clinic is endorsed by Red Hood, they open at ten in the morning. Just walk in and they'll help you, free of cost. You can trust them.”

Peter hummed as he nodded his head like he understood– but not really. “Who's Red Hood?”

“Who's– you don’t know who Red Hood is?” The vigilante looked dumbfounded.

“...no? Am I supposed to…?”

“He's the vigilante who watches over Crime Alley. This area is his home turf. He has a soft spot for kids like you, so as long as you keep out of trouble, he'll make sure you're safe,” the vigilante explained, then he asked incredulously, “How have you not heard of Red Hood?”

“Same way I didn't know there was a curfew? I just moved here. Lived in Queens, New York, all my life.” Peter puffed out his chest proudly, then he let out the chuckle in the back of his throat. “Also, really? Crime Alley? It's bad enough that Gotham is called Crime Capital of America– but you guys have an area called Crime Alley? Isn’t that a little harsh for the people living here?”

The vigilante tilted his head to the sky, and had an exasperated look like he was thinking to himself I should have expected this from a non-Gothamite and yeah, the kid has a point.

“It used to be a nickname for Park Row, but everyone started calling it Crime Alley more than Park Row, so it became the unofficial official name. Barely anyone calls it Park Row now.” The vigilante excused. Then he froze as as realisation struck him.

“Do you know who I am?” The vigilante asked, and the teenager just shook his head.

“Nope,” he said, exaggerating the popping sound. “This city has way too many vigilantes to remember. I only really looked up Batman.”

“Wait– so you just stopped to talk to me, let your guard down, even though you weren’t sure I wasn’t one of Gotham’s rogues! You really are not from here, kid.”

Peter brightly grinned at the vigilante, finding his reaction funny. “Suuure, because one of your villains would have definitely tried to stop me from jumping off a building and offer to lend an ear. Tell me which one that is so I know to run next time it’s not you or them.”

The vigilante just sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not the point, kid. Gotham is a different beast, and it will eat you alive if you drop your guard. You shouldn’t trust too easily. It will get you in trouble here.”

Peter scoffed bitterly as he looked down at his now tightly curled fists.

“Don’t worry. I know how much trouble trusting the wrong person can bring me–” Or maybe, I don’t. At the vigilante’s warning, Peter was reminded of the last time he blindly trusted people he’d only just met. He wasn’t even sure why he decided to trust in the vigilante so easily, especially after the latter even pointed out how he wasn’t even sure he was a vigilante at all. He was right, he could have just been a villain wearing the air of a noble hero– like Beck.

Maybe it’s because he was in a different universe, he’d just naively believed that his streak of meeting terrible people would end with the Goblin, maybe he wanted to believe that his Parker luck had enough for one day. It could have been how there was something familiar about the man in front of him that he couldn’t put his finger on.

There was an awkward air of silence for a minute, before Peter broke it.

“Can I trust you, Mr. Vigilante?” Peter raised his head, and his determined eyes met masked ones. “Will I be in trouble if I trust you? Will I regret it?”

“I will do my best to earn your trust,” the vigilante declared confidently, then he offered his hand. “And you can call me Nightwing.”

“That’s–” Peter couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his chest. “That’s a really cool name. My name’s Peter, Mr. Nightwing.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter.” Nightwing chuckled.

It was at that moment that his suit decided to turn off the heating, and Peter was briefly reminded that he really should get going and lose the vigilante. He had spinned–haha, spider pun–his lies about living with and having a good relationship with a guardian named Stephen, he couldn’t just out himself as a liar by letting the man see Peter crawl into a water tank for the night.

“Anyways–” Peter cleared his throat and stood back up, “I’ve probably taken too much of your time, Mr Nightwing. I probably should get home now.”

Nightwing sprang up and volunteered, “I can walk you home if you want– or if you don’t mind walking, we can go where I parked my bike and I can drive you home. Make sure you get home safe.”

“You have a WingCycle?” Peter whispered in awe.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about me? How’d you know it’s called that?” Nightwing raised a brow, and Peter let out a–in his head, at least–nonchalant pff.

“The first name I could think of based off Nightwing was WingCycle, and I thought it’s cool-sounding enough name for a vigilante’s ride.”

Peter wouldn't mind having a SpiderCycle himself for when he ran out of web fluid, or needed to pass through areas without tall buildings he could swing from, and he imagined himself zooming past traffic in a red and blue motorcycle with web details.

“I want a motorcycle.” Peter pouted as he whispered, only intending for himself to hear. Then he shook the thought away as he remembered his main objective– “b-but, uh, no, thank you. Mr. Nightwing. I can get home by myself.”

“I’d feel much better if I knew you got home in one piece, Peter.”

“Didn’t you just try to scold me for being too trusting? Now, you’re expecting me to ride with a man I’ve never met before now?”

Nightwing narrowed his eyes.

“Come on, I’ve survived this long on my first night in Crime Alley, Mr. Nightwing. I think I’ll be fine. And we’re near where I live anyways.” Peter shrugged as he pointed his thumb behind him.

Nightwing didn’t look convinced. Peter began cycling through ideas to finally lose the vigilante, but fortunately for him, he didn’t need to do anything– Nightwing’s buzzing comm did the job for him. He tilted his head as he listened.

“I’ll try to check on you when I can.” The vigilante told Peter as he grabbed the grapple gun from his waist and shot it to a nearby building.

Peter just smiled and waved. “Good night, Mr. Nightwing.”

Chapter Text

Peter groaned as he forced his body up. He blinked multiple times, trying to make sense of the darkness greeting him. The only source of light he could find was the hatch he left open the night before, and he finally remembered– he wasn’t in May’s apartment, not in New York, not even in his own universe anymore.

He let go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding back. It hasn’t even been 24 hours, and he was already feeling homesick.

“Get it together, Parker.” He mumbled to himself as he got on his feet, and his stomach growled. The sound echoing and making him wince. On the bright side, Peter’s injuries seemed to have fully healed. He no longer felt the itchiness that came when his fast healing was doing its job. He shouldn’t have to worry about getting concerned looks or interrogated about them.

“Alright, today’s itinerary– get food, find civi-clothes, and plan my Wayne Industries heist… huh.” Now that he said it aloud and after getting rest, that plan sounds… incredibly reckless. It also sounds like something a villain would do. He was definitely not thinking straight when he proudly thought of that the night before.

Peter shook the thought off his mind. He needs the equipment in that building. He could fix his suit without them, but it will take him too long– he’ll lose his mind if he has to wait that long to be Spider-Man again. He can’t choose to put the heist off, but he at least needs something more solid than sneak into Wayne Industries, hack their security, and find their lab! He’ll need to plan all his steps if he wants no one to realise he was in-and-out.

“Food and clothes first, then,” he revised as he climbed the ladder to the hatch. His suit had been helpful in keeping him warm, but he’ll need to change out of it before someone realises he was hiding a vigilante suit under his coat.

The smog-infused autumn breeze greeted Peter as soon as he emerged on top of the water tank. His nose scrunched up and he instinctively closed his eyes, but he was delighted, nonetheless, to find it wasn’t as freezing–to him–as the night before. The city also sounded a lot more alive, less murder-y, just a little more New York-like to his ears. 

Peter adjusted his hearing, scanning the nearby streets, then the next, until he found what he was looking for. If he stretched his hearing out to its limit and hadn’t found it yet, he’d just move location and listen and scan all over again. Fortunately for Peter, he didn’t need to and he found what he needed– the distinct sound of a shelter. He was familiar with the sound thanks to his days helping at F.E.A.S.T.

Peter made his way back on the street and he followed the direction of the shelter. There, he found a canopy tent had been erected beside the entrance. Rows of racks held assorted clothing while there was a table on the side with a pile of unsorted winter gear, and another with a mountain of footwear.

Peter had felt like Parker luck had finally given him a break, and he eagerly walked towards the racks to pick out his clothes. He settled for a pair of sneakers, a black hoodie, blue jeans and black sweatpants, and three shirts– a dark blue long-sleeve shirt, a red and grey t-shirt, and a red and blue one with Superman’s icon on it. He chose the Superman shirt only because it matched Spider-Man’s colours. Not his fault he would be sharing colours with another hero in this universe.

looking

Peter looked up from his haul and found the person that alerted his spider-sense. The man was not only physically imposing– towering over everybody there– his presence and appearance gave Peter the chills. His eyes’ unnatural shade of green looked like they’ve struck fear into many men, and the stark white patch among his dark hair gave him an unnerving gravitas.

Peter’s heart skipped a beat when the older man started walking towards him. Should he run? But why would he run? His spider-sense didn’t warn him of danger, so he was safe. The guy just looked dangerous to Peter, so does that mean he’s safe? But why was the guy looking at Peter? Did he see the suit–?!

Peter felt added weight on his arm as the older man placed a dark green winter jacket on top of his clothing haul. The weight was insignificant to Peter, but the unexpectedness of it and who had given it to him was enough to confound him and snap him out of his flight response.

“You’re gonna need a thick coat, kid. That hoodie won’t be nearly enough for Gotham weather, especially once the winter months come in.” The older man explained, having no idea how badlyn he had activated Peter’s flight response only a few seconds ago.

“And here, take this backpack. You’re gonna need it to carry all your stuff.” The older man added as he held the bag out for him to take, further confusing him.

“H-huh? I– why… I don’t need a–”

“Just take it, kid. The shelter’s giving these away too.” The older man took Peter’s free hand and forced the bag to him. “The name’s Jason, by the way. I volunteer here every Sunday.”

“Uh, thank you? Mr. Jason, this is… thank you.” Peter was still very confused.

“Polite kid, aren’t you?” Something in Jason’s tone finally snapped Peter out of his daze, and he raised a brow at the older man. Jason found this adorable.

“You’re new here, right?” The older man leaned down to get a good look at Peter. “I know the face of every alley kid, and you, you're a face I don't… recognize…” He spoke nonchalant at first, but his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed, like he was trying to figure out why Peter's face suddenly resembled someone he knows.

Peter avoided the older man’s eyes and tilted his head up to the top of the tent. “Yeah, moved here recently, just yesterday.”

“Huh. So what's your story? You moved to Gotham, and look like you found your clothes in a dumpster. You're not a runaway, are you? Because kid, if you thought running away to Gotham would be better than whatever shithole you ran away from, I have something to tell you.” Jason chuckled, but there was weight in his words, the weight of experience.

“N-no,” Peter refuted, then repeated his new backstory, “I moved in with my uncle, my new guardian. He just hasn’t gotten around to getting me clothes yet, so he just told me to get some from here.”

Jason scoffed. “Couldn’t even be bothered to come with you, when the clothes he's given you is some worn-down dirty old coat?”

“It wasn’t his first choice,” Peter defended fake Stephen. “He works night shift and only got home to rest, so he couldn’t come with me… he saved me, I owe him my life, so please don't think he's a bad person. He did– he's doing his best.”

“Sure, kid.” Peter didn’t fail to catch the older man roll his eyes, and Peter frowned.

What does this guy know? He’s just assuming without knowing the full story. He would’ve been dead without Stephen, he wouldn’t even be there arguing with this guy if he hadn’t sent him away.

“By the way, kid, if you're looking into washing off and getting into your new clothes, the shelter has some showers at the back of the building you can use. Just ask the receptionist for toiletries. Or just ask for the toiletries, if you only need them.” Jason waved his hand as he walked away, not even bothering to look back at Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes.

What was that term they used in anime again? The one where someone’s appearances and personality are the complete opposite? Oh right– gap moe. Big scary guy with a damn soft spot.

“He should mind his own damn business,” he muttered as he forcefully shoved his haul of clothes inside his backpack, minus the jacket which he wrapped himself in.

Peter’s stomach growled again, so much louder this time that every one in the tent paused to look at him. His face went flush at the attention. Peter was mortified, and his eyes flickered around, looking for his exit. Despite that, he didn’t fail to catch the look in Jason’s face– his expression darkened yet his eyes showed a glint of bright green as he looked down at Peter.

Peter gulped.

Jason slowly breathed out of his nostrils, and he grabbed the young teenager by his wrist.

“Come with me, squirt.”

“S-squirt–?!” Peter’s voice cracked at the utter disbelief, but he gulped down the embarrassment and corrected the older man– “I-I’m eighteen! I’m not a squirt!”

Jason raised a brow as he looked back at Peter. “Do you think I’m blind or something? You couldn’t possibly be older than 14.”

“There-there are people who look younger due to a condition, you know! It’s called Kallman syndrome, and it causes delayed puberty and hormone production! I could have that for all you know!”

Jason looked at Peter incredulously, his mouth agape like he couldn’t think of what to say. Eventually, he settled on asking, “Well, do you have that syndrome?”

“W-well, no– but I do have a baby face! I’ve had the face of a 14-year old for the longest time my aunt said–” Peter bit his tongue as soon as he mentioned May. His eyes began to sting as the tears threatened to form, and he looked down to avoid Jason’s gaze. His brows furrowed and his lips pursed to stop his emotions from spilling over. This was all in an attempt to hide what he was feeling, but it wasn’t fooling the older man.

Jason took a moment to breathe before he spoke to the kid again.

“Look, I’m sorry for calling you a squirt, and I won’t ask about what that is all about, but they have all sorts of food inside. You’re gonna need to eat. You can eat as much as you want, and they won’t get mad.”

Peter refused to show his face to the older man. Jason let go of his wrist and instead, placed a hand on the teen’s back, guiding him to the shelter’s entrance.

“Come on, kiddo.”

Being inside reminded Peter a lot about his time helping May at F.E.A.S.T. He felt a sharp pang in his chest. It wasn’t helping him feel better about remembering what he had lost.

Jason had momentarily left Peter’s side to talk to someone at the reception, but he came back soon enough with a clear zip-up bag filled with toiletries. It had a bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo, a small bar of soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and even had a small pack of toilet paper, wet wipes, and a small tin of moisturiser. The older man walked behind Peter and put it in his backpack for him. Then he led Peter to the dining area where they had the food laid out buffet-style.

“Take as much food as you want, as long as you can finish what you get– is the general rule, but catering is covered by Bruce Wayne’s charity so it doesn’t really matter. It won’t hurt the guy’s net worth.” Jason shrugged.

There was the slightest bit of contempt in the older man’s voice that Peter caught on. It could have been personal, but he brushed it off as the man just not liking billionaires. Peter knows a lot of people didn’t like Tony because he was a billionaire, even though he was a superhero. This guy wasn’t. It’s probably worse for him.

Peter eyed the food. He hesitated, but his stomach growled as loud as ever, and his hesitation faded into the wind. He piled a mountain of food on his plate, and when that was full, he grabbed another plate and piled that too. He sat down at an empty spot and ignored the looks of disbelief people were giving him.

Jason sat down across Peter, mouth still agape over the amount of food the teen had taken. He doubted whether the kid could even finish all the food he took, and wondered if Peter had taken his statement as a challenge–how much of Bruce’s money can he waste–but as soon as the kid began his meal, all doubts disappeared. It was like watching a man dying of thirst finding a puddle of water. When was the last time this kid ate– was this kid’s uncle starving him? The dreadful thought came to Jason.

“Jesus, kid, you’re like a damn black hole. Are you even chewing properly?” Jason said it jokingly, but he was very concerned. Maybe he should look into Peter’s home life, just to be sure.

“So, got a name or what?” Jason prodded.

“...Peter.” He answered between chews, not bothering to look at Jason.

“Peter? What a coincidence, my name’s Peter too, my middle name is anyway. Got a last name?”

Peter stopped this time. He looked up and met Jason’s unnaturally green eyes, but he didn’t tilt his head– he didn’t answer either, and he resumed eating at the same pace. Jason saw that coming. He just shrugged it off. He had other ways to find these things out. He was still trained by Batman, after all–don’t tell Bruce he thought that smugly–

Now his next question… frankly, asking it makes him feel like Tim– but he had a feeling, something gnawing at the back of his mind, and he just wanted to make sure.

“So, Peter, other than your uncle who took you in, do you have any more family? Mom? Dad?”

Peter stopped mid-chew. He eyed Jason suspiciously, but his expression soon turned blank, like he was suddenly sucked into whatever memory Jason had brought up. He swallowed, and with a flat tone like he was reading off a script, he answered, “I had my aunt, but she’s… she can’t take care of me anymore. Uncle Ben– her husband, died when I was twelve. My… my mentors, they died a few months ago. And my mom and dad died when I was six years old… in a plane crash.”

“...everyone around me just dies, don’t they?” Peter muttered under his breath. It didn’t sound like he intended Jason to hear it, nor did the kid look like he meant to say it out loud– but Jason did hear it– and he was stunned and speechless, and saw visions of green.

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath before slowly breathing out of his nostrils. He reached over the table and nudged the teenager’s arm.

“Eat, Peter. Don’t wimp out on me after showing off being a damn food vacuum.”

The teenager looked at Jason blankly, but the older could see the life in his eyes had returned. He resumed eating, but he’s significantly slowed down from earlier. Despite that, he was content to have the kid snap out of his trance.

Peter looked young to Jason, he’s probably a little younger than Damian– yet he’d lost so much in a short time. He gave off the impression that he’d been forced to grow up too fast, much like his little brother. He had to move Gotham, probably against his will, and was likely being neglected. The thought leaves a horrible taste in Jason’s mouth.

“S-so what’s your story?” Peter suddenly asked in between chewing, and Jason raised a brow.

The kid swallowed. “I told you my story. Why don’t you tell me yours? It’s only fair.”

Jason rolled his eyes, half-irritated, half-amused, but he noted– Kid bounced back fast.

“Story’s nothing complicated. Grew up an alley kid, had to leave a few years, but I’m back, and I’ve made it my mission to take care of my home. Help out the shelter, watch over the alley kids, and keep the assholes and crazies on a leash.”

Peter let out a small chuckle over the familiar story, feeling nostalgic over his early years as Spider-Man, and helping out Ben and May at the shelters in Queens.

“What’s so funny, kid?” Jason frowned, but Peter just smiled.

“Nothing. You just reminded me of my life back home. I guess I understand why you’re doing what you do for your community. My Uncle Ben instilled the same ideals in me growing up– if you can offer a service to help your neighbor, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Once I’m more adjusted here, I plan to continue what he’d practice and help too.”

Jason sighed. He reached his arm over to Peter, his fingers positioned to give the kid a flick to the forehead– except he whipped his head back at the last second. Jason clicked his tongue at the kid’s fast reflexes.

“Do that in a few years, kid. Let the adults handle those sort of stuff.” That earned him a frown from the teenager.

“I’m eighteen–”

“We’re not playing this game again.” Jason’s tone clearly intended to end the discussion. “Just finish your food, then take a shower. I have to leave in an hour, and I want to leave sure that you ate enough and got cleaned up.”

Peter scoffed. “You got some ‘adult stuff’ to do?”

“Nah, family stuff. Sunday lunch. One time I was late, my older brother immediately blew up my phone. Another time, I missed it, and he went hunting down my location. He’s a pain in the ass.”

Peter chuckled. “He sounds fun and like he cares.”

“Well, I wish he would care a little less,” Jason admitted through gritted teeth.

Peter was dumbfounded– astounded– confounded– all the words of -ounded– when he walked into the shower room and his eyes met his reflection. He hadn’t clearly seen what he looked like since he arrived in this universe. He remembered joking–bluffing–that he has looked fourteen for so many years– but looking at himself in the mirror, he was fourteen.

So that’s why no one believed me when I said I was eighteen. I could probably pass off as thirteen if I wanted to.

When Peter walked out of the showers– finally feeling refreshed and in clean civi-clothes– he was surprised to see that Jason did keep his word and waited for him to come out all cleaned up. The older man did leave soon after, but he didn’t forget to remind Peter to stay out of trouble and told him he’ll see him around.

Peter got a map of the city from the receptionist before he left the shelter. Now, hours after he took a nice shower, he found himself waist deep in a dumpster between an electronics and hardware store.

He spent the better part of three hours sifting through junk and ‘junk.’ He found a badly misshapen laptop that– despite its appearance, the internal components were likely still functional. He also found the screen half of a different laptop, and a discarded tablet that had no visible damage or bloated battery. The screen didn’t come to life when he tried to turn it on, but his enhanced hearing told him the inside was working fine.

He was pretty satisfied with his haul, and after finding a mostly-complete toolbox, he left the area to find somewhere he wouldn’t be disturbed. He’d found it on top of an apartment building, which ironically, had a billboard of Bruce Wayne… overlooking Peter as he worked. He couldn’t even go to the other side to avoid the man’s gaze because it was a double-sided billboard.

He decided to ignore the pang of guilt, and focus on working on his haul.

He took apart the misshapen laptop first– removing all internal components, until all he had left was the metal case and the few bits that were stuck to it. Using his strength, Peter meticulously bent the case back to its rightful shape, even taking the time to smooth out the dents. The screen was out of luck, but that’s what the half-laptop was for. Peter had to do a bit of Frankensteining since the new screen was smaller, but since the screen lit up after connecting to the motherboard– which was being fed power from his suit– he was satisfied.

Peter reassembled the laptop’s internals in the case, then powered the laptop on. He had his fingers crossed, his heart was palpitating at the anticipation– but when he was met with a proper boot-up screen, he couldn’t help but jump to his feet in celebration. Bouncing up and down like a kid who won the jackpot at the arcade.

This was a big win for Peter, but he had to calm himself and slow down. He grabbed his suit from the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t need to put the whole thing on– just a glove, and he guided the nano-tech into his new laptop. It took a moment, but a message popped up on the screen.

「Device Connected.」

He held his breath as he inputted a terminal command. A new message popped up. Peter didn’t stop the smile forming on his face or tension leaving his shoulders. He has the foundation for his heist now, he’ll be Spider-Man again.

「Booting UnderoOS.」

UnderoOS was a program that Tony had created for Peter’s suits. It was a simple OS for the Spider-Man suits. A hub for the sensors and other tech to send its data to, which an AI can work in tandem with– but also able to function on its own, in case an AI was unavailable or gets compromised. Tony left it as just a simple hub, but Peter chose to continue working on it after his mentor’s death.

At its current state, his nano-tech was only able to connect devices to UnderoOS and bypass the need for authentication. Peter needed a device with an adequate processor and run the OS to have the nano-tech do more. He didn’t need the processor to be something high-grade, since the nano-tech on their own each had high processing speeds– he only needed a brain to tell the nano-tech to do the ‘advanced’ stuff like making security cameras loop footage, or having it map out a building for Peter. If his suit had an AI to do those stuff for him, he would have been able to skip this step.

Peter tilted his head to the sky. He didn’t know what time it was, but it’s definitely close to nightfall.

He’s ready. He’s climbing Wayne Industries tonight.

watching

Peter absentmindedly looked over his shoulder to look for the person his spider-sense alerted him about– a smile still painted on his face and still riding the high of having a solid plan– only for his heart to drop to his stomach when he was met by a figure in a plated yellow suit with a white bat symbol on the chest, perched a few buildings away.

“Hey, Double R, is that the kid? He’s– is he looking at me?” Peter heard the vigilante whisper to his comm, and he whipped his head back to his laptop in record time. He immediately called his nano-tech back to his glove and pushed it back to the bottom of his backpack, zipping it close, exactly as he heard footfall behind him.

Peter sprang up, grabbing his bag and laptop before turning around to face the vigilante. A bat symbol… definitely a member of Batman’s team.

“Woah, hey, didn’t mean to scare you.” The vigilante raised his hands, his palms visible to Peter. The good ol’ see, I’m not gonna hurt you stance that Peter knows well.

“No injuries anymore…? Is he covering them up?” Peter heard a voice from the vigilante’s comm, and he pressed his lips to a thin line. Are they gonna question him about it? How is he gonna explain that?

“Hey, kid, what are you doing here? This isn’t a safe place for you.”

Peter swallowed. Play it cool, Parker. You’re a fourteen-year old kid to them. They’re just trying to watch out for you… you in particular, for some reason. Nevermind that they seemed to be stalking me since I got here.

Peter forced his shoulders to relax, and he put on a smile. “I know, but I’m being careful. I’m far from the ledge, see?”

“That’s not the issue,” the vigilante’s hands landed on his waist. “What are you doing here?”

“It seemed safer here than the streets. I didn’t wanna get mugged while trying to fix this.” Peter raised the Frankenstein laptop from his side and opened it to show the vigilante.

“What the hell is that abomination?!”

Peter resisted the urge to frown, and instead bit the inside of his cheeks.

“I needed a laptop… for things. I found this in a dumpster and figured I could fix it. It’s… ugly–” Peter gritted his teeth at the hidden person’s words, though his pride over his accomplishment won over in the end– “but it works.”

Peter didn’t realise the big smile on his face as he looked at his project, until it dropped upon hearing the hidden person’s next words.

“That matches up with what O said. He was seen by cameras dumpster diving earlier.”

Peter felt the colour drain on his face. Why were they tracking him?

Did he do something to raise flags? What did he do? Isitthesuit? Isitthesuit? Isitthesuit? Isitthesuit?

“Are you guys… following me or something?” Peter immediately regretted asking that.

…alarmed…

“H-how– why, why do you think that?”

Peter fucked up. He couldn’t tell them that he could hear their conversations this whole time– he didn’t want to out that Peter Parker has powers. He’s not ready, he will never be ready. His life went to hell when people learned he had powers. He doesn’t want it again. He can’t do it again.

“I, I met Nightwing last night. Today, I meet you. Either you guys do daily check-ups on every person in Gotham– or you’ve been tracking me. It can’t just be a coincidence to meet two vigilantes two days in a row.”

The vigilante opened and closed his mouth, clearly unable to think of an answer. Peter narrowed his eyes. He gripped the strap of his backpack, and positioned his feet–slowly to not alert the vigilante–but he had to be ready to run.

“Resourceful, smart, and an orphan. Better keep B away from him.” The hidden person chuckled, but the vigilante didn’t find it funny– neither did Peter. B? Did he mean Batman? Why would they need to keep Batman away from Peter?

“N-not the time, Double R! Not helping!” The vigilante huffed as he roughly pressed a button on the side of his helmet. He sighed as he shook his head. “Sorry about that. That was… someone annoying.”

The vigilante chuckled dryly, but Peter found nothing funny.

“You haven’t answered. Why are you following me?”

“I wasn’t, I swear. I was in the middle of patrol when I saw you. Nightwing mentioned you… and maybe showed a picture and asked us to keep an eye. I’m sorry if I spooked you, but we are not following you.” The vigilante assured him.

truth

Peter’s spider-sense was telling him that the vigilante was telling the truth. He could hear the vigilante’s heartbeat and breathing– he was telling the truth. So why is it hard to trust him? He trusted Nightwing easily the night before.

…was it because he trusted Nightwing in the first place that he’s being stalked? Because he trusted someone blindly, he was jeopardising his peace… because he trusted again–will he ever learn his lesson?

“I… will believe you, for now.” Peter glared. “But please, leave me alone. Tell Nightwing that too, and whoever double R is. Unless I’m dying… unless I need saving, I don’t want to see any of you.”

The vigilante opened his mouth to speak, but Peter already turned to the direction of the fire escape. He heard the vigilante let out a long drawn-out sigh behind him, and he likely waited for Peter to reach the fire escape and start descending before turning his comm back on, and talking to somebody.

“You heard that, right? No stalking. And, seriously, dude, the kid was already tense, you couldn’t have chosen the worst time to make a joke!”

A joke? Which part? Peter couldn’t figure out what double R said that could have been a joke. None of that interaction was funny to him.

The vigilante’s heartbeat eventually faded away into the distance, easing Peter’s heart if only barely. Peter wanted to believe that this vigilante would keep to his promise. He felt like someone who would, but Peter didn’t want to get his hopes up.

I need to do research on Gotham’s vigilantes. I need to know exactly how many they are. He added to his to-do list– but for tonight, he was getting his suit fixed.

Peter brought out his map of Gotham city and made his way to Wayne Industries.

Like the night before, Peter relied on his spider-sense to alert him of danger from the streets and on his heightened senses to listen for footsteps and heartbeats that seemed to follow him. He also remembered what ‘double R’ said about tracking him through cameras, and he put extra effort to avoid getting caught by any– partly out of paranoia, partly to be petty, because avoiding cameras was child’s play for Peter. The only time Peter was caught on camera was when he had to use the subway. There was no way to avoid those, not if Peter wanted to arrive at Wayne Industries before midnight.

It was a mostly uneventful trip. Since the building was located in the more affluent business district, Peter saw a lot more police officers patrolling compared to the parts of Gotham he’d visited. It seemed safer– it felt safer and his spider-sense thought so too since it calmed a lot after exiting the subway, though there was still a lingering sense of wrong.

Peter was half-way to the building, he almost made it to two hours before–

watching

–there was another one on his tail.

Peter wanted to let out a big drawn-out groan, but he bit his tongue. He just told them to get lost! Was it that hard to leave him alone?!

Wait… something was wrong.

watching

Yeah, yeah, watching, but there was something else… what was it?

watching

Peter had learned his lesson after the first two times. The two vigilantes immediately realised that he found them because he made eye contact, so he didn’t immediately look this time… but was that the only reason?

Oftentimes, his reflexes would take over to save him before he realised, and his body would move on its own without needing input from him.

Peter hadn’t realised that his reflexes had taken over this time because he would usually move.

watching

Peter swallowed. The reason he didn’t look this time was because his reflexes deemed it necessary for him to not look. Whoever was following him this time was a different calibre than Nightwing and the other vigilante.

watching

Peter took a deep breath.

He knew where this watcher was, his spider-sense told him where they were. He could just continue– he could keep walking, remaining aware of his stalker’s location with no need to know who they were– but there was a part of Peter who wanted to know who this person was. He wanted to know who had forced his reflexes to not move.

Peter must’ve stayed too long in one spot because when he finally took another step, he felt his watcher’s gaze intensify.

watching

He acted normal and kept walking, and his watcher stayed on his tail.

Nightfall had begun hours ago. It was supposed to be dark, but the streetlamps flooded the roads with light– and all that light made it hard to see what was past them, to look into the shadows and see what was hiding in them. That was Peter’s main issue right now– and losing his stalker, but that comes after he figures out who this person was.

Peter couldn’t just stop and look– it would be too unnatural, and take his eyes too long to adjust and see before his stalker decides to duck out and hide. No, he needed to be smart about this, he needed to time this just right.

Peter did calculations in his head as he continued walking, his eyes flickering between buildings and turns, and the mental image of his stalker's location. And when he found just the right turn, he took it and he waited by the corner for his mystery stalker to grapple to the next building, and unknowingly reveal themselves to him.

Peter’s mouth was agape as he caught sight of his mystery stalker mid-swing– as his brown eyes met with the white eyes of the vigilante’s cowl. Peter thought he heard the vigilante’s heart drop as he felt his own do.

“You’ve got to be ducking kidding me…” Peter couldn’t help but mutter.

It was Batman.

Fucking Batman.

Why the hell was Batman following him?! What did he do?!

Peter bolted out of there as soon as the masked vigilante landed on top of the building and left his sight. He wanted to be gone before he and the vigilante could meet gazes again.

Peter didn’t look back, he didn’t want to look back– how could he look back?! He just kept running.

watching

Stop! Stop following me! He wanted to disappear badly– but thankfully, it didn’t seem like the Bat was in pursuit.

“B, B! Leave him alone, he made his wishes clear!” Peter clearly heard Nightwing’s voice through Batman’s comm, but he didn’t stop running. “He said he doesn’t want to be followed, he doesn’t want to see us!”

Peter felt unexplainably happy to hear the man’s voice and defend his wishes, but that didn’t mean he was going to easily forget what just happened.

“Too late, chum. He already spotted me.”

“You– he saw you? You let him see you? Why would you do that, B?!”

“I didn’t. He anticipated me, waited for me at a corner– and looked me straight in the eye.” Peter heard the utter fascination in the vigilante’s voice, and he wanted to scream– I WASN’T EXPECTING IT TO BE YOU!

“Oh god.” 

Oh god, indeed. Peter couldn’t break into Wayne Industries that night, not after he painted a target on himself like that! He needed to replan, he needed to reevaluate, and he needed to keep running.

Dick charged into the main room as soon as he returned to the cave. He wanted to have this conversation earlier in the night, but had to put it off until patrol was done.

“What the hell, Bruce?! Peter said he didn’t want to be followed! Why were you following him?!” 

Everyone else had arrived back before him. Half of his family– namely Stephanie, Tim, and Cass– had already changed out of their suits, while Bruce and Damian hadn’t changed yet, only opting to remove their masks. In their father’s case, his cowl had been set on the table and connected to the Batcomputer so they could review his earlier encounter with Peter.

The footage was Bruce’s point-of-view as he’d just landed on top of a residential building– they were watching exactly what their father saw that night.

“B, cameras just caught Peter leaving the Diamond District subway station.” It was Barbara’s voice coming through Bruce’s comm. “This is the first time he was spotted by any camera since he talked to Signal.” Her message was followed by a brief silence, but they all heard Barbara’s quiet request.

“Hn. I’ll check on him.” There was no hesitation in his father’s voice. Dick ran his hand over his face and hair in frustration. Why couldn’t his family be normal and respect people’s boundaries?

Bruce changed direction towards the subway exit, the view whipped left and right before he grappled away. Barbara took the liberty of fast-forwarding the clip to the moment they found the teen. Peter was caught by the camera before Bruce had spotted him, but it was obvious when he did, because the kid suddenly froze.

“Oh! There–” Stephanie exclaimed– “you can see the moment he realises B was watching him. He stops, then he continues walking like nothing was amiss. Oh, this kid is good!”

“He realised the moment B found him, just like last night with Dick.” Tim pointed out.

“Except the kid decided to confront Batman! The kid has nerves of steel– oh hey! He’s wearing a Superman shirt!” Stephanie nearly doubled over laughing, and she walked away to not distract and recompose herself, but she was failing.

“I don't think he knew he was being followed by Batman, Steph.” Barbara corrected as she sped up the clip again until it showed the moment Bruce and Peter’s eyes met, and she zoomed in on Peter’s horrified face. “If you watch his mouth, he says ‘you got to be ducking kidding me,’ pff– isn't that adorable? He looks just as surprised as B was.”

“Hn.” Bruce grunted.

“And probably horrified! He's not gonna trust us after this.” Dick shook his head as he massaged his forehead. “Do we know where Peter went after he ran off?”

“I've confirmed that Peter got off the subway at Crime Alley. He continued to avoid cameras after he ran away from B, but he couldn’t hide from subway cameras.” Images of Peter appeared on the screen of him running down the Diamond District subway station, entering the train, and running out from the Park Row subway station. He looked pale in all of them.

“So, any ideas how he knows we’re coming from a mile away? My vote is meta with acute hearing.” Stephanie raised her hand.

“That would explain why he started avoiding cameras after meeting Duke. He would have heard me talking about finding him through cameras.”

“You think he also heard you call his laptop, quote– an abomination? No wonder he wanted to get out of that conversation, Timmy! He looked so proud of it!” She teased as she elbowed his side, but Tim just rolled his eyes and didn’t comment further.

Damian had remained quiet, not at all interested in his family’s new interest– but the infantilisation of a boy his age struck him, and he felt compulsion to correct his foolish siblings.

“It is quite unfortunate that I need to point this out, but you are all underestimating this Peter.”

“What are you thinking, chum?” Damian noted his father’s voice– not Batman’s, not a detective’s, but a father pleased that he was participating.

“There’s more to him than meets the eye, Father. He might seem meek and fragile to you, but I believe he has received some form of training. He’s utterly failing in part of its execution– seeing as he failed to conceal that that he knew he was being followed three times–” Damian sounded offended, like how dare Peter make that mistake– “But when he does put his mind to a goal, he exceeds expectations.”

Damian didn’t say it aloud, but they all knew he meant Peter’s ability to avoid cameras and catch Batman unaware.

“If you act carelessly and push him, you won’t see a child in front of you, but a competent adversary.” Damian hammered his point home– don’t underestimate Peter.

This came from someone who received training since he was a child– he’d recognise a kindred spirit.

“Alright, who do you think trained him? Why did he get training?” Tim entertained the theory, then another question popped into his brain– “And what was he doing in the Diamond District?”

“Do you think his Uncle Stephen has something to do with that?” Stephanie spoke without her earlier joking tone. “Maybe he put Peter up to something? If this Stephen guy knew about Peter’s skills and is taking advantage of him…”

Tim crossed his arms and leaned back. “If Stephen had a job for him in the Diamond District that wasn’t above board, it would explain why Peter was spooked upon seeing B following him and ran back home– why he was spooked that we were trailing him at all. I mean, come on, what kid wouldn’t be stoked to meet Batman himself– unless they were doing something illegal.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a kid–meta or not–was recruited for nefarious purposes, nor would it be the first time someone took advantage of a kid’s trust.” Steph added.

Dick ran a hand through his hair. He remembered what Peter said the night they met– “I know how much trouble trusting the wrong person can bring me.”

The blank and hurt look on his eyes before he looked at Dick and asked him– “Can I trust you, Mr. Vigilante? Will I be in trouble if I trust you? Will I regret it?”

Dick couldn’t wait to meet Stephen and question why he could take advantage of the kid’s warped sense of trust.

“Do we have anything on a Doctor Stephen?” Bruce asked, and Dick looked back at the screens.

“Searches came up with a few in Gotham. Some recent graduates, some retired, even some who lost their license, but if we crossmatch them with a list of Stephens with wards named Peter, we’re out of luck.” Barbara sadly informed them as she pulled up the list that she had.

“I haven’t come up with matches for Peter either, but he might not be registered as a Gotham resident yet, so I started a search for Peters from Queens. If I had a last name, it would certainly make it faster.”

“I know a way we could get answers fast,” Tim suggested, and everyone looked at him, some with narrowed eyes.

“Tim, no,” Dick protested. “The kid already doesn’t trust us. If he realises that we followed him again and even stole his DNA, he’s– if he does need help, he wouldn’t come to us who could help him. We can find another way that doesn’t include trailing him.”

“Dick, the sooner we figure out whether Stephen is involved in shady business, the sooner we’ll have just cause to take Peter away from him. We’ll only need to follow Peter one more time, to lead us to his home so we can investigate Stephen– not Peter, Stephen. We’ll be in-and-out, and Peter wouldn’t even know we were there. This is for his own good.”

Dick opened his mouth to dispute his younger brother, but closed it as Tim denied his second assumption. “And we don’t need his DNA for this– why did you think I wanted his DNA? We won’t need it, at least not until we know how serious his situation is.”

Tim most definitely thought of getting DNA from the kid, but he denied it after he noticed his older brother’s sudden protectiveness over Peter. He’ll definitely still be taking some, just in case.

Dick narrowed his eyes, but he accepted his brother’s rebuttal.

“And how do you suggest we follow Peter? We know he can hear us coming from miles away, and he’s already wary of us following him. We won’t be able to get near him next time.”

“That may be true– Peter may be expecting Gotham’s vigilantes to follow him, but he wouldn’t be expecting our civilian identities, would he?” Tim shrugged as he turned back to the Batcomputer. “Our only problem now is Peter lives in Crime Alley, so we’ll have to ask Jason’s permission to enter before we can proceed.”

Speak of the devil– the Batcomputer alerted them of an incoming call from Red Hood, though none of them looked delighted by the message. On the contrary, they were concerned. Jason was never one to call the cave directly– he’d either contact Oracle and have her relay his message to them, or he’d show up at the cave and let them know in person– unless this was something serious.

Tim accepted the call and they were greeted by a seething Jason.

“What the hell is this about you all fucking stalking a kid?!”

Chapter Text

So… Peter met Batman. Rather, he was followed by Batman– on his second night in Gotham, on the night that he was supposed to get his suit fixed! On the night Peter was going to commit a major crime for the first time in his life! He couldn’t continue with his plans like nothing happened, even though he was positive he wasn’t being followed anymore after his encounter with Batman. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel safe. He felt vulnerable.

So he ran, all the way back to Crime Alley. Some hero he was.

There was no functioning clock in the Park Row subway station– at least, Peter didn’t trust they were working properly– but the clock on the Diamond District station said 10:03pm when Peter got on the train. If Peter’s sense of time was right, it should be around midnight.

Peter’s shoulders shuddered. He had his winter jacket on, but it really wasn’t helping. It felt a lot colder than the night before, and this time he couldn’t just turn his suit’s heating on since it was sitting on the bottom of his backpack. At the rate that he was going– persisting through alternate routes that double his travel time, all so he could avoid cameras– Peter won’t make it to his water tank for another 30 minutes.

He put all bets on his suit having full power by that time so he didn’t think to plan for when he  didn’t have heating on the way back.

Peter took out his Gotham city map from his pocket, now a little worn from the times he took it out and shoved it back in. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the routes again. If he made a turn at the next alley, it would cut his travel time by five minutes. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do.

Peter let out one long breath as he shoved the map back in his pocket. Come on, Parker. You haven’t gone to hibernation yet, this can’t be the first time you do. He tried to motivate himself.

He loved his powers, truly. Getting bit by that spider changed his life. He could climb– hell, he could walk on walls, he didn’t need glasses anymore, he had enhanced everything– strength, endurance, agility. He could do the gymnastics and acrobatic tricks his dad had told him about– tricks his dad and his grandparents performed– tricks Peter had only imagined doing.

…danger lurking…

Tony Stark found him because of his powers. He had the chance to learn under two of Earth’s brightest scientific minds, Tony himself and Dr. Bruce Banner. He got to meet Captain America– the legend himself– and join him and Hawkeye in missions. He found unexpected mentors and teachers in the Winter Soldier and Black Widow. They didn’t treat him like a kid like the others and held back their punches. They saw potential in him, they said, so they taught him how to fight, how to subdue an opponent non-lethally and lethally– just in case, they said. They taught him stealth and recon.

dangerous

All that to say, he’s very thankful for his powers, but sometimes it can be a biiiish– especially the no more thermoregulation part! He needed to install heating pads on his winter jackets after he was bit. Winters since then were hard because Peter felt sluggish, and he was always fighting the urge to go into hibernation and panic May.

Even worse– Dr. Banner pointed out that if Peter ever run out of power for his heating pads at winter, he would be at risk of dying from hypothermia faster than a normal human!

danger! danger! danger!

Peter hates the cold.

Because the cold makes him sluggish.

And his reflexes don’t work well when he’s sluggish.

look out!

All Peter could do in time was raise his forearm to his face, right as a large arm tried to wrap around his throat. He felt his attacker trying to tighten his hold and squeeze his neck, but his right arm was preventing that. Peter grabbed onto his attacker’s arm using his left hand, and was about to yank him off– when he felt a cold cylinder press against his temple.

Peter swallowed, and he looked up at the object. It was a gun.

“Just some dumb kid. Let him go.” His attacker wasn’t alone. It was dark in the alley, but Peter thinks he can see four people? If his heart could just calm down enough to let him hear their heartbeats and not his own, it would be greatly appreciated.

“He probably doesn’t have anything worth our time,” one of them sounded annoyed, but also a little jumpy. The guy’s shape kept looking around like he was expecting someone to come.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll let him go.” Peter’s attacker shrugged as the gun hovered slightly away from his face. Good, just a little farther and he would be able to snatch it away if he needed to.

“But while the brat’s here, check his bag, will you– aarrrgghhhh! My– my leg!”

Peter’s mind went blank for a moment, only the sound of gunshots brought him back to the present. He was on the floor clutching his backpack close as he was faced with his attacker’s horrified and agonising expression. There was a glistening liquid pooling by the man’s legs– and an extra bend where his attacker’s calf should be.

Three behind him started screaming too, but the fourth person yanked Peter by his jacket, forcing him to look at his terrified but furious face.

“You did this, didn’t you?! What did you do?! What did you do, freak?!”

“I-I did nothing. What are you talking about?” He answered deadpan. He couldn’t help but look back at the mangled leg. “I-I don’t know what happened.”

Peter flinched when he felt the familiar metal cylinder on his head again, this time hot against his skin. His original attacker looked up at him, at first with a vindictive grimace– but then his face contorted into fear as he saw something beyond Peter, beyond his mates.

“R-Red Hood…”

Peter heard more gunshots behind him. The man holding him let go as he was sent reeling back by the gunshot through his neck. There was a distinct click noise from the gun but there was no fire. The other three cursed and screamed in agony behind him. Peter slowly looked behind him, and on the far side of the alley, he saw a hulking figure wearing a red helmet and leather jacket marching towards them. In his hands, he held a pair of guns.

The figure walked past the three writhing in agony, and past Peter, then stopped to look at the mangled leg.

angry

Red Hood briefly glanced at Peter, but returned his gaze to the teen’s attacker. There was no hesitation, the vigilante pointed a gun at the man’s head and–BANG–before he could utter a sound, his lifeless body plopped to the floor.

Red Hood reached to the side of his helmet, and he spoke, his modulated voice rang in Peter’s head louder than the screams behind him.

“Oracle, send police to my location.”

Peter blinked.

There was something he saw, when Red Hood turned towards him for a moment, something red. Not blood, but a shape on the man’s armour that the far streetlights outlined. He felt like he should be alarmed by that red shape– not the blood, but the shape.

What does Peter know about Red Hood? Why should he be alarmed– other than he just killed two men in front of him?

Where did Peter first hear Red Hood’s name?

“...you don’t know who Red Hood is? He's the vigilante who watches over Crime Alley.” Peter suddenly remembered his conversation with the first vigilante he met in Gotham.

“They’re on the way, Hood. Both police and paramedics are ten minutes away.” Oracle responded through Red Hood’s comm.

Oracle… O… oh.

That was three of them in one day, wasn’t it? Or at least one of them in three days. That cannot be a coincidence.

“Did you get shot, kid?” The vigilante’s body shifted as he looked the teen over. Peter was reminded of the dry fire from earlier, then he slowly nodded his head.

“Need a help up?” Peter tilted his head up at the vigilante, then down at the outreached hand in front of him. His eyes flickered, scanning for the vigilante’s guns, then feeling relieved when he found them in their holsters.

Didn’t he tell them to leave him alone? Of course, he also told them he didn’t want to see them unless he needed saving, which he did– or did he? He easily broke that man’s leg, didn’t he–

“I thought Batman had a no-killing rule,” was all Peter blurted out.

“He doesn't tell me what to do.” 

“Isn't that part of being in his team?” Peter blinked.

“I'm not part of his team.” The vigilante sounded offended.

“The big bat symbol on your chest would beg to differ.” Peter joked, but his heart still hadn’t calmed down. Breathe, Parker. You’re fine, you’re saved– or was he? One of them was right in front of him– and worse, this one was trigger-happy.

Red Hood retracted his hand. “Kid, do you even know who I am? What I do?”

“No,” Peter answered truthfully. “I only know Nightwing sang praises for you, and you're on the same team as him.”

“I'm not on their team. On the worst days, I’m butting heads with Batman. On the best days, we're reluctant allies, but I am not part of his team.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Peter glanced down at his hands. They were shaking. Did his hands ever shake like this before? He’s faced aliens, he fought in space, he fought an army– were his hands shaking like this during those times? When was the last time Peter remembered shaking this badly? The first time he tried climbing a wall with his powers? The first time he tried swinging down a building?

–the night Uncle Ben died?

“Come on, kid, get up. Let’s get out of here before the police arrive.” The vigilante pulled Peter up by his armpit. He wrapped an arm around the teen, then he took the grapple gun from his waist. Peter wanted to kick himself for this, but he instinctively slung his arms around Red Hood’s shoulders as the man ran to build momentum and shoot the grapple gun towards a roof.

It was an interesting experience for Peter, being a passenger for once.

Red Hood set Peter down a little further from the ledge, before he walked back to sit on the edge of the building and looked down at the thugs still bleeding in the alley.

Peter walked behind the vigilante and looked down too.

“Wouldn’t the police need me to make a statement? Due process and that stuff?” He asked, and Red Hood whipped his head at him, probably making a face under his helmet– Peter couldn’t tell what expression that might be.

“Kid, I just killed a guy, do you think I care about that? And the cops don’t care for an alley kid’s statement. Just leave these pieces of shit to explain why they deserved this. They know what to say if they want to keep living.”

Peter blinked at Red Hood, then looked back at the people bleeding below them. “They’re gonna bleed out if we leave them like this. You probably hit a major vessel in two of them. They might die before the paramedics come.”

Red Hood let out a scoff. “What? You want to help the guys who held a gun to your head?”

“The ones who held a gun to my head are dead. Those guys were just watching– still bad, but not as bad. And maybe I do want to help them, but I wouldn’t be able to do proper first aid–” Peter was telling the truth– “I think my mind is still hazy.”

“Really? This is your hazy?” Red Hood tried to run a hand over his face, but only touched his helmet instead. “What are you even doing out here? There’s a curfew for a reason, kid.”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Peter shot back, but he realised, Oh yeah, they wouldn’t know. I’ve been avoiding the cameras.

“I was on the way home.” He told the truth, followed by a lie. “And if you’re gonna ask where are your parents or where is your guardian– guardian’s at work. He doesn’t know.” Peter liked to believe he was getting better at this whole lying thing.

Red Hood let out a long sigh, his helmet’s voice modulator modifying the sound. He sprang up from his seat and walked away from the ledge.

“Alright, tell me where you live. I’ll make sure you get there safely.” He said as he tried running a hand through his hair, but again, only his helmet was there.

Peter let out a scoff– or what he believed was only a scoff– but surprised himself and Red Hood when it turned into a cackle. A full on crazed cackle. He didn't even know he had it in him to make a sound like that.

Red Hood looked at him incredulously– at least Peter thought he might have that expression under his helmet.

“Nice try, Mr. Red Hood, but I’m not letting one of my stalkers know where I live, much less the gun-crazy one!” His tone carried no mirth in it, only venom.

“Stalker? What the hell are you talking about, kid? This is the first time we’ve ever met.”

“Sure, first time I’ve met you,” Peter jabbed a finger into Red Hood’s armour–did he really just do that to Red Hood– “But your team has been following me since last night! Meeting Nightwing was pleasant– cool even! He was chill– at least, he seemed chill– until he sicc’ed your team on me! You guys were tracking me through cameras! Why were you tracking me through cameras? And then– and then, DUCKING BATMAN! WHY DID BATMAN FOLLOW ME TOO?! I haven’t even committed any crimes yet! Why was the Dark-ducking-Knight on my tail?!” Peter paced back and forth, whipped his hands in the air, and messed his hair– he was the spitting image of a person at the end of his ropes.

“Waitwaitwait– kid, slow down. Did you say Batman was following you– and did you just say ducking instead of fucking?”

“Not the point, you sick Daredevil-Punisher lovechild– your team has been driving me nuts! I’ve been in Gotham two nights, TWO!” Peter raised two fingers angrily at the man’s helmet– or as close as he could with their height difference.

“What the duck is my life?!” He exclaimed as he turned his back on the vigilante.

Red Hood tried to run a hand over his face, but instead met the hard metal of his helmet. He wanted to find ‘duck’ and ‘ducking’ funny, because it was a funny and childish thing to say– it was something he could imagine his older brother substituting a curse word for at the last second.

But seeing the fourteen-year old kid in front of him clearly being pushed to a breaking point– by his own family, no less– it wasn’t funny.

Jason doesn’t live at the manor. He has his own apartment and safehouses he’d rather stay in. The only times he saw his family was during their Sunday lunch, and during missions where he had to work with them. All this to say– most of the time, he doesn’t know what family was getting into unless they had an active conversation about it– but this was crazy.

“Kid, first of all– I’m not in their team. How many times do I have to say this? And secondly, I am against whatever shit B and the Robins have been up to. I have nothing to do with it!”

Peter looked at Red Hood incredulously and with his mouth agape. This guy just used a nickname–B–that the other vigilante and double R called Batman, and he said he’s not part of their team? Did they think Peter was an idiot?

“Oh my–” Peter pressed his face onto his backpack, he took one deep breath, then screamed.

Red Hood tilted his head away from the kid in the middle of a breakdown, and opened up the comm channel that he never used. Jason never had reason to make a direct call to the cave, but this certainly seemed reason enough.

It took one second, but he finally patched through– “What the hell is this about you all fucking stalking a kid?!”

“Red Hood, how do you–” It was Dick who spoke first, but Jason didn’t let him finish.

“I just saved a kid that said you were tracking him through cameras and that B followed him? What the hell is that all about?!”

“Hood, it's not–” Tim tried to explain, but stopped as he realised– “Wait, is he still there? Is he with you right now?”

“You’re not changing the subject here, Red. Do you or do you not admit to stalking a kid?” Behind Jason, he realised the teen had stopped screaming.

“We weren’t, Red Hood.” Bruce responded this time. His voice sounded gentle, almost fatherly, like the tone he would use on Jason during their Sunday lunches. “Oracle only set an alert system to notify her where Peter had been last seen by cameras. We were not actively following him.”

“Bull–” Jason thought he heard Peter say something, but when he turned to the kid, he still had his face planted on his bag.

“Peter meeting me and Signal on the same night was a coincidence. We only wanted to check on him.”

“That’s great if that was your intention, B, because the kid is in the middle of a breakdown because of all of you! He was apprehensive of me because he thought I was with you! Not because I’m against you– but because he thought I’m a member of your team! First time for everything, right, B?”

There was silence from the other side, and Peter groaned.

“I don’t have time for this! I’m going home.”

Jason looked behind him and saw the teen had already crossed half the roof and was heading for a fire escape.

“‘I'm not on their team,’ he says, but apparently has them on speed dial. Suuure.” Peter mocked Red Hood.

“Wait! Kid– Red, B, Big Wing– this is not over.” Jason warned them before closing the channel and running after the teen. Peter chose to ignore that Red Hood had nicknames for Nightwing and who Peter figured was double R, since he wasn’t even supposed to hear that. He would burst a nerve thinking about it.

“Stop following me! I meant what I told that Signal guy, I only want to see you guys if I need saving! So thank you for saving me, Mr. Red Hood, but I don’t want to see your masks or helmets until the next time I’m getting mugged.” Though he really hoped he wouldn’t be mugged again. He wished his suit was fixed, then he wouldn’t need saving again.

“Kid, wait–” Red Hood blocked his path. Peter rolled his eyes as he shifted to sidestep the vigilante, right as his stomach growled– as loud as it did that morning. He and Red Hood froze.

concerned

Peter looked up at the vigilante. He couldn’t see the expression behind his helmet, but his spider-sense was telling him what it was.

concerned

“Kid, when was the last time you ate?”

“None of your business. Now, leave me alone.” Peter tried to sidestep Red Hood, but the vigilante was built like a truck. He would need to perform maneuvers that Peter Parker shouldn’t be able to do to get past the man.

“No no no, kid. It is my business if you die of starvation. I take care of the alley kids and you are one now, so tell me when did you last eat?”

“I can take care of myself.” Peter straightened his jacket and tried to walk around the vigilante. “Go find people to beat up and shoot–” His body moved on its own and ducked away when Red Hood tried to grab the back of his jacket.

“Fast kid, aren’t you?” Red Hood commented as he looked at the kid and the hand he’d avoided. He was impressed under his helmet, but he tensed as he noticed Peter’s furrowed brows and widened eyes. The kid had tightened his grip on his backpack straps, his shoulders loosened, and his feet shifted. He was preparing for a quick escape.

Red Hood tilted his head. Peter thought it was disbelief or even intrigue– the blank expression on his helmet really made it hard to judge, but his spider-sense told him exactly what it was.

…alert…cautious…

“Look, kid, I’m not gonna hurt you.” He raised his hands like a surrender. ”I just want to buy you some food. Let me do that, then I’ll let you go on your way. Won’t run after you after that, deal?”

truth

Peter relaxed. He wanted to refuse, but his stomach protested with another growl. Damn his fast metabolism– even a family-sized meal didn’t last him twenty-four hours. He needed to figure out how he’ll feed himself outside of the shelter. He didn’t like the idea of taking away resources from people who needed it more than him.

“Fine. Don’t make me regret this.” Peter relented through gritted teeth as his shoulders trembled.

“You cold, kid? Pretty sure that jacket is too much for this time of year.”

“Says the guy whose armour has its own heating. How would you know what outerwear is appropriate for the weather?” Peter acted coolly as he crossed his arms, but he was really freezing.

“I have an extra jacket in my bike with a heater, if you’re so jealous of my suit. Come on.” Peter’s ears perked at the mention of two things– a bike and heat, but he shrugged, feigning reluctance.

“If you’re volunteering, might as well.”

Red Hood scoffed as he unholstered his grappling gun from his waist. He wrapped an arm around the teen again, and this time, Peter voluntarily slung his arms around Red Hood’s shoulders as they swung away.

Huh. Peter was a passenger again. He hoped this would be the last time.

Red Hood’s motorcycle wasn’t too far from where Peter was mugged. If you were swinging around– only about three minutes away. If you were to walk normally, it would take ten– if you were trying to avoid cameras, probably twenty, twenty-five, give or take.

The vigilante handed Peter the heated jacket– a black puffer jacket with Red Hood’s red bat symbol sewn into the back– then they drove off to a deli-grocery on the other side of Crime Alley. Despite it being around 1am, it was still open, but other than the person on the cash register, there was nobody else inside. The place reminded Peter a bit of Delmar’s.

Peter followed behind Red Hood as he walked in. The cashier– a man in his 50s with a boxer’s build– looked up from the small television tucked in a corner, and didn’t flinch at the sight of the vigilante. His eyes glanced over to Peter for a moment before he got off his chair, revealing his true height that rivalled Red Hood’s.

“What can I get for you, Red Hood, sir?” The man asked with a gruff voice.

Red Hood glanced back at Peter who was still looking around with a mystified expression, but immediately stood at attention when he realised the two older men were staring at him.

“What do you want, kid? You’re eating, you pick.”

“Oh.” Peter looked over at the menu. Peter wasn’t picky, he’d eat anything, but since he was in a place that reminded him of Delmar’s, he chose the option that was closest to his usual.

“Oh, and can you add pickles to it, and smush it?”

“Sure, kid.” The cashier shrugged.

“Make it five sandwiches, will you?” Red Hood requested as he took out his wallet and placed cash on the counter. “We’ll sit in at the back.”

The older man nodded and began making the sandwiches. Meanwhile, Peter followed Red Hood to a room in the back. The vigilante must have been there many times because he knew exactly where the light switch was despite it being on the other side of the dark room.

Peter sat on one of the chairs around the table, while Red Hood sat across him. They waited until the older man walked in with their food. Peter didn’t question why the vigilante had ordered five sandwiches– he figured the vigilante wanted to eat too, but he was surprised when Red Hood pushed all five sandwiches towards him.

“I-I can’t eat all this.” Peter tried to refuse, but Red Hood was firm.

“You can, and you will, kid. Now eat up.”

Peter pressed his lips to a thin line. He wanted to refuse again, but his stomach continued to protest the lack of food, and he relented. He tried to eat at a slower pace, but after the first bite, he ended up eating at his normal pace.

pleased

Peter ignored his spider-sense, and just kept eating. He’s had a very long day. Eating at a place that reminded him of Queens, eating food that tasted the same as the ones he ordered from his favourite deli– it was probably the first time he could truly unwind since arriving in this universe.

It was the first time he could look back and think about what happened that day– planning to commit a crime for the first time, painting a big bat target on him– almost dying because he was only Peter Parker.

He even maimed a man without due cause.

He used his powers on a guy just because he was going to look into his bag and see his suit. A suit he hasn’t even worn out. He probably wouldn’t have even realised what it was, but Peter still panicked and caused the man tremendous pain.

What kind of hero does that?

“Kid, don’t suddenly blank out on me. Eat.” Red Hood chided as he realised the kid had the same blank stare he had at the shelter, but his words fell on deaf ears.

“...I did something really bad back there. I couldn’t control myself.” Peter muttered under his breath. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he did, and the guilt hit him harder.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.” Red Hood nudged Peter’s arm to snap him out of his trance, almost like Jason from the shelter. “You were trying to protect yourself and took action. That guy deserved what he got.”

Red Hood didn’t see what really happened. He wouldn’t know that Peter panicked. “It’s still not right, it wasn’t justified.”

“Alright, then what violence would you call justified?”

Peter deflected the question. He didn’t know what to answer. “I didn’t need to do that to him. I could have taken the gun away instead, I could have talked them down, I could have just paid attention in the first place, then we wouldn’t have found ourselves in that situation.”

“You know, I’m hearing a whole lot of ‘I, I, I,’ but you’re not concerned that I– me–” Red Hood pointed at himself– “I killed those guys in cold blood in front of you, but I’m not hearing you telling me what I should have done.”

Peter looked at Red Hood, his eyes flickering as he thought of what the vigilante said.

“I guess, I don’t know. I know people who killed lots of people. They said it wasn’t even for justice or retribution most of the time. They just received orders and they did it, no questions asked. In the case for one of them, he didn’t have the choice to question his orders. But I know them, they’re good people. And they were trying to do good after years of doing bad.”

Peter thought of when he learned what Bucky and Natasha had done before joining the Avengers. What they did weren’t the actions of good people– but he’d known them for a year at that point– they’d treated him with respect and deemed him their protege. The people he knew were different from the people he’d read about. He was certain about that.

“I realised with them that it’s not all black and white. I think, because of them, I learned that sometimes, you need to separate a person’s previous crimes and who they’re trying to be.” Peter looked at the whites of Red Hood's helmet. “You seem bad, you killed two people– but you came to my rescue, and now you’re feeding me, so you couldn’t be all that bad.”

There’s a spectrum of grey between black and white where a lot of good people operated in, Peter’s well aware of that. They have their own morals like he has his own. He wouldn’t want them trying to change his beliefs, so he doesn’t try to change theirs unless it was actively hurting innocent people.

He has his own morals– ones he wanted to uphold, but recently, it seemed so much harder to do.

“I would never kill someone myself– I don’t think I want to. They didn’t want me following their paths either. They always told me to be mindful of what I do, before I unknowingly take that plunge.”

Red Hood tried to grab his face, but he just grabbed his helmet.

“The fuck– okay, that is a lot to unpack, kid. Why were you around these people? Why do you know gun-for-hires and killers?”

“Ex gun-for-hires,” Peter stressed. “Were you even listening to me? They don’t do that anymore. And if I were to expect anyone to understand their situations, I would expect it to be the trigger-happy vigilante!”

Red Hood ignored the clearly pointed insult thrown at him. “You didn’t dispute the killer part.”

“They might have stopped killing, I never bothered to ask because it’s rude to ask people’s body count!”

The vigilante looked at him incredulously under his helmet. “I don’t think the number of kills is what they meant when you’re not supposed to ask for someone’s body count, kid.”

“What the hell is that even supposed to– ohh. Oh. Oh god, how did I never realise that?!” Peter looked disgusted, and Red Hood couldn’t help but laugh.

Peter pressed his lips together, clearly trying to stop a laugh of his own, but his face relaxed and his gaze drifted down to the table.

“Besides, one of them passed already. I couldn’t ask her anymore, even if I wanted to.”

The vigilante immediately stopped laughing and just looked at Peter.

“I didn’t even get to say bye. I didn’t see her before the mission, I only learned she was gone after everything. She… she was like a big sister to me. She saved me. I wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for her.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” was all Red Hood could say.

Peter finished the rest of his sandwiches quietly, and Red Hood didn’t ask any more questions.

Red Hood dropped Peter off about five minutes away from the water tank he called home. Peter tried to give back the heated puffer jacket, but the vigilante told him he could keep it. He was infinitely grateful for that.

Peter made sure the vigilante had driven far enough before he made the trek to his water tank.

The atmosphere in the cave was somber, to say the least.

Barbara had secretly patched Jason’s mic to the cave so they could listen in on his conversation with Peter, and they heard everything. After he dropped off Peter, they called him back and asked to meet them in the cave. Bruce had sent the rest of the family to their rooms to rest despite their protests, so only he and Dick were left in the cave.

They heard the distinct sound of a motorcycle pulling into the cave, and a few seconds later, Jason was rushing into the room with his helmet already off– and looking pissed.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?!” Jason threw his helmet across the floor, and looked pointedly at his older brother and father. “You hacked into my fucking helmet and listened in on a private fucking conversation! The kid was already paranoid, and you’re giving him more reason to not trust you! To not trust me!”

Jason saw splotches of green in his vision, and he knew he had to take a moment to breathe.

“Jay–” his older brother tried to come near him, but Jason held up an arm to stop him.

“No! Don’t Jay me, Dick! When you asked me to keep an eye out for the kid, I thought you meant check up on him from time to time– now I learn you guys have been stalking him? And this is not just Tim being the stalker of the family– this was the whole fucking family doing it!”

Bruce stood from his seat in front of the Batcomputer and tried to explain, “Jason, I didn’t lie when I said Barbara only had a notification system for Peter. She was only worried, but when he heard Tim mention–” But it was the wrong thing to say, and Jason grew more furious.

“Oh! So Peter didn't just meet three of you and Babs?! He even met Tim?! It’s like you’re intentionally trying to feed this kid’s anxiety or something!” Jason threw up his hands exasperated. 

“Jay, Peter hasn’t met Tim yet.” Dick’s serious words confused Jason, and he turned to his brother.

“What do you fucking mean?”

It was Bruce who explained, “We believe Peter may be a meta with acute hearing. He overheard Tim mention on Duke’s comm that cameras caught him dumpster diving, and that’s where the misunderstanding began. He misinterpreted it to mean we’ve been tracking his every movement. We weren’t.”

Jason looked at Bruce incredulously, and he got closer to him, enough to jab a finger onto the man’s armour. “Don’t make it sound like the kid’s to blame for that, Bruce! No matter how you spin it, he’s still right! You were tracking him and invading his privacy– like how you invaded his privacy again when you hacked my fucking helmet!”

Bruce had no response for that, but he didn’t evade his son’s glare.

“The kid has already lost so much– he has no parents, he lost his family, he’s in a new city–he moved to Gotham, for Christ’s sake! And he’s being neglected by his piece-of-shit guardian! He doesn’t need Gotham’s lead protector backing him into a corner!”

“Wait, you met Stephen?” Dick asked.

“No, I haven’t met the guy! If I had, I would’ve beaten him to a pulp and took the kid away from him!” Jason’s face tightened with a mix of regret and anger, then he looked at his brother. “Dick, when I first met him this morning, the kid was still in the same clothes you saw him in the night before. He scarfed down food that would’ve fed a small family! Stephen lets Peter go out after curfew! That Stephen guy doesn’t care about Peter– but Peter believes he owes that piece of shit his life!”

“Owe him? Did Peter mention why he owed Stephen?” His brother asked, and Jason shook his head.

“He only said he saved him, he didn’t say anything else. Do you have anything on the guy? You must have something to show for all this stalking.” Venom remained in Jason's tone, but he was trying to stay calm and push the green in his vision away.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have anything yet. It’s hard without a last name.” Her live video appeared on the Batcomputer. She’d been listening in this whole time, watching– but hadn’t made her presence known until then.

She let out a sigh. “Guys, if Stephen is involved in some kind of criminal operation and is still in the former line of work as Peter’s friends, I doubt I’d find anything on him unless I do a deeper search.” There was a pause, a hesitation in Barbara, then she conceded, “We might have to take up Tim’s idea for this.”

Dick pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t like that plan. Jason was right, with every step they took, they only fed into Peter’s anxiety and paranoia. But the situation has changed with the new information they have on the kid and his past. If they wanted to act fast, they would need to get closer to Peter and Stephen.

The kid may believe that his friends wanted him far away from their line of business, but what an adult tells a child doesn’t always reflect their true intentions. They may have been taking advantage of his trust so he could slowly mold Peter into becoming another soldier. Or even if what they said was true– that Peter’s friends didn’t want him following in their footsteps– with them and his family gone, Stephen has leeway to turn Peter who he wants the kid to become.

If Peter–already capable of catching Gotham’s vigilantes off-guard and evading cameras– were to receive more training and molding, they would run the risk of allowing a dangerous adversary to bud under their watch.

“Tim’s idea? What idea?” Jason furrowed his brows at Barbara on the screen, and at his father and brother. Dick treaded lightly and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Jay, you’re not gonna like this– and I don’t either– but we have to get closer to Peter so we can find out more about his guardian. We will need to continue monitoring him, watch over him so he can lead us to Stephen.”

Jason shook his brother’s hand off. “Fuck no, Dick! How do you think he’ll react if you keep on stalking him?!”

“We might not have any other choice than this, Jay. We can’t take him away–yet–not until we know everything about Stephen and what he is capable of. For all we know, Stephen is a bigger threat than we initially thought. He might have nefarious plans for Peter, and he could keep coming back if he’s not dealt with first. But in the meantime, we can be present for this kid who clearly needs help.” Dick justified.

“We’re not going to approach him as our vigilante identities, instead we’ll approach him as civilians– you’ve already met him without your mask. And as civilians, we will be able to help him in ways we couldn’t as Nightwing or Red Hood. You said it yourself, he’s being neglected in a new city. He will need people that he can turn to outside of Stephen, people that he won’t be afraid of.”

Jason wanted to protest, but he couldn’t fault the reasoning. They couldn’t just leave Peter alone anyway– the kid would have kept starving if he didn’t eat at the shelter. He’d keep going out after curfew– he needed someone to keep an eye on him if Stephen won’t.

“Do you believe this will really work? You really think he’ll just trust us as civilians?” Jason furrowed his brows. He wanted to believe in this plan.

Dick answered with a smile, “I hope so.”

“He will.” Bruce sounded certain, and both brothers looked at him. “Peter is an optimist– he’s paranoid, but I believe he’s an inherently trusting kid. He watched Jason kill two men in front of him, and despite that, he believed you were someone he could confide in. He judged you were good enough to tell you about his deceased friend.”

Bruce’s eyes scanned the room. He picked up Jason’s helmet when he spotted it and handed it back to his son. “He’s like Dick in that regard, wanting to see the good in people.”

“Right…” Jason could only say as he took his helmet.

“We will help him, Jason.” Bruce said in his fatherly tone, before shifting into his business tone as he turned toward the locker room. “We’ll reconvene with everyone present tomorrow, and we’ll plan our steps in more detail."

“The younglings will want to be included in this.” Dick said as he looked at the time on the Batcomputer. “You gonna spend the night?”

“Sure,” was Jason’s response, and he let out a sigh.

His brother followed behind their father, leaving Jason alone in the main room. His father’s comparison echoed in his mind along with his first meeting with Peter. Would Bruce also see what Jason saw if he met the kid in person?

“Babs, I have a question for you.” Jason asked, prompting Barbara’s live image to appear on the Batcomputer.

“Yeah, what is it, Jason?” She asked, not picking up the cautious tone in his voice.

Jason glanced at the locker room’s direction, but no one was coming out. He broached the topic carefully. “Peter… do you think he resembles someone?”

“Peter? I don’t think so. Why? Do you think you recognise him from somewhere? If you let me know, I might be able to add it to my search parameters.” That answer felt like a bucket of cold water, and he let go of the breath he was holding. He thought if someone else would see what he saw, it would be Barbara, but if she says she doesn’t see it…

“No. If you say you don’t see it, maybe I was wrong.” Jason told her. He doubted himself for a moment, but quickly brushed off his hesitation. He thought he was onto something, and he’d keep it in the back of his mind for now.

Chapter Text

Peter looked around as he pushed the library doors open, then glanced up at the security camera pointed at the entrance. His stalkers would have likely been notified that he was there, but as far as Peter was aware, they were all nocturnal– except for Signal that he met yesterday, so he believed he would be fine.

Peter hoped that Signal would honour his wish to be left alone. He seemed like he would, despite what happened the night before. It’s not like the dude could’ve asked Batman to leave Peter alone. He could not have expected him to order his boss around, like he would have never been caught ordering Tony around. It would need to be a friendly suggestion, that Tony insisted he made.

All that to say, Peter wasn’t going to hold the whole Batman-followed-him-on-his-way-to-commit-a-crime thing over Signal’s head.

The doors swung close behind Peter as he straightened his dark green jacket. He marched his way to the computers with only a singular task in mind– to know more about Gotham’s protectors, his stalkers.

“Peter!”

He froze as his name was called out. No one should know him, no one should know his name. He tried to think, who would have known his name? Other than Gotham’s vigilantes, there was Jason from the shelter– maybe the receptionist too, but he hasn't heard her say his name before. Who else knew him in this world?

Peter slowly turned his head, and relaxed as his gaze was met by green eyes behind a pair of glasses. “Oh, it’s you, Ms. Babs.”

“Hey there, kid. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” She cheerily greeted him from behind the receptionist desk.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” Peter nervously chuckled. He’d completely forgotten about her. With all the excitement–note the sarcasm–that he’d gone through in the past thirty-six hours, he’d brushed off his very first human interaction in Gotham.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors here and most of them are regulars, so I tend to remember the faces of newcomers.” She shrugged. “So what brought you in today? Planning to borrow some books?”

Peter shook his head. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, he didn’t have a library card. “No, no books. Just going to use the computers again. Oh! But do you have post-its or a small notepad I could borrow?”

“I have sticky notes here, you don’t have to give it back when you’re done. We have a whole box filled with them in the back. And here’s a pen for you.” Peter approached the reception to grab the pen and paper, and he noticed Barbara’s other hand on her phone typing furiously before she set it down.

“I’ll be here if you need anything else.” She smiled.

“Thank you again.” Peter gave a small head bow before resuming his march to the computers.

He sat down in front of the same computer he’d used when he first arrived there and booted it up, then he took out a small USB stick from his jacket pocket and stuck it into the computer tower. He wanted an inconspicuous way to hack the computer in broad daylight, so he had his nano-tech turn into this unassuming form factor. 

watching

Peter looked up from the computer and scanned his surroundings. He didn’t find any of the few people on the floor looking at him, even Barbara was glued to her computer and typing away. Then his eyes shifted to the security camera overlooking the computers.

“Whatever.” Peter muttered under his breath as he looked back at his computer. The camera’s location prevented it from seeing his screen so he wasn’t too bothered by it. Meanwhile, the ancient thing had finished booting up and brought him to the desktop, skipping the log-in screen. He opened up the Horizon browser and started digging through online encyclopedias, forums, and official websites for answers.

After three and a half hours of scouring, he had filled out about ten post-its with his notes.

He found that Batman’s team of vigilantes is reportedly composed of four or five members– people debated the existence of a fifth member. There’s Red Robin– who Peter presumed to be double R, Signal who was the city’s daytime vigilante, Spoiler, the only female member after Batgirl retired years ago, and finally Robin– Batman’s longest running sidekick, and who has had different people behind the mask. People figured that because Robin hasn’t seemed to age in the past two decades, and was even a girl at one point.

There’s also a fifth debated member called Black Bat. Some people reported seeing another female Bat working along the team, but nobody has ever caught a photo of her, blurry or otherwise. You could find photos of Batman’s team online, but most of them were either very blurry or low quality. The team seemed to operate like a bunch of cryptids– in fact, in Batman’s early days, they believed he was just some kind of urban legend. It wasn’t until he co-founded the Justice League that people learned he was real.

Peter didn’t find much about Oracle in the forums. At first, he thought Oracle and this mystery Black Bat could have been the same person– then he wondered if Oracle was a hidden member of the team, their ‘man in the chair,’ instead. It would make sense no one has ever seen her or knew she existed, unless you can hear through their comms.

So that was a total of seven members in Batman’s team, including the Dark Knight himself. As for the other ‘Bats’ Peter has met…

Nightwing is the protector of Bludhaven, a city neighboring Gotham. He occasionally comes over to help Batman and his sidekicks, and it’s commonly accepted that he’s a close ally of theirs. People have been divided between calling him an honorary Bat, or an actual Bat. Some people believed he may have been Robin at some point because of his bird motif and his closeness with Batman.

Then there’s Red Hood– Crime Alley’s very own crime-lord vigilante– two terms that Peter thought he’d never see together.

Turns out, the man was telling the truth about being reluctant allies with Batman– he even waged war against the caped crusader years ago, which only ended after the two seemed to have agreed on a ceasefire. Batman has been rarely seen in Crime Alley since, so people speculated Red Hood has prohibited the man and his sidekicks from entering his turf without permission.

Peter wanted to be relieved, because it would mean he’ll only have to worry about one vigilante while in Crime Alley– and one who claimed, and shouldn’t be a member of Batman’s team. But seeing as Red Hood was actually a lot closer to Batman than the public was led to believe– he’s on nickname-terms with them, what the hell– he didn’t think he would be in the clear even if he was in the alley.

Peter leaned back on his seat and looked at the mess of post-its in front of the computer. Then his stomach growled.

He sighed. That figures, it had been almost four hours since he last ate.

He took out his USB stick from the computer, and the screen immediately switched to the log in screen. He gathered his post-it notes and shoved them in his backpack, and marched towards the receptionist desk where Barbara was furiously typing on her phone again.

“Here’s your pen, Ms. Babs. Thanks again for letting me borrow it.” Peter set the pen down on her desk, and the librarian looked up at him.

“Done already, Peter? That was quick.” She was smiling, but Peter could tell she was a little tense.

He smiled back, but he pointed out, “Hasn’t it been three hours, Ms. Babs?”

“Oh! Has it been three hours already? I didn’t notice.”

lie

“...right,” was all Peter said. He noticed how more aggressive she was typing on her phone. She was trying to hide it, but Peter could clearly hear all her finger taps. Must be something urgent, he figured.

“I was getting hungry so I figured it was about time I head out.” Peter shrugged, and waved bye as he turned to the library doors. “Thanks again, Ms. Babs.”

“Peter, wait–” Barbara called out, and he stopped to look back at her as he heard the doors open behind him, accompanied by panting and a fast heartrate.

“Babs– I’m– made it!” The man that arrived exclaimed triumphantly. Peter turned to him out of curiosity, and his breath hitched.

“I couldn’t leave work fast enough, and the traffic was terrible.” The man rubbed the back of his neck as he chuckled nervously, while Peter stayed still as a stone. His mind raced as he stared at the man in front of him. It couldn’t be, how was he there?

The man’s gaze shifted to him, and Peter winced.

It’s him. It was definitely him– Peter would know his face anywhere– his wavy black hair, clear blue eyes, and the dimples on his face.

“...dad.” Peter muttered unintentionally, and his hands immediately jumped to cover his mouth. He turned away from the man and closed his eyes, trying hard to fight back the tears forming in his eyes.

He looked younger, even younger than the photos that were displayed in May and Ben’s apartment– but if Peter asked to see older photo albums, he would see the man standing before him. But how was his dad right there?

Peter wasn’t supposed to exist here. Peter Parker doesn’t exist, he shouldn’t exist in this universe– but his dad was here, a younger version of his dad existed, so does that mean Peter will eventually be born in this universe? Was he going to meet a baby version of himself someday? Was his variant gonna become a vigilante too, become Spider-Man?

–was his dad going to die all over again?

Was he going to lose everything one day?

“Hey…” His dad’s variant gently approached him and kneeled beside him. “Are you alright, kiddo?”

Peter pressed his lips thinly as he kept his eyes shut, and he shook his head when he intended to nod. He realised his mistake immediately.

“Kid, can you tell me what’s wrong?” His dad asked gently– and how badly he wanted to tell the truth– that he wasn’t okay, that he was hurting– that he missed him. Peter hadn’t even realised how much he missed his dad, or that he even missed him. It had been so long since his dad and his mom died that Peter figured he’d moved on from the passage of time.

But seeing his dad in this new universe where nothing was familiar, and he recognised nobody from home– his emotions came rushing onto him like a broken dam.

“Peter?” Barbara’s voice felt like a bucket of water, and it helped ground him. She was a reminder that he wasn’t dreaming, that he wasn’t in some fucked up illusion made by a psychotic jealous villain– actually, maybe he should check that.

Peter slowly opened his eyes, only to be surprised by a vision blurred by tears. He thought he successfully fought back his tears, but it turned out he failed miserably.

“Is something wrong, Peter?” Barbara asked, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned towards the spitting image of Richard Parker and reached his shaking hand out to the man’s shoulder.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he touched an actual person. He felt warm, his chest gently rose and fell with every breath, and Peter heard his heart beating clearly, though it was slightly elevated.

“You’re real.” Peter chuckled, and it felt like a weight was lifted off his chest.

“I am.” His dad’s variant wore a gentle smile. “How are you feeling, Peter?”

“A little better.” He answered truthfully as he wiped off his tears, then he realised, “Did I tell you my name?”

Peter thought he saw a deer-in-headlights expression in his dad's variant, but it disappeared as soon as it appeared, and he answered, “Babs called you Peter, so I figured that’s your name, unless it’s not…?” The man asked half-jokingly, and Peter shook his head.

“It’s my name. I’m Peter Par– Peter. Nice to meet you.” He stopped himself at the nick of time. He didn’t need the complication of letting his dad’s variant know they have the same last name when they shouldn’t have any relation.

The man looked like he caught Peter’s slip, but he didn’t call it out, and he offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Peter. My name is–” Richard Parker, he already knew.

“Dick Grayson.”

Peter froze.

Huh?

“Di-Dick?” Peter furrowed his brows, and he couldn’t stop the grimace that followed. “Your name is Dick?”

Not Richard.

Not Parker.

But Dick Grayson.

Richard–Dick? Dick nervously chuckled. “Yeah, I get that a lot. My legal name is Richard Grayson, but my parents called me Dick. My mom gave me the nickname and she didn’t realise what it meant in English, it was her second language.”

“Your-your mom? Your biological mom?” Peter’s ears perked at that. He didn’t know much about his biological grandparents other than they were acrobats in a travelling circus. This was the first time he's learned more about them.

“What-what was her first language?” He nervously asked. He didn’t know if it was appropriate to ask. He was just a random kid in Dick’s eyes– he wasn’t really his kid. Peter might have overstepped.

Despite his worries, the older man’s eyes sparkled, and he answered enthusiastically, “She spoke Romani. Have you heard of it before?”

Peter shook his head, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I would like to learn a few words though.”

Dick chuckled as he messed up the boy’s hair. “That can be arranged, Pete.”

Peter tried to fight the smile crawling onto his face, but he lost anyway and even relaxed at the older man’s warmth. He immediately missed the caress when Dick took his hand back and stood up– and he realised how comfortable he was getting with a person who’s supposed to be a stranger. It was enough to snap Peter out of his delusion.

He shouldn’t have asked something personal from Dick. He shouldn’t get too ahead of himself.

Peter’s stomach growled again, and he remembered what he was supposed to do.

“I… I should get going.” Peter said as he stepped away from Dick and Barbara. “It was nice meeting you, Dick– Mr. Dick?” He remembered to use honorifics, but it was weird to use it for someone who would be his dad.

“Wait, Peter–” Barbara stopped him again, and she turned to her friend. “Dick, you were on the way to Batburger, weren’t you? Why don’t you bring Peter with you?”

“Great idea, Babs!” Dick immediately agreed, and Peter tensed.

“Oh no no no, you don’t need to do that.” Peter waved his hands defensively. “I have my own food, and– and I can’t pay you back.” And if he stayed any longer around Dick, he might forget that he couldn’t really get close to him.

“Don’t worry about money, Peter,” Barbara dismissed his worries. She leaned closer to him, and she half-whispered, “His dad is rich-rich. He can afford the city block around Batburger if he wanted to. He could buy the franchise if he wanted to, actually.”

Peter’s eyes flickered with surprise. That was a big difference from his universe. His dad was adopted by the humble Parker family. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t rich either– they lived a middle-class lifestyle. Either the Parkers were billionaires here, or his dad was adopted by a different family.

Dick rolled his eyes. “I’m going to pay with my own money, Babs. I may not be able to buy a city block, but I can afford eating out.”

Barbara chuckled as she turned her attention back to Peter. “So what do you say, Peter? You heard him, he’s volunteering.”

“I really have to refuse, Ms. Babs. I don’t want to take advantage.” Peter eyed the exit, and just noticed how the two adults’ positions were blocking off his immediate way out. He hadn’t realised.

“I insist, Peter. I’m meeting my siblings there after their classes. The more, the merrier.”

“Siblings?” Peter’s ears perked up. Did he mean Ben? Did Ben also exist in this universe? Were they still brothers?

No, if Dick wasn’t adopted by the Parkers here, he probably never met Ben– but his dad has siblings, plural. He wanted to know more about the family this variant of his dad had.

“I would be intruding.” Peter pointed out.

“They won’t mind at all. In fact, I have a brother your age, and I think he could benefit from knowing other kids his age.” Dick shrugged, but he could tell he wasn’t swaying Peter.

He sighed. “Alright, what about this? Let me buy you food, and we can sit in while we wait for my siblings. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, I won’t stop you from leaving.”

“I…” he hesitated, and his stomach growled again in protest.

“I guess a meal won’t hurt,” he finally conceded, and he heard Dick mutter a quiet but triumphant yes! Peter smiled. He supposed one meal with his dad’s variant wouldn’t hurt.

Dick said a quick bye to Barbara, and led the way to his parked car. The car wasn’t anything impressive, just an unassuming sedan that was probably a decade old model– it was certainly nothing like a billionaire’s son would be expected to be driving.

“You can put your bag in the backseat, Peter.” Dick told him as he opened the front passenger door and pulled the lock knob on the backseat door– verifying Peter’s assumption that this vehicle model was at least a decade old.

The older man held the rear door open for Peter. He nodded and gently placed his backpack in the backseat, before sitting shotgun. They drove fifteen minutes before the car was parked again.

Peter had brushed off what Barbara called the restaurant, and even thought he misheard because what the hell kinda restaurant was Batburger? Instead of beef, or chicken, or a vegetarian alternative– they used bat meat? Horrible marketing. Horrible imagery. But sitting parked in front of the building now, he finally got it.

“A fast-food restaurant themed around Batman? Really?” Peter remarked incredulously.

“Yep.” Dick made an exaggerated popping sound. “I take it you haven’t been?”

“Didn’t even know it existed! Didn’t know it could exist! I could imagine Superman, or Wonder Woman, or the Flash having a restaurant themed around them– but not Batman! What does the guy even think of all this?” Peter wildly gestured to the restaurant. “He gave off such a serious no-B.S. vibe, I cannot believe he would ever agree to this!”

Dick chuckled as he took off his seatbelt. “Come on, let’s go in.”

Peter unbuckled his seatbelt, then reached to the backseat for his backpack.

“I can carry that for you, if you want.” Peter tensed at the older man’s suggestion. He didn’t want to hand it over– his suit was inside.

“No, thank you, Mr. Dick. I can handle it. I’m actually stronger than I look.” Peter joked, not noticing his grip tightening on his bag, and he exited the car. The older man got off as well, and they unintentionally closed the car doors at the same time.

“You don’t have to call me mister, Peter. Dick is fine. Everybody else just calls me Dick anyways.” He shrugged.

Peter was glad the man called it out. It did sound weird, and felt like it highlighted that Dick’s name was– well, Dick– more than if there were no honorifics.

“Alright, no more honorifics. Just Dick.” Peter straightened his jacket, and they went inside the restaurant.

The menu was– as the Batburger name would suggest– based on Batman and his sidekicks. Batburgers were to be expected– there were even options for a deluxe and deluxe oversized version. There were also Night-wings–chicken wings, Peter figured– and Robin nuggets? And Riddle-me-fish? Killer Crocque monsieur?! Two-Face sandwich?!

“The chicken items are named after the bird heroes, har-har– but why do even the villains get food named after them?!” Peter exclaimed in disbelief as he gestured towards the overhead menu. He had read articles and articles about Gotham’s villain gallery– he knew what some of these named villains have done– the depth of their cruelty. One of their victims could walk in here and see the person who turned their life upside down has a sandwich named after them!

Imagine if his home universe had Ultron BLT, Loki salads, Punisher hotdogs, Hail HYDRA fries– or god forbid– taro-flavoured Thanos milk tea with popping boba the colour of the infinity stones!

“This world is ducked up, ducked up.” Peter muttered into his hands. “B needs to send whoever thought this restaurant was a good idea to Arkham. They couldn’t possibly be alright in the head.”

“B?” Dick’s ears perked up and he looked at Peter curiously.

“Oh, Batman. Heard a bunch of people use it to call the guy before.” Peter shrugged, and continued to look through the menu with a disgusted face. 

Dick slowly nodded and he made a mental note to himself, Don’t call Bruce B in front of Peter. He took out his phone and texted their group chat too as a precaution. He received a thumbs up from most of them and was left on seen by the rest. Then he received a new message.

BATCHAT

Duke: Classes just finished, we’ll be there in 10

Dick smiled and he put his phone back in his pocket. He looked back at Peter who still had an incredulous look on his face.

“Have you decided what you wanted, Peter?” He asked. Peter looked at him confused, like he wasn’t speaking the same language.

“What do you want to eat?” Dick rephrased, and Peter blinked before a flash of realisation struck him.

“Oh yeah, I was supposed to order– I’ll-I’ll just get the Night-wings.” Peter felt his face flush. “I’ll go find us some seats. I’ll come help take our food when it’s ready.” He waited for an affirmative before he speedwalked to an empty booth.

He had gotten caught up judging the absurd food names that he forgot he was supposed to pick one– but how could he when every new item he read made him side-eye and question the marketing team?! How was the place still in business?! Peter huffed and he rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin up with his hand. He quietly waited.

looking

Peter stopped himself from making eye contact– partly as practice for whenever he gets tailed by the Bats again, and partly because he was still embarrassed for his brain fart, though his ears remained alert.

He sprang up from his seat as soon as he heard their order was ready five minutes later and helped Dick bring the food to their table. They had three trays worth of food and an extra tray for five boxes covered in the store logo and question marks. The contents didn’t smell like food to Peter, rather they smelled like plastic.

They sat down at their booth, and Dick placed a whole bucket of chicken wings in front of Peter.

“Eat up, Peter.” The older man sounded enthusiastic, and Peter eyed the bucket. There were more chicken wings than he remembered reading on the menu. He looked at the menu over the counter and read the smaller print–six–then back at the bucket in front of him. It was at least double, maybe more.

“I got the family bucket,” Dick excitedly explained, solving Peter’s mystery.

“Oh.” Peter figured that the bucket was supposed to be shared and he took out four chicken wings and placed them on top of a piece of napkin. Dick’s eyes went wide as realised what he was doing and stopped him.

“No no, Peter. The whole bucket is for you. Just you.” The older man still wore a smile but he looked concerned.

“What? But I– I can’t eat all this. I’ll take just four–” Peter tried to refuse, but the older man shook his head.

“Then take the rest to go. Eat what you can and save what’s left for dinner.” Dick placed a hand on his shoulder and assured him. “It’s alright to just accept, Peter.”

Peter furrowed his brows. He felt conflicted. On one hand, he was thankful for the food–his heightened metabolism even more so– but on the other, he felt bad for being someone to be pitied. Dick was already paying for his food for free, he didn’t like that Dick was spending more on him.

“Al-alright. I’ll take it.” Peter conceded, and he ate his chicken wings. Dick just smiled at him again.

Peter’s eyes regularly glanced over at the older man sitting across him, but he’d look away just as fast. It was weird– sitting at a table with a man who has your dead dad’s face, and the man doesn’t even know that in another universe he was Peter’s dad.

He was so out of his league.

Should he talk more? Should he try to know more about this version of his dad? What questions could he even ask that wouldn’t sound weird from a total stranger? What do you even ask your dead dad’s variant? Can you ask him normal dad stuff? What even counted as normal dad stuff? Did the stuff he asked Ben count? What did he even talk to Ben about other than mundane stuff? He could try talking to Dick like he talked with Tony– but they mostly talked about tech and engineering–and hero stuff. Peter couldn’t talk about that to a civilian, and he didn’t even know if Dick had the same job his dad had– actually, he could start there.

He looked at Dick who was about to take another bite from his Batburger, and he asked, “Dick, what do you do for work?” 

The older man’s eyes seemed to sparkle at his question, and he answered, “Oh, I’m a cop in Bludhaven, but I also coach gymnastics and acrobatics to kids on my off days.”

Peter smiled. Despite the glaring differences, there were still similarities between his dad and Dick. “My dad was an acrobat when he was a kid. He used to be part of a circus.”

“Me too! My parents and I were in a travelling circus when I was a kid.” Dick had a big grin on his face, but it was tinged with bittersweetness when he mentioned his parents. Peter knew his biological grandparents died during a big accident, it must’ve been the same in this universe.

“What about you? Do you do acrobatics too like your dad?”

“I guess you could say that. I can do some tricks,” Peter downplayed his abilities, but he was actually really proud of it. He had always been enamored by the art that his dad and biological grandparents shared, but he only took up the sport seriously after getting his powers, to supplement being Spider-Man. Putting it into practice as Spider-Man felt like paying tribute to his lineage.

“I take after dad more on the science side. He was a biochemist– I want to be a bioengineer.” He was on track for it too, until Beck and the ruined spell happened.

Dick’s eyes sparkled in fascination. “You must be a smart kid, Peter.”

The smile on his face fell, and he grimaced. It wasn’t an insult, but the remark cut into Peter. He clenched his jaw, and his hands balled into fists.

“I get told that a lot, but I’m starting to doubt if it’s even true. I’ve… messed up so much. My life isn’t what it’s supposed to be because of decisions I made. If I was smarter, if I was better–”

If he was faster, stronger– he could have gotten the gauntlet off at Titan, they wouldn’t have lost the first time– Tony and Natasha wouldn’t have needed to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he was actually smart, Beck wouldn’t have tricked him into handing over EDITH. If he was smarter, he would have realised that Goblin would try to sabotage his cure. May wouldn’t have needed to die. He would still be with his family, with May, and Ned and MJ– with Tony, with Natasha, with the Avengers– they wouldn’t have needed to forget he ever existed.

“Strong enough to have it all, too weak to take it.” Goblin’s words echoed in his mind, and he asked himself–

“Would they still be alive?” Peter’s voice hitched.

Dick’s eyes flickered with regret.

He recognised the blank look on the kid’s face. He saw it in the mirror after his parents died. He had seen it after every mission where someone had to die. He saw it on his brothers– on Jason, on Tim– and when Damian finally felt comfortable around him, he saw it on his youngest brother too. He saw it in Steph, Cass, and Duke.

The look of someone playing a scene in their mind over and over, trying to figure out what they could have done differently. Replaying what-ifs in their head, unknowingly running themselves down, not realising that all they were doing was hurting themselves.

“You don’t know that, Peter.” His words made the kid look up at him. “We can never really know if doing something differently would mean a better outcome. It might be better, but it might also be worse. It might be the only outcome– no matter what you could have done, nothing would have changed. You can’t change the past, you can’t fix it. But what you can do is stop blaming yourself for what already happened.”

Peter furrowed his brows. He wanted to say that Dick was wrong, that there was a way. The multiverse existed– he’d met his variants, he’d met Dick–his dad’s variant– he was talking to an alternate universe version of his dad– nothing could be impossible at this point. Surely, there was some way in the multiverse to fix his past.

But the Avengers had already proven that there was no changing the past. They couldn’t just jump into the past and stop Thanos before he could obtain the stones. It wouldn’t change anything– the future had already been set.

“Easier said than done,” he huffed.

Dick gave him a reassuring smile. “I didn’t say it would be.”

There were a couple of minutes of comfortable silence between them before the restaurant doors opened behind Peter, and he heard four heartbeats enter. Dick’s face lit up and he waved down the new arrivals.

Peter looked behind him and saw three guys and one girl. The eldest of the four had a lean build, black hair, and light blue eyes like Dick, though his were paired with deep eyebags. The youngest boy looked around Peter’s current age. He had dark hair and green eyes, and he had a complexion a few shades darker than Dick’s. The third guy was black and had an athletic build. He had dark hair and brown eyes. The last and only female member of the group had shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes.

The girl cheerily waved at Dick and Peter, and he waved back in response. “Hi. I’m Peter. Dick invited me to eat with you guys. I hope I’m not intruding or anything.”

“You’re totally not, Peter! My name is Stephanie, but you can call me Steph.” She introduced herself as she took the seat beside him and shook his hand, while the youngest boy sat on Peter’s other side. The scowl on his face hadn’t wavered since they arrived, and Peter noted the way he looked at him– like he was studying him, trying to read him. It reminded Peter of the look in Bucky’s face when they had to face a new but dangerous opponent– the sharp gaze of a predator.

“Hi? My name’s Peter.” He tried to break the awkward tension and offer a handshake, but he didn’t get a response. The kid just kept glaring at him.

“That demon is Damian, don’t mind him, he’s always like that–” Steph pointed at the youngest. She received a Tt from the kid but she ignored it and pointed at the other two boys. “And these are Tim and Duke.”

“It’s so nice to meet the newest addition to the family!” She suddenly joked, leaving Peter’s mouth agape and surprising half the table. Dick even choked on his drink in shock.

“St-Steph!” Duke scolded her, but her smug grin didn’t falter.

“I was joking! Unless B–ruce actually acts up on it. We all know he has a problem.” She huffed as she grabbed her Batburger and Bat-fries and started eating.

Peter figured that Bruce was their adopted dad. The first face that came to his mind was Bruce Banner– the Hulk, but he felt like there’s another Bruce that he was forgetting. He’d figure it out later.

“So you’re all siblings? You were all adopted?”

“Not all of us,” Steph answered. “Only Dick and Tim are legally adopted, they also have another brother and a sister. Duke’s a legal ward– for now, at least. And I’m not adopted or a legal ward, but I hang out with them a lot and have a room at their place. Damian is the only biological son.”

Peter smiled. Even if his dad’s family wasn’t the Parkers, even if Ben wasn’t his brother, Peter was glad to know his dad still had a great family. It’s not his family, but maybe he could imagine having a family as big as this.

“That’s actually so cool how you’re a big family.” The closest he ever got to a family like this was the Avengers. Nobody said it out loud, but Peter hoped they all thought the same.

“So tell us about yourself, Peter. Where do you go to school? Any hobbies, interests? What do you like to do for fun?” Steph asked as everybody dug into their foods.

“Oh, I was actually talking to Dick about that.” Peter swallowed before continuing. “I dabble in acrobatics, and I also do science stuff. I hoped to get a degree in bioengineering.”

Steph pressed her lips to a thin line, trying to suppress her excitement, and she playfully elbowed him. “Oh, you are so going to fit right in, Peter.”

Peter chuckled as he took another chicken wing from his bucket, then he answered the other question. “As for school, my uncle and I are still kinda trying to sort out transferring to a new school district and moving to a new city. I moved here three days ago.”

“Uncle, huh. What does he do?” Tim asked. The question earned him wary looks from his family.

Peter shrugged. “He used to be a surgeon, but he’s in a different field now.”

“Used to be? So what does he do now?” Tim pressed.

Peter stopped mid-chew and tilted his head. He didn’t expect he’d need to elaborate on his fictional uncle’s job, though it made sense that people would get curious. There would come a point where he’d need to give more information than just “he’s Stephen.” People might suspect whether Stephen even existed if he didn’t figure out a better backstory. He’d take the opportunity to elaborate on his lies with them.

He thought about what Stephen did as Sorcerer Supreme–defending their universe’s Earth from mystic and interdimensional threats–and tried to think of an appropriate comparison to a civilian occupation.

Peter swallowed and answered, “He’s the head of security at his job.”

“Head of security… that’s a very big jump from surgeon.” Tim remarked, and Peter nodded.

“It is. He couldn’t continue being a surgeon after a big accident, so he pivoted to working in security after realising he had talent in that.” Peter thought to use Stephen’s actual backstory for fictional Uncle Stephen.

…wary…

Peter paused as he noticed the suddenly unsteady heartbeats of the table’s occupants. Their expressions were neutral and their breathing was slow–almost normal even, but he could tell they were tense. His eyes narrowed– but quickly glanced down as a hand abruptly pushed his bucket of Night-wings away and placed one of the mystery boxes in front of him. He looked beside him, at the teen boy who had scowled at him since they met.

“What is this?”

“Unbox it,” he commanded. “Let’s see which figure you got.”

Peter blinked, then frowned at his tone. “Why?”

“It is a custom to open Batburger’s mystery boxes and see which member of Batman’s team you get. You haven’t opened yours, correct?” Peter remembered the smell of plastic earlier, and he connected the dots. Inside the box were kids’ toys.

“I’m not a kid. I’m eig– I’m fourteen. That’s not a kid. You’re probably younger than me.”

Damian smirked. “I’m fifteen. I am older than you.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. If only you knew, kid, if only you knew, he thought. Yet despite his protest, his hands had already begun to open the box and took out the figure wrapped in plastic. The figure was–

“Nightwing.” He didn’t intend to say the name with so much venom, but he did– and the eldest at the table couldn’t help but choke on his drink again. 

“Do you have something against Bludhaven’s protector?” Damian raised a brow, and Peter grimaced. He felt conflicted about Nightwing. On the one hand, people seem to have nothing but great things to say about him– on the other, his stalking problem started because of him.

“He’s fine. It’s nothing.” Peter lied through gritted teeth.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing, do tell.” Damian sounded amused.

“No, thank you. I’ll pass.” Peter hadn’t sensed any watching gazes on him– either from miles away or from the cameras– but there was no stopping them from watching back and listening in on footage from the cameras in the restaurant.

Steph was trying to stifle her laugh when she asked– mostly jokingly– “Well, do you dislike any other Bats? Or does Nightwing only have the pleasure of your detestment?”

Peter looked at her, blinked, and squared his shoulders as he remembered the other bird hero that had wronged him. “Red Robin.”

His answer broke the dam, and Steph couldn’t stop her laugh. Duke was laughing too, while Damian had an amused smirk as he looked at Tim, who was avoiding eye contact and had crossed his arms, looking like he wanted to shrink. Dick also looked away as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Peter couldn’t hold the deadpan expression on his face, and he gave into the chuckle that brewed at the back of his throat. He didn’t even know what was funny, the comfortable laughter just infected him.

A loud ringtone suddenly interrupted the sounds of laughter. Dick and the others looked around for the source of the nearby audio, until their eyes landed on Peter taking out a tablet from his backpack. A press of the power button turned off the sound.

“Sorry, that was me.” Peter stood up from his seat. “I have to run some errands before curfew, so I hope it’s alright if I leave early.”

“Aww, no, Peter, stay for a little more?” Steph whined.

Dick sprang up, and he offered, “Do you need a ride, Peter? I can drop you off where you need to go.”

“No, no need for that.” Peter waved his hands defensively. “I’ll just take the subway."

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.” He insisted.

Peter nodded. “Yep. You already bought me food, this is already a lot for me.”

He took out the black jacket he got from Red Hood and slipped it on– he felt surprised gazes on him as he put it on, but he figured it was because two jackets were overkill for the weather–for the normal person anyway. He stowed his bucket of Night-wings in his backpack, along with a few pieces of napkins, and swung his bag over his shoulders.

“Thanks again for the food, Dick. It was really nice meeting you. It was nice meeting all of you.” Peter backed away and turned towards the door.

“Tt. Don’t forget your Nightwing, Peter.” Damian tutted before he heard a whipping sound, and his hand moved on its own and caught it before he even looked back. The table looked stunned at his quick reaction time, but Peter chose to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Uhm, thanks,” was all he said before running towards the door.

Chapter Text

“We-we all saw that, right?” Duke stammered as he waited for Dick and Tim to confirm that he indeed saw Peter catch the Nightwing toy without looking. He received quiet stares before Dick and Tim pulled out their phones, then Steph and Damian followed suit– and he remembered what they had discussed that morning. They weren’t sure of the scope of Peter’s enhanced hearing yet, so as a precaution, their main channel for communication would be through text messages.

BATCHAT

Duke: We all saw that, right?

Duke: Peter caught the Nightwing figure without looking?

Timmy: We did

Timmy: I’ll add enhanced reflexes to Peter’s list of powers

In truth, they haven’t actually had a proper briefing about approaching Peter– they were supposed to have the meeting before patrol that night. They did have a short discussion about how they’d discreetly communicate around Peter during breakfast, then Alfred shut their work talk down after that.

It was fortunate that they even had that planned, because they hadn’t expected their chance to get close to Peter to come so soon. They couldn't track him, they had no idea where he hung around yet–they knew nothing about him–so when Barbara started spamming their group chat that Peter was back in the library, it was an opportunity they didn’t want to waste.

And they almost did!

Duke, Steph, and Damian were stuck in school, Tim was stuck in meeting after meeting that he had already pushed back for weeks–he couldn’t reschedule them anymore! It wasn’t like Bruce Wayne could just drop by a public library for no apparent reason– the press would be at their throats and releasing stories about “New Wayne kid?!” the day after. And Dick was stuck at his own job a whole city over!

They were fortunate enough that Peter stayed in the library for four hours researching who knew what–that was a whole other mystery for later–and Dick had enough time to drive over.

Steph: i’m surprised he actually joined dick to batburger, what did you do to convince him?

Dickie: he was hungry. He was about to leave when I got to the library

Steph: xDDD didn’t jason also convince him to comeby offering food? I guess we know his weakness we should give him alfred’s cooking next time

Dick chuckled, but a lump formed in the back of his throat as he remembered Peter’s terrified face covered in tears back at the library.

“There was also something else…” He muttered without realising, and his siblings looked at him confused. He explained on the group chat.

Dickie: he cried when he saw me

Dickie: at first, I thought he got scared and recognized me as Nightwing, but he was relieved when he got a closer look at my face

Dick clenched his jaw.

Dickie: he thought I wasn’t real

“That sounds ominous,” Steph couldn’t help remark aloud. At the same time, the Typing bubble appeared beside Barbara’s profile.

Babs: Peter looked like he saw a ghost

Babs: Dick, do you think Peter knows you?

Dick paused. He hadn’t considered that, but where would Peter know him? What could possibly make the kid react like that?

Dickie: he didn’t even know my name was Dick

Dickie: how would he know me, but not know my name?

Babs: he knew you were adopted, didn’t he?

Dick's brows furrowed. That’s right– Peter knew he was adopted, he asked about his biological mom. He thought it was because he knew Dick Grayson was Bruce Wayne’s oldest adopted son, but Peter was surprised by his name.

Babs: he also seemed more comfortable around you, he almost said his last name, Par-something

Babs: i think he does know you, Dick

Dick’s brows furrowed deeper. He didn’t know who Peter was–that was part of the problem, they had nothing on the kid–but Peter was familiar with Dick. Why? How? His reaction to seeing Dick felt like a big clue– so what did Peter see?

Demon: Had Peter shared more information before we arrived?

Dick began typing out his response– about Peter’s dad being a biochemist and a former acrobat– when the Typing bubble appeared again, but beside a profile that was barely ever active in the chat.

LurkingJay: What.

LurkingJay: The.

LurkingJay: Fuck.

LurkingJay: You met with Peter?!

Steph: jason! welcome to the batchat!

Steph: nice of you to join us!

LurkingJay: I’m only replying in the group chat because I saw Peter’s name repeatedly in my notifications!

LurkingJay: It’s only been a fucking day since the kid told you to stay the fuck away, Dickwing! You couldn’t wait more than 48 hours?!

Dickie: it was our chance to get close to Peter, Jay, we couldn’t waste it

There was a pause in the barrage of messages from Jason, then the Typing bubble reappeared, and he resumed.

LurkingJay: What the fuck?! This group chat has messages about Peter from five hours ago?! Are you all participating in a stalking championship or something?!

Timmy: I thought you were on-board with the plan?

LurkingJay: I didn’t fucking agree to anything yet! We were supposed to talk about this later! So why did you meet Peter so fucking soon?!

LurkingJay: Are you still with Peter?! Are you all fucking texting behind his back while he’s right beside you?!

Dickie: no, he left a while ago, he said he had errands to run

LurkingJay: And you’re not following him?

Dickie: no, we’re still at Batburger

LurkingJay: Good. So you still have some sense in you, Dickwing.

Dick eyed his brother’s message incredulously as the Typing bubble appeared beside Tim’s profile.

Timmy: Babs, any news on Peter? Did he really take the subway?

Babs: yep, subway cameras just caught Peter. He's getting on a train line heading south

Babs: I think he’s heading back to the Diamond District

LurkingJay: Don’t even think about following him again, Bruce.

The Typing bubble appeared again, this time beside Bruce’s profile.

B: We will continue this discussion at the cave. Duke, do not forget you still have patrol.

Duke sprang up from his seat and he cursed, “Oh shit! I almost forgot! Dick, please please please, drive me to the manor?”

Dick let out a chuckle. “I’m driving you all to the manor either way. Come on, let’s go.”

The Batcomputer emitted a low, steady hum. It sounded gentle, almost rhythmic, one that Dick had completely tuned it out as he stared at the screen showing their file on Peter. Their ongoing search for information about Peter and Stephen hadn’t yielded any results yet, so all entries on the file were only from what the kid had told them and their own observations of him.

Peter–he refused to let them know his last name, but let it slip that it started with ‘Par’–was a conundrum.

He had his walls raised high, yet he was also an open book. He didn’t have a problem trusting Nightwing, a vigilante he hadn’t even heard of– but also immediately escalated when he believed he was being stalked by the Bats, like he was afraid they would find something. He was apprehensive of Red Hood because he thought he was in Batman’s team, but also openly confided about being acquainted with assassins. And he was comfortable enough with Dick–a total stranger–to tell him about his dad and his interests. It was a coin flip whether Peter would be open to them or not.

“Can I trust you?”

“You’re real.”

Dick sighed deeply as Peter’s tear-stained face flickered in his mind. He was still trying to figure out why Peter had to make sure that he was real, what he could have seen in the library.

“Chum, is something the matter?” Dick’s head snapped to his father’s voice and found Bruce coming from the direction of the locker room, already in his suit but with his cowl hanging around his neck.

Dick rubbed the inner corner of his brows and he denied, “No, nothing’s wrong. Just looking over Peter’s file.”

Bruce quietly stared at him, his eyes narrowed so slightly that the normal person wouldn’t even notice– but his kids all noticed it, and Dick felt like it was boring a hole through his head. He sighed. “What Babs said earlier was just bugging me, her theory that Peter might know me.”

“...hn.” His father just grunted, as the rest of their family walked in from the stairs to the manor. The only ones not present were Duke and Cass, who were patrolling while they convened. They would be briefed once they returned. Soon, they heard the distinct thrum of a motorcycle pulling up to the cave, and Jason joined them a few seconds later. 

“Alright, you have ten seconds to explain before I let Peter know his new friends from Batburger were sent by the Bats and you guys lose any chance of getting close to him as civilians.” Jason threatened as he pulled his helmet off.

“Wouldn’t that just feed into his paranoia?” Tim pointed out behind him, and Jason slowly turned his head to glare at him.

“Nine seconds, choose your words wisely,” Jason growled. “Eight, seven…”

“Jason, that’s enough,” Bruce admonished. “We already discussed why we needed to get closer to Peter, we needed to know more–”

“And I get that part, Bruce!” Jason cut him off. “But what the hell were you all thinking, pouncing at the kid at the earliest opportunity? You’re all about preparing, so why did you just dive head first into meeting Peter? What if– what if one of you slipped and he figured out something was up? That you were sent by the people he has very little trust in? What would you have done then?”

“You were just threatening to tell him about us–” Tim remarked incredulously before he was cut off by Jason.

“Shut it, Tim.”

Damian scoffed. “You have very little faith, Todd. Though it is well-founded.” He looked pointedly at Steph and narrowed his eyes. “I seem to remember Brown almost referring to Father as B despite Richard’s warning. Not to mention, her unnecessary adoption joke.”

Steph looked at him defensively. “He didn’t realise it, did he? So we’re in the clear. And it was just a lighthearted joke to make Peter feel welcomed.”

“I warned you not to underestimate him.” Damian narrowed his eyes. “Peter is sharp– he may not have realised your fumble today, but he may remember it one day and realise what you meant. And have you failed to realise that he noticed when you all went tense at the mention of Stephen? If I hadn’t acted fast and distracted him with the Batburger toy, he would have realised we knew more than we let on.”

“And there’s my point!” Jason gestured to Damian and Steph in exasperation before he turned away to run his hand through his hair, though it had the unintended effect of meeting Bruce’s stern but forbearing gaze.

“What’s done is done.” Bruce looked directly at his son, whose gaze didn’t falter. Then he turned in the direction of his other children, his voice steady and kind yet held authority. “This will serve as a lesson and a reminder, so when any of you meet Peter again, you won’t make the same mistakes.”

Bruce sat in front of the computer, and he pulled up footage from the library and Batburger– courtesy of Barbara. Bruce and Dick had the chance to watch the footage from Batburger so they were already aware, but the rest of them who saw for the first time immediately noticed– Peter’s seat was a blindspot and couldn’t be seen from any camera angle, either hidden by a partition, hanging lights, or a poster.

Jason narrowed his eyes at the collected footage, even as he crossed the few feet of distance between him and the monitor displaying Peter’s file. He came to a stop beside the chair where Dick was seated, his arms crossed as he scrutinised the footage.

“You guys really aren’t beating allegations, you know that?” Jason teased, earning him stares from his siblings. “And you couldn’t get any angles where the kid shows up, Babs?”

“These are all the cameras that had their table in view, Jason.” Barbara’s voice came from the computer. “Peter chose the table too, he knew he wouldn’t be seen in that seat.”

She let out a long sigh. “Peter hasn’t exactly made it easy to find him through cameras, and when he does let us see him, it’s on his own terms, but this… the kid is just being petty.”

Jason smirked. “That’s what you get for stalking the kid.”

“Whatever. We already went through this.”

Jason rolled his eyes as he reviewed Peter’s file. They finally had a last name for him–Par–but it was followed by a question mark. Jason remembered seeing a mention of that from the group chat, that the kid almost told them his last name. The other notable change in the document was Stephen’s occupation– before it only said ‘Doctor?’ but now, it said ‘Head of security, former surgeon.’

“Anything else on Stephen?” Jason asked as he scrolled to the bottom where a section was labelled Additional notes. Two new lines had been added, but only one stood out to him, and he furrowed his brows.

‘Recognised Dick, but didn’t know his name.’

The gnawing feeling Jason had at the Crime Alley shelter came back at full force, and his hand clamped over his chin and mouth.

“No,” his dad answered. “But Peter provided enough information to help refine our searches. Barbara is running them as we speak.” Bruce swiveled his chair to meet his son’s gaze, only to stop abruptly as he saw Jason’s uneasy expression.

“What is it, chum?” he asked.

“What does this mean?” Jason pointed at the screen as he looked at Bruce and his siblings. “‘Recognised Dick, but didn’t know his name’ what does that mean?” 

“It’s better to show you.” Barbara spoke through the computer and enlarged the camera footage from the library. It showed the moment when Dick burst through the doors and Peter froze.

“I couldn’t leave work fast enough, and the traffic was terrible.” Dick’s voice emanated clearly in the footage. He seemed oblivious at how still Peter had become until his gaze landed on him– and the kid suddenly turned around and began shaking.

The video showed Barbara and Dick immediately rushing to the kid’s side, worried but careful not to spook him.

“Hey… are you alright, kiddo?” Dick gently asked, and the kid’s head immediately shook. Then he followed up by asking, “Kid, can you tell me what’s wrong?” And Peter’s shoulders immediately tensed and trembled violently.

Peter suddenly stilled when Barbara called his name. His eyes opened, but he ignored her question. Instead, he looked at Dick and reached his shaking hand out to his shoulder.

“You’re real.” It was caught by less-than-adequate microphones on a security camera, but even so, the relief and vulnerability in Peter’s voice could be heard clear as day. Jason caught the pained look on his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

The footage paused there, and Barbara spoke, “Peter looked like he saw a ghost. He definitely knew Dick, but when he said his name, Peter sounded surprised.”

The footage sped up for a bit until the part where Peter and Dick introduced themselves to each other. Then Barbara let the rest of the footage play out until the point where Peter tried to leave again.

Tim grabbed his chin as looked at the screen. “His surprise at his name could just be because Dick is usually called Richard Grayson by the media, but that doesn’t explain the whole you’re real thing.”

Stephanie tilted her head. “He also seems more comfortable around Dick, he looks a lot more relaxed here and at Batburger compared to all the other times we’ve seen him.” 

“I asked Cass to watch the footage when she returns from patrol, she’ll tell us what she can read from Peter’s body language.” Bruce’s gaze shifted back to Jason, and his eyes narrowed. His son still had that uneasy expression– his lips were pressed to a thin line, and his brows deeply furrowed, but now his eyes held the look of a man on the edge of a breakthrough. He must’ve known something they didn’t.

“Jason,” Bruce called his son’s name. His green eyes flickered, like he was suddenly dragged back to the present.

“…what if he knew Dick by a completely different name? Not Dick Grayson or even Richard Grayson?” Jason blurted out, and he looked pointedly at his siblings. “Did he say anything else– he talked about his dad, what else did he say?”

An uneasy silence fell over the room. They collectively made the connection between Jason’s two questions. And as if on cue, the footage from Batburger played, and Peter’s voice hit them like a bucket of ice water.

“My dad was an acrobat when he was a kid. He used to be part of a circus.”

Deafening silence followed as collective realisation washed over their faces. Dick’s eyes snapped to the large screen– Peter’s anecdote that he’d easily brushed off felt like a weight on his chest.

The colour drained from his face as the footage continued to play, and his own past voice ringing out to mock him.

“Me too! My parents and I were in a travelling circus when I was a kid.”

The footage finally paused, and Barbara’s camera flipped on as her voice rang through the computer. “Jason, is this why you asked me if I thought Peter looked like somebody? Did you mean Dick?”

The air felt suffocating with the implication. Bruce’s face tightened as his gaze shifted to Dick. His eldest son’s eyes were still fixed on the screen, and chest heaving shallowly. Bruce then looked to Jason, who had an uneasy expression as he anticipated his older brother’s reaction.

“Jason.” Bruce’s commanding voice cut through the heavy silence. “What exactly made you suspect that Peter was related to Dick? Was it the resemblance alone?” Nobody else had noticed that Peter looked like Dick– it would have been impossible to jump to this conclusion without any other evidence.

Jason hesitated. He shifted his weight nervously. “No… kind of– look, it was just a feeling. I didn’t think the kid could actually be Dick’s son–”

“Because it’s impossible!” Dick shot to his feet. He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, then leaned heavily on the console for support. “How– how could Peter be my son? I-I would have been thirteen when he was born!” Then his head snapped to Jason’s direction. “And how long have you thought he was my son? You have been the number one advocate for us staying away from Peter! But this whole time, you thought he was my son?!”

Jason raised his hands defensively. "I didn’t think my theory had solid ground– it was more of a fleeting resemblance and I thought I imagined it. That’s why I didn't want to say anything until I was sure, or until anybody else saw it. I’m sorry, Dick, I didn’t want to freak you out only to find out I was wrong.”

Dick snapped, “Well, I’m freaking out right now!”

“Dick, focus.” Bruce’s tone was calm but stern and served to ground his son. “We need to find the full truth, not panic over the impossible.”

“Wait, what about what Peter said about his parents?” Steph interjected. “He said his dad was a biochemist– and Jason, didn’t Peter tell you that his parents died when he was six? Did he just lie about that?”

Both brothers looked at her. They contemplated what she said, and Dick’s eyes went wide. “Time travel? Is Peter my son from the future?”

Dick’s blood ran cold as a heavier realisation hit him– six. Peter lost his parents when he was only six.

The world beneath his feet seemed to shift, his vision narrowed– and for a split moment, he thought he was back to that fateful night, at Haly’s Circus, surrounded by horrified screams. But now, the child standing alone over his parents’ blood was Peter– and he was the one lifeless on the floor.

A sudden, grounding pressure pulled Dick out of his own head. He hadn’t realised he almost stumbled until his dad had caught his shoulders. His eyes met with Bruce’s unwavering gaze, and his dad’s blue eyes anchored him.

“Bruce… he lost me. I died and left him.” Dick said through a shaky breath.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He could infer what could have passed through his son’s mind, and he knew it wasn’t anything good– but he couldn’t afford to let his shock show. Dick was seeking an anchor, and he had to be that for him. Bruce’s grip on his shoulders tightened, and he didn’t look away. His blue eyes held Dick’s gaze.

“You didn’t leave him, Dick. Whatever may have happened, you didn’t choose to leave him. I know you would never choose to leave your child.”

Bruce waited for his son to internalise what he’d said– for focus to return to his eyes and for his weight to return to his own two feet, then he gradually eased his grip. Dick’s weight shifted back to his feet, but his dad didn’t let go yet.

“You alright now, chum?” Dick answered the question with a firm nod. Bruce cautiously withdrew his support, though he remained by his son’s side.

A hand landed on Dick’s shoulder, and he turned his head only to find Jason standing on his other side. “You’re not that kind of dad, Dickwing. Relax.” Jason gave a reassuring half-smile, even as the faint toxic hue in his eyes seemed to intensify for a second and his hands trembled ever so slightly.

Dick took a shaky breath. He pressed his fingers against his eyes– they felt cold– but it only helped him focus on what was important. He gripped the console’s edge so hard his knuckles turned white. “We… I, I have to find Peter.” He looked up at the Batcomputer and urgently asked, “Babs, where is he now?”

“Hold on.” Tim’s voice held no hesitation, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. “I need to stop you before you get ahead of yourself.”

Tim wet his lips, bracing himself for what he’s about to drop on his brother. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive. You’ve already got it in your head that he’s your future son– but there’s a lot about this ‘future son’ theory that just doesn’t add up.”

Tim stepped forward and asked his older brother– “First and foremost, Peter said his dad was a biochemist. Are you thinking of taking up biochemistry anytime soon? Have you even thought about going back to college at all?”

Dick didn’t answer. Rather, he couldn’t answer. Like most of his family, college didn’t interest him–he may have even felt like going would be a hindrance. There may have been a time when he wanted to go, but he was satisfied with his jobs as a daytime cop and as Nightwing.

“Secondly,” Tim continued, giving his older brother a scrutinising look, “Can you ever imagine stopping being Nightwing?”

Dick furrowed his brows, and he answered confidently, “No. I don’t think I will ever stop.”

“I didn’t think so, either.” Tim gave an assuring smile. “Think about it. Peter didn’t break down crying when he met Nightwing– you said he hadn’t even heard of Nightwing before– so he likely doesn’t know you’re Nightwing. If he’s from the future, he would have known that.”

“But I died–” He choked on his words. Bruce’s hands hovered beside him, ready to catch him again, but Dick shook his head and pushed his father’s arms away, signalling he was fine.

“I died when Peter was only six, I probably didn’t even have the chance to tell him. He wouldn’t have known.”

“And none of us ever told him?” Tim argued. “Whether you died on-duty or off, Peter is old enough for one of us to tell him who you were, so why wouldn’t we? His story about an Uncle Ben doesn’t make any sense either. Who is Ben? If you died when he was a kid, why didn’t Peter end up with any of us? Why wouldn’t you trust him with Jason, or Bruce, or even me. I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Something could have happened to all of us,” Bruce stated grimly. “Ben could be a friend in the future. Dick could change his mind about college. We don’t know what’s in store for the future.”

“And that is all still possible, but–” Tim stepped in front of the Batcomputer’s console and brought up the program set to monitor changes in space and time. It showed no spike, proving his point– “If there had been any temporal anomalies, the systems in the Watchtower would have caught it and the Batcomputer would have notified us. Not to mention, we would have heard from the Speedsters when Peter came to our time.”

“So no, he couldn’t possibly be from the future.” Tim confidently stated, crossing his arms and coolly leaning against the console.

Dick didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved to know that he didn’t leave his kid orphaned– to regret that a kid he believed was his wasn’t his– or to grieve that he wasn’t the father Peter believed he was. He felt lost.

Jason’s grip tightened on his shoulder, and Dick realised he almost stumbled again. “You need to sit down, Dickwing,” his brother insisted. Dick gave a firm nod, allowing his brother to assist him to a chair.

Jason turned back to Tim, and in a grim tone, pressed, “Alright, Timbo, if you don’t think Peter is Dick’s son from the future, how do you explain why his dad’s story is the same? And why he would look at Dick like he saw a ghost?”

Tim squared his shoulders and explained, “What if they were false memories? What if whoever planted his memories used Dick’s likeness for Peter’s dad? And if he remembers his parents dying, it would make sense why he was surprised to see Dick, why he thought he wasn’t real– why he believed he was seeing a ghost.”

“That’s one tough kid,” Steph commented– and she felt the murderous glare directed at the back of her head, but she ignored it and joked, “I personally would have started freaking out if I thought I saw my dad’s ghost, and not gone with him to Batburger–” then her voice turned serious as she realised– “So why didn’t he?”

“Maybe he knows that his memories are fake.” Tim posited. “They would still feel real to him– enough to elicit a strong reaction, but he would know it was possible for who he believed to be his dad to still be alive. It would also explain why he trusted you so easily.”

Dick furrowed his brows. “So I’m not really Peter’s dad? Someone, somewhere out there just used my face to make this kid believe I was his dad– believe I’m dead, that I died when he was only a little boy– to torment him, for some kind of sick pleasure?!” His hands fisted at his sides.

“Dick, you need to calm down.” Bruce placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and reminded him, “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment– this is all still conjecture, and we don’t know why they would do that.”

“We don’t know why, Bruce?! We both know why! Because it hurts! Someone out there wanted to hurt this kid! Make him believe his parents are gone– make him believe that strangers were his mom and dad– who will disappoint him when he tries to run up to them and they don’t know who the hell he is!”

He disappointed Peter– that was the root of Dick’s frustration. He didn’t recognise the story of Peter’s dad as his story, nor did he realise how Peter longed for his dad–for him–why else would Peter go to Batburger with him?

He hurt Peter for not recognising him as his child– even if it was in made-up memories. He failed him.

A heavy silence followed Dick’s outburst. The only sound was the low, rhythmic drip deep in the cave, and the steady indifferent hum of the Batcomputer.

Jason gently patted his brother’s shoulder as he stepped forward. He looked down at their father with his glowing green eyes and sided with Dick. “He’s right, B. This is someone’s twisted game– someone went out of their way to make this kid hurt.”

Tim’s shoulders hunched, but his gaze remained sharp as he looked at his brothers. Their emotions were clouding their judgment, and it was up to him to force the conversation back on track. “You’re missing the bigger reason why they used Dick’s face. Peter may still be Dick’s son, just not from the future.”

He turned back to the Batcomputer’s console, and he brought up their file on Kon-El, Superman’s adoptive brother.

“What does Conner have anything to do with Peter?” Dick asked, confused.

“Peter could be a clone,” Tim proposed. “It would explain why you were chosen to be his dad in his false memories– and it would also explain his age. The people who made him may have aged him up, he may not actually be fourteen.”

Dick’s emotions swirled inside him. He was confused–but also relieved? “How, how could Peter be my clone? He doesn't look like me. We’ve all seen him, but only Jason thought he looked anything like me–” Dick’s eyes snapped to the computer– “Babs, did you think Peter looked anything like me?”

“No, Dick. I didn’t.” Barbara shook her head. Dick’s head snapped back to his brother, and he waited for him to take back what he said, but Tim doubled down.

“Unless the people who made Peter weren’t trying to clone you– you could have just been the donor for the supplemental DNA– like how Lex Luthor used his own DNA for Kon. But unlike Luthor, you had no idea.”

Eyes were split between the large computer screen and Dick, whose face was a storm of mixed emotions. Bruce grimaced, a movement barely perceptible, as his grip on Dick’s shoulder tightened, anchoring him, steadying him.

Tim ran his fingers over the console as he looked at his brother. “Dick, I know you were against taking Peter’s DNA for analysis, but we'll need it to confirm this theory, and this is the strongest theory we have yet.”

Dick let out a long sigh– the first time he’d let himself relax after revelation after revelation. “If it means we’d be able to help Peter, I’m not against it anymore.”

Bruce’s shoulders squared as a grim look settled on his face. His voice shifted into Batman’s low, commanding tone, echoing off the walls. “Though it’s only a working theory, we’ll operate under the assumption that Peter is a clone until we have a complete DNA analysis. Until we know otherwise, we must assume that we have been compromised. If someone out there had extracted Nightwing’s DNA, they might already know his secret identity. We’ll have to tread carefully, and act under the assumption that the person or people behind Peter is watching our every move.”

Dick crossed his arms, and huffed, “I take it that I’ll have to stay in Gotham until this blows over?”

“Hn.” Bruce gave a short decisive nod as his hand gave his son a firm squeeze, a silent assurance that they will get past the current crisis.

“Barbara–” Bruce started.

“Already on it, B,” Barbara’s voice instantly cut in, her clacking keyboard ringing through the Batcomputer. “Running a full sweep against every known genetic experiment in the past ten, fifteen years, and cross-referencing against Dick’s DNA– extra focus on organisations with a history of accelerated maturation and memory fabrication.”

“And findings on Stephen?” he asked, and the clacking stopped abruptly. Barbara’s fingers hovered as she looked at something off-screen. Her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed before she sighed heavily.

“No. Nothing.” She answered, despondent.

“There’s got to be something, Babs,” Jason argued, his eyes still faintly green, and his hands now rolled into fists. “A former surgeon and head of security, those are very specific jobs– there couldn’t possibly be that many Stephens with that job history.”

“I’m re-running searches through every database that I can– medical licenses, security agencies, even the military– but I told you before, he’s likely covered his track, and if he is connected to people who can clone and create false memories, I doubt they would let one of them be easily discovered. We don’t even have visuals on the guy, then I could at least catch him using facial recognition. He’s a ghost– and our only connection to him is Peter.”

“I’ll help you with finding more about Stephen, Babs,” Tim volunteered.

“Thanks, Tim.” She gave a half-smile, then her shoulders squared, and her tone shifted into one that held conviction. “I’ll keep digging. I’ll figure out who he is, where he’s working, and if he has any connection to our clone theory.”

Bruce gave a firm, single nod. “We’ll have to act under the assumption that Stephen is an operative and an immediate threat. It’s possible that he’s gone rogue, but we can’t afford to let our guard down, not until we know what we are up against.”

The air in the room felt thin. There was an underlying feeling like they were racing against time.

There were many puzzle pieces laid out in front of them– Peter’s meta abilities, his association with ‘former’ assassins, his uncanny ability to avoid cameras and find blindspots, their theory that he was made– they were starting to form a picture, but no one has pointed out due to fear of conjecture.

It was a story their family was no stranger to– a child that only existed to be someone’s weapon.

Chapter Text

Peter looked up in awe at the Wayne Industries building. It wasn’t on the same level of grandeur as Avengers Tower–a more appropriate comparison would probably be Wayne Tower–but the building was no slouch. It had a more modern look compared to Wayne Tower, which had deeper gothic roots, but there were still the occasional gargoyle here and there.

On the corner of his vision, Peter read the pertinent info on his HUD.

「Sensors damaged. Utility at 24%.」

「Suit power at 11%.」

Peter let out a huff as he took out his dark blue long sleeve shirt. He positioned the neck hole over his eyes and tied the shirt sleeves around his head to keep it secure. He pulled the hood of his dark green jacket, then the large hood of his oversized black jacket over his head. He was going to need his mask for the mission, but he didn’t want Spider-Man getting implicated in trespassing, in case anybody saw him.

He wasn’t being tailed nor watched that night, and only the skeleton crew remained in the building. Peter calmly walked to the side of the building and started to climb. He kept his senses alert for any curious eyes until he reached the top.

“So far, so good…” Peter muttered as he landed on the roof. “I hope I didn’t just jinx myself.”

He approached one of the ventilation shafts, and he felt through the edges for the bolts. Normally, tools were needed to remove these– but Peter’s superhuman grip and strength made it easy to manually unscrew them without any problem. Of course, if Peter didn’t care about the company figuring out they had been broken in, he could just brute force the cover off– but he did, so he was being careful.

He gently placed the cover on the ground before he slid down into the dark vents. He landed quietly– careful not to make the smallest sound that would echo through the whole vent system and alert somebody. He listened closely for the sound of air flow to try and figure out where an intersection or an opening was, and he crawled through the dust and lint-covered space.

He was so glad he had two layers of masks, yet despite that, he could practically taste the bitter lint and metallic, stale air.

Eventually, Peter found an exit. He saw office cubicles on the other side of the vent cover. He didn’t hear any heartbeats nearby nor did he sense any cameras, so he figured it was a good starting place for his plan’s next phase. He deformed the fins on the vent cover to squeeze two fingers through and reach the screws, but it was nothing he couldn’t undo later.

Peter let the vent cover gently swing down from one side before he dropped softly to the ground. He did a quick once around and found the door leading out of there– and beside it, an access control panel.

“Bingo.” Peter whispered a quiet celebration as he approached the control panel. He placed his backpack on the ground, took out a screwdriver, and he removed the cover plate. Next, he reached for his nano-tech USB stick, hovering it in the proximity of the control panel. The nano-bots immediately returned to their fluid and amorphous form, and assimilated with the circuitry.

Peter took out his laptop and booted up UnderoOS. He only intended to extract a map of the building– but he quickly realised he was also able to create temporary backdoor access straight into the building’s security system just through the control panel, and his eyes went wide.

“Holy crap.” Peter dragged his hands through his face as he realised what he had– access to floor plans, credentials, even locations and control of security cameras.

A cold wave of realisation hit Peter– this level of access would be terrifying if it landed on the wrong hands. If these were the actions of a very evil person, this would have been horrible for Wayne Industries– but fortunately for Mr. Wayne, Peter only needed to borrow one of their engineering labs for one night. He set the backdoor to self-terminate after twenty-four hours, and all the data he copied would only be kept in his suit.

He didn't remember programming this feature into UnderoOS–so did Tony program this? Did he just never notice? Peter wanted to figure out how UnderoOS could create a whole backdoor from a pinhole, but it would need to wait till the objective at hand was finished.

The nano-tech that engulfed the control panel immediately returned to its USB stick form when Peter’s hand came close. He screwed the cover plate back, then he shoved his laptop and USB stick back into his bag. He slung his backpack over his shoulders, and jumped up to the vent he entered from. He took the time to screw it back, but he had to accept that he wouldn’t be able to fully tighten it unless he was willing to dislocate a finger. He didn’t forget to fix the fins before he went on his way.

His mask’s HUD highlighted the way to the engineering lab as he quietly but swiftly crawled through the vents– he even had to climb a few floors. He moved quickly, stopping whenever his senses picked up heartbeats or footsteps coming nearby or walking under him, then pressing on when the silence returned. His efforts paid off when he found himself looking into the lab through a vent on the wall after ten minutes of crawling.

Peter leaned into the vent cover to get a closer look, but froze as his senses warned him that his exit was in view of a camera.

「No. of Security Cameras: 3」

His HUD validated this feeling and even highlighted their locations.

Peter took out his laptop and booted up UnderoOS. He identified the cameras in the room, and set them to loop feed. It took a few seconds, but Peter’s senses told him the room was clear to enter.

He unscrewed all sides of the vent cover and he jumped down. He looked around and found a workspace he could use. He placed his bag on the ground and pulled out his suit as he let go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“Finally.” Peter flipped on the workspace light and began looking around the room for the tools he needed– soldering tools, replacement sensors, wires, and other bits and pieces. It didn’t take long for Peter to get in the zone and he felt at home in the Wayne lab.

Peter ended up working on his suit for three and a half hours– a significant portion of which had been dedicated to creating a few specialty components from scratch. After the bigger repairs, the rest only required recalibration and minor fine-tuning. An additional hour was also needed for the suit and nanotech to recharge– so while he waited for that, Peter took the chance to connect his suit to Gotham’s police and emergency dispatch channels. He gave his suit access to cell towers while he was at it too, but opted against connecting to Wayne satellites. He figured that if they ever realised that someone had broken into Wayne Industries and stole their data, they would easily link it to the unidentified endpoint swinging around Gotham.

The work felt good– maybe too good? He didn’t realise how hungry he had gotten until he had the chance to relax and his stomach growled loudly at him. He was so glad that Dick had gotten him extra Night-wings.

Peter did a quick once over at his HUD.

「Sensors at 100%.」

「Suit power at 100%.」

He started to clean up the room and put everything back where he got them. He shoved his suit and trash in his backpack and jumped back into the vents. He reinstalled the vent before he flipped the cameras back to live feed again.

Peter eagerly crawled back to the ventilation shaft he entered from, practically leaping out. He dropped his bag on the floor, removed layers of his clothes, and put his suit on again. Though it had only been two days, he felt like it had been a decade-long reunion.

His heart pumped adrenaline. He shoved all his clothes into his bag, pulled his mask over his face, and immediately broke into a sprint to the edge of Wayne Industries’ roof.

“I’m back! Spider-Man’s finally back!” Peter whooped as he dove into leaps and flips. He reached his arm out, ready to shoot a web out when–

「WARNING.」

His HUD’s UI suddenly flashed red and Peter’s sprint screeched to a halt, but he didn’t have time to stop his momentum and he plunged over the building. He aimed his webshooter back to the roof– and though he intended to shoot a longer web, only a thin, short spray of webbing, barely a foot long, sputtered out– then his webshooter clicked dry.

“OH GOD–” Peter reached his other webshooter out– “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–” Web came out– the thick strand latching high onto the edge of the roof. Holding onto it for dear life, Peter swung instantly, arresting his plummeting momentum with a painful yet welcome jerk.

He planted his hands and feet firmly against the glass face a few feet below the roofline, relying on his spider powers to keep him secure, and letting go of his web. His body shuddered with adrenaline as he breathed quick shallow breaths. He only took a moment to catch his breath before he began climbing up, fearing somebody would notice his red, blue, and gold suit against the polished windows of Wayne Industries building.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he quietly cursed himself– “Stupid stupid stupid. Stupid, Peter. Stupid!”

Once he was back to the safety of the roof, his arms and legs collapsed under him and he rolled over to his back. The city lights reflected off the smog over Gotham, giving it a disgusting yellow-green tint, contrasting nicely against his HUD’s UI which has returned to its original light blue colour.

On the bottom middle of his vision, a message was flashing.

「Web Cartridge LOW.」

Peter groaned and gritted his teeth. “Would’ve been nice to know thirty seconds earlier!”

He felt for the spare cartridges on his suit’s waist and took them out one by one– all were empty. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whined.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let himself breathe. He was fine. He was safe. Even if both webshooters were out of web fluid, he still had his web-wings to fall back on. He was overreacting, that’s all.

When he opened his eyes again, his attention went to the time. 6:03am. He wouldn’t have enough time to sneak back in and find a chemical lab before the daytime workers start coming in.

He looked back at the direction of the ventilation shaft that he broke into. Though it was a good distance away, he could still clearly see the gaping black square. In his excitement and impatience to be Spider-Man again– he’d completely forgotten to secure the cover he had so carefully removed.

“Of course, I did,” he groaned, dramatically letting his head fall back.

He dragged himself up to finish what he’d started–not forgetting to curse himself in the process–as he thought of his plan for his web fluid. Though he hadn’t expected to need more so soon, Peter had already thought about how he would replenish his web cartridges.

Two words: Gotham Academy.

Peter hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours– which was nothing compared to his personal best which was forty, forty-eight hours, but those times he was cheating– he had coffee. It would have been tolerable if he had coffee, but he didn’t. So what else could he do, but suffer?

He had changed out of his Spider-Man suit and back into his civi-clothes before he left the Wayne Industries building– though he kept his empty webshooters on his wrists, as a reminder of his goal, to ground him and push him further. Risky, maybe– but they didn’t look that far off from a pair of metallic arm bands, a quirky fashion choice, and they were mostly hidden under the sleeves of his jacket.

He continued to operate under the assumption that the Bats were stalking him through cameras– even more so now he’d actually been committing crimes–so he took several detours before arriving at the school. It was around 10am when he finally got there.

Compared to Wayne Industries, it was easier to sneak into the school even in broad daylight. He already looked the part of a student– he was fourteen, he had a backpack, and with his jacket all zipped up, nobody could even tell that he wasn’t wearing the school uniform.

Most students were in their classes so the hallways were pretty empty, except for the occasional staff or hall monitor, but since Peter could hear heartbeats and footsteps from a mile away, it wasn’t difficult to evade them. Though he was concerned that he wouldn’t be able to avoid the cameras, he quickly realised that there were plenty of blindspots, and he let himself relax.

It didn’t take too long for Peter to find the facility he needed– the chemistry lab. It was locked, obviously, protected by an electronic lock. He didn’t find any screws on the cover plate this time around, so he used his stickiness to secure the cover to his fingers and gently pry it off. Peter took out his USB stick to repeat the steps he’d practised on Wayne Industries, when he noticed something and his brow shot up.

“...the hell?” The inside was laughably simple– it only contained a basic motor that operates the physical lock, and the cheap circuit powering the whole thing. There wasn’t even anything in there that checked for a valid security token or encryption– any electronic signal would have unlocked it. If Peter had a phone, he could easily make an app to send the signal while playing the Windows XP shut down sound.

“Someone cheaped out on the school’s security. Some school for the rich,” Peter muttered, feeling sorry for the wasted tuition– then he remembered the students there were rich kids, and suddenly, he didn’t care too much.

Peter put the cover plate back on, and with a flick of his wrist, his USB stick changed into the form of a key card– he took the liberty of programming this into his nano-tech while his suit was charging– and scanned it on the poor excuse of an e-lock. There was an audible click, and when Peter grabbed the door knob and turned it, the door easily opened.

“Ta-daaa,” Peter exclaimed in the flattest note.

Peter quickly walked past the rows of workstations and headed straight for the supply closet. They were protected by another electronic lock, but it looked the exact same as the one by the door, so he doubted it was actually secure. He scanned his nano-tech key card, and the lock quickly gave way.

He felt offended with how easy it was to break in. Sure, he wasn’t expecting security at the same level as Wayne Industries, but he at least expected a challenge. The disbelief soon faded though, since he was too tired and too eager to get back to being Spider-Man to care. He’ll also need to sneak back in repeatedly in the future, so he should probably be thankful that it was this easy.

Peter absentmindedly raided the supply closet, grabbing the core ingredients of his web fluid– skimming through the labels to make sure they were adequate. His brow shot up again when he realised the stuff the school had were pretty high quality.

“The expensive tuition did pay for something worthwhile,” he muttered to himself as he walked out of the closet, hands full of the bulk containers. He kicked the closet door close behind him out of habit, and winced when he remembered he needed to go back in to grab a few more stuff. He groaned as he placed the containers at a nearby workstation, and grudgingly walked back to the closet to grab the tools he needed– beakers, pipettes, syringes, magnetic stirrers… he’s too tired to list it all, he just grabbed them as he went.

Though he mostly relied on Midtown’s lab to create his web fluid, he also had access to Stark labs– access that Tony and Dr. Banner insisted he used more, arguing it had better safety protocols–or that it had safety protocols. Peter did relent when he was trying to experiment with his web fluid formula, but he mostly stuck with Midtown.

It was muscle-memory from there. He measured the ingredients with experienced precision– he may have been in a rush but he still made sure the ratios were just right for his formula.

He did stop to consider whether he needed to account for Gotham’s climate– he was especially worried about the air quality and smog– or if there was something in this universe’s air that would affect his webs, but he didn’t remember anything was amiss when he shot out a web earlier. There were also no issues with his current formula when he went on his Europe trip, and his web fluid also handled Titan’s atmosphere just fine.

Granted, he didn’t exactly have the time to run proper diagnostics before he went on the field, but his web seemed to handle most scenarios. If he’d need to make adjustments, he can just come back another day.

He worked in a focused blur for the next thirty minutes, letting the distinct academic murmur, and the rhythmic whirring of the magnetic stirrer fill the silence in the lab. When the liquid finally turned to the cool silver colour of his webs, he pulled out his web cartridges from his bag and his webshooters, and carefully injected the fluid using a syringe pump.

When he finished filling the last two cartridges, he excitedly loaded them into his webshooters. He immediately noticed the weight difference, and he wondered how the hell he missed that detail earlier. He shuddered and grimaced at his carelessness.

He shook his head as he took in a sharp breath.

He aimed his webshooter at the furthest wall, near the chemistry lab doors. He let out a breath.  Just to be sure, he thought, remembering the close call at the Wayne Industries building. He squeezed the trigger– and a strong, thick strand shot out and latched instantly to the wall. Peter grabbed the web with his superpowered grip, and pulled it taut– not enough to pull the wall towards him, but enough to test if the web held firm, resisting his strength without any hint of breaking or stretching thin.

The stress from earlier that morning faded away, replaced by genuine, tired relief.

He walked towards the other end of the web and in one swift motion, switched one of his webshooter’s cartridges to one that held his web dissolver, and sprayed it on the connection between his web and the wall. He wasn’t out of those, fortunately, so he saw no need to make more that day. His web easily unlatched, and Peter rolled the whole strand into a ball that he disposed of in the trash. It would dissolve in about an hour, leaving no trace for anybody to find.

Peter switched the cartridges back, and he immediately set to work on the final clean-up. He meticulously cleaned and returned all the glassware, tools, and containers to their exact spots in the supply closet–or as exact as Peter remembered them to be–making sure nothing looked too out of place. He wiped down the workstation, removing any spilled substances and more importantly, fingerprints. Though he was positive nobody could trace it back to him– he didn’t exist in that universe, after all– he still didn’t want to leave any evidence that an unauthorised person had been in their lab.

He slung his bag over his back and he prepared to leave. As a final precaution, he looked around the lab, making sure the room looked about the same as when he entered–even if he wasn’t really paying attention when he first stepped foot inside– then he turned to the lab doors, and slipped out to the quiet hallway.

With the mission and tension finally gone, his body felt heavy. Though he had the urge to start swinging again, his too-soon experience of falling off a building reminded him that he needed to rest before he did something stupid again.

He couldn’t stop the escape of one big yawn as he walked through the quiet halls of Gotham Academy.

nearby… looking

Peter paused, and absentmindedly looked behind him, only to be met by a vaguely familiar brown boy with dark hair and green eyes, turning from a corner. His eyes narrowed, and his head tilted as he tried to remember where he’d met him. He hadn’t met a lot of teenagers in this universe– he’d mostly met adults. The only time he met teens his age was at–

Peter blinked. The image of the plastic Nightwing figure in his bag flashed through his mind. His eyes shot wide open as he remembered the boy who lorded his one-year of seniority over Peter at Batburger.

“Damian?”

The other boy’s eyes were wide for a second before the tension left him. He squared his shoulders as he put his hands in his pockets– and crossed the distance between them. “Peter, I wasn’t expecting to see you at my school. What are you doing here?”

Peter blinked as he fought to wake his senses. He let himself relax prematurely, and didn’t realise someone had gotten too close to his previously well-guarded perimeter. Did Peter even hear him coming? He must have, but he had gotten too tired to take notice.

“Oh, you know… classes.” Peter’s words slurred slightly as he forced a confident smile. “I go here, you know.” He wanted to mentally kick himself for how he answered. He thought he sounded drunk.

Damian’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Peter up and down. “You look like Drake after his eightieth hour awake. When was the last time you slept?” His eyes discreetly scanned their surroundings. He didn’t see anything amiss– the nearby rooms were the chemistry labs, but he didn’t see signs of a break-in.

By all means, when he caught Peter, the younger boy looked like he was just roaming about. But why here? That was the problem– why was Peter–the boy who they believe was Dick’s clone–in Gotham Academy?

Peter’s nose scrunched at the comparison. “Drake? The rapper?”

“No,” Damian corrected, his voice laced with minor annoyance as his eyes darted back to Peter. “My brother, Timothy.”

“Oh, right. Tim.” Peter’s face brightened as he remembered the face of the older teen with deep bags under his eyes– and a connection was made in his tired mind. “Wait, eightieth? Like eighty? Damn. My personal record is forty-eight, I have to do so much better.”

Damian’s brows furrowed, and he let out a frustrated sigh. He leaned closer to the younger boy and questioned him– “Cut the nonsense. You haven’t told me what you are doing here, Peter.”

Peter coolly leaned back as he crossed his arms. “I told you, Damian. I go here.”

“You told us that your uncle and you were still in the middle of sorting your transfer yesterday. So how are you already a student of Gotham Academy?”

Peter winced, and he mentally kicked himself. Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Dammit.

“It’s my first day!” Peter proudly exclaimed, puffing out his chest. His poor attempt at lying only earned him a raised brow and an unamused smirk from the other boy.

“You are a terrible liar, Peter.” Damian stated, his voice flat and controlled. He stepped closer, and he threatened, “I’m only giving you one chance to tell the truth before I call security.”

Peter’s hands reached for the straps of his backpack and his grip tightened. He resisted the urge to frown and instead bit the inside of his cheeks. He worked so hard so no one would realise he sneaked in. If Damian called security now, all his effort would be in vain. He could run away, but he wouldn’t be able to sneak back in easily– and Damian was one of the few people who knew he existed. If he stayed, they’d definitely search his bag, they’ll find his suit– and that’s something he would never allow. He needed a lie that was strange enough to be true, and had enough pity-points to make Damian hesitate.

“Fine,” Peter pretended to concede, then lied as his response– “I wanted to do something productive. I wanted to scout the schools in Gotham, seeing which ones would be a good fit. I figured Stephen would appreciate it if I did.” He said the last part in a half-whisper, almost muttering.

Damian's posture stiffened at the mention of Peter’s mysterious guardian, and his eyes narrowed. “Why would he appreciate it?”

“Just a feeling.” He shrugged. “He told me to ‘Live a good life, Peter,’” he said in an almost mocking tone, before shifting to his normal voice, “I figured that involves going to school, being a normal kid– if I judged his character right.”

Peter’s hands trembled with exhaustion as he pulled at his backpack straps. He remained quiet. He waited to see if the other boy bit the bait. Damian didn’t react immediately– likely puzzled by the peculiarity of the request, the bizarre explanation, or a combination of both. The tension ate at Peter, but he could only blame himself for the result.

Damian straightened his posture, though the tension on his shoulders had disappeared. “And you’re doing it by trespassing? That’s an interesting interpretation of your guardian’s request.”

Peter pressed his lips to a thin line and joked, “You could say it’s a little strange.”

Damian raised a brow, the poor joke failing to amuse him. Instead, he asked, “Why don’t you and Stephen request a proper tour from the schools? Instead of trespassing.”

Peter’s nose scrunched at the tone that Damian used for Stephen’s name. What is with this guy and pronouncing names like they’re curse words?

“I wouldn’t use the big T word here, Damian, I was just sight-seeing. And you try to request a tour outside of open house days without a billionaire dad. I’m telling you it’s impossible.” Peter shrugged. “Besides, Stephen can’t come, he’s pretty busy with work.” Pretty busy being in my home universe anyways. “I hope you understand, Dami.” Peter slowly backed away.

Damian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the familiar term, but when he showed no signs that he was going to stop Peter, the younger boy turned around and his pace quickened to a jog.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief when he thought he convinced Damian to let him go– but took a sharp breath when he heard the other boy’s voice behind him.

“I can give you that tour.”

Peter turned around sharply, and in his tired stupor, he responded, “Come again?”

“If you’re with me, you’re no longer a trespasser, but a guest instead.”

Peter wasn’t fooled– the offer was a threat under the guise of a kind gesture. He blinked slowly at Damian– whether that was his fatigue kicking in, or his utter disbelief that he found himself in this situation. I just wanna go to sleep, dammit!

He let out a long, deep sigh. His shoulders slumped almost comically, as he grudgingly conceded. “Suure. Lead the way, Dami, but only if you can point me towards the cafeteria afterwards.” Then his voice lowered and turned to a sputtering tone, “I need a nap and a whole lot of carbs.”

Damian’s gaze hardened slightly at the repeated use of the overly familiar nickname, but he ignored it once again. “Follow me, Peter. We’ll begin with the West Wing where the administrative offices are located. That’s where you’ll go when you decide to enroll.”

Peter’s nose scrunched at the tone Damian used for his name. How does this kid make names sound like he was spitting them?

Peter had been too exhausted and too focused on his objective to admire the architecture, but now that he’s forced to pretend to pay attention, he realised how dark academia-coded the school was– it didn’t help that Damian chose to spend five whole minutes discussing the damn architecture.

They were thirty minutes into the tour and Peter could feel his brain melting. Everything was a blur, his spider-sense was buzzing in his head, and he could only register every fifth word that Damian was saying.

“…debate…winning…championships…Peter? Peter!”

Peter blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he glared at the green-eyed boy like he dropped the Lego Death Star he had just finished assembling.

“Are you even paying attention?” Damian asked in an unamused tone. Whether he was genuinely oblivious to the torture he was subjecting the other boy, or he was just really good at acting dumb– it wasn’t obvious. Peter took a deep long breath and mustered the sweetest, kindest–least murder-iest–smile he could.

“Yes, I am. But I don’t care about the debate club, or the championships, or trophies! Can’t you make this more entertaining and I don’t know, show me the facilities this place has? Engineering, robotics– hell, I’ll take the damn gymnasium! We haven’t even left the administrative wing!”

Damian crossed his arms, his green eyes boring into Peter. A smirk formed on his lips for a millisecond before it disappeared. “An impatient guest, aren’t we? Fine. I suppose we can skip to the departments that truly interest you.” He walked ahead, past the wall-spanning trophy case. When what he said finally registered in Peter’s mind, his head snapped at the other boy.

Peter gritted his teeth. “So you are aware this topic was boring me to death.”

“Perhaps.” Damian looked back with an amused grin. “Consider it a necessary test of your dedication. I’m surprised you lasted this long without interrupting me.”

ONLY BECAUSE I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS! He wanted to yell back, but stopped himself when he felt a familiar buzz in his head.

watching

Peter looked up at a nearby security camera and narrowed his eyes. He’d stopped caring about being spotted by cameras ten minutes into the tour. All the spots Damian was trying to show him were in the view of a camera– Peter had tried to keep to the blindspots, but the other teen called him out for keeping his distance.

looking

Peter groaned at the second cause for his spider-sense buzzing– the boy right behind him, and he sighed, deeply. He turned to Damian, and forced through gritted teeth– “What?”

“I hadn’t said anything,” he replied, raising a brow.

Peter closed his eyes as he pinched his brows. He let out an exasperated sigh as he walked past Damian. “Whatever. Let’s just go. Before I die from boredom.”

Damian strode forward, cutting in front of the younger boy. “This is not a manner of entertainment, Peter. You requested a tour, you will receive one– under my direct supervision.”

Peter scoffed, quickening his pace. “I didn’t request it from you– you offered, under the threat of calling security if I didn’t accept.”

Damian smirked. “So why did you accept?”

“Why did you have to meddle?” Peter grimaced as he raised his chin. “I was on my way to leave already.”

“Is that your latest lie?” The older boy asked, amused. Peter did not answer. For once, he said the truth yet he was still called a liar.

The walk to the Engineering Labs was a blur for Peter. Shuffling along, his exhaustion made the hallway lights swim in his vision. He remembered hearing a buzzing sound– it wasn’t his spider-sense– it was most definitely Damian. If Peter didn’t focus hard enough, his brain refused to acknowledge words as… well, words.

The familiar click of an electronic lock unlocking pulled Peter out of his sleepy stupor. He blinked, his eyelids feeling heavier by the moment. On the nearby wall, in all capital letters spelled GOTHAM ACADEMY ROBOTICS AND ENGINEERING LABORATORY.

“Your requested facility, the engineering lab,” Damian announced, stepping aside with a cold gesture.

Peter entered the spacious lab– it was at least three times larger than the chemistry lab that he’d borrowed. It was filled with advanced machinery, various toolkits, bits and bobs– the works. Unlike the chemistry lab where the workstations were arranged in rows– here, they were arranged in hexagonal spaces.

Peter took a quick glance around before his vision refused to focus anymore, and he just blankly stared at one corner of the room.

“Well?” Damian prompted, briefly pulling Peter out of his half-trance like state. “Observe. You claimed your primary interest in bioengineering, correct? This facility should prove adequate for your projects. This is what you have come to Gotham Academy for, is it not?”

Damian sounded confident. He believed he wore down Peter to reveal the true nature of his visit to Gotham Academy– if it wasn’t to observe him and his siblings who were attending the school, then to assess specific technical resources under Stephen’s orders.

And if Peter had the capacity for higher-level thought, he would have admitted– the lab was impressive, maybe he could have sneaked in there instead of Wayne Industries to repair his suit– but he didn’t have the mental capacity, so instead, he responded–

“I don’t know.”

Damian’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t know? You explicitly demanded this wing, is this not the facility you’ve come here for? Are you not even impressed?”

Peter scoffed bitterly. “I’ve seen better at Tony’s labs. It's impressive, but I don’t really care right now. I just wanted to get away from the boring stuff. I thought if we were here I wouldn’t die of boredom but…” he sighed. “I’m just tired. Let’s move on to the next part of the tour and get this over with so I can go home.”

Damian froze. His entire leading theory had just been disproven by utter exhaustion. When Peter made specific requests to see the labs, he believed it was a proactive attempt to take control of the tour– but it turned out that Peter was only trying to manage his boredom and exhaustion.

Peter turned around, aiming for the lab doors when Damian blocked his path.

“Unacceptable, Peter,” he declared, his voice tightening. “I have allotted five minutes into this part of our tour–” he was grasping at withering strands of control he once held– “We are staying here until it is time for the next part of the tour.”

Peter’s eyes snapped wide, energy filling them for the first time again, and he glared at Damian. “Are you serious? You’re seriously forcing me through a time limit?! I just said I was tired, what part of that do you not understand?!”

Damian squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, refusing to respond. Peter grimaced. He knew he had no power, he had no leverage. He was stuck there as Damian’s prisoner and all he could do was comply.

“Fine!” Peter threw his arms in surrender as he walked away from the older teen. He needed to make time pass quickly, and if this was how Damian was going to play, Peter was going to make the most of it.

Peter grabbed a pair of large, noise-cancelling ear muffs left on a nearby workstation, pulled them over his ears, and immediately dropped onto the cold linoleum floor, using his backpack as a makeshift pillow. He curled onto his side, adopted the stiff, specific military breathing pattern that Bucky had taught him, and within five seconds, was completely knocked out.

Damian watched the entire sequence in disbelief, frustration compounding, until realisation hit him– Peter was no longer being insolent, he was actually asleep.

This had put a considerable halt to his plans. He had expected for Peter to begin looking around, interacting with the hardware, and inevitably slip up– his slip about ‘Tony’s labs’ proved that Damian’s tactics were proving to be effective– but now, his target was in deep sleep. He couldn’t leave Peter, nor interrogate him– he had already gotten incredibly quiet on their walk to the lab. They were at an impasse.

Seeing he had given the time limit himself, Damian took the opportunity to finally address his phone, which had buzzed incessantly when he initially forced Peter into view of the cameras, though they provided no audio, so none of his family actually knew what they were talking about.

BATCHAT

Babs: i just got a ping that Peter’s at Gotham Academy

Babs: Damian, are you with Peter right now?

Babs: he looks exhausted, is he okay?

Dickie: what is Peter doing there?

Babs: Duke, Steph, can you check on them? They’re in the administrative wing.

Steph: cant, clsas rn

B: Status report. As soon as possible, Damian. 

The latest message was from a minute ago

Babs: Damian, report, what are you doing in the engineering lab?

He quickly composed a report.

Demon: I caught Peter trespassing on school property. He had no clear goals. When questioned, he admitted he was on an errand for Stephen, scouting the schools. I believed he was sent to assess the quality of the school’s facilities. He was in a highly vulnerable state that I could exploit so I took the initiative to gain more information by exhausting him until he divulged more information.

Demon: I extracted a new name: Tony. When questioned about his impression of the engineering lab, he answered, “I’ve seen better at Tony’s labs.” I have also observed that he has knowledge of a military breathing pattern to induce instant sleep.

There was a pause, then the Typing bubble appeared beside multiple profiles.

Duke: Did you just admit to torturing Peter?

Steph: dude, isn’t torture by sleep deprivation a war crime

Steph: then again, this is damian we’re talking about here

Duke: What is Peter doing now?

Damian’s brows furrowed at how his report was brushed off in favour of mocking him. He glanced over to the younger boy on the floor, breathing slowly, still in deep sleep.

Demon: He’s asleep on the Engineering Lab floor.

Demon: We needed more information about Peter’s guardian. I caught Stephen’s asset in an already vulnerable position. I simply took advantage of his blunder.

Damian defended himself. He had expected push back once again from the more emotional members of his family, but unexpectedly, the sharp responses had come from the sibling he least expected to react.

Timmy: Damian, Peter is our ONLY connection to Stephen

Timmy: what you’re doing is not going to make him WANT to be around us

Timmy: he’s going to avoid us as civilians like he’s avoiding us as vigilantes

Timmy: if we lose our connection to Peter, we lose our only connection to Stephen and the people who made him

Damian’s jaw tightened. He realised his tactical error. His intention was to protect his family, but didn’t take into account how his actions would affect his family’s other objective– to get close to Peter, but he wouldn’t concede that his motive was wrong.

Demon: I was only doing what I believe was in the best interest of the family.

Steph retaliated instantly.

Steph: well, what you’re doing is going to hurt the family and hurting this poor kid.

Steph: did you even get any info out of him?

Damian hesitated, forced to confront the truth of his failed assessment.

Demon: No. On the contrary, he has disproven my theories thus far. He has shown no interest in facilities I believed to be of interest to Stephen. Peter may have been telling the truth when he said he was simply scouting whether Gotham Academy would be a good fit.

The Typing bubble appeared beside Steph’s profile.

Steph: alright, duke and I are coming over, stay there

Demon: That would be unwise. We’d struck a deal that I will not call security for his trespassing in exchange for a monitored tour. Your presence would only compromise our situation, and even cause Peter to flee.

Steph: lmaooooo literal deal with the devil lolololol

Steph: just don’t kill the poor kid, or dick will get mad at you forever

At the mention of their eldest brother, Damian remembered his brother’s reaction upon learning Peter may be his son– and he realised another blunder.

Steph: oh shit, he hasn’t messaged anything yet

Steph: dick, are you actually angry???

Damian’s eyes widened at the prospect that Richard was truly enraged. Despite his older brother’s immediate denial that Peter was his son, he’d still proven he felt guilt and genuine concern for Peter– a detail that Damian hadn’t considered.

Finally, the Typing bubble appeared beside Richard’s profile, and Damian swallowed, his throat feeling dry all of a sudden.

Dickie: I’m not

Damian let out a breath he didn’t realise he held back.

Dickie: disappointed? yes

Dickie: Dami, bring Peter to the cafeteria when he wakes up

Dickie: we’re trying to get closer to Peter as civilians, you need to apologize or make it up to him somehow

Damian closed his eyes momentarily, accepting the order.

Devil: Understood.

Chapter Text

look out!

Peter’s spider-sense buzzed, and his eyes snapped open, red rims surrounding his brown eyes. His eyes darted at the figure shadowing him and the hand hovering over him. The figure paused, green eyes wide that he got caught.

“What are you doing?” Peter’s brows furrowed as he sat up, his hands pulling his backpack close to him and slinging it over his back.

Damian quickly recovered from the shock. He crossed his arms as he leaned back coolly. “Tt. Your five minutes of rest have passed, Peter. I was only trying to wake you up.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he pulled the ear muffs off his head and set it back where he found it. “Well, I’m up. Time to hold your end of the deal. Let’s go.” Peter stood up, and waited for the other teen to get on his feet too.

Peter focused on his senses– his spider-sense felt more alert now, and he could easily adjust his hearing’s sensitivity again. Even though it was only a brief rest, it was a big difference compared to his state before his nap. His irritability was still at a high, but he figured it was only because he was in Damian’s vicinity. Steph was right, Damian is a demon.

“Alright. Where to next? Let’s get this over with,” Peter declared in defiance– he had every intention to keep napping if Damian insisted on a time limit per facility.

A loud gurgling growl suddenly broke the silence– and Peter’s defiance wavered slightly. He hadn’t eaten since the early morning. It was already past the time when he’d typically stop by the Crime Alley shelter to eat his only full meal of the day. He’d solved his tiredness problem, but he was yet to figure out his hunger problem.

“Come.” Damian strode past him. “Our next visit will be at the cafeteria.”

Peter’s ears perked up. “Cafeteria?”

“I recalled you mumbling about ‘carbs.’” Damian stopped by the lab doors, and turned to Peter. “I have no intentions to have you pass out at an inappropriate time. A condition of our deal was no security– if you fainted in the middle of a hallway, security would most likely be called, so yes, we’re heading to the cafeteria.”

Peter’s head tilted and he looked at the older teen incredulously. Did he get sent to another universe again where there was a slightly nicer Damian? Was he not actually awake? Did he actually die in his sleep? His hand reached up to pinch his cheeks, but the pain felt real. He focused on his senses again, and found nothing amiss. Damian seemed so intent on breaking him five minutes ago.

“Did you bump your head while I was asleep?” Peter blurted out, earning him an unamused smirk from the other boy.

“I see your sharp tongue has also recovered,” Damian stated dryly. “You asked for the cafeteria when you accepted my offer, so you’re getting the cafeteria.”

Peter crossed his arms coolly. “Now, that’s how I know you bumped your head.” Then he felt his stomach rumbling again, and he shrugged. “But since you’re offering anyway.” He walked past Damian with a noticeable pep in his step.

Damian’s head echoed with the joke Brown made about Peter’s weakness to free food.

He noted how Peter was practically skipping on their way to the cafeteria. Although he only rested for five minutes, he seemed to have recovered substantially. The average person would have still felt miserable, but the breathing trick he employed rendered him operational again– though whether it’s due to the trick alone, or in conjunction with Peter’s meta-physiology remained to be seen.

Damian wouldn’t admit it, but after Richard’s request to–essentially–play nice, he had considered allowing Peter to rest for ten minutes– fifteen, if he felt extra generous. He had only gotten close to the younger boy to extract his DNA for analysis, he hadn’t expected Peter to suddenly awaken. He believed he was moving as quietly as possible, but the younger boy’s senses seemed to be more sensitive than his family had imagined.

When they arrived at the cafeteria, Peter was practically salivating. His eyes darted between the selection of food like an untrained housepet. He eagerly stood behind Damian as he ordered the food.

“Do you have any allergies?” Damian turned to ask, and Peter didn’t miss a beat.

“Just to peppermint.”

“Noted.”

The tray on Damian’s hands was filled with food he normally wouldn’t consume since he was vegetarian, but seeing that the food wasn’t for him, he didn’t mind. They sat at an empty table at a fairly secluded spot in the cafeteria. Though it was still prime lunch hour, the cafeteria was large enough that there were empty tables between occupied tables.

Peter sat across from him, his brown eyes tracking the tray’s every movement like a predator waiting. Damian placed the tray in front of himself, then he sighed, steeling himself for what he had to say.

“Peter, I have an admission to make.”

The younger teen paused, and his eyes darted to Damian.

“I concede that my enforcement of the tour schedule was excessive, and that the methods I employed caused you distress. I would like to apologise.”

Damian waited for the other teen to respond with bated breath. He had faced down assassins and rogues with less apprehension than he felt now, though he fought to maintain a tough exterior. He wasn’t confident that this would be enough, but this could be the jumping point for further attempts to get in Peter’s good graces.

Peter blinked, then the chuckle brewing on the back of his throat escaped, and he jokingly muttered, “Oh, I definitely died again. I must be in purgatory or something,” then he continued in his normal tone, “I accept your admission or apology or whatever, just give me my food.” Peter placed his hands on the table, palms out, waiting for Damian to hand over the tray.

Damian’s brow shot up. Died… again? His eyes scanned for the telltale signs of exposure to the Lazarus pits– but there was nothing. Peter’s eyes weren’t green, nor did they have a green tint to them. He also found no signs of a white streak on Peter’s hair. Though there were other ways to revive the dead.

“Was that a joke?” he asked.

Peter looked at him incredulously. “The purgatory thing? Obviously. Now, gimme.” He reached for the tray and pulled it to himself and began gorging on Damian’s peace offering, refusing to elaborate on the ‘died’ statement. His full attention was on his food, and he disgusted Damian for his lack of table manners.

While Peter was occupied, Damian brought his phone out to report his new findings.

BATCHAT

Devil: I have apologized. Peter seems to have accepted.

The Typing bubble appeared beside multiple profiles, but before any of them could send their respective messages, Damian sent his next report.

Devil: I have two new findings about Peter. One, he is allergic to peppermint. Two, he made an offhanded claim about dying ‘again,’ I have interpreted this to mean he experienced death at least once before.

The Typing bubble disappeared for a moment, before it reappeared beside more profiles this time.

B: Are you certain, Damian?

Devil: Yes, Father. Though I asked whether he was joking, he didn’t deny that his ‘died again’ statement was a jest.

A burst of messages from Duke, Steph, and Tim flooded the chat, while Dick was yet to react. At the last moment, Damian saw the Typing bubble appear beside Jason’s profile, before he was distracted by the blaring burp that came from across his seat, forcing him to look up from his phone.

Peter let out a small final burp before he meekly covered his lips and uttered a quick, “Oops.”

Damian looked at him incredulously– then his eyes glanced down at the now empty tray and his eyes went wide in surprise. He must have only looked away for a minute or so, but Peter had already finished all the food.

Damian’s mouth was agape, and when he looked back at Peter, the younger teen had already sprung up from his seat, the tray in his hands. “Be right back, Dami, gotta throw away my trash and wash my hands,” was all he said before shuffling off, leaving Damian in disbelief.

He looked down on his phone, brushed off the enraged message from Jason and reported again.

BATCHAT

Devil: I may have a new discovery. Peter has displayed an inhuman speed of digestion. Compounded with a rapid clearing of fatigue after five minutes of sleep, I am confident in my deduction that he has an enhanced metabolism.

The chat blew up with messages. They came in at a fast pace but before he could respond once again, Peter had returned and Damian was forced to slip his phone back in his pocket.

“Alright-y, I’m ready. Where to next?” Peter asked as he puffed out his chest and placed his hands on his waist. He seemed considerably more energetic.

“You returned, Peter. I was convinced you’d taken the opportunity to run.” Damian narrowed his eyes.

“Who? Me? I have no reason to run. Only criminals run.” He smiled, flashing his teeth, earning him an amused smirk from the older teen. Damian stood from his seat and strode forward, Peter followed behind him– and the tour resumed.

“So… where next? Are you going to try and bore me again? I will nap on the floor again if you try to hold me hostage,” Peter threatened, semi-jokingly. Damian looked back at him in a deadpanned expression.

Peter grinned. “What? Yeah, you apologised, but you didn’t say anything about not doing it again. Just needed to make sure.” He shrugged. “Totally not holding it against you or something,” he sarcastically added. “So where to?”

Damian smirked at him. “You’ll see.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. Though he’d regained his confidence to be defiant, he knew Damian still held the power between the two of them, so he just followed. Weirdly enough, the older teen hadn’t tried to buzz Peter’s ears off by monologuing unlike earlier. What the hell happened in the five minutes he was asleep?

The walk was quiet, and eventually, the tour led them to the school’s gymnasium. It looked like a typical university gymnasium, albeit slightly larger. You have the courts on one side– basketball, volleyball– then a closed off area for the work-out gym.

Peter stopped in his tracks and crossed his arms. “This is what you were so smug about showing me? You do realise I only mentioned the gym earlier because I was bored, right? I’m not actually interested in sports.”

Damian turned to him, and he curtly answered, “We’re not there yet. Come.” Then he continued walking. Peter rolled his eyes, but followed anyway.

They walked past the courts until they ended up at a new area. This new area was significantly more padded, and Peter recognised a few equipment– vaulting tables, balance beams, pommel horse, bars, and rings. This must’ve been the gymnastics area. Peter remembered mentioning that to Dick and his siblings the day before– was that why Damian brought him there? But they hadn’t stopped walking, they kept walking past all that equipment.

“Here we are,” the older teen finally declared. Peter’s eyes darted to him, and he stopped too.

Peter looked around, but it was a fairly empty area of the gym. He looked at Damian incredulously. “What’s here?”

Damian didn’t respond, he just looked above them.

Peter followed suit, and his eyes went wide. The tension left his shoulders as he looked up and saw the familiar platform. It was different, of course–it had been years–equipment developed, but Peter immediately recognised the diving board that he’d watch his biological grandparents and his dad jump off of.

Peter’s memories rushed to him when he was little, sitting with his dad on the sofa, watching the old VHS tapes of the Flying Graysons’ performances. He remembered being so scared for the boy in those videos, fearing he would fall. Peter remembered crying the first time he watched them, only for his dad to explain that he was the boy in the video, and that– “See, I’m right here. I’m okay, right?”

Peter asked how his dad wasn’t scared to jump so high, how he could let go and swing like that, and his dad told him, “Because I knew my mom and dad– your grandma and grandpa were going to catch me.”

Peter could still remember his dad wiping his tears off that night, brushing back his hair, and hugging him as he asked if he didn’t want to watch anymore. Peter was so grateful that he said he wanted to keep watching because it became a tradition for him and his dad.

It hurt for Peter when his dad died, and he couldn’t bear to watch them for years, until Uncle Ben asked him one night if he wanted to watch one of the tapes with him, and it became a tradition for them.

Peter still had his dad’s Flying Graysons poster in his closet– he still had all the VHS tapes of their performances, and he still watched them. He watched them to remember his dad, his grandparents, Ben.

…but that’s all in his home universe. He left all that behind. He doesn’t have them anymore– not the poster, not the tapes–not his connection to his family.

Peter’s chest suddenly began to feel tighter–breathing suddenly felt so much harder.

“…Peter?”

He thought he heard someone calling his name, but he was more focused on breathing–he can’t breathe–his hands squeezed the jacket over his chest into a ball–he can’t breathe–

He lost them– his dad’s memories– his dad’s gift– it’s all gone. Gone. Gone. Gone–he can’t breathe–

No one’s left to remember his dad, his grandparents– he’s gone. May’s gone. Ben’s gone–he can’t breathe–why was it so hard to breathe?

Peter unzipped his jacket and dropped his bag on the floor–but he still can’t breathe–

“Breathe, Peter–” he pounded on his chest once– “Breathe breathe breathe–” twice, thrice– “Breathe!” Four. Five. Six–

“Peter!” He felt hands wrap around his wrists and stop him from pounding on his chest again. “Peter, open your eyes! Open your eyes and look at me!”

Peter opened his eyes–when did he close his eyes– and he was met with emerald green eyes.

“Peter, listen to me. Follow my breathing. Breathe in…hold, breathe out… breathe in… hold, breathe out…”

Peter did as he was told. He wanted to close his eyes again, but the person with green eyes scolded him– “No, Peter. Keep your eyes open, keep looking at me.”

Peter kept his eyes open, and he kept following the person’s instructions. “Breathe in… hold, breathe out…”

Breathe in… hold, breathe out… breathe in… hold, breathe out… he kept repeating the pattern until he could breathe on his own.

He blinked, and he realised the person in front of him was Damian.

“Do you know where you are, Peter?” he asked.

Peter’s throat felt dry. He opened his mouth, and he looked around. “…gym…G-Gotham…” he answered weakly, and his chest felt tighter again. “…not home…not home…” Peter shook his head as he tried to curl onto himself, but Damian pulled on his wrists.

“Peter, look at me. That’s right, keep looking at me, and breathe. Breathe in… hold, breathe out… breathe in… that’s good, you’re doing great. Can you stand up, Peter? I need you to stand up.”

His legs felt like jelly, but Damian pulled him up and he was forced to stand up. The older teen tried to lead him away, but he caught his bag in the corner of his eye and he panicked.

“N-NO! I-I can’t leave– my bag–” he pleaded, pulled his wrists, and stumbled on the floor.

“Peter–” Damian held onto his shoulders, his grip firm, but Peter only focused on his bag, pulling it towards him and hugging it tight.

“We’re not leaving your backpack. Hold onto it, but you need to stand up. Look at me, Peter.” Damian’s grip tightened slightly, and when Peter met his green eyes again, the older teen forced him on his feet again, and led him away from the trapeze rig, away from the gymnastics area, and back to the courts and the bleachers where he let Peter sit.

Damian’s eyes scanned their surroundings until he found a nearby vending machine. His eyes met with Peter’s again, and he told him, “Stay here, Peter. I need to get you a bottle of water. I’ll be right back.” He waited for a definite and firm nod from the younger teen before his grip loosened and he walked to the vending machine. He kept Peter within his vision as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and messaged the family chat.

BATCHAT

Devil: I need immediate assistance. Peter had a panic attack, we’re at the gymnasium. Come immediately.

The chat blew up with messages again, confused and surprised, and confirmation that Steph and Duke were on their way. Dick had also stated he was heading to the school.

Damian slipped his phone back in his pocket, and as he waited for the vending machine to dispense a bottle of water, he monitored Peter’s current state. The younger boy massaged his wrists– a habit that drew Damian’s attention to his sleeves, and he remembered the feeling of hard metal bands, like braces around the younger boy’s wrists.

Damian’s concern heightened considerably when Peter suddenly raised his head. His posture straightened, and he began looking around. His grip on his bag tightened, and in one swift motion, he slung his bag over his back.

Damian heard it first– the sound of metal creaking and pavement breaking– then the floor broke open with a loud groan and a deep snarl– Killer Croc burst from the ground.

Damian’s hand reached for his phone and he alerted the family chat.

BATCHAT

Devil: killer croc here now

Damian looked up again, his eyes darting around for Peter when the younger boy passed in front of him, and a hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him away.

“Peter–” Damian kept up with Peter’s speed. The younger teen’s eyes darted around, looking for something– meanwhile, Killer Croc was wreaking havoc behind them.

Peter’s eyes widened, and without warning, he pulled Damian forward and pushed him away– right as part of the bleachers landed where they used to be.

Damian looked back at Peter. They’d been separated, and worse, the younger boy was running away from him. “Peter!”

“Damian, keep running!” Peter instructed him as he ran towards a fire alarm and pulled it, causing the ringing sound throughout the gymnasium and nearby buildings. The shrill alarm joined Croc’s snarl, the sound barely masking the concrete groan as the rogue ripped a metal bleacher from the floor and hurled it. For a brief moment, Peter met gazes with the rogue’s slit eyes.

“Dammit!” Damian ran after Peter and grabbed his wrist, and pulled him towards the exit. “Are you crazy?! I’m not leaving you!”

“You’re crazier running after me!” Peter argued as the older teen kept pulling towards the exit, then his spider-sense buzzed–

look out!

And he pulled on Damian’s hand, stopping both of them, as Killer Croc landed in front of them– blocking their exit. The gargantuan lizard man looked down at them like a predator looking down on prey, a deep snarl coming from his throat, and the gymnasium floor groaning under his weight.

“Connors?” Peter muttered. Damian snapped his head back, catching the flicker of recognition and the spoken name.

“Going somewhere, little hero?” Croc snarled, his voice thick and guttural as it vibrated through the air. He took one purposeful step towards the two boys, and the two boys took careful, slow steps back.

“Hero? Little ol’ me?” Peter nervously quipped. Damian's eyes widened– not in fear, but in disbelief at the younger teen’s reckless disregard for the threat. He shot a silent, frustrated glare towards Peter before refocusing on the rogue. “The sign said to pull in case of emergencies. The big giant hole you left on the ground counts as an emergency, right? Oh, and the giant lizard ripping up the gym, probably.”

Peter’s eyes darted around, trying to find an exit, an opening– something that didn’t need him to reveal his abilities to Damian. He could distract the big guy and buy the other teen time to get away, but when he tried to wiggle his wrist out of Damian’s hand, his grip only tightened. He couldn’t risk revealing his powers– or do anything reckless– with Damian, a civilian stuck to his wrist.

look out!

Peter’s senses buzzed and he pulled himself and Damian away as Croc pounced. His other hand rolled to a fist, and he prepared to deliver a counterattack when the other teen pulled him away and led them to another exit leading to the hallways of a different building.

Croc’s snarl echoed behind them, his every step thundered, letting the teens know he was on their tail.

Peter tried once more to wiggle free from Damian, but his grip tightened even more, and he groaned– “We need to find a way to stop the Lizard!”

Damian looked at him incredulously. “‘We?’ Firstly, we need to evacuate, and secondly, he is not a lizard! Waylon Jones is a crocodile! His name is Killer Croc.”

“Well, I didn’t know he’s called Killer Croc! I see lizard, I call lizard! And if you don’t want to get roped in, then let me go and I’ll figure something out by myself!”

“Why not let the Bats handle Jones?!”

“Like hell I’m relying on any of those guys! And do you see them anywhere?! It’s not even night, they’re probably asleep!”

Damian opened his mouth to respond, when Peter suddenly tackled him to the floor, right as a chunk of the wall flew over them– “Look out!”

They both sat up and saw Croc crossing the distance. Peter prepared to run towards the reptilian and lead him away from Damian, but the older teen pulled him by his wrists again, and led the run. Peter groaned in frustration.

“Could you stop pulling me where you want to go?!”

“Will you stop having a death wish if I do?”

“I don’t have a fucking death wish! I’m trying to save your life!”

Peter pulled on his wrist, the force staggering and instantly overwhelming Damian. He lost his sense of balance for a moment before he fought to keep his stance, now finding himself the one being pulled along, his grip rigid but useless.

Peter’s eyes darted around, only for them to flicker with recognition. He looked back at Damian, and he told the older teen– “Listen, I have a plan– but it will involve splitting up, and– actually, how is your grade in Chemistry?”

Damian looked at him in disbelief. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I promise I’ll be within fifty feet. You’ll know because Mr. Jones over there is loud as f–duck. So listen closely, won’t you? You have to remember all these steps.”

Peter gave Damian no chance to argue before he started spouting the list of substances and gave the full instructions. The younger teen led them to the very hallway where they met earlier, and while they were out of Croc’s sight, they split up– Peter will distract the rogue, while Damian created the concoction the younger teen devised.

“Keep the two compounds separate! Don’t mix the two– like at all, okay? I’ll see you in a bit!” Peter declared before running back into the fray.

Damian narrowed his eyes, but scanned his ID card on the chemistry lab door anyways and slipped inside. He reached for his phone as he headed for the supply closet, and he dialled Barbara’s phone number. The call rang only once before she answered.

“Damian! Are you and Peter– are you safe? What’s your status? I mean, are you okay?”

“You may use operational terms, Gordon. Peter is not in the vicinity.” The supply closet’s e-lock clicked, and Damian went through his mental checklist– firstly, slipping on latex gloves.

“He’s not– what do you mean–”

“Gordon, connect me to comms.” He knew his siblings would be arriving as vigilantes– that meant they wouldn’t have their personal phones on them.

“Alright. Give me a second.”

The line went quiet for a second, allowing Damian a moment’s peace as he grabbed the substances and apparatus per Peter’s instructions, and brought them to a nearby workstation.

“You’re connected now,” Barbara informed him before Dick’s voice came through his phone.

“Damian, status report.” His voice came with the sound of a thrumming engine, his Wing-Cycle if Damian's ears were to be believed.

“Killer Croc is wreaking havoc in Gotham Academy’s west wing. I am working on a formula for two compounds devised by Peter to restrain and incapacitate Jones.”

“Damian, you said Peter’s not with you. Where is he?” Barbara asked.

“Currently distracting Jones, if he’s keeping to his plan.” 

“Distracting– you let Peter distract Waylon?! A civilian?!” Dick–expectedly–exclaimed, and Damian’s brow shot up.

“We both know Peter is no civilian, Richard– there’s no doubt about it now– and he was insistent on it. I have been saved by his superhuman reactions a number of times, I believe he is more than capable of distracting Jones without sustaining bodily harm. He even regarded me as a liability.”

Dick audibly sighed. “Do you know where he is now?”

“If the nearby noises are to be believed, at the engineering wing,” he reported just as he heard another growl from the distance. He set down a flask and a series of measuring cylinders, selecting glassware with precise volume markings and lining them up with military precision. “Gordon, dictating Peter’s instructions now. Keep record and cross-examine them with all known tranquiliser formulas.”

“Alright. Go ahead.”

He began dictating the precise ratios of reagents and steps that sounded alien to his own knowledge of chemistry. Until Dick arrived, he had no choice but to bet the success of the mission and their safety on Peter’s formula, but the necessity of synthesizing an unknown compound created by an enemy asset deepened his doubt.

When Damian finished dictating, he waited for a response, and when he received it, Barbara sounded confused. “Damian, there are no known formulas that match what you’re synthesizing. In fact, that’s not even a tranquiliser.”

“What?” Damian’s brows furrowed. His gloved hand froze inches from the mixing flask. “Then what is it?”

Peter rounded the corner and skidded to a stop. He looked back just as Croc blew through the wall. Waylon’s head jerked left then right, eyes scanning for his target.

“Hey, Mr. Jones!” Peter yelled. “Can you get any slower?! I’ll be in a different time zone at this rate!”

Waylon’s reptilian eyes snapped to his direction. He let out a guttural roar as he charged at Peter– the teen took that as his cue to keep running.

“COME BACK HERE, YOU DUMB MEAT!” Croc growled.

“You sure you’re not talking about yourself!” Peter retorted, running past a collapsing archway. He used a subtle, super-powered shove–a precise push masked by his momentum–to speed up the collapse.

Peter glanced back, and expectedly–it didn’t stop Croc, though it helped in making him angrier.

He had been leading Croc in circles for the past five minutes–give or take–though he was yet to see any signs of the rogue slowing down. If he was facing Croc as Spider-Man, this fight would have already ended, and the unnecessary property damage could have been avoided. Instead, he had to deal with the rogue as Peter Parker.

Peter gave Damian a time limit–ironic considering what he pulled earlier–the older teen needed to be at the foyer at the administrative wing in five minutes with the compounds ready. Peter had given the simplified formula, which should only take Damian about ten minutes to make. The drawback, of course, was that the simplified version wasn’t as potent as the original, but Peter already had a workaround for it.

look out!

His spider-sense buzzed. Peter dove forward, narrowly avoiding the metal lockers that flew over his head. He rolled and recovered quickly, but he didn’t forget to taunt the rogue– “What are you aiming at, Mr. Jones!” That was too close, Peter! Damian, you better be hurrying! Peter mentally cursed himself.

He let out an exhale. He needed his full attention on Croc and not getting maimed.

Peter kept leading Croc in circles through the same three departments. His path changed ever so slightly each lap as Croc’s path of destruction continually reshaped the rooms and walls. He was confident in his ability to keep outrunning the rogue for at least ten more minutes, but his confidence in the integrity of the building was waning every second.

It was too early– too risky, but he needed to change locations, unless he wanted another warehouse situation over his head.

“Gotta say, Waylon, this whole running thing is exhausting. Didn’t anyone tell ya crocs are supposed to sneak! Maybe that’s why you haven’t caught me yet! Slow-croc!”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

“Yep, that did it.” Time for him to move to the administrative wing. Damian, you better have the compounds ready!

Peter ran a weaving path through the maze that used to be rooms and hallways– he was a streak of chaotic speed. Croc–who had tried to follow his precise, impossible routes–just gave up and simply ran through the wing.

Peter made a sharp turn, darting towards the administrative wing. The air was thick with the dust of ruined concrete. Peter didn’t need to look back to know that Croc was following him, the raging rogue’s every step shook the ground. He kept running, disguising his speed as panicked flight. It ashamed him to admit it– but he found this fun. He was operating as Spider-Man when he was supposed to be Peter Parker.

“Let’s go, Waylon! Time for a field trip!” Peter yelled, sprinting down a short corridor until he reached the heavy reinforced doors to the administrative wing. He burst through them with ease– heavy was only a label for the average person.

Peter was met by the wall-spanning trophy case that Damian had used to bore him to death earlier, and he almost regarded it like an old friend–almost. He used the shelves as a makeshift ladder. He’d almost reached the top when Croc hit the reinforced doors like a freight train, ripping the whole thing free in a violent explosion of metal and wood.

Croc’s eyes locked on Peter immediately, and the teen taunted him with an exaggerated fake gasp. “I was wondering where you were!”

Peter’s eyes snapped to the exposed piping on the ceiling, and he kept climbing. When Croc tried to follow him up, the trophy case immediately gave in under his weight. The entire structure shook and threatened to fall down. Peter feigned a stumble before he catapulted himself up towards the pipes, masking his enhanced leap as an act of adrenaline-fueled desperation.

Peter’s enhanced grip secured him on the pipes. His legs swung freely beneath him before he pulled himself up. He looked down and made sure Croc was right where he needed to be.

Peter located the thick water main that fed the building’s sprinkler system. With a single, powerful, and focused kick to a rusted joint, he severed the pipe.

“Up here, big guy! Water fountain’s broken!” Water instantly erupted, instantly drenching the foyer below.

Croc bellowed. The water didn’t hurt him– it couldn’t, but Peter keeping out of his grasp surely hurt his ego. It also fulfilled Peter’s primary tactical objective– soaking the reptilian villain to maximise his compounds’ effect. Now all he needed was–

“Peter!”

Peter’s eyes darted to the voice’s location– it was Damian, standing at the very edge of the drenched foyer–and he had the two compounds with him. The older teen hurled the two sealed glass vessels toward Peter. His pitching form was perfect.

Peter dove forward to snatch both containers from the air– one hand barely caught them by the necks, while the other secured Peter to the pipes.

Peter heard a soft clink from one of the vessels– and his spider-sense screamed–

danger!

One of the vessels cracked in Peter’s hands, and a splash of the caustic chemical struck Peter’s skin. “Fuck!” He instinctively pulled his arm close to him, but that only caused the burning liquid down to his forearm. His senses instantly registered a blinding, searing pain. He clenched his teeth. The damage was already done, but the mission was not. Not yet.

He ignored the throbbing pain that flared down his arm. His eyes darted towards Killer Croc, and he dropped both containers.

“Hibernation time, Mr. Jones!” The two vessels shattered on the wet marble floor near Croc’s feet, and a silent, immediate reaction began. The two compounds–the cryo-base and the binding agent–mixed, instantly vaporising into a thick, swirling cloud of freezing white mist and blue vapour. A loud crackle came from the water-slicked floor as ice violently began to form.

Croc roared– his guttural voice vibrated through the air in agony. The cold was immediate and too overwhelming for his reptilian physiology. The saturated water on his skin flash-froze– within seconds, the reptilian rogue was enveloped in a cocoon of solid, frosted ice, locking him into a roaring, thrashing pose.

Peter let out a deep sigh of relief. He collapsed on the piping, the cold metal felt refreshing and kept him awake– so did the intense, throbbing pain on his arm. It was distracting, like it seemed to amplify every sensory input– case in point, his own heartbeat sounded like a dull drum to his ears.

Damian walked into his line of sight, his arms crossed and looking as judgmental as always. Peter just grinned at him, and gave him a big thumbs up with his non-injured arm.

“Tt,” was all he got in response.

Peter just rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna need a little help over here. Got a ladder or something?” Still no response, just the older teen narrowing his eyes.

“Helloo?” Peter waved his uninjured arm. “Saviour to Damian?”

“You got yourself there on your own, you can get down on your own.”

“How the hell do I do that?!” Peter instinctively crossed his arms, but he winced at the slight pressure on his arm, and he instead placed his arms on his waist.

“You’re smart, figure it out,” Damian taunted as he turned on his feet. Peter’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped that the older teen would actually leave him stuck there. Sure, he could get down easily by himself once Damian was gone– but come on!

“I don’t even get how you could be Dick’s brother! Dick is so nice, and you are so not!” Peter taunted back as he sat up and glanced around, trying to find somewhere he could climb down like a normal human.

Damian paused. His brows furrowed, and he turned back to Peter– only to catch the distinct black and blue suit at the corner of his eyes.

“Hey! Dam– Peter?!” Dick–as Nightwing–ran towards them. His mouth agape as his attention went to the younger teen above them.

“Oh no, not you!” Peter immediately tensed at the sight of the vigilante. His senses registered the man’s voice with a mild distortion. He hadn’t noticed Nightwing approaching, only registering the man’s presence when he heard the sound of his own name being called.

Nightwing looked at him in disbelief. “How, how did you end up there?” He tilted his head back, taking in Peter’s precarious position on the exposed piping, a worrying twenty, twenty-five feet above the frozen concrete floor.

“The trophy case, duh. You think I can fly or something? I’m not Superman,” Peter sarcastically responded, then he thought to himself deliriously, Nah, I’m Spider-Man. Don’t forget the hyphen!

“Are–are you hurt?” Peter grimaced at the concern in the vigilante’s voice. He disliked the tone his stalker was using with him. He didn’t answer, he just let the question linger in the cold air.

Nightwing just sighed. He glanced down at the ice sculpture that was Killer Croc. Though he had no big reactions on that end– he already knew Peter’s plans from Damian after all.

“He’s still alive,” Peter’s voice echoed from above. “He can’t move because of the cold and the ice, but he’s alive. Just hibernating.” The younger teen delivered the explanation flatly, like he wasn’t justifying a near-lethal attack.

Of course, Peter knew that for a fact because he was monitoring the rogue’s heartbeat, but he wouldn’t tell them that.

“Tt.” Damian’s eyes narrowed at Peter before his head snapped to Dick. “Nightwing, would you mind helping my dear acquaintance down? He seems to have gotten himself stuck playing hero.”

“It wasn’t playing if I actually saved your ass, Dami! And I don’t need anybody’s help! I can get myself down on my own!”

“Tt. You were practically begging me to help you down, Peter.” Damian smirked.

“I wasn’t begging, I just thought you’d be a decent person for once!” Peter retorted, then he resorted to semi-coherent mumbling as he crawled over the pipes. “First, you keep me hostage and keep me from sleeping, then you couldn’t even be bothered to help me down?! Unbelievable!”

“Peter, stay right where you are! It’s not safe! Stay there, and I’ll get you down!” Dick scolded the teen, but Peter remained defiant.

“I thought I said I don’t want to see any of you unless I need saving! You’re late! Threat’s gone, no one to save here– so leave!”

…danger…

Peter’s spider-sense buzzed harshly, and he stopped. His ears perked as he tried to figure out what his spider-sense was warning him about. He looked down, at the still frozen rogue–no sign of movement, no cracking ice, and vitals remained in low power mode. Then his eyes darted towards Damian and Nightwing. The older teen looked at him judgmentally, while the vigilante looked frantic and watched Peter carefully.

Then he heard it– the slightest creaking, followed by more creaking– and he looked forward at the pipes he was crawling on.

“You’ve got to be kid– AAAHHH!” The pipes tore free as multiple anchoring bolts failed simultaneously. Peter dangled dangerously mid-air as his senses gave a fresh warning– more bolts were about to fail.

“Peter!” Nightwing called out, but Peter didn’t have the mind to figure out where he was. He needed to climb–fast.

“I’m coming, kid! Hold tight!” Peter registered Nightwing’s command and the sound of his grappling line firing, but he chose to ignore all of it. He pulled himself by his uninjured hand, desperately trying to secure his position on the failing pipes. It was scary, but the sound of more bolts failing terrified him more– he let go of the pipes and launched into a run, hoping to outrun the shrieking tear of metal.

“Peter!” Nightwing yelled, horrified at the stunt the kid was trying to pull. “You need to stop!”

“Run run run run run!” Peter desperately scrambled along the pipes, pleased that his plan was working– when the structural integrity gave out right beneath his feet. The metal snapped with a sound like a gunshot, plunging Peter into open air. Instinctively, he aimed his webshooters to the ceiling– but the appearance of his bare hands–not his suit’s gloves–made him hesitate.

Nightwing, already launched on his interception arc, didn’t have to aim. He used his momentum, bracing himself as he slammed against Peter mid-fall, his arms instantly wrapping around the younger teen, locking them together as the vigilante frantically fired his grapple line toward the nearest stable support column.

They swung hard into the damp wall, jerking violently to a stop. The sudden, immense pressure from the vigilante’s armoured torso–combined with his forearm clamping directly over Peter’s chemical burn–shattered Peter’s illusion of control.

“AAAHHH!!!”

Instead of a defensive yell, all that escaped Peter was a sharp, raw cry of searing pain. He immediately struggled against Nightwing’s grip, not to escape him, but to desperately get the agonising pressure off his injured arm.

Nightwing immediately let him go, and Peter stumbled to the floor. His first instinct was to grab his arm, but he remembered the searing pain and he hesitated, his good hand hovered over it, trembling.

Nightwing moved toward the younger teen, demanding, “Let me see– Peter, show me!”

Peter aggressively shook his head and pulled the injured arm closer to his body, a low whimper escaping from his lips.

“Tt,” was all Peter heard before the blinding, searing pain returned, and his arm was forcefully yanked from him by Damian– and both the older teen and the vigilante let out a sharp gasp.

The injury was deep and corrosive, running from the back of Peter’s hand and halfway up his forearm. When Damian pulled his arm, the jacket fabric– which had already been weakened by the chemical splash– tore with a sharp rip, leaving the sleeve like a flap hanging loosely from the rest of his jacket, instantly exposing the wound. His flesh looked less charred, and more melted. His skin was gone in patches, leaving raw, slick crimson tissue underneath, and a sharp, caustic odour lingered in the air.

“You flinched when you caught the compounds.” Damian’s eyes widened when realisation struck him. “You kept quiet about this since that moment?!”

“How– why haven’t you said anything about this?!” Nightwing scolded him.

“It didn’t need saying until you grabbed it! I was going to deal with it!” Peter insisted, but his eyes were tearing up and his whole body shook violently.

“Remove your jacket, Peter. Remove it now!” Damian ordered him, instantly trying to pull the clothing off him. Nightwing spotted the metal brace on his wrist. Mistaking it for restrictive gear, he reached to remove it, but Peter immediately pulled his hand back.

“Don’t touch it! You can’t touch it!” he panicked.

“Peter, we need to remove it to see your full injury–”

“N-no!” he forced out, his voice cracking. He pulled back violently, turning his torso away from the vigilante. He didn’t speak. Only a desperate whine escaped his throat, and his eyes were locked on the brace with an absolute, terrified focus.

Nightwing slowly raised his hands in surrender, though his eyes never left the brace. “Alright, alright. Not going to touch it, but we need to take it off–”

“We don’t need to do anything!” Peter cut him off through gritted teeth. “You don’t need to do anything! This wouldn’t have happened if you left me alone! You’ve done enough, Nightwing!”

The vigilante froze. His mouth agape as he tried to think of what to say. “I’m, I’m sorry, Peter,” was all he could muster.

“Tt.” Damian narrowed his eyes at Peter. “And what did you expect Nightwing to do? Let you fall and watch?”

“Yeah! Sure! Whatever!” Peter instantly answered. “And you’re one to talk, Damian! You were perfectly okay leaving me stuck there a moment ago! I would have fallen anyway, but at least I don’t have to fucking deal with this!” Peter forced himself up, and walked around Damian and the vigilante.

“Peter– wait–” Nightwing snapped out of his shock, and he turned to Peter and almost reached for his injured arm– but the boy immediately recoiled. Dick realised his mistake, and his hand simply hovered.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Peter spat with pure venom. He glared at the vigilante. “You’ve done enough.”

Peter turned his back on the vigilante, and he warned him, “Don’t follow me!”

Dick remained frozen, conflicted between following Peter’s wishes and following him. He made his wishes clear–he hated him–but he couldn’t just leave Peter alone.

Damian’s hand landed on his shoulder, and Dick looked at his younger brother. Damian’s grip tightened slightly as he raised his other hand, signalling Dick to stay. His brother stood up and he followed after Peter.

Chapter Text

Peter grabbed a small jagged fragment of cement as he entered the school clinic. In one smooth motion, while he remained in its blindspot, he hurled the piece of concrete at the sole camera in the room with perfect accuracy. He didn’t need any of the Bats watching him.

Peter had no problem using brute force as he raided the cabinets and supply closet. He didn’t need to be subtle anymore, seeing that the surroundings were already wrecked by Croc, any damage he did could be blamed on the rogue.

Peter grabbed what he needed– gauze, disinfectant, ointment, and a pair of scissors– and placed them on the counter near the sink. It pained him to ruin the clothes, but Peter had to cut away the remaining shredded fabric of his jacket and shirt. He used the scissors as makeshift forceps to place the cloth on the other side of the sink, desperate not to let the toxic material contact his uninjured skin.

He turned the sink on, waiting until the water was somewhere between mildly cool and lukewarm, and he let the water run over his open wound. Peter let out a sharp gasp, gritting his teeth and swallowing as the water acted like a distorted magnifying glass, showing the full damage.

…wait. Peter’s eyes slowly widened in realisation. This compound did this much damage? Oh god, and he let Damian make it–

“You are aware that you are in the same building as a vigilante, are you not?”

Peter froze. He swallowed.

“What are you doing here, Damian? Tour’s over. I’m free to do whatever I want again. Go wherever I please.” Peter acted nonchalant, but he was caught by surprise. He didn’t notice Damian approaching again.

“I don’t recall stating our tour was over. You’re still my guest until I say so.” Peter didn’t look at the older teen–he couldn’t–not with the realisation that he’d endangered his life. He’d believed that having Damian create the compounds kept him safe from Killer Croc, but he had only exposed him to a different kind of danger.

“And as your host, it is my duty to take care of your well-being.” Damian came up beside him nonchalantly, hands in his pockets as he eyed Peter’s injured arm.

“I didn’t know sleep deprivation was considered ‘taking care’ of my well-being, but okay,” Peter retorted. “Your parties must suck.”

Damian gave no response. His gaze didn’t leave Peter’s arm and he narrowed his eyes. “Without the binding agent, the base has no effect on water. I assume it’s for ease of clean-up?”

“No… no. I didn’t think that far ahead,” Peter admitted, then a chuckle escaped his throat as a chill ran up his spine. “Actually, I forgot that this was a cryo-base. I just realised how much of a disaster this could have been.”

Damian furrowed his brows. “You forgot? That the weapon you formulated to work against a reptilian rogue is a cryo-agent?”

“I didn’t intend it to be used against someone with reptilian physiology. I didn’t come up with it for anything, I just… came up with it.”

“Then why choose it for Jones? You could have tasked me with creating a tranquiliser. I’ll admit, I had expected your formula to be for a tranquiliser, not a two-compound cryo-agent with a caustic base.”

Peter let out a sharp gasp. His blood ran cold at the reminder of the dangerous chemical he’d ordered a civilian–a kid–to create. He pressed his lips into a thin line, and he forced out, “I… didn’t know it was this aggressive, not until today. I thought it was safe.”

Peter’s eyes teared up–whether from the guilt or the pain, he wasn’t sure, it might’ve been both. “I’m sorry, Damian. I risked your life without realising. I’m so stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.”

His vision blurred with tears, engulfed by the red from the exposed, raw tissue and the blood-stained sink. He imagined his arm was Damian’s arm, and his breath hitched. Dick would never forgive him– how could he if Peter was the reason his family got hurt? Peter was nobody to Dick, he didn’t matter– but he didn’t know if he could take his own dad looking at him in disgust.

“Sorry sorry sorry–”

“Tt.” Peter flinched at the older teen’s tut. Damian grabbed his uninjured arm and pulled him away from the sink. “I have no care for your self-pity, Peter. I came to make sure you perform proper first-aid. It’s become obvious that you are unable to do so, as such, I am taking over. Sit.”

Damian forced Peter to sit on a chair near the sink. He quickly assessed the supplies that Peter collected for his injury– specifically the disinfectant– and he narrowed his eyes. “Tt. This is the wrong product, Peter. You would’ve injured yourself more in your carelessness.” He grimaced.

Damian quickly walked toward the supply cabinets and returned with a different disinfectant–one that wouldn’t cause more agonising pain on the younger teen. He applied the disinfectant on a sterile gauze to clean the wound.

Damian paused, his eyes shifting to the metal brace on Peter’s wrist that the younger teen had been so protective over. “I need to remove your brace, Peter.”

Peter tensed, and his other hand instinctively hovered over his injured arm, wanting to cover the metal brace, but remembering the searing pain caused by the caustic chemical. He clenched his jaw, but he relaxed and relented, “I can remove it. Can you find a container or bag I could put it in? I… I can’t leave it lying around.”

Damian’s eyes flickered with interest, but he didn’t say anything, simply choosing to comply and find a container. When he returned to Peter’s side, he saw that Peter had securely wrapped the brace in gauze. He handed over a plastic container to the younger teen. He let Peter hold the box to his chest while he focused on neutralising and disinfecting the wound.

Peter’s breath hitched at the first touch, and he repeatedly took sharp gasps of air as the older teen scrubbed his arm, and he complained, “Can… can’t you be gentler?”

“Being gentle won’t keep your arm from falling off. Now, hold still.”

Peter gritted his teeth. He fought to stay still, tried to distract himself with his thoughts, but the silence became too loud, the pain unbearable, and he blurted out, “Why, why do you even know how to do first-aid?” He genuinely wanted to know– a person who wasn’t used to giving first-aid normally wouldn’t be this aggressive, even if they did have an aggressive personality.

“I have regularly patched up my siblings’ wounds. It’s also convenient to know for my own sake.”

Peter scoffed through his grimace. Peter thought to sarcastically ask why rich kids like them would ever find themselves injured– but he held his tongue when he remembered Dick was a police officer.

“Does, does Dick get hurt a lot because of his job?” he gently prodded. Damian paused.

Damian’s gaze slowly shifted from Peter’s arm to his face. He fought to keep a neutral expression. Peter didn’t realise he had hurt Dick himself, unknowingly, by rejecting Nightwing.

“He does, but he has a high pain tolerance. He manages,” Damian answered.

Peter let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and Damian noted the subtle sigh of relief. The older teen resumed, and Peter’s grimace returned.

Peter tightly closed his eyes, choosing to recite his memorised formulas in his head, when his mouth moved faster than his brain. “You… the formula I gave you– why did you think it was a tranquiliser?”

His eyes opened, and he was met with Damian’s look of disbelief. “You stated it was a concoction that will incapacitate Jones. The most logical answer would be a tranquiliser.”

“A-ah, that’s fair,” Peter blurted out. “In any other situation, a tranquiliser would probably be more useful, but I didn't have a formula ready on the top of my head.”

Damian raised a brow. He didn’t respond– or rather, he couldn’t, because Peter kept talking.

“Even if I did have a formula in mind, there were other factors I’d need to consider. We had no way to administer it to Killer Croc– we can’t just pierce through his skin, and by mouth would probably take too long. I also didn’t know how effective the tranquiliser would need to be– if it was too weak– or worse, too much, then he could die from an overdose. He could just as easily brush it off too after a few minutes because of an enhanced metabolism or an immunity or something. I figured it was easier to use an instant restraint method– coupled with his reptilian nature, I assumed he was weak to extreme cold, so I figured a cryo-agent would work best.”

Damian looked at him incredulously. In the respite from Peter’s monologue, he pointed out, “You don’t know a formula for a tranquiliser, but you do have one for a cryo-agent? How would you know how to create a cryo-agent?”

Peter squeezed a chuckle out amidst his grimace. “Messed around in a lab,” he shrugged, “The formula was by complete accident. I was trying to make a different thing, making adjustments here and there, maybe some substitutions– then bam! Cryo-agent!” Peter nervously chuckled. “The formula I gave you actually isn’t the original, because using that here would have been disastrous! I had to adjust the formula so you could make it with school stuff and because the original formula would have taken way too long to make.”

Damian continued to clean up Peter’s arm, keeping a calm exterior, but internally, he was assessing the information the younger teen was freely giving him. His eyes momentarily flickered to his phone in his breast pocket–the line to the cave had been open since he entered the clinic. His instinct was to check whether his phone remained connected, but he stopped himself.

Damian’s family had suspected Peter to be a trained operative– but they didn’t expect a specialised scientific asset.

Damian was trained to view ‘coincidence’ as a lie, especially when it resulted in a tactical advantage. He didn’t believe that Peter wasn’t trying to create a weapon. But even if he did believe the story, the facts remained–Peter’s quick thinking, advanced organic chemistry, and environmental resourcefulness were leagues beyond the average fourteen-year old Peter pretended to be.

His explanation about dosage and enhanced metabolism revealed an advanced, specialised education in meta-human physiology and countermeasures. Furthermore, his ability to revise formulas on-the-fly demonstrated a level of tactical efficiency that belonged in the field, not a school lab.

“Damian?” The younger teen tilted his head, and Damian realised he held Peter’s gaze a second longer than comfortable, his eyes searching for the lie he knew was there. A ‘happy accident’ couldn’t have resulted in a stable, binary cryo-agent, but he knew pressing the issue would be counterproductive.

“Fortune favours the foolish, it seems.” Damian broke eye contact, turning his attention back to the gauze. He began to wrap Peter’s arm with practiced movements. “Though I suppose I should be grateful your incompetence didn’t result in an explosion.”

Peter winced, letting out a shaky breath. His shoulders sagged as the adrenaline crash hit him. “Y-yeah… explosion, thank god, it… wasn’t that.”

“This lab you messed around in–”

“I did freeze the whole lab, actually.”

The two sentences collided. Both Peter and Damian paused, and the older teen furrowed his brows. “What?”

Peter grimaced as he remembered the story. “I was banned from touching lab stuff for a week because the whole lab froze over. I… kinda forgot about that until you mentioned it.” He chuckled nervously.

Damian stared at him in disbelief. The image of an entire laboratory encased in ice because of this boy’s clumsiness was concerning, to say the least.

“You froze an entire facility,” Damian stated flatly. “And you were merely banned ‘for a week?’”

Peter gave a weak smile, shrugging. “They said we could treat it as a learning experience– and I only did it one time!”

“And when did this happen?” Damian pressed, his voice sharp as he secured the bandage with a metal clip.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Probably a year ago? Maybe two? Wait, no, probably earlier– actually, never mind.”

To Peter, it felt like barely two years ago. But because of the Blip, it was technically seven-ish years ago. Explaining why he was freezing labs at the ripe old age of seven wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, so he opted to skip that detail.

Damian paused, the metal clip clicking into place with a finality that echoed in the quiet clinic. He didn’t step away. Instead, he leaned back on the counter, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the younger teen. “You seem unable to decide whether this was a recent or distant memory despite your claim that this was the only occurrence that you froze the lab,” Damian observed, his voice dangerously calm. “You would have been twelve or thirteen–or younger–by your account, yet you had access to a facility and substances to ‘mess around with’ and freeze over?”

Peter shrugged. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds irresponsible, but there were tons and tons of safety protocols– I just… managed to find a way to override them… somehow.” He grinned innocently.

“And this lab that you ‘somehow’ overrode its protocols,” Damian started, his voice casual–uncharacteristically casual. “Is this a facility owned by ‘Tony?’”

Peter froze. The grin faded from his face, air left his lungs. “What…what?”

The relief of being bandaged left him instantly. His brain blared alerts one after another, like a containment breach siren screaming in his ears. Damian knew–or he suspected something. Had he been analysing Peter this whole time?

In his panic, Peter’s eyes darted for an escape– only to land on the counter. There, sitting innocently–almost mocking Peter–were the bloody gauze Damian had discarded and the shredded remains of his shirt and jacket, covered in his sweat, skin, and blood. His DNA.

Peter’s blood ran cold. He sprang up from his seat, snatching the bloody gauze and ruined fabric from the counter. He knew the Bats were tracking him. If he left all this here, he would be handing them a genetic roadmap to his identity–or lack thereof–and worse, he’d be outed as someone with powers. A meta. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Peter took off his ruined jacket and shirt, using it to hastily wrap the contaminated fabric and gauze, and even the scissors he used to cut it all up, bundling them into a tight ball before Damian could see the tool disappear, and shoving it deep into his backpack.

Damian’s brows furrowed, his gaze dropping to the bundle. “What are you doing? That is bio-hazardous waste. It needs to be disposed of in the proper receptacle, not carried around in your bag.”

“I’ll do it. It’s my waste,” Peter snapped, placing the container holding his webshooter in his bag and zipping it close. He slung his bag over his uninjured arm, turning toward the door.

Damian stepped in front of him, stopping him. “Where are you going? You cannot go outside like that,” the older teen noted, pivoting the subject– Peter was going to run out shirtless, in Gotham October. “Your immune system is already compromised with stress. Wait, and I will find you a spare uniform.”

“I don’t need your charity, Damian,” Peter hissed. “Just let me leave. I can handle myself.”

Damian didn’t budge. He didn’t raise his hands to stop Peter physically, knowing that would likely provoke a fight he didn’t want. Instead, he simply raised a brow, leaned back coolly, and countered, “You seem to have forgotten the circumstances wherein I found you–you are still a trespasser, Peter. Leaving this room shirtless, wrapped in bandages will not help you disappear. It will make you a spectacle. No doubt a big crowd has gathered around the school, press and passersby alike will be there. Is that what you want? To be caught by cameras staring at you?”

Peter’s defiance deflated. He grimaced, gripping the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turned white.

He hated that Damian was right. He wanted to be invisible–he needed to be invisible. As Peter Parker, he shouldn’t exist. He needed to fade into the background so the Bats would stop looking at his direction– stop watching him. Running around half-naked after a big crisis was the exact opposite of that.

He didn’t say anything, choosing to turn around and unzip his backpack. He dug past his webshooter and bundle of ruined clothes, and grabbed the thick, dark fabric sitting at the bottom, just on top of his Spider-Man suit.

He yanked out the black heated puffer jacket–the one Red Hood gave him–and shoved his arms into the sleeves, wincing as the inner lining brushed against his bandaged forearm. He zipped it all the way to his chin, hiding his bare chest.

Damian paused, his eyes flickering in surprise as he met face-to-face with the red bat symbol sewn on the back. Red Hood. Todd’s symbol. He noted the quality, the fit– it was comically oversized for Peter, it engulfed him, covering halfway down his thighs and sleeves bunching at his wrist. The material was reinforced, high-grade thermal insulation–it was no thrift store find.

Peter quickly zipped his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He glared at Damian as he walked past the older teen. “Happy?”

Damian’s expression hardened. “That garment,” Damian’s voice was low. “Where did you acquire that?”

Peter paused, bewildered by the sudden shift in tone. He looked over his shoulder before glancing down at the jacket, trying to figure out why Damian would ask about it.

“‘Garment?’ This jacket? Some guy gave it to me,” he answered.

“‘Some guy?’” Damian looked at him incredulously. “That is high-grade tactical gear bearing Red Hood’s emblem– was this ‘guy’ Red Hood?”

Peter furrowed his brows. “How would you know that this was tactical gear? And what’s the big deal if Mr. Gun-Crazy gave this to me? I was freezing, he had a spare, so he gave it to me.”

“Red Hood does not distribute his resources lightly. He is territorial, for you to be wearing that…” Damian trailed off as realisation struck him. Todd. Todd had been the most protective about Peter’s privacy, furious that the family was tracking him. Yet, Todd regularly checked their file on Peter. Todd was the one who came up with the theory that Peter was Dick’s son.

He didn’t wait to confirm his theory like he professed– he already thought of Peter as family.

“He was just being nice, alright?” Peter huffed, sounding exhausted. “He saved me from a situation, he offered me food, and gave me a jacket. Honestly, the most any of the Bats has done for me.” The younger teen’s shoulders hunched. “Is that all? Can I go now?”

“One more matter,” Damian stated, his expression guarded. “Stop by the library tomorrow if you’re free, the same time you met Richard yesterday.”

Peter’s expression softened. “...Dick?” he hesitated. “Why?”

“Simply stop by in your free time. Do as you wish,” Damian dismissed. The younger teen’s brows furrowed, but his expression was clear– he was considering it.

He didn’t say any more, only turning away–the Red Hood symbol on his back flashing one last time before he slipped out into the hallway.

The silence in the cave was heavier than usual. On the Batcomputer’s main display was a rotating 3d rendering of the chemical breakdown of Peter’s cryo-agent–a jagged, aggressive molecular structure that shouldn’t have been possible to synthesize in a high school lab. On the bottom was a note, “The original version is likely more aggressive and dangerous.”

Dick sat on the edge of the med-bay cot, head in his hands. He was still in his Nightwing suit, though he had pulled his mask off. Peter’s voice echoed in his mind like an endless loop.

Don’t fucking touch me.

“He hates me,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “I tried to help him and he looked at me like I was the enemy.”

Soft footfalls approached Dick, and he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Bruce, in his suit but with his cowl pulled down. “He was in pain, chum. Pain makes people lash out. It doesn’t mean he hates you. It means he doesn’t trust you yet.”

Dick forced out a pained chuckle. “It sounded like he hated me. He said I’d done enough.”

He sighed, shaking his head. He needed to focus, they still had a briefing before tonight’s patrol. He sprang up, and he and Bruce joined the rest of their family near the Batcomputer.

Bruce stood by the console, his arms crossed. His voice shifted from the fatherly tone to low and commanding. “We need to understand the full scope of what happened at the Academy. Damian.”

Bruce turned to his youngest son. Damian’s arms were similarly crossed. He looked cleaner than he had an hour ago, having scrubbed the grime of the battle off, but his expression was severe.

“Peter engaged Jones to draw aggro while he sent me to create a binary compound of his own making. He gave me ten minutes to prepare the compound and was able to evade Jones during the entire duration. While we were together, he displayed reaction time that wouldn’t have been possible for the average human.”

Damian gestured to the screen. “I presumed he intended to create a tranquiliser. Instead, he instructed me to create a cryo-agent with a caustic base.”

“A chemical weapon,” Tim noted, his eyes scanning the molecular breakdown.

“One whose formula he adjusted as we were being pursued by Jones,” Damian added. “He claimed the original was conceived as an accident while ‘messing around,’ and that it was potent enough to freeze the entire facility.”

“I call bullshit,” Tim interjected, spinning his chair around to face them. “You can’t just stumble onto a molecular stabiliser that reacts instantly with water to create a flash-freeze effect. That is graduate-level chemistry applied with military-grade tactical improvisation.”

“Precisely,” Damian nodded. “Yet he asserted that the entire incident was due to his clumsiness. His only ‘punishment’ was a one-week ban from scientific endeavours.”

“A week?!” Tim’s jaw dropped. “For an incident of that magnitude? When he could have caused a chain reaction of disasters?! If he was allowed back after an incident of that scale, the organisation must have valued his output over safety protocols.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “They could afford the loss of the lab, but he’s invaluable. They recognised his unpredictable nature and sought to contain his genius, not stop it. His knowledge is extremely dangerous–and they intended to weaponise it.”

“There is more,” Damian continued, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pressed him for a timeline regarding this event, he faltered.”

Dick furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“He lost track of his own history,” Damian explained. “He explained it was a year ago, then he corrected himself to ‘earlier,’ before retracting the statement entirely. He seemed genuinely unsure of when this event occurred.”

Dick ran a hand down his face, looking sick. “If… if it was a year or two ago, he would have been twelve. Thirteen.” He looked up at the jagged 3d molecule on the screen– a weapon capable of flash-freezing a building, created by a child.

“He was weaponising chemistry as a child… and the people running this facility, they didn’t stop him. They didn’t get him help.” Dick voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “They just… supervised him better?”

“‘Or younger,’” Tim noted grimly, ignoring the emotion to focus on the data. “If he corrected to ‘earlier,’ and he’s confused, that implies the memory feels distant to him. Timeline confusion is common in subjects with fabricated memories or suppressed trauma.”

“He’s been doing this a long time,” Dick said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and grief. “He was raised in this life.”

Damian continued, “The moment I questioned the facility– asking if it belonged to the ‘Tony’ he mentioned earlier, Peter’s demeanor shifted instantly.”

Dick turned to him and asked, “How did he react?”

“He panicked,” Damian reported. “He didn’t try to lie his way out of the question. Instead, the question seemed to trigger a threat response. He immediately scanned the room, identified the bio-waste on the counter–bloody gauze and his shredded clothing–and refused to leave it behind. He even secured the scissors he’d handled. He knew we would run his DNA.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “He scrubbed the scene?”

Damian nodded.

Tim spun his chair around and started typing furiously. “Sounds like the reaction of an operative protecting a classified identity– or a handler. Protecting ‘Tony’ was more important than maintaining cover. The panic may suggest fear of them–or fear for them.”

“Another name with no face.” Bruce’s voice lowered an octave. “If leaking Tony’s name is a bigger security threat, he must be high-ranking within their organisation. Perhaps a director, or the head of the facilities where Peter was created.”

“We’re wasting time profiling ghosts,” Damian cut in, his tone sharp. “While we theorise about faceless handlers, we are overlooking a pertinent detail about Peter and Todd.”

All eyes were on Damian as he continued, “Todd gave Peter his jacket– custom ballistic armour with a red bat on the back. I confronted Peter about it and he admitted Red Hood gave it to him. He explicitly stated that Red Hood has done more for him than any of us.”

The silence in the cave was heavy. The implication was clear– Jason wasn’t just being a stranger anymore– he had staked a claim. He viewed their investigation as a threat to the boy, and that’s why he had moved to intercept it.

Bruce turned to the console. “Barbara, patch Jason through to the main screen. Override his refusal protocols.”

“On it,” Barbara’s voice crackled through the speakers.

A moment later, the main screen flickered. The image of the chemical structure was replaced with a live video feed. Jason was on his bike, helmet off. He was parked, the phone propped on the dashboard.

“What do you want now?” Jason asked, not looking at the camera. His voice was sharp, impatient.

Bruce leaned over the console, his voice commanding as he pointedly asked, “Explain why you gave Peter your armour, Jason.”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “That’s what this is about? I gave him a jacket because he was shivering. Was I supposed to do nothing while his teeth were chattering like crazy in front of me?”

“You let him walk around wearing a target on his back,” Bruce continued, his voice growing low. “But it is not just his physical safety we are concerned about. It is the message you are sending– your influence on Peter’s morality.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back on his bike. “The kid was freezing. I gave him a jacket, not a political statement, Bruce. It’s polyester and kevlar.”

“It’s validation, Jay.” Dick stepped into the frame, standing beside Bruce. He looked at the screen with a mix of anger and desperation. “He wears your symbol, Jason. He defended you to Damian. He believes what you do–how you operate–is acceptable.”

“And?” Jason challenged. “Maybe he just thinks I’m the only one getting things done.”

“He’s fourteen!” Dick snapped. “He shouldn’t be weighing the pros and cons of lethal force! He shouldn’t even know that choice exists!”

Jason narrowed his eyes at his brother. “He knows a hell of a lot more than you think. He’s not some naive civilian you can wrap in bubble wrap. He’s seen things.”

Jason went quiet. The memory of the kid’s hollow, thousand-yard stare at the deli flashed in his mind. “I know he has.”

“We know too, Jay,” Dick started, his voice low and tense. “Do you know what happened at the Academy today? What Peter did?”

Jason froze on the screen. “…what did he do?”

“Peter was the one who took down Waylon. He came up with a flash-freezing compound to counter Killer Croc.” Dick grimaced as he recalled the nonchalance in Peter’s voice as he explained how the rogue was not dead, ‘just hibernating.’ That was not the voice of a teen who was clueless, that was the voice of someone who’s closed themselves off to accomplish a mission.

Dick looked at his brother, heartbroken. “He’s a fourteen-year-old genius who weaponised chemistry to freeze a man alive. He has the capability to hurt others, Jay. He knew murderers– he watched you kill two men, and he wasn’t afraid. He accepted that you kill people. He thinks killing is just another option.” Dick finished, his voice cracking.

Jason was silent on the screen. He looked away from the camera, his jaw clenching as he processed the image of the hungry, crying kid from the shelter freezing a living man.

“But he didn’t kill him… right?” Jason said finally, his voice quieter, grasping for a defense. “Or I would be hearing a completely different tone from you. He only neutralised the threat– then he walked away. That’s not a kid who needs to be saved by you– that’s a survivor that knows how to win.”

“Is ‘survivor’ in your vocabulary defined by a reckless disregard for self-preservation?” Damian countered, his voice cold and clinical.

“What?” Jason’s eyes snapped back to the camera. “Damian, what happened?”

“He used himself as bait, drawing aggro, prioritising the mission over his safety. He succeeded, Todd, but he is wounded,” Damian reported flatly. “One of the chemical vessels cracked in his hands during the engagement. The cryo-agent caused severe caustic burns on his forearm. Third-degree… his skin is melted.”

The colour drained from Jason’s face. The defiance in his posture evaporated, replaced instantly by a tense, rigid worry. “Melted? Did you get to treat it?”

“I administered field first-aid, but he fled before I could secure him for proper treatment,” Damian reported.

Jason ran a gloved hand over his face, cursing under his breath. “I’m guessing you spooked him– because that’s all you guys have been doing,” he huffed. “Where is he? Where did you last see him?”

Barbara’s voice crackled through the computer and Jason’s phone, “He was last seen getting off the subway to Crime Alley, about an hour ago.”

Jason slammed his hand on the dashboard, cursing, “Damn, already heading home to Stephen.” He paused, realising he was too late– when his phone buzzed with a notification. His brows furrowed and eyes narrowed before he jammed his helmet on. The seals hissed as they locked into place.

“Nevermind. I found him,” his modulated voice stated, the defensive anger replaced by immediate resolve.

Dick’s ear perked up. “Where is he? Jason, I’m coming with you–”

“No,” Jason cut him off. “I’m not giving him to you like some kind of sacrificial lamb. You guys are the last people he wants to see. I’m only going to make sure he’s safe. That’s it.”

“Don’t follow me,” Jason warned one last time. Then the feed cut to black.

Chapter Text

Peter let out a contented sigh, patting his stomach as he stepped out of the shelter and into the cool evening air of Crime Alley. He had eaten three plates of meatloaf, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and enough bread rolls to alarm the volunteer at the serving station. But nobody had scolded him, let alone stopped him.

And it was all thanks to Red Hood.

During Peter’s first visit there, Jason told him to get as much food as he wanted. Peter figured it was a one-time thing because he was with the older man– he assumed Jason’s presence was the only reason why they didn’t bother asking for ID or a guardian. But when he left that day, he noticed a big old sign beside the receptionist area– “Red Hood’s Rules: No ID. No Questions. No Limits on Food For Kids.”

The shelter had been his only reliable source of food since he arrived in Gotham, and as much as it pained him to say it, he was grateful for Red Hood, the crazy gunslinging vigilante.

Peter huffed. Calories in, healing out, he thought, pulling his oversized puffer jacket tighter around himself. He flexed his left hand. A sharp, stinging hiss shot up his forearm, making him wince, but it was manageable. It wasn’t the blinding agony from a few hours ago anymore.

By tomorrow, this long day would just feel like a terrible dream, and his wound would just be a nasty scar.

He turned the corner, heading toward the deeper shadows of the alleyway when his ears perked up. He picked up on the sound of a motorcycle engine turning on, followed by a familiar heavy rumbling sound coming closer.

He stopped, turned slowly, and watched as a familiar motorcycle rolled out of the shadows. The rider killed the engine, but didn’t get off. He just sat there, helmet reflecting the streetlamps– not at all trying to hide in the shadows– watching Peter.

Red Hood.

Peter let out a groan, his head falling back. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How many times do I have to tell you guys to leave me alone?”

“You told the Bats to leave you alone,” the mechanical voice modulated, smooth and unbothered. “I’m not a Bat.”

“And again, I repeat myself– the big bat symbol on your chest–” he turned around to point at his back– “And on this jacket would beg to differ.”

Red Hood chuckled. He kicked the kickstand down, and swung his leg over the bike. He was in full gear– leather jacket, full armour, red helmet gleaming. He looked intimidating as hell to anybody else– but Peter just felt annoyed.

“I got a message from the staff inside– told me a kid wearing my jacket stopped by, practically cleared out half the food.”

Peter flushed. “I was hungry.”

The vigilante raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not judging. That’s what the food is there for,” he said, walking closer. “They also told me you looked off. Guarding your left side. Just wanted to check on you.”

Peter stiffened. He instinctively shifted his weight to hide his injured arm behind his back.

“I’m fine,” Peter lied. “Don’t mind me, I was on my way home. Just go patrol or something.”

“Home?” Red Hood walked closer, his movements relaxed but deliberate. “To Stephen?”

Peter’s brows furrowed and he pressed his lips to a thin line, looking away. “Yeah… he’s expecting me.”

“Uh-huh.” The vigilante stopped a few feet away. He crossed his arms. “And does Stephen know you’re walking around with a third-degree chemical burn under my jacket?”

Peter’s head snapped to Red Hood’s helmet, his eyes narrowing. That was an incredibly specific guess.

“You are so not beating the Bat allegations, Mr. Red Hood.” Peter sighed, placing his hands on his waist. “Did Nightwing call you?”

Red Hood paused. “I told you, the shelter staff texted me,” he deflected.

“Suuure, because the lunch lady definitely knows the exact degree of burn I’m hiding under this jacket. Only two people know about this–” he raised his injured hand, slightly shaking it– “And I doubt you’re in contact with some prissy schoolboy from the other side of town.”

“Pfft–” Red Hood failed to stop a sharp, distorted chuckle from escaping. He immediately recovered, clearing his throat, and shifting his stance.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Are you admitting to the allegations?”

“That they called me? Yes. That I’m a Bat? Still a resounding no.”

“So what happens now? Gonna leave the stalking stage and finally jump to the kidnapping stage?” Peter huffed, eyeing the vigilante suspiciously while also plotting out escape routes in his head.

Red Hood let out a long sigh, his modulator turning it into a static hiss. “I’m not going to kidnap you, that’s more B’s style.”

Peter deadpanned. “I was joking about the kidnapping– Batman actually kidnaps people?”

Red Hood scoffed. “Only the bad kids roaming the streets past curfew,” he joked, then he shifted back to a serious tone. “Look, kid, I heard you got hurt badly. I don’t take orders from them, but when I hear one of the kids from my alley is running around with a serious chemical burn, I step in.”

Red Hood stepped closer, looming over the teenager. “And for the record, no Bat is coming near you. Not tonight. Not while you’re in the Alley. I told them to back off, and they know better than to cross me on my turf.”

Peter hesitated. His spider-sense wasn’t screaming danger, but his trust issues were definitely buzzing.

He stared at the blank red face-plate. The way the yellow streetlights reflected off his mask almost made Red Hood look like Iron Man.

Peter shook that thought away. He sighed. “So what now? As you can see, I’m alright. You gonna let me go now?”

The vigilante crossed his arms. “Kid, I can smell the burn from here, and the weakest hint of neutraliser. What did they use on your arm? Standard school clinic vinegar?”

“It was a disinfectant. It stopped the burning. It’s healing.”

“Festering is more like it,” Red Hood corrected. “And unless this ‘Stephen’ guy has a whole sterile trauma ward in his living room, going home isn’t going to help that heal. It’ll just infect the rest of your arm. You’re going to wake up without an arm.”

Peter grimaced at the thought. He knew Red Hood was right. He had a metabolism that could burn through infection faster than a normal human, but he couldn’t be too sure it would be able to handle the non-sterile environment of his water tank.

“I’ve got a safehouse a few blocks over,” Red Hood offered. “Sterile supplies, antibiotics, gauze, heavy-duty neutralisers. Let me take a look at it, give you some supplies to take with you so it doesn’t get infected, and you can be on your way.”

Peter remained hesitant. Part of him wanted to say no, head back to his water tank and hope for the best. Another part of him– the one that really, badly wants to go out as Spider-Man– knew he couldn’t be sidelined by a rotting arm. That part of him also figured he could use the medical supplies for when he does go out as Spider-Man again.

Ugh, choices.

Option A was a dirty water tank and a prayer. Option B was a safehouse with medical supplies and help from a red-masked vigilante in his territory.

Peter paused. He felt a sense of deja vu. Why does this sound familiar?

He looked up at Red Hood, his head tilting and eyes squinting.

“What are you looking at, kid?” Red Hood asked, but Peter didn’t answer.

He finally remembered. It was during his very early days as Spider-Man, his first introduction to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Peter had tried the whole night patrol thing and ended up tailing a bunch of thugs to Hell’s Kitchen. He was sighted and a fight broke out. He was badly underprepared and outnumbered, he thought that was it for him when Daredevil arrived to help him. He got scolded badly– called reckless, irresponsible– all sorts of stuff.

It was the same tone. The same ‘I’m lecturing you because you’re an idiot who doesn’t realise the gravity of your situation’ tone. And the Devil offered to patch him up afterwards, too.

“What are the odds?” Peter muttered. He blinked, shaking the memory away, and refocused on Red Hood’s helmet. The guy was still waiting, arms crossed, probably waiting for Peter to bolt.

“Odds of what?” Red Hood asked, tilting his helmet.

“Just thinking out loud,” Peter dismissed, shaking his head. He looked back at the vigilante, his expression guarded but resigned.

I’m going to need a real med-kit if I start going out as Spider-Man again, Peter realised. I can’t rely on breaking and entering to get supplies if I get injured.

“Just a look?” Peter asked, eyeing the helmet. “And supplies?”

“Just a look,” Red Hood promised. “I patch you up, give you a go-bag of meds, and you walk out of the door. I’m not gonna hand you over to them. The Bats are staying the hell away from you."

Peter’s spider-sense remained quiet, and his arm felt like it was flaring again. He shrugged. “Good. I bet they live in a creepy basement anyway. Or a dungeon.”

“Worse,” Red Hood deadpanned. “A cave.”

Peter blinked, looking up at the vigilante’s helmet. “A cave? Like… an actual cave?”

“Bats,” Red Hood said, pointing to the symbol on his chest. “They take the theme very seriously. It’s damp, it smells like guano, and I hate it. I’m not taking you there.”

Peter stared at him for a second, then he tilted his head as he hummed. “Is it the big kind of cave or the cramped kind of cave?”

“Big, cavernous, underground waterfall typeshit,” Red Hood mocked.

“Oof. Too bad. I could have been convinced if it was the cramped kind. I like dark, cramped, and secluded spaces, they make me feel safe.”

Red Hood stared at him for a beat, processing that statement. Most people wanted open spaces– this kid wanted a hole in the wall.

“You’re a weird kid,” Red Hood decided, shaking his head. “But you’re in luck. My safehouse is a small crappy apartment with blackout curtains. You’ll feel right at home.”

The vigilante turned toward his bike. “You coming or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Peter conceded, following right behind Red Hood. “But if you give me the ‘reckless idiot’ speech, I’m puking on your boots. I’ve heard it enough times to recite it by heart.”

Red Hood paused, and he looked back at Peter. He shifted his stance, looking like he wanted to argue, but he snapped his mouth shut behind the helmet.

“Deal. Hop on.”

The ride was short, loud, and cold.

Peter clung tightly to Red Hood, his face pressed against the vigilante’s leather jacket. They pulled up to the back entrance of a nondescript apartment complex in a quiet–er part of the Alley. They took the stairs– three flights up. Peter counted every step, focusing on his feet to keep from stumbling as the adrenaline from the ride wore off and the throbbing in his arm ramped up to a steady, sickening pound.

Red Hood unlocked the door with three different keys and a keypad code, and ushered him inside.

The inside was surprisingly clean and small, cramped even, like the vigilante said. It consisted of a single room with a kitchenette, a worn-out couch, and heavy blackout curtains taped over the single window. There were no photos, no plants, and it smelled like antiseptic and gun oil.

Peter took a deep breath. It was dark. It was enclosed. It was perfect.

“Sit,” Red Hood commanded, pointing to the small kitchen island. His mask's modulator turned down to a lower volume, less booming, more conversational. “Don’t touch anything. If it looks explosive, it probably is.

Peter slumped onto a barstool, cradling his left arm. “Hm. Cool.”

Red Hood paused, slowly turning his head toward Peter. He shook his head. “Should have expected that from the kid who flash-froze Croc like a mini-Mr. Freeze.”

Red Hood moved efficiently, stripping off his leather jacket and tossing it over a chair, keeping his helmet on. He peeled off his heavy tactical gauntlets, dropping them on the counter, then washed his hands on the sink. He dried them on a rag then snapped on a fresh pair of blue nitrile gloves from a box on the counter. He moved with the stiff, practised pattern of a man who lived in his armour.

He kicked open a bottom cabinet and pulled out a heavy duty medical kit– the kind Peter had only seen in SHIELD dropships.

“Jacket off,” Red Hood ordered, setting out a metal tray, scissors, and a bottle of clear liquid that stung Peter’s enhanced sense of smell.

Peter hesitated. He awkwardly unzipped the oversized puffer jacket with his right hand. It slid off his shoulders, heavy and warm. He instantly felt colder without it. He looked at the inside lining of the left sleeve. The yellowish fluid and blood had soaked through the gauze Damian applied and stained the black fabric of Red Hood’s gear.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, pointing to the stain. “I messed up the lining.”

“It’s synthetic,” Red Hood said, dismissing the apology as he grabbed the scissors. “Washes right out. Arm out.”

Peter extended his left arm on the counter. Red Hood didn’t wince, didn’t gasp. He snipped away the stained gauze, working with the steadiness of someone who had done this a hundred times.

The fabric peeled away with a wet, sickening sound, heavy with blood and chemical residue. Red Hood dropped the soiled mass onto the metal tray. It landed with a soft plap.

Peter’s eyes followed it instantly. He didn’t look at his exposed wound– he stared at the tray.

His blood. His skin cells. His sweat.

It was the clinic all over again. That wasn’t just trash– if the Bats got hold of that tray, if Red Hood just tossed it to a dumpster they could raid– his identity, his powers, everything would be compromised.

His hand twitched with the instinctive urge to grab the waste and stuff it in his bag with the rest.

Red Hood paused, hand with scissors hovering over Peter’s arm. He noticed Peter’s intense, unblinking stare at the garbage.

“You okay, kid?” he asked. “You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

“That…” Peter swallowed, forcing his eyes up to meet white lenses. “What do you do with that? With the waste?”

“The waste?” Red Hood repeated, sounding confused. Then he glanced at the bloody gauze. “I burn it. Bio-hazard protocol. Everything in this room goes into a portable incinerator when I leave. Can’t leave DNA evidence for the cops to find.”

“And the Bats too?” Peter questioned.

Red Hood’s head tilted slightly. “Yeah, them too. They don’t know about this place, but they also know better than to touch my stuff.”

Peter let out a long, shaky exhale, his entire posture slumping against the counter. He burns it. He’s safe. “Good. Burn it all.”

Red Hood instantly clocked the intensity of Peter’s relief, but he didn’t pry. “Count on it,” was all he said.

He turned his attention back to the arm. When the last layer was cleared away, the air in the kitchen filled with a chemical smell and burnt sugar. The wound was ugly. The skin was angry red and blistering, with patches of white dead tissue where the chemical had pooled.

Red Hood leaned in. “Nasty,” he commented, his voice flat. “Your science experiment has a pH balance that would make the Joker jealous. Whoever patched you up tried to neutralise it, but they used something weak. A standard disinfectant?”

“Something like that,” Peter gritted out.

“It stopped the surface burn, but the reaction is still happening in the deep tissue,” Red Hood explained. “I have to flush it with a stronger counter-agent. The reaction is exothermic. It means–”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Peter cut him off, already bracing himself. “It’ll be hot, I know. Just get it over with.”

The vigilante grabbed a thick leather strap from the kit. “Bite down on this. I don’t want you cracking a tooth.”

Peter shook his head, pushing the strap away. “I’ll be fine. Just do it.”

Red Hood paused, looking at him blankly under his helmet. “Suit yourself. On three. One. Two.”

On two, Red Hood poured the neutraliser. Peter’s vision went white. It felt like a branding iron was pressed directly into his bones. His entire body seized, back arching over the counter. He slammed his eyes shut, his right hand gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned bone-white and his nails dug painfully into the underside of the ledge.

He didn’t scream. He refused to scream. He just let out a long, strangled hiss through his teeth, his breath coming in sharp, jagged gasps.

Then as quickly as it started, the heat vanished, replaced by a numbing cold. Peter slumped over the counter, panting, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“You didn’t scream,” Red Hood remarked, genuine surprise seeping through the modulator.

“Told-told you,” Peter wheezed, forcing his eyes open. “High… pain tolerance.”

Red Hood stared at the kid– pale, shaking, mostly sitting upright. He didn’t say anything about it. He just continued his work.

The rest was a blur of efficiency. Red Hood flushed the wound with saline, applied a thick layer of silver-sulfadiazine cream, and wrapped the arm in sterile padding and compression bandages.

“IV time,” Red Hood announced. Peter’s fluttering eyes snapped open and he looked at the vigilante. “Broad spectrum antibiotics and a saline flush. You’re dehydrated,” he explained, hanging a bag of fluids from a hook under the cabinet.

Peter didn’t object and watched Red Hood expertly find a vein in his right arm and slide the needle in.

“You’re good at this,” Peter mumbled, his eyes drooping as the adrenaline crash hit him. “For a crime lord.”

“I’m not a crime lord,” the vigilante corrected, taping the line down. “I’m a businessman with aggressive negotiation tactics. And I’m good at this because the alternative is bleeding out in an alley.”

Peter chuckled. “You sound like Mr. Barton,” he mumbled.

Red Hood chose to ignore the comparison. Instead, he helped Peter off the stool and guided him toward the living room. The couch looked old, but more importantly, comfortable. He grabbed a heavy wool blanket from a chest and held it out for Peter as he gestured for the puffer jacket the teen was still clinging on to. “Give me the jacket, I’ll get it cleaned for you.”

Peter weakly nodded as he traded the blanket for the jacket, shivering slightly as the cold air hit his skin. Red Hood rummaged through a chest by the wall and tossed a dark grey hoodie at Peter. “Here. Put that on. It’ll be big, but it’s clean.”

Peter pulled the hoodie on, careful not to snag his bandaged arm. The fabric was soft and thick, smelling faintly of the same antiseptic soap Red Hood used earlier. It swallowed his entire frame, the sleeves hanging past his arms, but the warmth was instant and grounding. He pulled the heavy wool blanket over his lap as he settled into the cushions.

“Sleep.” Red Hood pulled a chair from the kitchen to sit opposite the couch. “I’ll wake you up in four hours to check the dressing.”

Peter curled up under the blanket, clutching his bandaged left arm. He looked at the vigilante– the red helmet unmoving, watching over him like a gargoyle. With a little bit of gold, it could really easily pass off as one of Tony’s helmets.

“Why?” Peter mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Red Hood tilted his head. “Why what?”

“Why help me?” Peter asked, his eyes fluttering shut. “Why are you nice to me? Like… actually nice. The other guys… Nightwing… he acted nice, he pretended to care… but then he sicced the Bats on me. Why are you different? …why are they even following me? Watching me?”

Red Hood was silent for a long moment. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at the kid through white lenses.

“Because they can’t figure you out,” he said simply.

Peter frowned, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Figure me out?”

“They like puzzles they can solve. You?” Red Hood gestured vaguely at Peter. “You’re a variable. You’re an anomaly to them. To them, anything they can’t predict is a threat. And you’re capable enough to be a problem to them. Nightwing has it in his head that you’re one bad day away from snapping. That you’re gonna hurt someone.”

Peter’s eyes slowly widened. He was quiet for a moment, before he shakily answered, “I-I won’t… never.” He pulled the blanket tighter. “I can’t believe that’s what he thinks of me–like I’m some kind of monster.”

“You can imagine what he thinks of me when I’ve been actively killing criminals,” Red Hood deadpanned.

Peter huffed, letting his head sink comfortably onto the cushion. “The more I learn about Nightwing, the less I like him.”

Jason paused. He looked at the kid–trusting Jason but hating Dick–and a sharp pang of guilt hit him.

He remembered Dick’s heartbroken expression in the cave. Dick wasn’t trying to be a jerk– he was genuinely terrified for Peter’s soul. Yet here Jason was– actively poisoning the well between a father and his–alleged–son. If Dick ever found out Jason made his kid hate him…

Jason’s hand reached to massage his forehead, but only met his helmet. “Give the guy a chance,” he sighed, sounding tired. “He’s… a lot. But he’s just worried about his ki– you, kid.”

Jason caught himself just in time. His kid.

Peter pouted, his eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion dragged him under. “He doesn’t need to worry about me. I’m not a kid to be worried about.”

“From where I’m sitting, you look like a kid to me,” Jason observed, watching the oversized hoodie swallow the boy’s frame. “Acting like one too.”

Peter didn’t have the energy to argue. His breathing slowed, hitching slightly as he fought the pull of sleep.

Red Hood stood up, checking the clips on his tactical vest.

“Get some sleep. I have some rounds to finish,” he announced, moving toward the door, grabbing his gear and the waste he needed to incinerate. He paused, his hand on the knob, and looked back at the couch. “And don’t get any bright ideas about leaving early. I’ve got silent alarms rigged on the door and window. If you try to sneak out, I’ll know before you even reach the fire escape.”

Peter let out a sleepy, delirious snort, his eyes already closed. “Please,” he mumbled, his words slurring together. “Bold of you to assume I couldn’t disable simple alarms… in my… sleep…”

The sentence trailed off into a soft snore. Jason stared at him for a bit, shaking his head.

“You probably could, squirt,” he whispered. He killed the lights, plunging the room into the safety of the dark, and slipped out the door, locking all three deadbolts behind him.

The darkness of the safehouse faded, replaced by the blinding, sterile white of a spotlight.

Peter wasn’t in the apartment anymore. He was standing on a narrow, wooden platform, high above the ground. The air smelled like chalk and popcorn–the smell of a circus–like Haly’s Circus from his dad’s old tapes.

He looked at his hands. They were small. He wasn’t Spider-Man. He was just a kid in a leotard that felt itchy against his skin.

Across the expanse, swinging gently on the opposite trapeze bar, they were waiting for him.

Not his grandparents. Not Richard and Mary Parker.

Tony was hanging from his knees, the arc reactor glowing softly through his shirt, arms outstretched and waiting. Natasha sat on the bar above him, smiling that soft smile she saved just for Peter– her spiderling. Bucky was holding the ropes, his metal arm glinting under the lights, giving Peter a nod of encouragement.

Don’t be scared, Pete, his dad’s voice echoed in the air, even though he wasn’t there. Why would you be scared?

“Because it’s high,” Peter answered, the words escaped his mouth but his voice sounded distant.

“I’m not scared,” his dad’s memory whispered. “Because I know they’re going to catch me.”

Peter looked at Tony. Tony winked. “Trust me, kid. I got you.”

Peter took a breath. He gripped the bar. He bent his knees and jumped. The wind rushed past his ears. The feeling of weightlessness was perfect– euphoric. He swung out over the void, releasing the bar at the apex of the arc, flipping through the air just like he’d practised a thousand times as Spider-Man.

He reached out. His hands reached toward Tony’s. He could see the calluses on his mentor’s fingers– he was right there.

But just as their fingers were about to brush, the world glitched. A static distortion rippled through Tony’s smiling face– and for just a moment, Peter saw Tony in his final moments– his right side charred and fused to his Iron Man suit.

Then he was gone. They were all gone.

There was no bar. There was no Natasha. There was no Bucky. There was just cold, empty air.

Peter’s hands grasped at nothing. The momentum died. Gravity took hold.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t flail. He just watched the empty space where his family used to be as he plummeted into the dark.

They can’t catch you, his mind whispered as the ground rushed up to meet him. They’re gone.

He hit the floor–

And opened his eyes.

There was no gasp. No sheen of cold sweat. Peter simply blinked, staring at the cracked ceiling of the safehouse. He laid perfectly still under the heavy wool blanket.

He was used to the fall. He was falling every night. But his heart didn’t get the memo. It was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, bruising rhythm that echoed the terror of the void he’d just left.

Then, the smell of grease and salt drifted over him.

“Morning,” a modulated voice called out from the kitchenette, casual and low. “You alive back there?”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t look over. He just stared at a water stain on the ceiling and focused on his chest.

Breathe in… hold. He forced his lungs to expand slowly, fighting the urge to hyperventilate. Breathe out.

He repeated the pattern Damian had forced on him in the gym. The rhythm was stiff, clinical, and annoying–just like the kid who taught it to him–but it worked.

In… hold. Out.

Slowly, the frantic drumming in his chest subsided, replaced by the dull, heavy throb of his left arm. Peter let out a long shaky exhale. He was awake. He was safe. He–his stomach growled–and apparently, he’s hungry.

“Yeah,” Peter croaked, his voice thick with sleep. “I’m alive.”

As the adrenaline faded, a heavy, medicated fog settled back over his brain. He blinked, a vague memory surfacing through the haze– waking up in the dark hours ago, the feeling of cold nitrile gloves on his arm, a fresh bandage, and a gruff voice telling him to drink water.

He sat up slowly, the oversized grey hoodie swallowing his frame as the wool blanket pooled at his waist. He looked over the back of the couch. Red Hood was standing by the small stove, flipping bacon with a pair of metal tongs, still wearing his helmet.

Peter rubbed his eyes with his right arm. “Sorry.”

Red Hood looked at him and tilted his head slightly. “For what?”

Peter cleared his throat, wincing as he stretched his injured arm. “You have to keep your helmet on because I’m here.”

“It’s part of the vigilante schtick. Don’t worry about it,” his modulated voice echoed.

Red Hood plated the food–eggs, bacon, and toast–and set it on the kitchen island. He grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and placed it next to the plate. “Eat. Hydrate. Then I check the wound.”

Peter shuffled to the barstool, dragging his feet. He sat down and eyed the vigilante. “Did you eat already?”

“Yep,” Red Hood answered smoothly. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest armour. “Besides, watching you eat can make people believe they’re eating. You inhale food like you’re afraid it’s gonna run away.”

Peter’s face flushed. He remembered the full course he ate at the shelter. He slowed down his fork, trying to take normal human bites.

“I have a fast metabolism,” Peter muttered defensively.

“I noticed.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, broken only by the scrape of Peter’s fork. It was weird, Peter thought. He was sitting in a safehouse with a guy who kills people for a living–not just in the past, but actively–while the guy watched him like a bodyguard.

Yet no buzz from his spider-sense.

Peter just felt… at home. Like, he was just eating breakfast at the Avengers Compound with Bucky.

“Done?” Red Hood asked as Peter wiped the plate clean with the last piece of toast.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. Arm.”

The check-up was quick. Red Hood unwrapped the bandages with the same clinical efficiency as the night before. The wound looked angry and red, but the white patches of dead skin hadn’t spread. It was healing.

The vigilante applied a fresh layer of cream and re-wrapped it, securing it with metal clips. “It’ll scar,” he noted.

“Eh, what’s new?” Peter shrugged.

Red Hood’s white lenses lingered on Peter’s face for a second, likely analysing the implication of his statement, but he kept quiet about it. No reckless idiot speech, he remembered.

“Listen closely,” the vigilante said, his voice serious. “It’s stable for now, but that chemical is nasty. If it starts hurting like hell again, or if it starts smelling off, you don’t tough it out. You run to the shelter, or you find this place– trigger the silent alarms or something– and I’ll come running. Do not wait. Understand?”

“I understand.” Peter nodded, promising. He wasn’t keen on losing a limb anyhow.

Red Hood reached under the counter and pulled out a plastic grocery bag filled with supplies. He slid it across the island. “Extra gauze, tape, antiseptic, and a week’s worth of antibiotics. As promised.”

Peter grabbed the bag, looking inside. It was everything he needed to maintain his wound–and a good start for a Spider-Man patrol kit.

“And your jacket,” Red Hood gestured to the back of a chair, where the black puffer jacket was draped. “I scrubbed the lining. It’s clean.”

Peter hopped off the stool and grabbed the jacket. It smelled like detergent and ozone. He slipped it on over the grey hoodie.

“I didn’t touch your backpack,” Red Hood added pointedly, nodding toward the bag on the floor by the couch. “Whatever you got there is your business.”

Peter felt a wave of relief. “Thanks.” He grabbed his bag and swung it over his uninjured shoulder.

“I’ll drop you off,” the vigilante offered, grabbing his keys. “Where to? Stephen’s?”

Peter hesitated. He looked at the cheap wall clock ticking above the stove. 12:04pm. He remembered Damian’s parting words. Simply stop by in your free time.

“Actually,” Peter adjusted his backpack strap. “Can you drop me off the public library? The main branch one.”

Red Hood paused, the keys in his hand ceasing their jingling. “The library?” his modulated voice asked, flat. “Why the library?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m meeting a friend there at three-ish.”

“It’s noon,” Red Hood pointed out.

“I know. I was planning on using the computers there anyways. I… have to look some stuff up.”

Red Hood went silent, tilting his head slightly. He was just questioned relentlessly yesterday, and they set this meeting up?

It was a trap, Jason deduced. A nice, friendly, burger-buying trap like Dickie had set the other day. He was against it, but this was Peter’s choice. He wasn’t going to make it for the kid.

“Fine,” Red Hood said, his voice unreadable. “I’ll get you close.”

Peter perked up and grinned. “Oh, and before we go, can we stop by your incinerator? I need to burn some more stuff.”

The ride was short. Red Hood dropped him off two blocks away from the library, at an alley out of sight from the main road.

“You good?” Red Hood asked as Peter jumped off the bike.

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, adjusting his bag. He hesitated, then looked at the imposing armoured figure. “Thanks. For the meds. And the food. You didn’t have to.”

Red Hood scoffed. “Get out of here, kid.” He revved the engine. “Before I start charging you for the bacon.”

Peter grinned, turning to the library’s direction.

“And kid?” Red Hood called out over the engine noise. Peter stopped and looked back.

“Be careful,” he warned, his tone losing its humour. “Just because they aren’t wearing masks doesn’t mean they’re not watching.”

Peter’s smile wavered slightly, and he nodded. “I know. Thanks, Mr. Red Hood.”

Jason watched the kid run out of the alley toward the library. He shook his head, revved his engine, and peeled away into traffic.

He pressed the side of his helmet, and connected his comm to Barbara. Before she could respond, he ordered, “O, connect me to Dick’s phone. And don’t you dare listen in or connect the cave. This is just for his ears.”

Chapter Text

The call rang once.

“Jason?” Dick’s voice was breathless, tight with anxiety. “Did you find Peter? Is he–”

“He’s alive, Dick. Breathe,” Jason cut him off, his modulated voice echoing. “I patched him up. He’s fed, he’s medicated, and he’s heading your way. I just dropped him off near the library.”

“He’s coming?” Relief crashed through the line. “How’s the burn? Damian said he’s–”

“I just said I patched him up!” Jason said sharply. “I flushed it and gave him antibiotics.” He sighed. “Listen to me, Dick, I’m telling you this for the kid, not for you. If you screw up your meeting with Peter, I’m not helping you fix it, no matter how much you beg.”

Dick went silent, then he responded, “I’m listening.”

“Rule one– don’t ask about his arm,” Jason ordered. “He’s hiding it under his clothes. He doesn’t like looking weak in front of people, so don’t ‘baby’ him. If he wants to tell you, he’ll tell you. Don’t treat him like some case to be solved, Dick.”

“Okay. Ignore the arm. Got it.”

“Rule two– he’s wearing my jacket, don’t scold him for it.”

“Your… Red Hood jacket.” Dick’s voice strained.

“Don’t bring out cop Dick or Nightwing and ask why he has my jacket. It’s nothing deep, Dick. He was cold, and now his clothes are ruined by the attack. Don’t make a face when you see it. If you act weird about him trusting me, he’ll shut down. We’re on the same team for this kid, got it?”

“Got it,” Dick said, his voice gaining a bit of steel. “What else?”

“Rule three– fix the monster thing.”

Dick’s voice went cold. “The… what?”

“He thinks you hate him, Dick,” Jason said, his voice dropping lower. “That you’re afraid of him. He asked why you were stalking him, so I told him what you said– that you’re worried he’d snap and hurt somebody.”

“So you told him I thought he was a monster?!”

“I told him you thought he was dangerous. He filled in the monster part himself.” Jason let that hang in the air for a while. “And frankly? With how you guys talked about him last night? I don’t blame him.”

A choked silence followed, heavy with guilt. “I– I didn’t mean–”

“Doesn’t matter what you meant, Dick. It matters what Peter feels,” Jason cut in, his tone final. “You talked about him like a villain in the making. You need to treat him like an actual person– not an asset, not a weapon, not a broken clone.”

Dick remained quiet.

“This is what you do, Dickie. You’re supposed to be the expert in seeing the humanity in people. Don’t suddenly stop when it comes to this kid. You want to save this kid? Here’s your chance. Don’t blow it.”

“R-right. Thanks, Jason,” Dick forced out.

Jason hung up without saying you’re welcome. He’d done his part. The rest was up to the Golden Boy.

Good luck, Dickie, he thought grimly. You’re gonna need it.

Peter walked into the library, the familiar scent of old paper and dust calming his nerves. It was quiet. It was neutral ground.

He adjusted his backpack, careful not to jostle his bandaged left arm, and headed toward the public computers. He wanted to spend the next three hours digging. The trapeze rig had resurfaced memories of his old tradition with his dad and Ben. He needed to know if that family history–the one that tied him to his dad–was shared in this universe’s history.

Peter took a step, then froze. Something was wrong.

He stood three feet away from the row of computers, knowing if he had taken one more step, he would have found himself in an invisible red zone– the view of a camera that was not there before.

Peter turned to the shelves behind the computers. His eyes narrowed as his senses pinpointed the exact location of the camera–installed flushed with the wood, angled specifically to record the screens. There was no doubt it was the Bats.

It wasn’t just for monitoring– they wanted to know what he knew.

Peter clenched his jaw. They just couldn’t leave him alone, could they?

He turned on his feet, and headed straight to the reception desk. Barbara was there, typing away on her computer.

“Ms. Babs?”

Barbara’s eyes shifted to him, and she put on a kind smile. “Peter, back again. What can I do for you?”

Peter pointed his thumb toward the shelf with the camera. “Just wanted to let you know, I think there’s something wrong with that shelf over there.” He looked over his shoulder. “It looks a little off, I dunno. It’s pointed directly at the screens, it might be a camera or something.”

He turned his head toward Barbara. He thought he saw her smile falter slightly, but her expression quickly smoothed back into that familiar warmth. “Oh, thanks for telling me, Peter. I’ll have someone check it later.”

“Thanks, Ms. Babs. I didn’t wanna use the computers if it turned out to be a camera.” Peter let out a shaky breath.

“I wouldn’t either,” Barbara agreed quickly, then gestured to the empty table right next to her desk. “Do you have your own device? You can sit over here. It’s out of the way, and the Wi-Fi is the strongest here.”

Peter scanned the corner. No hidden lenses. No buzzing warnings at the back of his skull. He nodded. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Peter took a seat, pulling out his Frankenstein of a laptop, feeling a flush of embarrassment as he set the device on the table. It made the outdated library computers look like the best tech you could get, but it was all he had and he couldn’t be too picky about it.

He booted up the computer and opened up the Horizon browser. His laptop bypassed the library’s network entirely, piggybacking off his suit’s connection to local cell towers via his nanotech. No Wi-Fi login required–and no digital footprint for the library to track.

He typed in the search bar– “The Flying Graysons.”

Articles popped up instantly.

“Tragedy at Haly’s Circus.”

“Grayson Family Falls to Death.”

Peter clicked on the first article, expecting the familiar story his dad told him–a freak accident, a snapped wire, a tragedy of wear-and-tear.

Instead, he read the word– sabotage.

…acid applied to ropes… Tony Zucco arrested… murder.

Peter felt a cold chill down his spine. In his universe, it was an accident. Here, someone murdered his grandparents.

Was it just a difference between universes? Or were his grandparents in his universe also murdered, but no one figured it out? He didn’t know which it was.

He scrolled down, trying to push past the grim thought, and found a link at the bottom of the page– “The Wayne Foundation Commemorative Archive: Remembering the Flying Graysons.”

He clicked it. The page loaded with a banner of the exact Flying Graysons poster his dad had passed onto him– the one he left in his closet in his home universe. He saw a button labelled ‘Gallery.’ He clicked it, and the page loaded a whole gallery of video files.

Peter’s eyes went wide. He hesitated, his cursor hovering over a video titled “Gotham Performance - 1996.”

He clicked play. The grainy footage flickered to life. A spotlight hit the platform. A man and woman in glittering costumes waved to the crowd.

Peter’s breath hitched. It was them. It was his grandparents. And standing between them, waving with a smile that matched Peter’s own, was a young boy.

Dad.

The routine started. Peter watched, entranced. It was exactly the same. The flips, the timing, the way his grandfather caught his grandmother mid-air– it was shot-for-shot identical to the VHS tapes he used to watch with his dad on their old couch in Queens.

It was identical to the tapes he watched with Uncle Ben when he missed his parents too much.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the screen. He wiped them furiously, but they kept coming. He clicked the next video. Then the next. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He just sat there, huddled in his oversized Red Hood jacket, watching a ghost of a life he remembered but never lived.

“Peter?”

He jumped, instinctively slamming the lid down– only to freeze halfway when the hinge let out a sickening crack. He looked up to see Barbara watching him, her expression soft and worried.

“Are you okay? You’re crying.”

Peter quickly scrubbed his face with his sleeve, wincing as the movement pulled the heavy fabric against his bandages.

“It’s-it’s nothing,” Peter stammered, his voice thick. “It’s nothing. My dad and I…we used to watch VHS tapes of circus acts when I was a kid. I just felt… nostalgic.”

Barbara’s eyes flickered to the laptop screen, widening as she saw the frozen frame of the Flying Graysons.

Before she could ask–before she could process the implication that Peter’s creators included memories of watching Dick’s parents in the kid–the library doors opened.

Peter turned around. Dick Grayson stood there, dressed in casual clothes and looking anxious. Beside him stood a quiet young woman with sharp, dark eyes. They were carrying several large, insulated food containers.

“Peter.” Dick’s breath hitched as he spotted him immediately. The relief on his face was palpable.

Peter stood up, shoving his laptop in his bag. “Hey.”

Dick rushed over. He stopped just short of a hug, his hands twitching at his sides. His eyes darted to the Red Hood jacket swallowing Peter’s frame. Peter saw a flash of recognition–maybe even pain–in Dick’s face, but he blinked it away instantly.

“I’m glad you came,” Dick said, his voice sincere. “I… honestly, I thought you wouldn’t.”

Peter shrugged. “What can I say? Damian can be… coercive.”

He glanced at the girl beside Dick, and his head tilted. His spider-sense buzzed at the back of his head– not the sharp scream of immediate threat, but a low, steady hum warning him to keep his guard up.

Peter must have stared longer than he realised.

“Peter, this is my sister, Cass,” Dick introduced her, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. “Cass, this is Peter.”

Cass didn’t speak. She stepped forward, her movement silent and fluid in a way that made Peter’s hairs stand on end– but also vaguely familiar.

Hey there, spiderling. Natasha’s voice echoed in his mind.

She looked him up and down, scanning him– her dark eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on his left arm– before she held out one of the insulated containers.

“Hungry?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, raspier than Peter expected.

Peter blinked, the sudden offering catching him off guard. He looked at the container, then at Dick.

“Alfred–he’s our butler, but also like our grandfather–he insisted. He packed enough to feed an army,” Dick explained quickly. “He heard we were meeting a friend and well–” he cleared his throat– “Do you want to eat with us? There’s a lunch room in the back Babs lets us use.”

Peter hesitated. His stomach, betraying him as always, gave a small hollow growl. His healing factor was demanding fuel to knit his skin back together.

Cass’ lips twitched upward. She shoved the container into his right hand–his good hand.

“Eat,” she commanded softly.

Peter pressed his lips to a thin line and meekly nodded. Dick and Cass led them to a small but private lunchroom at the back of the library. Peter sat on the side of the table overlooking the entrance, while Dick and Cass sat across him.

Dick unpacked the containers of roast chicken, potatoes, and vegetables that smelled like heaven to Peter’s enhanced sense of smell.

“So,” Dick started, passing a plate to Peter. He watched Peter reach for the plate with his right hand, his left arm tucked close to his chest against the puffer jacket. Dick’s eyes zeroed in on the stiffness. He opened his mouth–let me see it–but immediately closed it.

Rule one– don’t ask about his arm. He repeated in his head.

“I wanted to apologise,” Dick pivoted, his voice soft. “For yesterday. For Damian.”

Peter stiffened, reaching for a water bottle with his right hand. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Dick insisted. “I know he… came on strong. He has it in his head that we need to assess everything.” Myself, as well– I thought that too, Dick admitted internally.

Peter’s fingers grasped the bottle cap. He tried to twist, but a sharp bolt of pain shot up his forearm. His grip faltered. He tried again, gritting his teeth, but he couldn’t get the torque without engaging the muscles over the burn.

He felt Dick watching him. He waited for the question. Are you hurt? Let me see.

But Dick didn’t say a word. He just looked at his own hands, looking like he was physically restraining himself from helping.

Suddenly, a pale hand reached across the table. Cass took the bottle from Peter. She twisted the cap off with a single, smooth motion, and placed it back in front of him. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t look at his injury. She just picked up her fork and started eating her potatoes.

Peter blinked. “Thanks.”

Cass nodded.

Peter took a sip of water, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. They’re not pushing.

“Damian told me about the panic attack,” Dick pushed gently.

Peter paused.

“He said he didn’t know the trapeze rig would trigger you. He thought you would find it interesting. He feels terrible about it.”

Peter swallowed. He thought about his dream.

“It’s okay,” Peter said quietly. “I didn’t know I would have that reaction either.” He looked down at his plate. “And it wasn’t the trapeze rig that triggered it. Not really. It just… reminded me of my dad.”

Dick went very still. “Your dad?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “We had a tradition. Watching the recordings of his performances… seeing him fly with my grandparents. When he died, Uncle Ben took over for him. We watched them every year.”

Peter instinctively squeezed the jacket over his chest into a ball, grounding himself in the fabric. He let out a shaky breath and looked up, meeting Dick’s blue eyes– the same eyes from the videos, the same eyes from his family photos.

“I thought I lost my memories of him,” Peter admitted, a small sad smile touching his lips as he forced himself to look away. “Everything’s been so… gone. But I found the videos online. I found them again. So… I’m feeling a lot better.”

Dick stared at him, the blood draining from his face. The air in the room suddenly felt thin. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to ask who did this to him– who gave him these memories, who twisted his family’s tragedy into this boy’s backstory? Who made a child mourn Dick’s parents?

But he remembered Jason’s voice in his ear. Don’t treat him like a case to be solved.

“That’s…” Dick’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s a nice tradition, Peter. I’m glad… I’m glad you found those videos.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder–Cass– grounding him, steadying him. He let out a slow shaky breath, and he recomposed himself as Peter’s gaze returned to him.

Peter looked at Dick–really looked at him. He listened to his heartbeat– slightly elevated, just like the first time they met– yet, he didn’t see a stranger in front of him. He saw a guy who wore his dad’s face, looking at him with so much worry it made Peter’s chest ache. He squeezed the jacket again, steadying himself.

“That jacket,” Dick said, his voice carefully neutral.

Peter froze. He looked down at the jacket and he realised Red Hood’s symbol was visible on his back and Dick had seen it. He was wearing a violent vigilante’s symbol in front of a police officer. He tensed, waiting to be scolded, to be told Red Hood was not a good person–he knew that would be anybody’s first thought–but he didn’t get that from Dick.

“It looks warm.” Dick smiled at him.

“Y-yeah,” Peter stammered as he let go of the fabric. “Yeah, it is. It’s been a huge lifesaver.”

Dick didn’t ask what Peter meant. He didn’t pry. He just nodded, a sad, grateful smile touching his lips.

The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by the quiet clinking of silverware and the hum of library ventilation.

Peter didn’t have to think about the Bats, or the stalking, or the fear. He just ate–and for the short time he was there, he could imagine he was eating with his dad.

Peter found himself relaxing. It was… nice. Normal.

Dick steered the conversation to safer waters– complaining about the traffic in Bludhaven, asking Peter about his favourite subjects–carefully steering away from chemistry, which felt a little too close to the wound. All the while, he let Cass quietly anchor the table with her steady presence.

When the food was finally gone, Peter sat back, feeling warmer than he had in days. He looked at the empty containers, then at Dick and Cass.

“I can help wash up,” he volunteered, grabbing the stack of plates and balancing them on his good arm. He turned toward the sink, but Cass was there instantly, taking the stack from him with gentle but firm hands.

“No, I wash,” she said with finality. She nodded toward Dick. “Dick has something for you.”

Peter turned toward Dick. He reached under the table and pulled out a sleek, insulated thermal bag. It looked heavy.

“Alfred packed extras,” Dick said, sliding the bag across the table. “He said growing boys need calories. It’s got dinner, maybe tomorrow’s breakfast in there. It’ll stay warm for a few hours.”

Peter’s eyes widened. He hesitated. He knew he should hesitate–they had just fed him–but he remembered the constant gnawing hunger of his metabolism. He looked at Cass. She nodded, her expression serious.

Take it, her expression seemed to say.

Peter approached the bag meekly. “Thanks,” he whispered, taking the bag. It was warm. “Tell Alfred I said thanks.”

“I will.” Dick smiled. The same smile from the videos– bright, genuine, full of hope.

Dick walked him to the library entrance. “Do you need a ride?” he offered automatically.

Peter smiled and shook his head. “No. I’m good. Thanks again for the food, Dick. I had a great time."

Peter expected Dick to push the offer again, but he just nodded. “Okay. Be safe, Peter.”

“I will.” Peter pushed the doors open and stepped out into the cool afternoon air of Gotham. He adjusted Red Hood’s jacket on his shoulders and gripped the handle of the insulated bag from Alfred.

He walked away feeling lighter than he had in days. He wasn’t home– he was never going back home– but for the first time since waking up in that alley, he didn’t feel entirely alone.

He had a jacket to keep him warm, food to keep him running– and his suit was fully operational again.

A small smile touched his lips as he disappeared into the crowd. He was ready.

“He stopped.”

The announcement cut through the low hum of the Batcomputer. Dick stood over the console, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. On the massive screen, a single red dot pulsed against the dark wireframe map of Gotham.

It had been moving steadily for over an hour and a half– weaving an erratic route on foot to avoid cameras– but for the past ten minutes, it remained stationary.

“Location locked,” Tim said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Park Row, industrial district.”

Dick leaned closer, squinting at the coordinates. “That’s… that’s an old textile factory. The one condemned after the fires in ‘09.”

“Pulling up schematics,” Barbara’s voice cut in through the speakers, tight with worry. The screen shifted, displaying a blueprint of a crumbling structure. “Dick, there’s no residential registration for that block. No running water in that building. No electricity. And the roof collapsed in three places last winter.”

Bruce stood by the console like a statue, his jaw set. “Show me the interior.”

“Not possible, B,” Barbara said, frustrated. “No cameras inside. And the tracker isn’t inside the building, it’s… in the water tank on the roof.”

“He’s keeping him there?” Dick whispered, the horror rising in his throat like bile. “Stephen. He’s keeping a child with third-degree chemical burn in a condemned factory.”

“Current ambient temperature in Park Row is thirty-seven degrees,” Damian noted from where he stood by the equipment rack, his arms crossed. His voice was cold, clinical, but his posture was rigid. “If Peter is being held there, it fits the profile of a weaponised asset. Low maintenance. Hidden.”

“He is not an asset!” Dick snapped, spinning around. He grabbed his mask from the console. “He’s a kid! He’s hurt, he’s freezing, and he’s alone in a concrete box!”

He moved toward his bike, intent on tearing the building apart brick by brick to find Stephen and take Peter home.

“Dick, wait,” Bruce’s voice was low. 

“We don’t have time to wait, Bruce!”

“It’s deep in Crime Alley.”

Dick froze. The momentum died in his legs as the realisation settled like lead in his stomach.

“We can't go,” Tim reminded him, his voice neutral. “If we cross into the Alley without permission, especially to go after the kid Jason explicitly claimed protection over, we start a war. And we lose any trust Peter might have left.”

You’ve done enough. Dick winced, remembering the venom in Peter’s voice. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

Dick let out a frustrated growl, the fight draining out of him as he realised they were right. He nodded sharply. “Call Jason. Now.”

Bruce reached for the comms panel. The line rang for three agonising seconds before it clicked open.

“This better be good,” Jason’s voice crackled over the speakers, distorted by the wind but not his modulator. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Jason, we need access,” Bruce said, his voice calm but urgent. “We’re tracking Peter.”

“You’re doing what?!” The anger in Jason’s voice spiked instantly. “You just couldn’t help yourselves, could you?! Dick, are you there?!”

“I’m here. We gave him a bag with a tracker in it,” Dick answered, rubbing his gloved hands on his forehead. “Jason, listen– he stopped. He’s in the industrial district, in that condemned textile factory on 4th. He’s on the roof.”

"There’s nothing there but rats and a broken water tank.” Jason’s tone shifted from anger to confusion, then sharp realisation. 

“Stephen might be keeping him there… Jason, let us in. We need to extract him, get him proper care, not a freezer!”

There was a heavy pause on the line. They could hear the rev of Jason’s engine.

“No,” Jason growled.

“Jason!”

“I said no! You go storming in there with the Batmobile and your self-righteousness, you break the truce with me. I’m not letting you near that kid while he’s in my territory.”

“That environment is unsuitable for recovery, Todd,” Damian interjected.

“That’s rich coming from you, demon brat. Don’t feign concern now! You literally tortured Peter just yesterday!”

“Tt.”

“I’ll handle it,” Jason stated, the sound of his bike accelerating roaring through the speakers. “Send me the tracker signal. I’ll suit up and check the perimeter. If Stephen is there, I’ll deal with him. If the kid is freezing, I bring him with me.”

“Jason, we can be there sooner,” Bruce argued.

“Then what? You scare him off for good?” Jason countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low warning. “I gave him my word. No Bats in the Alley. You stay put. Or so help me, I will shoot the tires off the Batmobile myself.”

The line went dead for a second as Jason disconnected, effectively locking them out of the conversation.

Dick looked at Bruce, trembling with the urge to rush to Peter.

“Let Jason go,” Bruce said, though his jaw was tight. “Peter doesn’t trust us, but he trusts Jason.”

The wind whipped around the rusted fire escape as Jason–in his Red Hood gear–landed silently on the metal grating. He knew this building. He used to stash gear here years ago when he first came back to Gotham. It was a shithole. A rat-infested, freezing shithole.

He crept toward the water tank on the roof. The tracker signal was strong here. He expected to hear movement. Maybe the kid talking to himself, or the sound of a heater if he was lucky.

But it was quiet. Only the wind whistling through the gaps in the metal.

Jason activated his helmet’s thermal vision.

Nothing.

Jason’s brows furrowed behind his helmet. That wasn’t right. Even if the kid was sleeping under blankets, there should have been a heat bloom.

“Kid?” he whispered, his modulator dialled down to its lowest setting. “It’s Red Hood. I’m coming in.”

No answer.

He climbed up the water tank, unlatching the hatch–the lock was broken, hanging loosely– and swung it open. He dropped inside, landing in a crouch, guns loose in his holsters, ready for anything.

But the metal box was silent.

He stood up, scanning the small, circular space with his night vision, and he found– his black jacket on the floor, the one he gave Peter.

His heart dropped. He rushed forward, fearing he’d find the kid collapsed underneath. Instead, he found Peter’s backpack tucked beneath. Beside the backpack was an insulated bag– presumably the one with the tracker.

He breathed a sigh of relief, his modulator distorting it to a hiss.

He gripped the black jacket tightly. It was cold. Peter was gone.

Jason turned his comms on. “O. Cut the feed to the others. Just me and you for a second.”

“Done. Jason, is he okay?” Barbara’s voice was tight with worry, before lowering to a dangerous tone. “Is Stephen there?”

“He’s not here, O. Neither of them are.”

“What? But the tracker–”

“The tracker is here,” Jason said, kicking the insulated bag gently with his boot. “The food is here. Peter’s backpack too, my jacket– but the kid is not here.”

Jason remembered the relief in Peter’s face when he said he didn’t touch the backpack. This thing– or whatever was inside it– was important for Peter. Would he really just leave this here?

Jason looked around the desolate, freezing metal box. It didn’t look like a home. It didn’t look like somewhere a kid lived full-time. It looked like a storage locker. A hiding spot.

“He must have stashed it,” Jason realised aloud, the theory forming in his head. “He didn’t take the food with him to Stephen’s. He hid it here.”

“He… hid it?”

“Think about it, O,” Jason said, his voice grim. “If Stephen is as controlling as we think… maybe Peter isn’t allowed to accept gifts. Maybe he isn’t allowed to have personal property.”

He nudged the backpack. “He hides the good stuff here– the food Dick gave him, the jacket I gave him– so Stephen doesn’t confiscate them when he goes back to the main house.”

Silence reigned on the other end of the line. Then a heavy sigh.

“He maintains a separate cache for resources he wants to keep safe.”

“He’s a smart kid,” Jason commented, though the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. It implied Peter lived in constant fear of bringing things home. “He probably grabbed what he needed–maybe changed clothes–and went back to Stephen to avoid punishment. I missed him.”

“Dick is going to freak out. He’ll think Stephen took him to a secondary location.”

“Dick needs to calm down,” Jason snapped. “The kid is managing. He’s smart. He hid the tracker–accidentally or not–and now he’s off the grid again.”

Jason took one last look at the lonely pile of belongings, making sure it looked just as he found them. He resisted the urge to look inside the backpack to find a name or an address. The kid didn’t like people touching his stuff– a sentiment Jason shared.

“I’m heading out,” Jason said, turning back to the ladder.

Barbara patched Jason back into the main line, his voice cutting through the frantic speculation in the Batcave.

“Report,” Bruce’s voice was low.

“He’s not there,” Jason stated flatly. “And neither is Stephen.”

“Well, what did you find?” Dick asked immediately.

“I found a stash,” Jason explained as he climbed back down the fire escape, the wind whipping at his jacket. “The tracker is still in the bag. The bag was hidden under my jacket along with his backpack in the water tank.”

“So… he left it?” Tim asked, sounding confused.

“He hid it,” Jason corrected. “He stashed the food and his personal gear in a safe spot before heading to his actual location. He probably knew Stephen wouldn’t let him keep it.”

“So we don’t know where he is,” Dick sounded defeated.

“No, we don’t. And you’re not gonna find out tonight,” Jason scolded them. “See? You panicked over nothing. You thought he was freezing in a box, but he just used it as a drop point. He went home.”

Jason hopped onto his bike, revving the engine loud enough to bleed into the comms.

“Stop tracking him. Stop putting bugs in your ‘gifts.’ You’re just proving you can’t be trusted. If he finds that tracker, he’s never going to accept anything through your fucking civilian approach. He runs. Is that your plan?”

There was silence on the line.

“Didn’t think so,” Jason huffed. “Leave the kid alone. I’ll check the stash tomorrow to see if he came back for the food. Hood out.”

Jason cut the connection before they could argue. He cast one last glance up at the water tank, silhouetted against the smog-choked moon. Cold. Empty.

“Stay safe, kid,” he whispered. Then he tore off into the night, leaving the quiet stash behind.

High above the smog and grime, the air was crisp.

Peter sat perched on the head of a gargoyle eighty stories up, his legs dangling over the dizzying drop. The wind whipped at him, but for the first time since arriving in this universe, the Gotham night didn’t bite. The heater in his suit hugged his body with a steady, comforting warmth.

He flexed his left hand. The movement was stiff, and he could feel the phantom pressure of the bandages Red Hood had applied under his suit, but the searing, blinding pain was gone, replaced by a dull, manageable ache.

Peter pulled his mask back on. The white lenses narrowed as the Heads-Up Display flickered to life, bathing his vision in a familiar blue light.

「Suit power at 100%.」

「Suit Integrity at 100%.」

「Sensors at 100%.」

「Web Cartridge FULL.」

Peter took a deep breath. He sprang up the gargoyle, landing in his signature crouch. He tapped his wrist, feeling the full weight of the fresh web fluid he synthesized at the Academy.

“Alright, Gotham,” Peter whispered, his mask’s new modulator distorting his voice into something confident, something strong. “Let’s see what you got.”

He fired a line into the dark, and for the first time in days, he didn’t fall.

He swung.

Chapter Text

The rain in Gotham didn’t wash things clean– it just made the grime slicker.

Batman stood on the ledge of the GCPD rooftop, his cape heavy with water, blending perfectly into the shadows of the gargoyle beneath him. The Bat-signal cut through the cloud cover above.

Commissioner Gordon stood by the signal, huddled in his trench coat, lighting a cigarette with cupped hands.

“You’re late,” Gordon grunted, not looking up.

“I was busy,” Batman’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the rain.

“Yeah, well, so is Crane.” Gordon took a drag and exhaled a plume of smoke that mixed with the fog. “He’s gone to ground. We had a tip he was holed up in the Narrows, but by the time my boys kicked the door in, the place was empty. Just some leftover fear toxin canisters and a whole family of rats.”

“He’s replenishing his supply,” Batman’s voice rasped. “He needs specific chemical reagents. I’m monitoring the distribution channels.”

“Good. Because the last thing this city needs is another fear gas attack while the Mayor is breathing down my neck about the budget.” Gordon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked tired. More tired than usual.

“Look, I appreciate the help. I always do. But tell your team to ease up on the new gadgets, will you? The boys in processing are getting a headache.”

Batman turned his head slightly. “Gadgets?”

“The new restraints,” Gordon clarified, cutting a vague shape in the air with his burning cigarette. “The white stuff. Whatever prototype compound you guys are testing, it’s a nightmare for my officers. We can’t cut through it, we can’t burn it without also toasting the perps, and we have to wait for almost an hour for it to dissolve into powder before we can even cuff the perps.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the cowl. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t give the slightest hint that he had no idea what Gordon was talking about. His operatives used impact weapons, blades, and ballistics. None of them used adhesives.

“I get it,” Gordon continued, mistaking the silence for stubbornness. “It’s effective. Non-lethal. But I’ve got officers sitting around twiddling their thumbs, racking up overtime watching a mugger stuck to a brick wall. It’s eating up manpower, Batman. Just… stick to zip-ties, alright?”

Batman remained silent for a beat, processing the information. A restraint strong enough to hold a criminal but chemically unstable enough to dissolve in an hour. That was high-level chemistry.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Batman said finally.

He stepped off the ledge, vanishing into the drop before Gordon could speak.

The descent was controlled, a freefall that snapped into a glide as his cape caught in the wind. Batman fired his grapple gun, swinging toward the alley where the Batmobile waited in stealth mode.

He landed heavily on the pavement, the canopy sliding open with a hiss.

“Oracle,” Batman barked as he slid into the cockpit, the engine roaring to life.

“I’m here, B,” Barbara’s voice crackled in his ear. “Did Gordon have a lead on Scarecrow?”

“Negative. Crane is still in the wind. But Jim gave me something else.” Bruce engaged the autopilot to take him back to the Cave. “I need you to run a new search parameter. Police reports from the last week. Look for unauthorised vigilante activity not linked to the family, and mentions of unidentified restraints. Specifically, a dissolving adhesive substance. I want to know how long this has been happening.”

There was a pause in the line, the sound of rapid-typing filling the silence. “Hold on… filtering now.”

A moment of silence stretched, filled only by the sound of the Batmobile and the city.

“B…” Barbara’s voice dropped, turning serious. “I’m looking at the logs. And Jim was right to be annoyed.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-four. Twenty-four separate arrest reports in the last four days. Same M.O. White, fibrous substance as restraints.”

Bruce walked to the Batcomputer’s console, pulling his cowl down. The massive screen was already populated with the map of Gotham, dotted with red marks. The red dots weren’t clustered in one sector– they were scattered across the grid. The Bowery, Diamond District, Coventry.

Barbara was waiting on the screen, her expression serious. “Muggings, carjackings, attempted assaults. In every single case, the perpetrators were found incapacitated but alive.”

“Twenty-four,” Dick repeated, crossing his arms. He stared at the map, looking exhausted but alert. “In four days… that’s busy.”

Tim spun his chair to face the main screen. “He pops up, stops the crime, and vanishes before the first siren. There are no clear photos. No surveillance footage of the vigilante himself, only the aftermath.”

Photos appeared on the main screen– a mugger webbed to a streetlamp, more confused than injured, another man pinned to a dumpster, and two men wrapped up tight suspended between two fire escapes. They all had one thing in common, the thick web-like substance that looked like white silk.

“Witnesses?” Bruce asked.

“The perps,” Barbara said, sounding amused despite herself. “I’m pulling up the interrogation recordings. They’re… colourful.”

Audio files began playing through the speakers.

“I’m telling you, it was a ghost! A red-and-blue blur! One second I’m hot-wiring this car, the next, I’m stuck to the fucking wall!”

“It wasn’t Batman! Batman don’t talk! This guy wouldn’t shut up! Kept making fun of my shoes!”

The audio files clicked off, leaving the tense silence of the Batcave to absorb the sound of the mugger’s complaints.

“It has to be a team,” Steph argued, tracing the distance between two red dots on the map. “Look at the spread. Financial District to Diamond District in fifteen minutes? Without a car? That couldn’t be one guy patrolling. That’s a squad working a grid.”

“That was my theory,” Tim said, expanding the timeline on the screen. “A coordinated strike team using standardised non-lethal tech. It would explain the geographic coverage. But look at the timestamps. Incident A at 10:15pm in the Narrows. Incident B at 10:42pm in Upper West Side. Incident C at 11:10pm in Coventry.”

“There’s no overlap.” Bruce noted, his voice low.

Tim nodded. “If it were a team, we’d see simultaneous takedowns. We’d see Squad A hitting the East End while Squad B hits the Narrows. But we don’t. We see a single, continuous line of movement.”

“So it’s a single operative,” Damian summarised, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “Doing the work of a squad.”

“And doing it cleanly,” Dick noted, scanning the injury reports. “Twenty-four encounters. Zero fatalities. Zero broken bones. He’s neutralising threats with minimal force. He’s not brawling– he’s restraining.” An amused smile reached his lips. “He’s handling them with kid gloves. Whoever he is, he’s not trying to hurt anyone. He just wants them off the streets.”

“Or he is simply precise,” Damian interjected, though he looked less hostile than usual. “To immobilise two dozen targets without a single error requires significant skill. This is not a thug with a gimmick. This is a specialist.”

“So we have a highly trained, likely tech-savvy Samaritan cleaning up our streets,” Dick summarised. “Do we view him as a threat?”

“We view him as a potential recruit,” Bruce murmured, half to himself then shifted to a neutral tone. “Or a variable to be monitored. Someone this skilled, operating this cleanly… he’s not an amateur. He has training.”

He turned to Tim. “Get me a sample of that webbing. I want to know how he made that adhesive– and who trained him.”

The alley off 5th Avenue was bathed in the flashing red lights of a silent alarm, but the police hadn’t arrived yet. Two shadows dropped from the rooftops, landing silently on the wet pavement. Nightwing scanned the perimeter instantly, eskrima sticks ready. Red Robin moved directly toward the dumpster where three men were struggling against a mass of white, fibrous webbing.

“Finally,” Red Robin muttered. “Took twenty-four hours to get a ping, but we got one.”

“Clear,” Nightwing called out, relaxing his stance slightly. He looked at the thugs– bruised, confused, and thoroughly stuck. “And clean. Again.”

Red Robin didn’t waste time admiring the handiwork. He pulled a specialised containment kit from his belt.

“Dispatch said the call came in fifteen minutes ago,” he muttered, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. “If the degradation rate is consistent with the reports, we have forty-five minutes before this turns into useless dust.”

He approached the nearest thug, a man whose arm was pinned to the metal lid of the dumpster.

“Hey! You’re the bird guy!” the thug yelled, thrashing. “Get this thing off me! It itches!”

“Hold still,” Red Robin ordered, unamused. He used a scalpel to scrape a sample of the webbing. It was tough–harder than Kevlar–but he managed to slice a chunk off and drop it into a chemically stabilised vial.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, holding the vial up to the light. “It’s not just adhesive. It’s a tensile polymer. It hardens on impact to absorb kinetic energy.”

“So he’s not just trapping them,” Nightwing observed, standing beside his brother. “He’s cushioning them. He webbed this guy to the dumpster, but the web took the impact, not his skull.”

Nightwing looked around the alley. “That’s twenty-seven takedowns in five days. And every single one shows this amount of care.”

“Or calculation,” Red Robin countered, securing the vial in his belt. “B is right. This isn’t a vigilante with a gimmick. This is an engineer with a moral code.”

“A moral code we can work with?” Nightwing asked, looking at the rooftops. “B thinks he’s a recruit. Someone we can train.”

“Or someone we need to contain. If he can synthesize this in some garage, imagine what else he can build. We need to ID him before he decides he doesn’t want to play nice anymore.”

Red Robin tapped his comms. “We got the sample. Heading back to the Cave to run the mass spec. If we’re lucky, the chemical signature will tell us where he’s getting his supplies.”

“Let’s go,” Nightwing said, firing his grapple, “Before the GCPD shows up and asks us to babysit the goop again.”

His comms chirped with a sharp dissonant tone halfway through the motion of ascending. 

“Oracle to Nightwing,” Barbara’s voice was tight, stripped of her usual calm. “Priority One. B and Robin located the distribution hub. It’s a warehouse in the Narrows, sector four.”

Nightwing landed on the rooftop, Red Robin following behind him. His posture shifted instantly from relaxed to rigid combat readiness. “Scarecrow?”

“Affirmative,” Barbara confirmed. “They breached the perimeter, but Crane has heavy mercenary  backup. They’re pinned down. Requesting immediate assistance.”

“On our way.” His voice left no room for argument. He looked at Red Robin. “Change of plans. The sample waits. B needs us.”

Red Robin nodded. “Lead the way.”

Deep in the shadows of a water tower nearby, an exhale turned white with the cold.

The warehouse in the Narrows looked abandoned from the outside–rusted corrugated metal, shattered windows, darkness. But to Nightwing’s thermal vision, it was a furnace. He and Red Robin landed on the skylights, peering down into the chaos. Below, the cavernous space was filled with a swirling yellowish haze.

Fear toxin.

Through the fog, he could make out the shapes of at least thirty mercenaries. They were heavily armed, wearing gas masks, and forming a tight circle around a stack of shipping crates in the centre.

Batman and Robin were in the middle of that circle.

Batman moved like a wraith, his cape snapping as he deflected gunfire, but his movements were sluggish. He was favouring his left leg. Robin was fighting with his usual ferocity, his katana a blur of steel, but he was small. He was coughing into his rebreather.

“Ventilation is compromised,” Red Robin noted, tapping his cowl. “The toxin concentration is too high. Even their rebreathers are struggling to filter it out. We need to clear the air before we engage.”

“No time,” Nightwing countered, watching a mercenary land a solid hit on Robin’s shoulder with a rifle butt. The boy stumbled.

“They’re swarming them. We go in hot. Rebreathers on max.” Nightwing drew his eskrima sticks, the electric charge crackling blue in the dark. “On my mark. Three. Two. One.”

They crashed through the skylight together.

Glass rained down on the mercenaries as Nightwing and Red Robin dropped into the fray. Nightwing landed on a mercenary’s shoulders, driving him into the ground with a sickening crunch, while Red Robin threw a spread of birdarangs that exploded into expanding foam, jamming the rifles of three others.

“Cavalry’s here!” Nightwing announced.

Batman looked up, his eyes narrowing beneath his cowl. “Focus on the perimeter! Crane is in the office loft!”

“We’ll handle the mooks!” Red Robin yelled, vaulting over a crate to kick a mercenary in the chest. “You guys get clear!”

For a moment, the tide turned. The Bats fell into their natural rhythm– a seamless violent dance of martial arts and gadgetry. Nightwing was the whirlwind, moving constantly. Red Robin was the tactician, controlling the space. Batman was the hammer. Robin was the blade.

But there were too many of them. And the gas was getting thicker.

Nightwing felt the edge of his vision blur. A creeping cold dread started to settle in his stomach– not real fear, but the chemical induction of it. The filter wasn’t holding.

“Restraints!” Batman barked. “We need to immobilise them, not just knock them down! They’re on a stimulant! They keep getting back up!”

Nightwing swung his stick, cracking a mercenary’s jaw. The man went down, but was already scrambling back up, eyes wide and bloodshot behind his gas mask.

“I’m out of bolas!” Red Robin shouted, ducking under a swing.

“I’m out of tasers!” Nightwing admitted, kicking another man back.

They were surrounded. The circle was tightening again. Forty mercenaries against four vigilantes who were slowly breathing in a nightmare.

A heavy gunner stepped forward, levelling a minigun at the group.

“Take cover!” Batman roared, pulling his cape over Robin. Nightwing braced himself, preparing to dive– knowing he wouldn’t make it in time.

Thwip!

A sound like whip crackled through the noise of the battle. A white streak shot from the darkness of the rafters. It hit the minigun’s barrel, expanding instantly into a thick sticky mass that jammed the rotating mechanism. The gunner pulled the trigger. The gun whined, groaned, then shattered in his hands as the internal pressure backfired.

“What the–” Red Robin looked up.

Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

Three more white lines shot down. They snagged the gunner and two men beside him, yanking them violently upward into the darkness of the ceiling. Their screams were cut short as they were webbed to the rafters.

“Friendly neighbourhood backup has arrived!” A voice called out from the shadows above– deep, distorted by a heavy metallic modulator– but sounding far too cheerful still in a room full of fear gas.

“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was murder! Also, literal murder. This city has serious zoning issues.” A figure dropped from the ceiling, landing in a perfect crouch on top of the shipping crate, right between the Bats and the mercenaries.

Nightwing blinked, fighting the toxin’s haze. Red, blue, and gold suit. White webs. It was their ghost.

The lenses on his mask adjusted as his head darted between the vigilantes and the mercs. His hand inputted a command on the golden spider on his chest.

”Activate Black Widow mode.”

The change started at the emblem. The massive golden spider flared, sending a ripple of nano-tech washing over his body. The red and blue pigment retreated instantly, swallowed by a sleek, void-like black.

The golden legs of the emblem didn’t just glow– they moved, uncoiling from his chest and slithering down his arms. They wrapped tightly around his wrists, locking into place to form heavy, conductive gauntlets, leaving behind a glowing, dangerous orange spider in the centre of his chest.

Arcs of blue electricity crackled around his wrists, illuminating the yellow haze of the fear toxin.

“Who the hell are you?!” A mercenary shouted, raising his rifle.

“I’m the guy your insurance doesn’t cover!” The Ghost quipped. He didn’t wait for them to shoot. He moved.

To Nightwing, it looked like a blur. One second, the Ghost was on top of the crate, the next, he was in the middle of the mercenaries.

He didn’t strike them. He dodged. He weaved through the gunfire with impossible fluidity, his body contorting in mid-air to let bullets pass through the empty space where his chest used to be.

As he moved, he fired. Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

He wasn’t aiming for their faces. He was tagging their chest plates, their belts, their rifles. He shot web lines that connected one mercenary to the next, weaving a chaotic, sticky lattice that linked the entire front line together.

“What is he doing?” Red Robin muttered, coughing into his rebreather as he parried a knife swing. “He’s not knocking them out!”

“He’s wiring them,” Batman realised, his voice rough.

The Ghost landed in the centre of the webbed group, crouching low. He held the two main strands of the web network in his hands.

The mercenaries looked down at the webs connecting them, confused.

“Hey fellas!” The Ghost called out, the white lenses of his mask narrowing mischievously. “Physics question! What happens when you introduce a high-voltage current to a conductive polymer network?”

The mercs blinked.

“You get a Widow’s Bite.”

He slammed his fists together. The blue electricity surging around his gauntlets discharged instantly into the webs.

The current raced through the conductive strands like lightning through copper wire. It hit the first mercenary, then the second, then third. In a split second, twelve men seized up in unison, their muscles locking as thousands of volts surged through their armour. They convulsed once, their screams cut short, before they all collapsed to the floor in a smoking, twitching heap.

“System reset!” The Ghost announced cheerfully, stepping over the unconscious bodies. He looked back at the stunned Bats.

“See? Efficiency. Now, who’s next?” He dusted his hands off– a purely theatrical gesture, considering he hadn’t actually touched anyone.

The remaining mercenaries didn’t wait for an invitation. The shock of seeing twelve of their men drop instantly wore off, replaced by the chemically induced rage of the stimulants.

“Kill him! Kill the freak!” Twelve rifles levelled at the centre of the room.

“Move!” Batman roared, shoving Robin behind a crate. But the Ghost didn’t take cover, he leapt forward.

“Hey! Wait!” Nightwing yelled, reaching out– but the Ghost was already gone.

He moved like a pinball. He bounced off the floor, the walls, the crates. He was faster than the Bats– faster than bullets. If his suit had stayed red and blue, Nightwing would have believed he was a Super.

The Ghost didn’t web them this time. He got close, forcing the mercs to focus fire on him instead of the Bats. He landed in front of a merc, ducked under the rifle butt, and palm-struck the man’s chest. The contact taser in his palm delivered a concentrated shock. The man dropped like stone.

He vaulted over the falling body, kicked the next guy in the helmet with a sickening clang, and webbed the third guy’s face before backflipping to a crate.

“Three down,” he counted, his voice distorted and breathless. “Math is fun!”

Below him, the Bats were struggling. The fear toxin was taking hold. Nightwing swung his eskrima sticks, but his aim was off. He was flinching at shadows, swinging at enemies that weren’t there.

“Nightwing, behind you!” Red Robin screamed, his voice cracking in panic.

Nightwing spun around, eyes wide, staring at the empty air. But a mercenary was coming up on his flank, knife raised.

The Ghost shot a web line, snagging the mercenary’s ankle and yanking him into the air, leaving him dangling upside down.

“Thanks,” Nightwing gasped, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision. “I thought… I thought there was a…”

“A giant bat?” The Ghost guessed, landing beside him. “Clowns? Spiders? Rats? Actually, don’t tell me if it’s rats. I get enough of that at home.”

He looked at Nightwing. The vigilante was swaying. “Your rebreather is failing,” he noted, lenses zooming in on the micro-fractures in Nightwing’s mask. Batman was leaning heavily on his left leg. Robin was swaying slightly, his katana drooping. Red Robin was clutching at his chest, his breathing ragged and shallow through the rebreather.

“You guys look terrible.”

“We’re… fine,” Nightwing lied, forcing himself into a combat stance. “Just… dizzy.”

“You’re hallucinating. Your heart rates are going crazy. You guys need fresh air. Now.” The Ghost shot more web lines toward enemies in-range, knocking them out with his Widow Bite.

“We can’t leave,” Batman gritted out, knocking a mercenary with a heavy gauntlet strike. He sounded winded. “Crane. We have to stop the… the gas.”

“If you stay here, you’re going to end up fighting each other. I prefer not turning this into a hallucination-fueled friendly fire incident,” the Ghost deadpanned.

“You do not order us,” Robin spat, stepping forward. He looked pale, sweating, his sword hand trembling. “We do not retreat.”

Suddenly, Robin flinched violently. He looked at the Ghost– specifically at the glowing orange spider on his chest– and screamed.

“Get back! Get back!” Robin slashed wildly at the Ghost, but he dodged effortlessly, catching the blade between his palms with a metallic clap.

“Whoa! Watch where you point that thing!” He scolded, holding the blade firm as Robin struggled against his grip. “I’m the backup! Remember?”

He looked at Batman. “He’s compromised. They’re all compromised. Get them out. I’ll deal with Fiyero over there.”

Batman looked at the Ghost. He looked at his son, who was hyperventilating in terror. He looked at Nightwing and Red Robin, who were flinching at shadows. Then back at the black-suited vigilante who was standing perfectly still in the middle of a toxic cloud, unaffected.

“Your suit,” Batman rasped. “It filters the toxin?”

“Nano-carbon filters,” the Ghost bluffed, tapping his mask. “Standard issue for… hazardous work environments. I can breathe fine. You guys can’t.”

Batman hesitated for a second– the tactician warring with the protector.

His cowl’s HUD flashed, scanning the Ghost’s vitals through the black suit.

Heart rate: Steady. Respiration: Controlled. Oxygen Saturation: 99%.

The tech was holding. The Ghost wasn’t bluffing–he was the only one in the room actually fit for combat.

“Go,” Batman ordered his team. “Evacuate to the roof. Purge your suits.”

“But B–” Red Robin started.

“Move!” Batman overrode him. He grabbed Robin, hauling the boy toward the broken skylight. Nightwing and Red Robin followed, stumbling but covering their retreat. The Ghost watched them go, webs ready in case any of them fell.

The broken skylight swallowed the last of the Bats, leaving the Ghost alone in the yellow haze. He turned his attention to the remaining mercenaries, regrouping, blocking the stairs to the office loft. Up in the office, overlooking the chaos, a figure in a burlap mask watched him.

The Ghost cracked his knuckles, the blue electricity flaring around his wrists.

“Alright, straw man,” he muttered, crouching low. “Let’s see if you burn.”

The glass of the office shattered outward. Jonathan Crane stepped forward. He was tall, lanky, and terrifying– a burlap mask stitched into a grin, a ragged noose tied around his neck, and a modified grenade launcher in his hands.

“Fascinating,” Crane’s voice boomed over the warehouse speakers, cold and clinically detached. “A new variable, and immune to the fear?”

“Not immune,” the Ghost replied, gauntlets crackling louder. “Just too tired for your drama class.”

Crane didn’t banter. He pulled the trigger.

The canister arced through the air, hissing as it spun, spewing a thick, concentrated stream of orange gas directly at the centre of the room. The mercenaries braced themselves, expecting the Ghost to run.

He didn’t run. He shot a web directly at the airborne canister, snatching it out of the air a mere feet before it hit the ground.

“Return to sender!” With a spin that blurred the eye, he swung the spewing canister around his head like a flail and hurled it toward the mercs. The canister exploded among the cluster of gunmen. Screams of terror erupted instantly. The disciplined military formation dissolved into chaos as the mercenaries turned on each other, firing blindly at hallucinations of monsters in the shadows.

“Amateurs,” the Ghost muttered, launching himself into the air. He shot line after line toward the rampaging mercs, yanking their guns and knives away, restraining their arms and sticking their feet to the floor.

He fired a line to the ceiling, swinging through the poison mist like a pendulum. He released at the apex of the arc, landing inside the office. Glass crunched under his boots. He kept his left arm tucked slightly closer to his torso.

“Dr. Crane,” the Ghost greeted, his voice modulated and cold. “You’re creating a bit of a smog problem downstairs.”

“And you,” Crane rasped, his voice dry and scratchy, “Are an anomaly. No fear response. No hesitation. You sent the Batman away.”

Crane stepped forward, revealing a gauntlet mounted with hypodermic needles and spray nozzles in his right arm. “Truly fascinating. Tell me… what does a ghost fear?”

Crane raised his gauntlet. A concentrated burst of amber gas hissed out, engulfing the Ghost’s head instantly. It was a direct hit. A dose concentrated enough to drive a normal man into permanent psychosis. Crane watched, waiting for the scream. Waiting for the collapse.

The Ghost stood perfectly still in the cloud. The orange spider on his chest glowed softly through the haze.

“Me? I’m afraid of a lot of things,” the Ghost said conversationally. “Aliens laying eggs in me, for one. But spiders, mostly. Ironic, I know.”

Crane stiffened. “Im… impossible.”

The Ghost waved his right hand, dispersing the gas cloud.

“Standard issue hazardous environment filters,” the Ghost deadpanned, tapping the side of his mask. “You’re gonna have to do better than spicy air, doc.”

Crane panicked. He lunged, aiming the needles at the Ghost’s neck– trying to bypass the mask. The Ghost caught his wrist mid-air with his right hand.

“And no needles either,” the Ghost warned, his grip tightening until the gauntlet creaked. “Needles are annoying.” He squeezed. The metal of the fear-gauntlet crumpled under the pressure of his good hand.

Crane gasped, his knees buckling. The Ghost placed his other hand on the rogue’s chest. Widow’s Bite. Low Voltage.

A controlled burst of blue electricity surged into Crane. It wasn’t the room-clearing blast he used on the mercenaries– just enough to scramble his motor functions. Crane gasped, his body seizing as the current locked his muscles. He slumped back, hitting the floor hard– unable to move, but his eyes remained wide open, staring up at the Ghost with a manic, obsessive fixation.

The Ghost cringed. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that. That’s creepy.” He wasted no time, webbing Crane’s hands to the floor, then his legs. But the eyes kept staring. A sudden compulsion took over– partly to be safe, mostly so he felt more comfortable– and he fired another barrage, burying the rogue’s torso in a thick layer of white silk.

He walked over to the control console on the desk. He scanned the buttons, looking for the ventilation controls. His gauntlets returned to their fluid and amorphous form, assimilating with the hardware.

「Scanning Interface…」

「Override Code: Decrypted.」

His suit bypassed the lock. He hit the emergency vent sequence. Huge industrial fans roared to life in the warehouse below. The yellow haze began to swirl upward, sucked out through the roof vents and scrubbed by the building’s filtration system.

He watched the monitors. The air quality readings began to climb back to breathable levels. Over the sound of the vents, his enhanced hearing picked up on footsteps heading toward the roof access door. Whoever it was, they were coming back. He looked at the webbed-up Scarecrow, then at the unconscious mercenaries below.

He let out a long breath. The adrenaline finally started to fade, replaced by the familiar ache in his left arm. “That’s a wrap.”

He had done what he came to do. If he stayed, they would ask questions. They would ask for a sample of his webs. They would ask about the suit. They would try to ‘recruit’ him.

Frankly, he was not interested in a new team at the moment.

“You sit tight,” he told the unmoving Crane. “Bats will be here in ten. Try not to make a fuss.”

The Ghost walked to the broken window. He looked up at the skylight where he had entered. He shot up a web and swung into the cold Gotham night.

Batman stepped into the office, his boots crunching on the shattered glass. He scanned the room instantly. The ventilation system was humming, scrubbing the air. The control console showed a successful override–bypassed with a speed that rivalled Oracle.

In the centre of the room, Jonathan Crane was plastered on the floor, unmoving. A chaotic masterpiece of white webbing pinning him down like an insect.

Crane didn’t struggle. He didn’t scream. He was laughing. A low, dry, wheezing chuckle that rattled in his chest, his eyes fixed on the broken skylight.

“He didn’t scream,” Crane murmured as Batman approached.

Batman grabbed Crane by the lapels, attempting to haul him to eye level– but he met immediate, rigid resistance. The webbing didn’t give an inch. It held Crane’s torso to the floor with the tensile strength of industrial steel cables.

Batman pulled harder, testing the limit of the material, but the fibres didn’t even fray.

He let go of the lapels, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl. Stronger than Kevlar. 

“Where did he go?” Batman growled.

“The Ghost?” Crane let out a dry wheeze. “He vanished. Fascinating specimen. High-grade technological immunity to the toxin. And physically… remarkable.”

Nightwing and Red Robin entered the room behind Batman. They looked battered– soot-stained and still shaking off the last effects of the gas– but they were functional.

Red Robin walked over to the crumpled remains of Crane’s fear gauntlet lying on the floor. He picked it up with a gloved hand, his thumb tracing the deep indentations of four fingers and a thumb. He pulled out a portable laser scanner from his belt. A red grid swept over the twisted metal.

“Calculations are finished,” he announced, his voice tight as he read the data on his wrist display. “To deform this grade of alloy this cleanly, without heat or leverage… we’re looking at a grip strength of roughly ten tons per square inch.”

Nightwing, leaning against the shattered window frame, let out a low whistle. “Ten tons,” he repeated. “He held back. He was flicking mercenaries around like paper dolls, but if he had actually hit one of them…”

“It would have been a liquidation,” Robin’s voice finished from the shadows of the doorway. He walked in, sheathing his katana with a rhythmic shing. “He possesses the strength to decapitate a man with a slap. Yet he chose to use a taser.”

“He is surgical,” Batman concluded. “To crush the alloy without shattering bone underneath takes more than strength. It takes absolute restraint.”

“What a monster,” Crane whispered, his voice trembling in awe, cutting through their analysis.

The vigilantes looked down at him.

“I gave him a concentrated dose. Point blank,” Crane rasped, his eyes wide and fixated on the empty air where the Ghost had stood. “Enough to shatter the minds of a dozen men.”

The rogue let out a wet, rattling laugh. “He isn’t afraid, Batman. Or perhaps… he is simply afraid of things far worse than I can conjure.”

Batman looked down at the rogue. He reached into his belt, pulled out a sedative injector, and jammed it into Crane’s neck without a word. Crane’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness against the webbing.

“He talks too much,” Batman grunted. “Call Gordon. Tell him Crane is ready for pickup,” he ordered, turning away.

He paused, looking at the extensive webbing covering the villain. “And tell him… he’s going to have to wait an hour.”

Nightwing let out a short, tired laugh. “Copy that, B.”

With the immediate threat neutralised and the room secure, Barbara’s voice cut back in over their private comms, shifting the focus from the villain they caught to the vigilante they lost.

“I just finished analysing the footage of his suit’s transformation. Black Widow mode reconfigured his suit to divert power to those high-voltage gauntlets. It’s a specialised combat protocol designed specifically for crowd control. By using his webs as a conductive medium to disperse a high-voltage charge across multiple targets simultaneously, he turned a single-target restraint into an area-of-effect weapon.”

“His suit is more advanced than ours,” Nightwing added. “Real-time reconfiguration and he had nano-carbon filters ready. Fear toxin had no chance against him.”

“It wasn’t only his suit,” Batman countered. “Even with filters, a concentration that high would be absorbed through the skin. He didn’t just survive it– he ignored it. His physiology is enhanced.”

Batman stepped over the unconscious Crane to stand beside Nightwing. “He’s trained in military doctrine as well. The way he moves. The specific call-out of a combat mode–’Activate Black Widow mode.’ That implies preset protocols. He’s running specialised OS.”

“So we have a super strong, toxin-immune genius operative who cracks jokes while fighting,” Nightwing summarised, rubbing his temples. “And he saved us.”

Robin’s jaw tightened, remembering the ease that the Ghost had caught his blade– how he struggled. “He didn’t view us as fellow combatants– he viewed us as liabilities he needed to save.”

“We were compromised, Robin,” Nightwing corrected softly. “He stopped fighting the enemy to save us from ourselves. A hero prioritises his allies over taking down the enemy.”

“Tt.” Robin scoffed. “Believe what you wish to believe, Nightwing. I, however, do not trust him.”

Nightwing sighed. “What about you, B?”

Batman looked at the crushed gauntlet in Red Robin’s hand– the physical proof of a power that could snap any of them in half if their Ghost chose to stop playing nice. Yet it was also proof that despite such power, he chose to be non-lethal– even against a villain actively trying to poison him.

He walked toward the exit, his cape trailing behind him. “Anyone who can hit that hard but chooses not to… deserves the benefit of the doubt. For now.”