Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter watched it unfold, helpless to stop it, with a growing pit of dread in his stomach.

The sound traveled like the crack of a whip; two fingers spelling untold destruction throughout creation. It was the undoing of all things.

Lives unraveled, families disappeared. Peter froze.

He felt it, like it was written in the marrow of his bones. He didn't want to feel it.

He desperately didn't want to feel it.

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good." Peter gasped, taking a faltering step forward. He knew, with a clamy hand clutching his stomach, that he was one of unlucky. He wouldn't be a survivor this time. Tony rounded, snapped out of his dissociative despair as Peter wavered.

Peter tried to reach out, but found no strength. Instead he collapsed, falling into his mentor's arms. Tony crouched and cradled the back of Peter's head, dark eyes searching his.

"I don't wanna go!" Peter gasped, his eyes filling with tears as flames tore through him. He could feel it coming. He was dying, he was dying oh God, he was dying.

"Don't let go!" Peter sobbed. "Please don't let me go!" He clambered at Tony's arms, his hands gripping desperately at the metallic surface that held no purchase. The pain mounted but Peter didn't want it to fade. Because he knew he'd be fading with it. Tony clutched him tighter, words dying in his throat. But he shook his head as if to say "never, kid. I'm never letting go", and Peter felt it.

It wouldn't be enough to save him. He was already dead.

"I'm sorry!" Peter scrambled for something, anything, to say. An apology, for what he had failed to do, what he had promised to do, was all he managed amidst his panic. He wanted to say so much more, but he didn't have time. Tears rolled down Tony's face as he cradled Peter in the last moments. It was all he could do, and he didn't have long.

With a strangled breath, Peter looked up at Tony's face. He felt himself fading away now, his vision blotting with dark spots. He was turning to ash. Something inside him broke, dissolved into a thousand particles scattered to the wind. Peter wanted to scream.

Everything stopped, and he didn't even have the perception to say that everything went black.

He disappeared, leaving Tony Stark behind.

…

He hadn't expected to open his eyes, but he did.

He was supposed to be dead, he was pretty sure. But his eyes were open, and the sky was dark. A harsh wind blew, and Peter shivered.

Peter stared up, eyes tracing the faint outline of clouds against a midnight black sky. There was a moon somewhere, hidden in the darkness of it all. Peter wondered if it was full.

The realization that he wasn't on Titan anymore came slowly. And when it finally clicked that something wasn't adding up, something didn't make sense, Peter sat up.

Too abruptly, it seemed, as his whole world spun and shifted to the right. Peter slumped, took a few deep breaths, and blinked repeatedly. His senses were betraying him and he needed time to adjust.

In the meantime, he focused on what was around him. Grass, wet and cold, beneath his fingers. Dirt, under his nails and on his palms. Oxygen, all around him and filling his lungs. Breathing wasn't difficult, which had to be a good sign.

A soft noise made him look up.

Startling flat grey stone and stark black engraving made Peter shuffle back as if burned. "Jason Todd" it read. He was sitting on top of a grave.

Peter scrambled back, eyes wide, until the soft noise made him pause.

There it was again.

Slowly and suspiciously, Peter lowered his head to the ground, tilting his ear towards what he hoped he was mishearing. Surely he was imagining it.

Because there was no conceivable way someone could be screaming for help six feet underground in their own coffin.

And yet, that's exactly what it sounded like.

The crying and screaming didn't stop, and Peter was sure he wouldn't have heard it if not for his enhanced senses. He couldn't ignore it. They sounded young, whoever "Jason Todd" was. What's more, they sounded petrified, like their world was falling apart and they just needed someone, anyone to help them.

Peter couldn't ignore a cry for help.

"H-hold on, I'll get you out!" Peter tried to sound strong and assuring, but his voice wavered far too much for the desired effect.

Against all sound reason, Peter began digging. He dug like an animal searching for something it had buried long ago. He tore at the soil with thin fingers, nails cracking and bleeding as he went. He dug in what felt like an insane, fruitless endeavor, frantically shoveling fistfuls of dirt away.

But when he'd reached three feet deep without any signs of slowing, the dirt had given way to a hand.

Bloody, small, and shaking.

Horrified, Peter grabbed it without a second thought and hauled.

With a gasp and a cry, a blur of limbs crashed into him. Peter fell back and 'Jason Todd' collapsed on top of him. Peter didn't move for a moment, just allowing the kid to be still while taking in hungry, terrified gulps of air.

Peter stared with wide eyes as a kid around his age shook like a leaf in a hurricane. His bloody, muddy fingers curled into fists as he continued to gasp for sweet, precious oxygen. Peter brushed dirt out of the kid's hair and face, some of it streaking against his cheeks. On instinct, Peter wrapped his arms around the kid and pulled him into what he hoped was a comforting embrace.

"D-dickie?" A voice meeker than pain strained to be heard, trembling in his throat and falling from his lips. Peter shook his head, running a hand over the back of the kid's cranium. His fingers came back wet with what he knew was blood.

"No, I- I'm sorry. I'm Peter." The rescuer replied, feeling guilty. He didn't know who he was holding or what was going on, but he wasnt about to leave this kid alone.

"Is there someone you can call? Or- I could call for you?" Peter asked, belatedly realizing that he did not have his phone on him. He'd have to find a pay phone or something because there was no way this Jason Todd was buried with a cell phone.

"Dickie-" the kid whimpered before taking a breath and pausing.

"Dick Grayson. M-my older brother." He managed to say in a voice completely different from before. It was like he had wrangled strength and calmed in his tone all with a single breath. It was a bit impressive.

"Okay. I don't have a phone, but I can uh, I can probably find a pay phone." Peter sniffled, helping the kid stand up.

"What's your name?" He asked, though he already knew. Still, it felt important to ask for his name rather than just call him what his tombstone read.

"Jason." He slowly drew back, sitting up on bent knees. Peter follows, sitting in front of Jason and checking him over for a moment more before standing.

"Can you stand?" Peter asks, offering him a hand.

"It's cold out, we should get you somewhere warm until I can find a phone." Jason narrows his eyes at him, but nods and takes Peter's hand. Peter pulls him up and supports him against his side as they begin to walk. Peter doesn't know where he is, but Jason seemed to know where he's going. He's stumbling in a general direction and it's all Peter has to go on at that point. He allows himself to to trust that it will lead somewhere good. Somewhere helpful.

It felt like an hour of stumbling in the dark, damp streets, until they come across a phone booth. Peter ushers Jason inside and closes the door. It's not much warmer inside than out, but it's better than nothing. Jason bumps his back against the wall and shivers.

"Sorry. Wish I had a coat to give you or s-something." Peter shivered. He himself had far less in the way of protection from the elements. He had a torn up body suit and no mask. He could feel every harsh breeze blow through the fabric like a sieve. He had thought his spider suit was more insulated than that, but he'd apparently been wrong. It was either that, or it was significantly colder wherever he was now.

"Can you t-tell me what your brother's phone number is?" Peter asked, picking up the phone. He wondered absently if he'd been catapulted into the past with how old the phone booth looked. Jason said nothing, instead leaning forward and punching in his brother's number on the keypad.

"Thanks." Peter mumbled and pressed the ice cold phone to his ear. The line rang.

For a moment, Peter worried. It had to be late. Maybe even early. What if no one picked up? The line rang.

Someone picked up.

"Hello?" The voice was surprisingly crisp for the presumable time of night. Most people would asleep, but this guy didn't sound the least bit groggy.

"Uh, Hi. Is this- is this Dick Grayson?" Peter winced at how tired he sounded. His voice was cracked and dry, reflecting just how beaten and broken he felt. A short pause rang over the line.

"This is he." Grayson said with an air of suspicion.

"Can I ask who this is?" He asked. Peter swallowed dryly.

"Uh, my name is Peter but, there's a kid asking for you. You have a brother, right? Here, just-" Peter stopped rambling and just pushed the phone outward, letting Jason hook it under his ear. God he hated phone calls.

"Dickie?" Jason sounded so horribly miserable, his entire body trembling as he struggled to keep himself propped against the wall. Peter felt the urge to reach out and stabilize him, but Jason looked one strong flinch away from a full on mental breakdown. Peter didn't want any sudden moves to trigger that.

A sharp inhale on the other side of the line punctuated the silence like a gunshot.

"God, if this is a prank call I swear-" Dick's voice was already wavering, and Peter felt for him. He wasn't sure how he'd react if someone he loved crawled out of their coffin and called them on a payphone.

"No, Dick- please! It's so cold, I-" Jason gasped his voice growing thinner by the word.

"Oh God, where are you? I'll come get you, I promise, just tell me-!" Dick called into the phone, already moving by the sounds of it. Peter stepped closer, expecting Jason to hand the phone over so he could approximate directions as best he could. He'd read street signs on the way here - even if he didn't know where here was.

But Jason kept the phone tucked against his shoulder as he rattled off an apparently viable address as though he wasnt two seconds from passing out. Only once he had given his brother instructions had he passed the phone back to Peter.

"Hey, it's Peter. I'm really sorry about all this-" Peter started, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and trying not to shiver.

"Keep him warm. Please just- keep him safe until I get there." Dick all but pleaded with him and Peter didn't have to be asked twice. He had no idea what was going on, but he was Spider-Man. Spider-Man - bewildered and displaced or not - helped people.

"I'll do my best, sir. He'll be safe." Peter said resolutely, helping Jason sit down.

"Thank you." Dick breathed the words like a prayer. Peter smiled with frozen lips.

The phone ran out of time and hung up for him, a chime ringing from the machine as a pre-recorded message. Peter ignored it in favor of scooting closer to Jason.

"Hey, uh.. I know you literally just met me, but it's really cold and your brother asked me to keep you safe, so-" Peter shifted, making himself appear open and unhostile. Jason seemed to catch his meaning and leaned against Peter's shoulder. The outside of his thigh pressed against Peter's, exchanging minimal warmth that both parties instantly craved. It was as though they had completely forgotten warmth, even as a concept. And now that they had a small taste of it, they were suddenly ravenous.

Neither said anything when they slowly inched closer, eventually meeting in a heaped pile of shivering limbs and heavy heads. Peter felt so inexplicably tired, hopefully not a result of his inevitable concussion or possible hypothermia. And Jason, with split lips and swollen eyes, simply laid his head atop Peter's shoulder.

"Somebody's definitely getting fired for burying you alive." Peter hummed, hoping his joke wasn't in bad taste. He felt a thrill of relief when Jason snorted, his chest inflating with the breath.

Jason wanted to tell him that no, he wasn't alive when he'd been buried. But his mouth didn't seem to want to cooperate. Everything felt heavy.

"Maybe try to stay awake? I don't know the extent of your injuries, but it's better safe than sorry." Peter mussed, tapping his fingers rythmically against Jason's left shoulder blade. Jason nodded, though weekly. It was enough.

…

Dick hadn't attended his brothers funeral, not that he'd been given the choice.

Coming home to the news that your little brother had been brutally murdered - something that could have easily been prevented if he'd been there - was honestly worse than the day hed lost his parents.

Dick didn't think anything would ever top that, but he should have known better.

His family was once again torn apart. Bruce had betrayed him by not telling him of his brother's death for months, and Jason was dead. Alfred was there, but most days Dick could hardly stand to look Alfred in the eye. Because if Dick was suffering, then Alfred was falling apart. His eyes held a sorrow of such intensity that it seemed to age his face. He was miserable, yet still trying to be the perfect butler to the Wayne family.

Alfred was so much more than that.

'oh, Alfred,' Dick thought mournfully as he drove like a demon on the highway. Far faster than he ought, and yet, still not fast enough.

'Someone has to tell Alfred' Dick realized with a pang.

Dick didn't know what to expect when he arrived. Jason's voice had spoken to him through the phone, telling him where to go in shakey intervals. Dick didn't even care if it was a trap. If he was going to be killed, so be it. All he cared about, was that his little brother had called out for him, and he would be damned if he wasn't going to answer it for a second time.

Dick hated thinking about if Jason had screamed for him while Joker-

Dick swerved and nearly clipped the rail. Dick's knuckles were white against the wheel, his shoulders tense. Cars wizzed past, honking angrily at him. But he did not give a single fuck. Because he was racing against the clock, and every minute he lost was another minute of agony.

Dick nearly T-boned another car with his frantic steering, causing them to lay on the horn like their life depended on it. He just kept speeding towards his destination with screaming tires and rumbling acceleration.

He came to a screeching halt on the side of an empty street, the few and far between street lights flickering weakly. Dick jumped out of his car, the door slamming behind him. There was a phone booth, and Dick could just make out someone huddled inside.

As soon as the sound of his car door slamming broke the silence, someone inside the phone booth had shifted. Dick got closer.

"-brother's here, your brother's here." A soft voice spoke and Dick felt his his heart clench. But as he got closer, sprinting now, the figure inside the phone booth began to move even faster.

"I'm sorry, I have to go, but you're safe now. He's here." Peter, Dick recognized the voice then, broke away and shoved the phone booth 's door wide open.

"Hey, wait-!!" Dick called out but Peter was already booking it, running faster than his eyes could track. The kid was unnaturally fast, and Dick stared in awe as Peter vaulted himself over a parked taxi nearby and cleared it by several feet. And in a blur of red and blue, Peter was gone without a trace.

Dick stared, his mind whirring. Peter had to be a meta, maybe a sort of speedster. He'd talk to Wally later, see if he knew anything.

A broken whine whispered through the frozen night air and Dick jolted.

Jason.

Curled in on himself and shivering, a small body rocked back and forth with chattering teeth. Dick lurched forward and fell to his knees in front of him - in front of Jason.

"Jay?" Dick whispered, impossibly fragile. Jason's heavy head shot up, eyes wide and swirling with pain. His skin was pale, with an angry split lip and irritated double black eyes. He looked dead, but the flushed color of his frozen nose and the frantic beating of his heart said otherwise.

"Dickie!!" Jason sobbed and reached out. Dick didn't waste a single second in wrapping his little brother up in his arms, holding him securely against his chest. Jason melted into the contact and heaved several tear filled gasps.

"Oh God, little wing. I can't- you're alive! You're alive!!" Dick let burning hot tears roll down his face as he cradled his little brother, standing on shaking legs and slowly carrying him to the car.

"I've got the heat on, little wing, just a second- I'll get you warm, c'mon." Dick said resolutely, his voice gaining a strong edge. Jason curled into him in response, sniffling into his shoulder.

Shifting Jason into the car, a wave of warm air hot them both and Jason whined - not in pain this time. It was appreciative, the way he let his head fall back against the headrest and his trembling body go limp for a moment. Dick sighed.

The moment that Dick had to put Jason down in the passenger seat was painful - agony even. He didnt want to let go, not ever again. And on top of that, Jason was clinging to him like a traumatized koala and crying silently. Dick felt evil for setting down, even for a moment.

He honestly debated just keeping Jason in his lap as he drove, but common sense luckily won the night. Jason needed his own seat and a seatbelt. Dick needed to be able to focus on the road. And he really needed to get Jason somewhere safe and warm. Preferably somewhere with medical supplies.

Somewhere like the manor.

Dick grit his teeth as he strapped in and punched the car into drive. He peeled down the road, straight for Wayne Manor.

'Bruce..' Dick thought grimly.

'Im giving you one more chance.'

...

Peter felt bad for running, but he didn't really have much of a choice.

How was he supposed to explain his injuries? Or his spider suit?

He couldn't let anyone figure out his identity. He had to find Mr. Stark, or an avenger, or Aunt May-

Oh God, Aunt May.

Peter paled, his skin clammy as he ran across rooftops. He'd snuck into a laundry mat to steal some clothes. He felt terrible about it, but he made sure to take each article from a different basket or dryer, that way no one would lose too much. He doubted anyone would miss a mismatched pair of socks too badly.

Had Aunt May been snapped too? Was she back? Was Peter back?? He didn't know where he was, but if didn't look like New York or Titan, so he'd probably been dumped in a random city. He wasn't sure how or why, but maybe the avengers had found a way to bring everyone back from the snap.

That thought lifted Peter's spirits a bit. Sure, he'd died less than three hours ago, but Mr. Stark had fixed it. He was fine- or at least, he would be. He just needed to get somewhere warm.

Peter felt his endurance strain and he stopped mid sprint. He walked in a circle to cool down his muscles. He didn't want to wake up with cramps. Slowly, Peter took stock of his surroundings, noting that the rooftop he'd landed on was sandwiched between two others, but taller that both. Good defensible position in case of ambush, and open escape routes. The only thing it was missing was a little cover. But the best Peter could find was a ventilator box rumbling with heat.

Peter dropped down beside it and curled up, pressing the right half of his body against the warm metal. He pulled up the hood of the hoodie he'd stolen and tucked his gloved hands into the sleeves to preserve his body heat. He had a low fat percentage overall, so he didn't have much to keep him warm. He was at a natural disadvantage, but the heat from the ventilator box was giving him a fighting chance.

Peter ducked his head down and pressed it between his shivering knees, sniffling from the cold. He imagined his nose was probably shiny and red, though it felt like all his extremities would turn blue soon enough.

"Please don't freeze to death." Peter sighed, a puff of white condensation rising from his lips. He watched the individual particles float away until they were invisible, just like his body had done hours ago.

It was dark and it was cold, and Peter didn't want to move. In the morning, he told himself, he would go find Mr. Stark or Aunt May. And Ned. Ned too. And maybe even MJ? Yeah, maybe MJ.

…

Dick held Jason in his arms, the latter snoring softly with his head tucked against his brother's shoulder. Dick was more than happy to lay there all night and keep watch over his little brother, but something was nagging at him.

The kid who had called him, the one who had stayed with Jason until he arrived, sounded too young to be an adult. He sounded scared, too.

Maybe that was just a product of the situation; seeing a dead boy climb out of his grave was definitely a jarring experience. But why had he run? Was he afraid of being blamed for something he didn't do? Was he afraid of being caught? Or was he simply afraid of adults?

"Jason takes priority right now. We can figure out the child's story later." Bruce had said following the administration of pain meds for Jason. Leslie had drove to the manor in the same manic flurry Dick had before.

"Peter " Jason had rasped behind his oxygen mask. Both Bruce and Dick had turned to him.

"What was that lil' wing?" Dick had asked gently, pulling the hem of the blanket further up Jason's limp form.

"'is name s'Peter. 'e was nice." Jason slurred sleepily, his eyelids drooping. Dick smiled and ran a hand through Jason hair.

"I'm glad, little wing." Dick sniffed, carding gentle fingers through Jason's hair. He was truly grateful that someone had been there for his little brother while he could not be.

"Dug me out." Jason mumbled, turning his head to lean against Dick's palm. Bruce and Dick froze.

"Jason, did you say he dug you out?" Bruce asked, his voice abrupt and concerned. Jason gave a little nod.

"Mhm. Heard me." Jason explained, his fingers twitching. Bruce and Dick shared a look.

"Heard you?" Bruce frowned. It was clearly obvious that Jason was slipping into sleep, and he felt awful keeping him up any longer, but he needed to know.

"From six feet underground?" Bruce asked, but regretted it a moment later when Jason whimpered. Dick shot his a sharp look, full of contempt.

"Mhm." Jason nodded his heavy head.

"Was screamin'." He admitted with a sniffle, his eyes falling shut at last. Dick felt his heart twist at the admission. He knew Jason must have been terrified waking up six feet under, but he didn't want to imagine him screaming for help.

Alfred had appeared then, sans tray but with a terse look in his eyes.

"Master Jason requires rest. You both could benefit from some as well." He reminded, none to pleased at his patient being bothered. Dick had wilted.

"Please, Alfie, let me say with him." Dick pleaded, his eyes filling with tears.

"Please, I just- I don't wanna leave him. I won't wake him up, I promise, just please-" a hand on his shoulder cut him off. Dick looked up, meeting the eyes of Bruce. They held an uncanny amount of compassion that sent Dick back to his youth. To the days that Bruce would take him to the zoo, holding Dick on his shoulders so that he could feed the giraffes. To the days that Bruce would take him out for ice cream aftera good patrol.

"You can stay, lad. But sleep, I'll keep an eye on him." Bruce said kindly and Dick felt out of his depth. Bruce being so understanding had given him whiplash, but he didn't complain. Dick had nodded curtly and looked away, swallowing the lump forming in his throat.

At some point, he had crawled up next to Jason and lied down, pulling the younger close. It was comforting to see the steady rise and fall of his chest, to hear the soft, albeit raspy breaths filling his oxygen mask.

In thin moments of awareness, conversations slipped through his ears. The hushed voices of Bruce and Alfred speaking almost too quickly for him to decipher.

"-Energy readings -unstable - contact justice league-" Bruce's deep voice was pitched lower than usual - though not as low as his Batman voice - as he spoke.

Alfred replied in soft whispers too slight to be heard, save for the hiss of an 's' or an 'f'.

Dick could hardly pay it any mind as he wavered between sleep and wakefulness. All he could focus on was his brother in his arms, safe and alive.

In the morning, Dick would wake to the smell of pancakes wafting from the kitchen, and the sound of Jason breathing.

…

Chapter Text

The morning brought with it several revelations; none of them good.

The first, being that it had snowed while Peter slept. He woke surrounded by sleet and settled snow. His clothes were wet. Fantastic.

The second, being that Peter only had half of his webslinger fluid left in his shooters. Darn.

The third: Karen wasn't responding to him at all. He hoped she wasn't totally fried.

And the fourth, most heinous discovery by far, was that Peter had approximately zero dollars and zero cents on him. Nothing, nada, zilch.

This meant, A: no breakfast, and B: no anything else either.

Peter sniffled pathetically at the thought of some warm breakfast.

…Waffles..

Peter soon found himself trudging along, trying to find the nearest library. From there, he'd be able to figure out where he was and how to get back to the Avengers Tower or his apartment. His apartment where Aunt May may or may not be making waffles.

It was cloudy and bitter cold out, the streets wet and dangerously slippery. Peter steered clear of alleyways and shady characters as best he could. He didn't know where he was, but he'd still grown up in New York. He knew what to look out for.

Eventually, after wandering the icy streets of wherever-he-was-opolis and following local directories, he stumbled upon quite possibly the most dramatic library building ever.

Two (2) gargoyles stood perched on the roof, snarling down at its visitors. Massive pillars of white stone with freaking Gargoyles on top. Peter gawked at the architecture and wondered how old the building was. He ascended the large staircase leading to the entrance, his fingertips ghosting over the cold brass railings.

Through a pair of large doors, Peter was welcomed by the glorious whoosh of warm air. Peter stood still for a moment and just let the warmth sink through his skin. With a deep breath, Peter stepped forward into the library.

It was quiet, but bustling. Considering it was an early morning on a supposed weekday, it wasn't surprising. But Peter didn't appreciate the wary glances afforded his way as he walked by. He supposed, it was only fair, seeing a visibly beat up, soaking wet teenager trudge through the library, that most would be off-put.

"Welcome in." The woman at the front desk called kindly, doing a bit of a double take when she really looked at Peter.

"Thanks, sorry about the mess. I kinda got caught in the snow." Peter chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, hoping she believed him. He was technically telling the truth, after all.

"I hear ya. It's a good thing you came in when you did, cause I heard it's supposed to storm soon." The woman, who had lovely red hair and warm green eyes, smiled sympathetically at him.

"Ah, thanks for the tip!" Peter bobbed his head in thanks before disappearing into the fiction isle. He didn't do it on purpose, he just really didn't wanna talk to anyone anymore. Not that the front desk lady didn't seem nice! He just.. wanted a moment to collect his thoughts.

He wandered down the isles, idly appreciating the building's heating while taking in his surroundings. Books he recognized, others he definitely didn't. He'd thought himself pretty well read, but he'd never heard of Pride and Prejudice before. When had Jane Austen written that??

Peter shrugged after reading the inside cover of the book, mouthing the words 'light and bright and sparkling' to himself.

He shelved the book and continued on, slowly acclimating himself to the warm air. Eventually, he had become dry enough to sit down without leaving an outline - which was a relief because his feet where starting to ache.

Peter sank into a library chair and rested his arms against the tabletop of a work desk. Atop the desk, was a rediculously boxy computer. Peter laughed and shook his head, realizing that either all the library's funding went into the heating budget, or that they really just didn't get much funding to begin with. Either way, Peter didn't mind as long as the prehistoric thing could work. If anything, it was a little comforting to see something as out of place as he felt.

The login screen greeted him and requested a library card to continue. Peter did not have his card on him, but he had his number memorized. Peter typed it in, large boxy keys clacking audibly.

But it didn't work.

Peter frowned, assuming he must have hit the wrong diget at some point. He tried again.

Still nothing.

Peter was starting to get frustrated. He'd spent the entire night outside in the cold, he had no money, he had no idea where he was, and now apparently his library card didn't work.

'Okay, calm down Peter' he told himself. 'This isn't the end of the world. Heck, you've already faced the end of the world before, this is nothing compared to that!' Peter rationalized, taking a few deep breaths.

"Everything is great." Peter hummed, his left knee bouncing with stress. Sure, he was stressed out, but it was fine. He could handle something as little as this. He was Spider-Man!

¡On your left - approaching!

"Everything alright?" The lady from the front desk wheeled up to him, her head tilting to the side. Peter took a moment to calm his rapidly fraying nerves and school his tight expression before turning in his seat to face the nice lady.

"Yeah! All good! I just- my library number isn't working.." Peter trailed off sheepishly and the woman's eyes brightened.

"Oh! Well, that I can help you with!" She smiled warmly, and motioned for Perter to follow her. With a swift turn, she was rolling away and Peter had to skip to catch up.

"It's probably just expired. All I'll need to get you a new one is your name and the last four digits of your phone number." She waved one hand and steered her chair with the other, coming to a stop behind the front desk.

"Oh, thank God, I thought you'd need my social security number or something." Peter laughed nervously, feeling clammy. The lady scoffed, eyes crinkling with humor.

"In Gotham? Identity theft would be through the roof by the end of the afternoon." The librarian shook her head, smile still playing on her lips. Peter's lips quirked in confusion.

"Gotham?" He inquired.

"Mm, had a feeling you weren't a native. What's your name, hun?" She nodded her head and peered up at him through her glasses.

"Uh, Peter Parker, ma'am." Peter answered, his spider sense buzzing faintly in the back of his mind.

"Nice to meet you Peter. I'm Barbara, but you can call me Babs. It's what my friends call me." Babs regarded Peter with a kind smile for a moment before returning her attention to her computer screen. Peter nodded.

"Nice to meet you too, Miss, um, Babs." Peter replied awkwardly and Babs bit back a laugh. She thought he was cute, but Peter was mentally panicking with every turn the conversation took.

'Is she gonna ask about where I'm from? Is she gonna report me? Will she find out what my identity is? Will she know I'm a meta?' Peter's thoughts ran a mile a minute.

Barbara's gleaming wire-frame glasses tilted as she frowned at the screen, her fingers pausing over the keys.

"You said your last name is Parker?" She asked, her brows furrowing. Peter nodded in response.

"Hmm. Not seeing a Peter Parker in the system. Are you sure you had a library card?" Babs probed and Peter blinked.

'What do you mean, I'm not in the system!???' he wanted to complain. Loudly. But Peter was better than that. A little.

"Oh! Haha, you know what? It's probably cause I never had a library card in this county! That must be why I'm not in there!" Peter offered cheerfully, feeling like he was sweating from every inch of his body. Babs quirked a curious brow.

"Oh, is that so? Well then that makes sense." She hummed and Peter felt his anxiety deflate. His heart was beating way too fast. He needed to get better at lying.

"Well, in that case, I can still set you up with a new card. I'll just need some form of ID." Barbara replied, mimicking his previous cheer. He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or just trying to make him feel less awkward. It was kinda working, so Peter didn't mention it.

"ID?" He squeaked, because his brain was having a hard time keeping up. His face flushed and he ducked his head, but Barbara's smile only turned more fond and genuine.

"Yep. Something like a learner's permit or even a school ID if you have one. Just something that proves you exist." Babs nodded, her ginger hair bobbing as she adjusted her glasses. Peter swallowed dryly and did his best to keep a smile on his face, though he knew it probably looked tight and fake by now.

"Oh, you know what? I totally left all that at home, I'm sorry." Peter's brows pinched together as he apologized, taking a step back from the counter. Babs looked surprised, but not upset.

"Oh, that's alright. You can always come back another time, Peter!" Babs assured him kindly and Peter grinned falsely with bright eyes.

"Thanks Miss Babs! I'll be sure to come back when I've got my ID on me!" Peter lied and walked briskly away, wanting to put distance between himself and the scarily perceptive librarian. She was nice, but shifty. Peter could tell, or his spider sense could anyway, that there was more to her than met the eye.

"Buh-bye Peter, see you soon!" Barbara smiled and waved. She waited a few seconds after he'd left before pulling out her phone.

'I found him.' She sent to Bruce.

 

…

 

"Whaddya hear, Starbuck?"

"Nothing but the rain, sir."

"Then get your gun, and bring the cat in."

The TV buzzed on a low volume, just loud enough to provide some much needed brown noise.

Jason and Dick were both sitting on the couch, though "sitting" was a generous term when it came to Jason. More accurately, the younger was slumped against the excessive cushions, propped there by Bruce and Alfred. Dick was there to keep him company (read: watch him for health and safety reasons) and so far, watching TV was the easiest thing for Jason to do.

When Jason had woken up that morning, he hadn't said a word. And as the day continued, it became clear that Jason wasn't fully aware of his surroundings.

His eyes were cloudy and distant, often tracing invisible shapes in the air or listing from corner to corner. He didn't speak, other than the occasional humm. It was less so a sound of acknowledgement and more so an involuntary thing.

Watching him was.. hard. Dick knew there were people that, after a traumatic injury, spent their entire lives in a vegetative state. He desperately did not want that for his brother. But after the extensive head trauma he'd received, not to mention oxygen deprivation, it was becoming clear that Jason had a serious brain injury.

Whatever clarity he'd possessed the night before had vanished, and Dick feared it may never return.

The front door opened with a loud sweep and three pairs of footsteps bustled in. Jason twitched at the noise, but otherwise did not react.

"Dick?" Bruce's voice called out from the hall.

"In the TV room!" Dick called back, standing up but not leaving his brother's side. He paused the episode and studied Jason's face for a moment. He seemed to recognize that the show was no longer playing, but he didn't acknowledge it in any way other that blinking slowly. Dick frowned.

"How is he?" Bruce entered the room at a brisk pace, immediately kneeling beside Jason to inspect his state.

"More of the same." Dick replied despondently.

"Doesn't react to anything." He added, looking away before his eyes could begin to burn. Bruce merely nodded and stood again.

"-thank you, Alfred." a woman's voice carried through the hallway just moments before she appeared. Dick recognized Doctor Leslie Thompkins immediately, despite not seeing her for years.

"Dick, good to see you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances." Leslie hummed and approached the couch. Dick tried to smile, but he doubted it looked anything of the sort.

"Then again, having your little brother miraculously resurrected might be the best circumstances you've ever called me in for." The doctor shrugged and crouched directly in front of Jason.

She went through the motions in examining Jason; taking his blood pressure, temperature, and heartbeat. All came back average and extrodinarily healthy for a dead boy. Sure, Jason still looked like a corpse, but he was very much alive on the inside.

Dr. Thompkins shinned a light in Jason's eyes and tracked how quickly they constricted. Then she held her finger in front of Jason's face and told him to follow it.

She pulled her finger to the left, and Jason's eyes followed sluggishly. She pushed to the right and, again, Jason's eyes followed.

"Alright." The seasoned doctor said as she stood from her prolonged crouch, knees cracking.

"I have good news and practical news. Which one would you like first?" She turned to Bruce and Dick, who had been joined by Alfred while she conducted her tests.

"Good news?" Dick was quick to plead, wanting to hear whatever it was that was good about his brother's condition. Dr. Thompkins nodded.

"The good news is that he can see and hear you." She said simply, holding her arms at her sides. Dick tried to convince himself that it was an exciting piece of information. He was glad Jason could hear him, but.. what did that mean?

"Then.. why isn't he moving or responding to anything?" Dick asked, face screwing up with confusion and sadness. The doctor tipped her head in his direction and nodded.

"That's the practical news." She said.

"Jason has experienced a traumatic brain injury. Right now, his mind in healing. Whatever it is that brought back, I suspect is slowly stitching him back together. After all, Jason should be decomposing after six months in a coffin." She explained and received several glares in return.

A soft whine startled the assembly and all turned to Jason.

His expression had changed little, but the slight downturn of his lips and brows seemed monumental.

"Jaylad?" Bruce kneeled, taking one of his son's hands in his own. He cupped the cold hand and let the warmth of his surround it. Jason didn't move.

"We're here, son, it's alright." Bruce said softly, rubbing a thumb over Jason's hand.

"We should get him on a slow drip for nutrients and hydration for now. He'll start regaining his motor skills eventually, he just needs time to heal." Leslie suggested, patting Bruce on the back. Bruce hummed, the sound catching in his throat as though it were sharp.

"Will he ever be the same?" Bruce asked, perhaps a bit insensitively considering Jason was right there. Dick frowned with disapproval, but said nothing.

"There's a difference between time travel and healing, Bruce." Leslie shook her head and spoke in a low voice. That was enough to stop Bruce from ever asking something like that again.

The good doctor left soon after that, having gathered her tools and wishing Jason well. She left behind a lollipop for when he got well enough to eat it, and hoped that brought Jason some comfort.

Only Alfred thanked her as she left, being the only person with the clarity of mind left to do so. Bruce and Dick were still very much absorbed into attending to Jason, even if it just meant watching over him in silence.

But Leslie didn't mind as she waved goodbye and accepted her coat from Alfred. She was a doctor who ran a free clinic in Crime Alley, so it stood t reason that very little offended her at that point. Least of all disgruntled patients.

The rest of that day was simply spent cycling Jason about the house, trying to replicate a sense of normalcy for him. He could see and hear everything going on a around him, so Bruce and Dick did their best to mimick the things Jason would've done around the house on any given day.

Dick sat and watched TV with him, remembering the time Jason had mentioned enjoying sci-fi. He didn't know if that was exclusive to books, but figured some good old Battlestar Galactica couldn't hurt. He was old enough to watch it, anyway.

Bruce sat in the library with Jason, reading a few chapters from one of Jason's favorite novels, The Outsiders. Bruce always thought it was a little dark for a comfort book, but Jason loved it. It was one of the first chapter books he'd ever read, before Bruce had met him even.

Throughout the entire reading, Jason's breathing was slow and calm, and his eyes seemed to wander from the book in Bruce's hands, to Bruce's face. He took that as a sign that Jason was listening, and he hoped it meant that he enjoyed it.

Alfred would have liked nothing more than to cook or bake with the dear boy, but that would have been cruel for someone who couldn't consume more than what dripped through his IV.

Instead, Alfred wheeled Jason outside in a wheelchair saved from when Bruce had injured his back. He'd locked the wheels in the garden and set Jason partially underneath an umbrella. While Jason soaked in some much needed sunlight and vitamin D, Alfred tended to the violet beds.

It was winter, so the darling plants were little more than bare shrubs, but that didn't mean there wasn't maintenance to be done. Alfred picked through withered weeds and whatnot, leaving the garden free of intruders while Jason sat silently and watched. He watched the sky and the clouds pass slowly by. He watched the cold wind blow through the trees not far away. He watched Alfred work with the sunlight on his back.

Jason liked the warm feeling of the sunlight on his face. It was bitter cold out, but the sun made it tolerable.

They didn't stay out long, for fear of Jason catching a cold. But everyone in the house liked to imagine that Jason had enjoyed his time outside regardless.

Really, Jason's reaction to it all was mostly the same. Listless and uninterested, at least outwardly. No one knew exactly what he was feeling on the inside, but they had a pretty good idea.

That night when Jason was carefully laid down to sleep, it was decided that he shouldn't sleep alone. He'd wanted to cry when Bruce laid down next to him. The bed was big enough to two, so Bruce kept a bit of space between himself and Jason.

Hence, part of the reason why Jason wanted to cry. Because Bruce was so close, but still separated from him. Would he never close the distance? Would he never reach him in time? Would Jason have to content himself with imagined proximity once more as his consciousness faded?

It was maybe five minutes in when Bruce turned over, something heavy in his eyes, and wrapped an arm around Jason, running the other through his hair.

Bruce didn't want to suffocate him, and he didn't want to hold Jason when he couldn't say yes or no. But he desperately wanted to keep Jason within arm's reach. He wanted to comfort him and hold him and remind himself that he was alive.

Jeson's eyes fell shut that night with a soft, content sigh. Not a tear leaked from his eye, and if the room hadn't been so dark, Bruce might've seen the slight smile on Jason's lips.

 

…

 

Peter hadn't left the library like he'd meant to.

He had meant to leave, at one point, really. But one look outside at how hard it was snowing and Peter shivered.

He'd developed a slight fever while he waited for the snow to stop, sniffling as he watched it fall. He could only wipe his nose on his sleeve so many times before he had to admit that he was getting sick. Which.. duh. Of course he was sick, he'd spent the last night sleeping in the snow!

Not his finest moment.

But that didn't matter! Why?

Because Peter's Parker luck was finally starting to turn around!

After mindlessly reading through a few books in the library, he'd noticed a computer without the normal lock screen on. Peter krept closer.

Giving it a second glance, Peter realized that the computer was still logged in with someone's library card. Up in the top right corner of the screen, Peter could see a little timer counting down the amount of time left on the account. Typically, you were supposed to log out once you were finished using a library computer, but this person must have forgotten.

Peter seized the golden opportunity.

His fingers were on the keys as soon as he sat down, rapidly pulling up the only search engine available which was.. Bing.

Whatever, it didn't matter. Peter didn't care what it was as long as it could give him answers.

'Directions to New York' was the first thing he searched. He might not know where he was (Gotham sounded made up, but whatever), but he knew it wasn't New York. All he needed were directions and he could make his way there.

Except..

'Directions to Yorkshire'

'531 results found'

'Flight Times « Shopping « Images «'

Peter stared at the text hard, like it had personally insulted him.

"What??" He muttered out loud, clearing the query and starting again. He wasn't sure how New York had been autocorrected into Yorkshire, but Peter just blamed it on a fluke.

The fourth time, however, it could no longer be a coincidence, nor was it funny.

'New York' Peter tried desperately.

Still, stupid Yorkshire all the way in freaking England stared back at him. Peter wanted to eat the keyboard.

'Map of America' Peter huffed, just barely avoiding adding an expletive to his search.

The map popped up and Peter's jaw nearly hinged open in shock.

It looked.. completely different.

Peter scrolled frantically through every image of the United States Map he could find, but it remained the same. The entire tail of the American Northeast was a completely different shape, the silhouette of what should have been New York jutting out in an unfamiliar outline.

Peter stared at the bluish screen until his eyes burned, but the comprehension didn't come.

"This doesn't make any sense." Peter mumbled, running a hand through his hair as his brow creased with stress. At this rate, Peter was gonna have grey hair and forehead wrinkles by the ripe old age of sixteen.

'Gotham Map' Peter typed with shaky fingers. He pulled up the clearest image he could find and grabbed a piece of scrap paper. He pressed it against the convexly curved screen and drew a shakey outline of the foreign state, noting each major city and land separation. He indicated it's proximity with Pennsylvania and Connecticut, and wrote a little note stating that he was pretty sure his New York was bigger than Gotham.

Still, nothing was making sense, but..

Maybe he had been gone for a while. Weeks, months, years even! Maybe after the snap, it had taken the remaining avengers a long time to bring everyone back. And maybe in that time, New York's boundary was shifted and renamed.. Gotham..

Alright, that was a stretch.

'What year is it?' Peter felt stupid for typing, because obviously it was two thousand eightee-

2008…

What.

The.

Fuck.

"I'm six years old." Peter whispered, probably on the edge of hysteria.

'Okay. Okay okay okay.' went Peter's internal dialogue.

"I'm ten years in the past, and New York is smaller and called Gotham. All of that makes sense. Lots. Plenty, even." Peter tried to pep talk himself. It wasn't working.

"Maybe the avengers.. screwed up the timeline??" Peter wondered aloud, mostly muttering to himself under his breath.

'The Avengers' Peter searched, bracing himself for the myriad news articals and rant posts about how awful the avengers were at their jobs.

He found none.

In fact, he found nothing about the avengers. Nor did he find anything about Avengers Tower, or Stark Tower, or Tony Stark, or Iron Man, or Captain America, or Hulk, or Hawkeye, or Black Widow, or-

Nothing. Just nothing.

Peter was pretty sure he was having an aneurysm and a panic attack at the same time.

"I don't understand." Peter felt his eyes burn, his face inevitably turning red.

"You okay kid?" A man walking by quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. Math is hard." Peter sniffled out an answer reflexively. The man laughed and nodded his head before walking away.

'well at least I'm getting better at lying' Peter thought to himself.

And then he laughed.

He laughed so hard, he had to hit down on his hand to stop himself from disrupting the quiet of the library. He laughed so hard that he saw stars and his lungs burned. He was reduced to breathless giggles as though he'd just witnessed the single most hilarious thing in his entire life.

And then he cried.

 

…

 

It must have been hours later when Peter realized he'd curled up under the desk, hugging his knees against his chest.

He really only snapped out of his trance when the lights dimmed and Peter realized with dawning horror that the library was closing. Not that he was terrified of being locked in. Just that it'd be really awkward to explain and he didn't wanna get arrested.

But before Peter could crawl out from underneath the desk, a familiar set of wheels rolled around the corner and stopped a few paces away.

"Peter? Are you alright?" Barbara's voice was quiet and soft, in the way one might speak to an injured animal. Peter didn't feel bitter over that fact, because it was a pretty fair comparison.

"Sorry." Peter sniffled and shimmied out from his accidental hiding spot.

"Didn't mean to." He offered weakly.

"It's alright, I don't mind. I do have to close down, though." Barbara admitted with an understanding expression. Peter doubted she could understand, but something about her seemed oddly.. trustworthy.

"Right, right, sorry." Peter scrambled up and made for the door.

"Now hang on a minute!" Barbara wheeled in front of him, blocking his path. Peter froze, suspicion kindling in his mind.

"Peter, I don't make a habit of judging people, but I can't help but notice that you don't seem to be okay." The librarian began and Peter's lips twitched into a frown.

"I have to ask, Peter, not because I want to report you or anything, but because I genuinely care: do you have a safe place to sleep tonight?" Barbara broached the topic gently, but Peter still wanted to bristle against it.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Peter said unconvincingly due to his lethargy, hunger, and stuffed up runny nose. Barbara tilted her head to the side and gave him a Look™. Peter shivered.

"Peter, this building is a safe space, all libraries are. So can I please ask you a couple questions?" Babs implored, her warm green eyes boring into Peter's in the dim light of the library.

Peter stood stock still, not saying anything, but not running away either. His spider sense wasn't giving him any tips, and he was genuinely at a loss for what to do.

"Are you familiar with Gotham, Peter?" Came Barbara's first question.

"No." Peter said, his voice quiet. Babs nodded.

"Do you know how to get home?" She asked and Peter choked.

"No." He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging with fresh tears despite being terribly dehydrated.

He had no idea where home was, if it even existed anymore. He didn't know where his Aunt was, or where his apartment was. He didn't know where his friends lived or where he went to school. He didn't recognize the streets or buildings in Gotham, or anything else for that matter.

Nothing made sense.

"Do you have a safe, warm place to sleep tonight?" Barbara's voice was growing fuzzy in his ears but Peter managed to shake his head. A soft hum of acknowledgement was heard, but not well enough to discern the concern folded in as well.

"Peter, did you sleep outside last night?" Barbara asked her final question and Peter found he couldn't answer it. He wasn't ashamed, but standing in front of someone he'd just met, who seemed to care an awful lot for some reason, and admitting to it all wasn't exactly comfortable.

A lone tear tracked down his cheek and Peter felt thoroughly embarrassed, crying in front of a nice lady he'd only just met. But Barbara didn't mind.

"Peter, that's really dangerous. It was well below freezing last night, no wonder you sound like you're getting sick." Babs rolled forward a pace.

"If I told you I knew a place where you could stay, would you promise to go there?" Barbara slowly reached out and brushed her fingers over Peter's left hand. Peter didn't flinch away, so Barbara didn't pull back.

"Please?" She pleaded, her hand warm. And Peter couldn't exactly say no.

"Okay." He nodded solemnly and Babs smiled.

"Thank you, Peter." She squeezed his hand gently before rolling back to lead the way out of the library. Against his better judgement, Peter followed her.

…

Chapter Text

She'd meant to lead Peter to a homeless shelter. She knew of a good one, not far from her house.

But as Barbara paid for their metro fare, she realized that the homeless shelter she was heading towards closed at seven, and they wouldn't make it in time.

Barbara cursed herself internally, but she already knew what she had to do now.

"Would you walk me home?" Barbara asked the melancholy boy she'd managed to hold onto. Peter paused, but nodded.

"Gotham isn't known for being the safest, especiqlly at night." Babs shook her head and rolled out of the metro car.

Peter followed her closely, eyes darting at every shadow that crossed his peripheral. He was serious about protecting Barbara as she made her trip home. Any vigilante worth their salt would be. But Peter was convinced that Barbara was either a rare and wonderfully kind human being, or a scientology recruiter extremely good at her job. Peter was leaning towards the first option, but one could never be too careful.

Either way, she was a civilian, and Peter was.. less of a civilian. That made it his duty to protect her.

About ten minutes into their journey, Peter became slowly more clear headed, and found himself able to hold conversations again.

"Sorry, I.. I've kinda had a rough day." Peter said lamely and Babs hummed.

"Oh, I figured. Bad days are in plentiful supply around here, though, so I'm essentially an expert." Babs waved a hand flippantly and Peter smiled slightly.

"That what you got your bachelor's in? Bad Days?" Peter joked and Barbara laughed.

"Nope. Doctorate in Library Science." Babs corrected with a grin and Peter blinked with surprise.

"Okay, I'll admit I wasn't expecting that." Peter conceded. Babs laughed, her hands straining on the handholds of her wheels. Peter hummed, watching her hands move.

"Do you, ah, want me to push you?" Peter felt awkward asking. But Babs smiled and shook her head.

"Nah, I'd tell you if I did. Trust me, I'm good." Babs flashed a smile and curled her arm, flexing her bicep. Peter laughed, which he hadn't expected, but he believed her nonetheless. She looked strong, especially in the upper body. He wondered if she worked out often, or if she was just naturally built.

A gaggle of men, obviously drunk, stumbled by, and Peter stiffened. He tracked their movements as they passed, judging their proximity in relation to Babs. They maintained a decent distance however, even whilst losing their balance on the black ice.

"You can relax, Peter." Babs smiled sympathetically in Peter's direction.

"I know I said Gotham can be unsafe, especially at night, but this areas actually pretty safe. I honestly doubt we'll run into any-" Babs was cut off as a man emerged from an alley they were passing and suddenly flashed a gun.

"Give me all your money and I won't kill you." He demanded and both Babs and Peter froze.

"..are you serious.." Babs ran a hand over her face as though she were exasperated and groaned.

"JUST as I was telling Peter that we're not gonna get mugged, THATS when you decide to jump out??" Babs scolded and the mugger looked confused.

"Lady, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Just give me your fucking money!" The man insisted with a jab of his gun.

"Don't talk to her like that!" Peter bit out, offended on Barbara's behalf. The man reeled his head back in surprise and sneered.

"Oh, is the little boy upset?" The mugger taunted and Peter just shook his head.

"You're mugging a disabled woman and a mentally ill teenager! I don't think I'm the little one here." Peter crossed his arms and Babs smirked.

"I knew I liked you." Babs said playfully and Peter's lips quirked into a smile.

"You think I'm playing??" The mugger growled, his hand tightening on his gun. He took a bold step forward which was a mistake on his part.

"Give me the fucking money, or I'll-!" The man pointed the gun directly at Barbara, who hardly reacted. But Peter?

With one hand, Peter shoved the gun to the side, away from Babs. With the other, he punched the mugger's face so hard that he immediately crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The gun clattered to the floor, but mercifully did not go off. Peter sighed with relief.

Barbara's eyes widened infantismally and Peter had just enough forthought to shake out his hand and hiss fake pain.

"Why Peter, you've saved me!" Babs exclaimed in a falsetto, clasping her hands together like a princess in a fairytale. Peter snorted and the two devolved into a fit of laughter.

"Nice punch." Babs remarked as the continued down the street, behaving as though nothing had happened.

"Ah, thanks, I grew up in New- Jersey." Peter saved his sentence at the last second, remembering that in this weird world, Gotham was New York and New York wasn't real. He wanted to gag at actually claiming he was from New Jersey, but it was his best option at the moment.

"There's ah, plenty of crime there too." Peter remarked, picking at the hem of the jacket he'd stolen.

"New Jersey, huh? You've got a bit of a Bowery accent, you know." Babs poked and Peter felt he shouldn't be surprised by it. He remembered the map of Gotham he'd traced, noting that The Bowery was in a similar location that Queens would have been.

"My um, my Aunt is from the Bowery. She raised me, so I guess it kinda.. rubbed off on me?" Peter shrugged, hoping Babs believed him.

"Did you run away?" Babs asked cautiously and Peter jolted.

"What? No!" Peter cried vehemently, shaking his head with vigor.

"Sorry, sorry! Just curious!" Babs held up her hands at shoulder level in surrender, her brows pinching together.

"I didn't- I'd never run from her! she's.. I miss her." Peter admitted, even though it had only been a few days since he'd seen her. Or, going by the current timeline, negative six years since he'd seen her. Which made no sense, but oh well.

"I'm sorry. It sounds like she was a good person." Babs offered her simpathies and Peter felt his heart clench.

No! Aunt May wasn't dead!! She just.. doesn't exist here. Or.. maybe she did?? An alternate version of her, possibly, but definitely not his Aunt May.

'Oh fuck, I'm in an alternate dimension.' the realization hit hard like an epiphany with a baseball bat.

"Y-yeah. She um, she used to volunteer at this shelter. She brought in a lot of the food and stuff. She is- was - really kind. She always just wanted to help people." Peter swallowed dryly, eyes darting down the street.

"I'm glad you had her in your life. We all need people like that - people who make kindness a priority." Babs hummed sympathetically, offering Peter a soft smile. Peter did nothing more than nod his head. He didn't really want to talk about Aunt May in past tense anymore. It was uncomfortable to even think of her as dead, to say the least.

'Okay Peter, alternate universe. You need to get your story straight.' Peter coached himself, searching the edges of his mind for a cover story. He needed a backstory that accounted for his current homeless and lack of identification.

So far, he'd already told Barbara that he'd grown up in New Jersey, and his Aunt, who had been from the Bowery, raised him. Babs had also assumed that his Aunt was dead now, so Peter would have to work that detail into his story as well.

His lack of identification was relatively easy to explain. As a sixteen year old in a state where the majority of the population doesn't own a car, it would actually be somewhat odd if he had a learner's permit or license. He didn't go to a school in the area so he didn't have a student ID either.

His lack of records, however, would be a challenge.

Peter needed to be able to prove he was at least a US citizen. He needed to have some sort of document that proved he existed. A birth certificate, a social security number, something!

He'd never falsified identification documents before, but there was always a first for everything.

"Here we are." Barbara's voice pulled him out of his thoughts and Peter looked up. In front of him, sandwiched between many other buildings of similar architecture, was a tall and skinny home with a brick front. Peter was surprised that it wasn't an apartment building this far into the city, but it was nice.

Babs rolled forward and knocked on the door, motioning for Peter to follow. He did so tentatively, like the house could jump out and bite him.

"C'mon, I'd like you meet my Dad." She said, and boy did that make him even more nervous. She knocked on the door, and immediately, thundering footsteps ran frantically to the door and wrenched it open.

"Barbara!! If you'd told me you didn't have an escort tonight, I would have driven you home!" A man with greying auburn hair cried, leaning down to pull Barbara into his arms. He was tall, with glasses and a thick mustache. He looked like a cop from a TV show, Peter thought absently.

"Dad, I was fine. I didn't want you to have to call off early and - besides, Peter kept me safe." Babs waved a hand flippantly and looked back to Peter. Peter froze as Bab's Father's eyes locked on him, appraising him scrutinously.

"Hi." Peter waved meekly. The man rose a brow.

"Who is this?" The man asked his daughter suspiciously.

"This is Peter, a friend from the library." Babs explained with a smile. Peter was happy to consider Babs a friend, but even he was unsure on how willing she seemed to consider him such. What did he have to offer her? She knew he was homeless, and knew next to nothing about him otherwise. He could be a drug addict for all she knew!

"He offered to walk me home when he found out I didn't have an escort and saved me from an armed mugger." Babs proclaimed with a peaceful smile. Peter nearly choked.

"Now hang on-" Peter gulped.

"He did?" Bab's Father regarded Peter with a slightly less judgemental stare. Babs, however, leveled him with such an intense gaze that he was spurred into speech.

"I- I did." He admitted with a flush, not fully believing his own words. He had technically saved Barbara from the mugger, but based on her body language and expression during the entire confrontation, Peter somehow doubted she was ever in any danger to begin with. Though he couldn't figure out how.

But that seemed to do it. The skeptical Father's demeanor softened and he stepped aside from the doorway.

"Come in." He said with a sigh.

"Come on, it's freezing out here, son." He beckoned once more when Peter hesitated. Peter, faced with the invitation of two people, couldn't but hurry into the house, shivering violently.

Inside was a profound improvement to the dreary outside weather. Even before the door had closed behind him, Peter was met with the intense warmth of the home's interior; not just in the temperature, but in its lighting and appearance overall.

The walls were a soft yellow color, paneled with oak wood throughout the hall. The ceiling fan was off, but it's lights glowed with a warm orange hue. Carpeted floors and decorative rugs sat beneath the furniture, their patterns vibrant and lively.

Peter paused in the doorway, looking down at his feet on the welcome mat and wondering if he should take his shoes off. The house looked to be carpeted mostly throughout, and Peter didn't want to offend by scuffing it or tracking in sleet and mud.

"Oh, Peter, you can leave your shoes by the door if you'd like." Barbara called after him from the kitchen. Peter was suddenly hit with the overwhelming smell of food and his stomach felt all the emptier. He hadn't had anything to eat since he'd arrived in this place, so he was starting to feel weak with hunger pains.

Peter slipped off his shoes and tried to ignore the flush of embarrassment at the stolen socks he was wearing being mismatched. One was white with a grey heel and toe, while the other was pink with Easter eggs all over it. It really didn't matter, but sometimes the little things stood out to him.

Awkwardly, Peter wandered further into the house, feeling as though he was being watched on all sides. Sure enough, Peter caught Barbara's father watching him in the peripheral. He was standing beside his daughter, passing plates onto the dinner table. Peter swallowed and pretended he didn't notice.

He studied the pictures on the walls and pretended to be interested in the color they were painted.

"Where did you find him?" Barbara's father whispered to her, under the belief that Peter couldn't hear him. Peter made no signs that he could from across the room and focused ever more intently on his surroundings.

"I told you, Dad, the library." Babs rolled her eyes but her father only frowned.

"And you expect me to believe that?" He intoned, eyes darting between Peter and his daughter.

"I do, actually!" Barbara replied snappishly, her brows raised. A beat of silence followed, and Peter imagined the man was thinking it over.

"Is he the-?"

"Yes." Barbara answered before her father could finish his question. He breathed a long suffering sigh and nodded his head.

"Alright. I'll get the guest room ready after dinner." He conceded to his daughter's iron will, as well as some other unseen variable. Peter wasn't sure what they meant, but he knew they were talking about him. He hoped that wasn't a bad thing.

"Peter, come eat with us!" Babs called him over after some clattering of dishes and silverware. Peter approached the table tentatively and found it set with take out boxes and empty plates. Three plates, to be exact.

Peter sat in the chair Babs pointed him to, which was across from her on the left side of the table. She sat on the right, with her Father at the head.

"Take whatever you like Peter. I apologize for the takeout, but I wasn't aware we'd be having a guest tonight." Barbara's father offered with a bob of his head, receiving a sharp look from his daughter. Peter was taken back by the sudden shift in the man's behavior towards him, wondering what it was that had changed.

"Takeouts fine. Really, I should be thanking you. I really didn't expect.. any of this." Peter tried to speak respectfully and normally, which was surprisingly difficult on an empty stomach. That, and he'd been operating in survival mode for the past two days. It was hard to come down from that and function averagely.

"Well, my daughter does enjoy spontaneity." Bab's Father remarked and Peter smiled.

"That explains some things." Peter hummed and tried to ignore the loud rumble of his stomach. His face flushed.

"Peter, eat! You look half starved!" Babs insisted, pushing a carton of orange chicken his way. Peter, with an offered pair of chopsticks, picked out a very conservative portion of chicken. Babs watched with evident disatisfaction but said nothing.

Throughout the dinner, Babs continued to push more food his way, cycling through each of the cartons until Peter had eaten a well rounded meal of meat, vegetables, and carbs.

He tried not to eat too quickly - as to give away his hunger, or too slowly - as to seem disinterested or disrespectful. He was far from ungrateful, but he wasn't keen on revealing his needs to semi-strangers. Somehow, though, Barbara seemed set on meeting them regardless.

"Has it been more than twenty four hours since your last meal, Peter?" Babs asked at one point, and Peter froze mid bite.

"Uh." Peter said eloquently, lowering his chopsticks.

"Yeah." He admitted with a nod, averting his eyes from Bab's Father, who raised a brow.

"How old are you, son?" The man asked and Peter bristled internally.

"Sixteen." He frowned, knowing he was being pittied. He didn't want that. He didn't want a meal and sad looks out of pity, like he was some poor creature that needed to be tended to.

"That's far too young to be going without a meal. You'll stunt your growth that way." The man hummed gruffly and Peter snorted.

"A little late for that. I doubt I'm getting any taller than this." Peter shook his head. 5'7 wasn't such a terrible height to be stuck at. It could be worse!

"Oh Peter, I have a feeling that you are very wrong." Babs laughed, her nose wrinkling.

"I remember when Dick was just this itty bitty little fifteen year old. I was taller than him for a while! But then he started growing and didn't stop till he hit 5'11." Babs shook her head, reminiscing.

"Dick?" Peter inquired and willed himself not to grin stupidly at the name.

"One of my best friends." Babs supplied just as her Father stood and began collecting plates. Once the table was cleared, Babs rolled over to the TV and Peter approached the sink.

"Any chance you'll let me do the dishes??" Peter asked hopefully and received a snort in return.

"Not on my life, boy." Bab's Father replied with a smirk and Peter sighed, nodding in defeat.

"Figures." He muttered and moseyed on over to Babs. She had her chair parked beside the couch, which was an odd green color, and had somehow transfered herself onto the cushions. Peter sat when she patted the cushion beside her invitingly.

"Hey, Miss-" Peter began but was interrupted when Babs raised a hand.

"I'm not at work right now, so please just call me Babs." She insisted and Peter nodded with a strained look.

"Alright, Babs, look. I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me. Really, you and your Dad are really kind to offer me dinner. But-" Peter paused, his brow stitching together as he gathered his thoughts. Babs knew where he was going.

"Why?? You don't know me at all, I've barely done anything for you, and you have no real reason to trust me. I can't tell if I'm gonna wake up missing a few organs, or you're just really really nice." Peter frowned, looking at Babs through his mussed bangs.

Babs said nothing, with a sad sort of smile on her face, and turned towards the TV. She picked up the remote, clicked to a specific news channel, and turned up the volume.

"-outrage tonight as the grave of Jason Todd-Wayne was discovered empty. Visitors of the Gotham cemetery first noticed the damage done to the plot this morning. An investigation by the Gotham Police Department revealed that the body of Jason Todd Wayne was stolen and is still missing." A reporter spoke in a stately voice as images appeared on the screen. Peter swallowed dryly as he recognized the funeral plot from the other night. The very same he had dug up.

"It's horrifying, I mean- that poor family. Losing his son was bad enough, I can't imagine what kind of pain that man is going through now." A citizen spoke into a microphone held aloft as they were interviewed by a reporter.

Babs turned down the volume and set the remote by her side. Peter watched her every movement with apprehension.

Had she.. welcomed him into her house because she knew he'd done it? Was she going to turn him in to the cops? Or worse - was she helping him because she thought it was funny?

"I got the strangest phone call last night from my best friend, Dick." Babs began with a wistful look in her eyes. Peter watched, a pit of dread growing in his stomach.

"His little brother was murdered six months ago, it tore his family apart. He hasn't spoken to me since the funeral." Babs shook her head, and Peter was ready to jump off the couch and make a break for the door at a moments notice. In the corner of his eye, he could see Bab's Father in the kitchen, washing dishes.

"But he called me last night, and told me that his little brother Jason - you'll never believe this - crawled out of his coffin." Babs spoke with an astonished tone as though the news still left her breathless. Peter stilled, not daring to fidget or breath too deeply.

"He told me that Jason is alive, somehow!" Barbara laughed bitterly, tucking a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Her glasses gleamed in the TV's blue glow.

"And he told me," Barbara turned to face him.

"that Jason spoke to him, and told him that someone helped him get out of his coffin. If it wasn't for that young person, it's possible Jason could've died a second time of asphyxiation." Babs explained with a grave but grateful look. Peter could see it shimmering in her eyes and Peter felt set adrift.

Was she.. thanking him??

"I-" Peter floundered for something to say, only causing Babs to smile fondly.

"Acts of kindness deserve to be acknowledged, Peter. You saved my little brother, and that's an act of kindness I can't ever repay." She took gentle hold of his hands and smiled mistily through teary eyes.

"Jason's your-!" Peter gasped, eyes going wide.

"I didn't know- I just.. I heard him screaming, I- I had to help." Peter stammered, thoroughly surprised by the revelation.

"That's how I know you're a good person Peter. You felt like you had to help, even though you could have just walked away." She sniffled, rubbing a thumb over back of Peter's right hand.

"Then again - you couldn't have, could you?" Babs asked and Peter immediately shook his head.

"No, I couldn't." Peter admitted, squeezing Barbara's hand back. Babs grinned and pulled Peter into a crushing hug. Peter gasped, suddenly embraced with such ferocity that Peter couldn't believe it.

"I knew I liked you." Babs whispered like a promise behind his ear. Peter hugged her back.

 

…

 

Jason woke up.

He blinked slowly, the ceiling above him a familiar brown with wooden support beams. Jason was grateful that his rooms walls weren't white, like the padded interior of his coffin. He seriously doubted he'd ever be able to sleep in a room with a white ceiling ever again.

Jason longed to sit up and stretch, to yawn and roll his the kinks out of his stiff neck. But he could manage nothing of the sort, effectively catatonic.

The sheets rustled beside him as Bruce turned over.

"Good morning, Jaylad." Bruce hummed once he noticed Jason was awake. He reached over and brushed Jason's hair to the side.

Jason tried to reply, but his efforts amounted to little more than a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Bruce blinked with surprise, seemingly impressed by Jason's progress.

"You're vocal today." Bruce commented positively and Jason wanted so badly to roll his eyes.

Bruce sat up and adjusted the covers. He propped Jason up so that he was sitting against the headboard. Jason's head felt like it might lull to the side, but he managed to keep his neck straight.

"How about I list some things, and you hum if they sound agreeable to you?" Bruce asked and received nothing but a slow blink in return. He took that as a green light.

"Do you need to use the restroom?" Bruce asked but Jason remained silent. He was fine for now.

"Would you like some breakfast?" He asked and Jason remained silent. Banana pancakes and scrambled eggs honestly sounded like heaven, but the fantasy soured at the fact that he couldn't lift the fork to his mouth on his own.

"How about Dick? Would you like to see him?" Bruce asked and Jason mustered up all the effort he could to repeat the noise he'd made before.

"Alright, up we go then." Bruce said with a smile and got Jason's wheelchair ready. He helped him slip into it by positioning it right against the bed and guiding Jason down.

Bruce pushed him into the living room with steady hands. Sure enough, Duck was sitting at the dining room table, spoon full of sugary cereal halfway to his mouth. When he caught sight of Jason, however, his eyes lit up and he dropped the spoon.

"Little wing!" He exclaimed, jumping out of his seat and rushing forward. He leaned down and captured Jason in a firm hug. Jason sighed, with relief and exasperation. Dick was so dramatic.

"Sleep well, lil wing?" Dick asked and Jason hummed, that same punched out noise rising from his struggling vocal chords. Dick looked surprised, but delighted.

"He was asking for you." Bruce mentioned, pushing him up to the table. Jason made a strangled noise in protest, but Dick only grinned in response.

"Aww, you missed me??" Dick cooed and Jason wished he could make more facial expressions than just 'blank stare.' He also wished he had proper function of his middle fingers. Alas.

"Good morning, Master Jason. I trust you are well." Alfred strode into the room with his air of perfection, setting down breakfast plates for Bruce and himself. Jason's stomach sank at the thought of eating. Because it meant being fed.

But looking down at his plate, he saw only a cup of orange juice. His stomach settled, a bit.

"Don't worry lil wing, we'll get you up to eating solids soon. But how about we start small first?" Dick smiled and motioned to Jason's IV port. He'd forgotten it was there, but it made sense. It wasn't safe for him to be swallowing solids right now, not when he wasn't entirely sure his body could.

But orange juice? A liquid?

Maybe he could handle that.

…

 

Babs had been woken from her slumber by an obnoxious tone she recognized immediately. It wasnt her alarm clock. It wasn't her phone. It was her comm. Babs wasn't on call tonight, so for someone to be comming her, it had to be serious.

She jolted in bed, using her arms to pull herself up on the bed post. She fumbled in the dark for her glasses and comm device, which were both on her bedside table. Babs grabbed them both, shoving one onto her face and the other into her ear.

"Status?" She immediately asked, voice surprisingly crisp for how groggy she felt.

"It's Jason." The breathless voice of Dick Grayson crackled over the line and Babs froze.

"Nightwing, what-?" Babs frowned, her brow creasing. Dick didn't use real names over comms unless he was out of it, and he sure sounded that way.

Last she heard, Scarecrow was still in Arkham. So unless an ammeture had gotten ahold of some fear gas, or worse, there'd been a late night prison break, there shouldn't be any way Dick was intoxicated.

"He's alive! I'm bringing him to the manor, hes- oh God, Babs." Dick choked and Barbara's frown hardened.

"Dick, you have ten seconds to explain what's going on before I call Bruce." She said harshly and heard Dick chuckle over the comm.

"Already called him." Dick shook his head ruefully and Babs swallowed dryly. This was serious, then.

"Someone called me and said that Jason was looking for me. I went to the location they specified and- and there he was." Dick made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, no doubt swallowing down tears.

"Dick.." Bab's mind raced with possibilities. Who it could be, who could have called him, villains with illusion based abilities. She didn't allow for any hope to kindle.

"It's him, Babs. I know it is. He's in the seat next to me." Dick insisted, his voice desperate. Bab's fists shook and a deep anger raged within her. Whoever dared to mess with Nightwing with something like the death of Jason would drinking through a straw for the rest of their goddamn life. She would make sure of that.

"Issat Barbie?" A little voice slurred and Bab's froze, breath catching.

It sounded just like him.

"There's no way." Babs lifted a hand to her mouth and shut her burning eyes. It was too early to be choking on past regrets.

"He's wearing the suit, Babs." Dick said.

"The one he was buried in." He clarified with a measure of remorse in his voice. Babs shook her head.

"No." She muttered, not believing it. She couldn't.

"He's covered in dirt, too. And his fingers are- they're bleeding, Babs. It's like he crawl- crawled out." Dick gagged on the word as if it were vomit inducing. Barbara bit back a sob.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be real.

"I'm taking him to the manor. But Babs,-" Dick's tone shifted and Babs knew he needed something.

"There was a kid who helped him. His name is Peter. He's the one who called me. You gotta- you gotta find him Babs." Dick pleaded imploringly. And how could Babs say no? Even if this wasn't Jason and just some illusion or clone, Peter could still be an integral part of the plot.

"I will." She promised in a small voice. She wasn't sure how, but-

"Thank you." Dick said with a sniffle, and turned off his comm.

Babs dropped her to the floor and sobbed, loud and open. She hugged herself and cried, not caring how broken her wails sounded. Her door burst open a moment later, her father holding a gun and a flashlight. He dropped them both immediately and ran to her side.

It was a long night.

But after hours of research and digital nightmares, Babs still found it hard to believe that Peter had essentially fallen into her lap.

He'd waltzed into the library and immediately after learning his name, Babs knew it had to be him. It was too much of a coincidence to meet a young kid, around Jason's age presumably, named Peter, the very day after Dick's frantic call.

Not only that, but there was just so much about Peter that seemed odd. He clearly didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he was doing, or even what to do. He looked so lost it hurt.

So yes, maybe she'd brought him home instead of bringing him to a shelter. She could keep a better eye on him this way. And yeah, she felt bad for him, especially seeing how hungry he looked. Peter just screamed 'down on my luck' and Babs couldn't help but sympathize.

Secretly, to herself, Babs vowed to help Peter. That is, if he didn't turn out to be an evil mastermind with resurrection powers.

But that was an eventuality she seriously doubted.

"Morning Peter." Babs yawned and stretched in her chair, rolling sluggishly into the kitchen to make a pit of coffee.

"Mm, mornin' Babs." Peter sniffled, rubbing his eyes as he left the guest room.

"Uh oh." Babs turned and, sure enough, was met with the sight of an ill looking Peter. Red eyes, a congested voice, and a runny nose were all that she could see, but it was all paired with a raging headache.

"Wha's uh oh?" Peter tilted his head, sniffling and rubbing his nose.

"Peter. You're sick." Babs pointed out, deadpan. Peter's shoulders slumped.

"I knoww." Peter sighed, feeling clammy and feverish.

"Alright, back to bed mister! Come on!" Babs insisted, rolling forward and ushering Peter back into the guest room.

"You're pushy." Peter noted and Babs scoffed.

"You're only just now noticing?" She teased.

"I just met you." Peter pointed out with a frown, still somewhat confused as to why he was so pliant to her demands. As far as he was concerned, she was a complete stranger. But it's not like he had any better options.

Nice, somewhat scary lady > homelessness

"I'm gonna get you some tea and.. probably some soup. Yeah." Barbara nodded once she had pushed Peter back into bed. He watched her go, confused, but didn't complain.

A few minutes later, Babs returned with a tray supporting a mug of tea and a bowl of soup. Both were steaming and Peter imagined they smelled fragrant. He couldn't actually smell anything though. Not with his sinuses all wrecked.

"You're like.. really nice." Peter hummed as Babs passed him the mug.

"It's weird." Peter said scrutinously into his tea, taking a scorching sip. Babs snorted.

"You're a funny guy, Peter." Babs observed humorously with a tilt of her head.

"Nothin funny bout kidnapping." Peter muttered and Babs laughed, startled.

"Oh, is that what happened?? I kidnapped you?" She inquired incredulously. Peter glared, cradling his tea close.

"Yeb. You're going to jail." Peter replied solemnly, nodding after another sip of his tea.

"And you, are delirious." Babs sighed as she took his temperature, clucking her tongue at the high number.

"Take small bites and small sips. I'll be right back with some meds." Babs set the tray down on top of Peter's lap and once again, rolled away. Peter felt dizzy as she left and set the mug down on the tray. He tipped his head back and resolved to close his eyes for a just a couple seconds.

Which, inevitably, turned into thirty minutes.

 

…

 

When Peter eventually woke up, the TV was on, and the tray had been moved to the bedside table.

"I don't know how long he was out there, but he's got a pretty bad fever. I don't want him catching pneumonia." Bab's voice floated into his room through the cracked open door.

Peter, in his delirium, though it was his Aunt May in the kitchen. But who was she talking to?

"No, I know. I miss him too, I still can't believe he's alive." The lack of response told Peter that she was on the phone. But her conversation didn't make any sense. Who was alive?

"I'll make a visit soon, I promise. Just- maybe when Peter is a little better. I'm sure Jason would like to see him, and we don't want him getting sick." She sighed and Peter realized she was talking about him. And.. Jason? Who was Jason again?

Maybe he was the son of one of Aunt May's friends. She was probably talking to someone from work, or from the pantry. Maybe Mrs. Miller?

A cool hand settled on Peter's forehead and he hummed, eyes fluttering open.

A woman with green eyes and auburn hair looked down at him, smiling when she noticed he was awake.

"Are you feeling better?" She asked, and Peter felt dizzy. She didn't really look like May, or sound like her now that Peter thought about it. But she still felt like her.

"May?" Peter croaked, his head feeling stuffy. His eyes were burning. May smiled sadly.

"Still a little out of it then." She noted and Peter turned his head.

"You're not May.." Peter realized slowly, blinking several times and taking slow breaths.

"I'm sorry." Babs apologized kindly, her hand brushing back his bangs.

"S'okay." Peter shrugged.

"Jus' hope she's okay." He murmured his surroundings still not registering. His head was full of cotton and the world around him was just one room. One room, four walls, a door, and Babs. The whole world was there, and there was nothing beyond it but his memories.

Dark memories.

"Your Aunt?" Babs asked and Peter nodded.

"Hope Thanos didn't get her." He uttered truthfully. Babs quirked a brow and her expression morphed into something concerned.

"Thanos?" She prompted and Peter grimaced.

"Killed so many." He sniffled, his head feeling heavy. He let it sink into the pillows. Everything was warm.

"Where?" Babs asked gently, not wanting to startled him. She knew he wasn't of sound mind at the moment, but she couldn't pretend his ramblings were entirely nonsensical.

"Everywhere. All gone." Peter frowned, turning to her. His eyes were far away, focused on something through her in the distance.

"M'sorry." He mumbled, eyelids drooping. And he slipped off into sleep once more.

...

Chapter Text

Babs left the guest room and left the door open just a crack. The sun was setting and the curtains were drawn. Batman hadn't been seen all last night, and he was starting up his patrol cycle again to correct that.

But Bab's concern lay elsewhere, with two young souls on her mind.

Peter and Jason.

One was a little brother to her, the other, a lost child down on his luck.

But what Peter had revealed to her in his fever addled state, sounded a whole lot worse than just bad luck.

"What happened to you, Peter?" Babs muttered under her breath and fished out her phone, dialing Dick's number.

"Everything okay?" Was the first thing he asked, concerned but not alarmed.

"I'm not so sure." Babs sighed and heard Dick shift on what she assumed was probably the couch.

"Are you with Jason?" She asked.

"Yeah." He replied, voice fond.

"But what happened? Is it related to Peter?" Dick somehow hit the nail on the head with that sharp intuition of his.

"He told me some.. concerning things." Babs sighed and relayed the entirety of what Peter had murmured to her. Dick listened intently.

"Well that's.. Thanos??" Dick uttered incredulously. He considered the name, sighing it in his mind and trying to recall if he'd ever heard it before.

"I don't know. I haven't researched it yet. I'll tell you if I find anything, but.. it definitely doesn't sound good." Babs shook her head.

"Only problem is, I'm not sure if it's mob boss bad, or threat to the universe bad." She huffed, slouching in her chair.

"Well, I can safely say I've never heard that name before. But I could ask around in the hero community for you. The lanterns will probably know of him if he's a threat to the universe." Dick replied with an arm around Jason's shoulders.

They were watching Lord of the Rings, a movie Dick remembered was based on a book. He figured Jason would be interested. He honestly couldn't tell, seeing as Jason was kinda expressionless and motionless, but he had hope all the same.

It was raining outside, which was completely unfair considering how cold it was. By all rights, it should be snowing. But Gotham never really behaved the way it was 'supposed to.'

But it was warm inside, and the couch was comfortable.

"You know I have all the same connections as you do, if not more." Babs huffed, opening up her laptop silently.

"I know. The offer stands though. I wanna help." Dick replied, unbothered. It was true, Oracle was just as well established within the hero community as Nightwing. She didn't work outside of Gotham much, but sometimes info was passed through the pipeline, and sometimes it was her Intel that saved League meetings. Dick was certain she was owed a few favors at this point.

Still, he wanted to be helpful. Especially when it came to the kid who'd helped - if not saved - his little brother.

"I'll keep that in mind." Barbara hummed, the sound of keys clacking through the phone. Dick smiled.

 

…

 

Peter woke up and fell asleep, and woke up and fell asleep.

Peter drifted between consciousness and slumber, with panic settled in-between. Sometimes, his eyes would snap open in a fit of terror, cold sweat drenching his shivering body. Only for a warm, damp cloth to wipe over his forehead, brushing the beads of fridgid sweat away.

He remembers the sound of gentle humming lulling him back to sleep, rising and falling in gentle tone. It was soft and quiet, but steady all the same.

He let himself imagine it was May. Sometimes he really thought it was her, other times he knew it wasn't. He just missed her.

He wanted to go home, but his limbs felt so heavy he could hardly move. The mattress was soft and he sank into it like a stone thrown into a pool of water. He was hot and cold and icy all over. The burning was worse.

But through it all, the humming persisted. Different tunes - some he'd never heard. He wondered if they were songs from this dimension, or just the idle melody of imagination. A passing song, sung once and immediately forgotten.

Peter members taking sips, small and feeble, of cold water and warm soup. He remembers a warm hand holding his, and a voice.

"You'll be okay Peter, just breath with me." She would sooth, breathing deep and slow. Peter doesn't remember if he managed to copy the pattern, because he fell asleep.

Again and again, the cycle repeated. Until days had passed, and little had changed.

The voice grew small and sad, and Peter woke less and less.

His lungs struggled as they filled with fluid, a warbling cough bubbling from his chest. His eyes burned and weeped with tears just to sooth the dryness. His hunger curbed until his small sips of broth wrought nothing but bile in his throat.

Breathing became unbearable, so he did less of it.

The voice stilled, and Peter fell asleep.

 

…

 

Jason was fifteen and ¾'ths old when he'd been betrayed, beaten, blown up, and buried.

He was Sixteen and 2/6'ths old when he'd awoken amongst a graveyard and nearly asphyxiated again.

Neither were fun. Zero stars, would not recommend.

But at least he was alive again!

..Right?

 

Wrong.

He couldn't fucking do anything. He was barely even living!!

Overcoming the embarrassment of being tended to and pampered like an infant was a tiresome and a nigh impossible task that he was fairly certain he'd never achieve. The feeding wasn't too bad, though still rediculous. It was the changing that felt so mortifying.

He was exposed, dependent, vulnerable-

Bleeding, wheezing, crying. Bones cracking, blood spilling. And the laughter- oh God the laughter. It rang and rang like a bell struck again and again. Metal on metal, metal on flesh. Flesh tearing, flying, fabric ripping. More laughing more laughing stop laughing stop laughing stop-

Jason hated panic attacks.

He had them constantly, at the smallest things.

The garage door scraping as it opened, the metal groaning and creaking.

People on the TV laughing like maniacs.

Robin, even just thinking of his costume.

Dirt, the way it felt under his finger nails, closing around him.

Being alone, because he'd been alone when he died, and alone when he woke up.

Even the color red. Just the color, nothing else. That was all it took for Jason's body to tremble as though he were having a silent seizure.

Sometimes a high whine would manage to escape his throat, and he'd be lucky then. Because someone would hear him and immediately rush to comfort him. He'd be reassured of his location, of his safety, and of his life. It was usually Dick, if not Alfred or Bruce.

But sometimes he couldn't manage any noise, and he'd have to suffer in silence.

He didn't like the quiet anymore.

He wanted to speak, he wanted to yell or even scream. He wanted to laugh and not have a panic attack. He wanted to shovel food into his mouth with his own hand and a fork. He wanted to pick up a glass of orange juice, raise it to his lips, and drink.

No assistance. No fear.

If Jason was able to speak, he'd say he was still dead. Because what he was doing wasn't living. Sure, he was breathing. His heart was beating.

But all he did was exist. He was alive, but not living.

"You're my survivor." Bruce whispered to him one night, gathering Jason in his arms as he carried him to bed. Jason still slept in Bruce's bed, or Dick's if B was out.

"You've been so brave, Jaylad. My brave boy." Bruce pressed a kiss to Jason's forehead, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. The blankets were soft and fuzzy, taken from his old bed rather than the smooth quilted comforter Bruce usually slept with.

"And I know you don't see it, but you're getting better every day." Bruce said, brushing Jason's bangs away from his face. His heart was already swelling with Bruce's praise and affection. It had never been given so freely before, but Bruce seemed intent on making up for lost time.

"I called a friend of mine who can help you. She'll be here tomorrow, just to talk to you. She helped me when I broke my back, and I know she can do the same for you." Bruce assured, hand still petting his hair.

Jason was apprehensive about meeting someone new, but if Bruce trusted her..

He'd trusted a nice lady before, and look where that got him.

But Bruce was better than Jason - knew better than Jason. If he trusted her, then she had to be safe.

She had to be.

"Dick and I will be with you the whole time." Bruce said, as if sensing his panic. Jason sighed, willing his muscles to relax into the blanket and mattress.

"I love you, son." Bruce smiled with a final ruffle of his hair. Another kiss for good measure, this time on the cheek. Jason felt like he was loved - really loved. Like he was precious.

It was the happiest he'd been all week.

 

…

 

In the morning, Jason's anxieties returned about meeting the mystery woman Bruce had mentioned.

A physical therapist, Jason assumed. Who else could help with his current.. catatonia. Or, was it paraplegia?? He hoped it was the former. Paraplegia wasn't typically something that could be recovered from. Babs would know.

"You ready little wing?" Dick was in his line of sight, smiling bright and cheerful.

'No. No I'm not ready.' Jason thought.

"That's the spirit!" Dick beamed when Jason said and did absolutely nothing. Stupid Dick.

Dick pushed Jason forward, hands gripping the wheelchair's handles. Jason could see the door ajar before him, and he desperately did not want to cross it. Because passed that door, down the hall and a little to the left, was the sitting room. And in the sitting room, was Alfred, Bruce, and the mystery woman.

He didn't want to see her, and more importantly, he didn't want her to see him.

He felt stupid admitting it, but he was afraid. Afraid of a woman he hadn't even met.

Because what if.. what if she..

They passed through the door and Jason tried not to shiver. It was cold in the manor now, it's central heating system relegated to heating rooms rather than hallways.

Dick had luckily predicted this and draped a soft shawl over Jason's shoulders. It was long enough that it pooled over his knees and kept his legs warm too. Jason wished he could bundle his hands into it, bony fingers fridged and pale.

Down the hall they rolled, and every step Dick took brought Jason closer to what he dreaded.

Meeting. Confrontation. Betrayal.

He didn't want the pain again. He didn't want the laughter again.

Pleasepleasepleaseplease-

Dick didn't notice Jason's struggle, as it was entirely internal. Jason was crying in his mind. He was begging. But no one was listening. No one could hear.

Dick rolled Jason into the living room with an ease about him. For Dick, this was a hopeful moment.

Jason was gonna get treatment to hopefully be mobile again someday. Dick didn't care how long it took, or how little progress he made. He mostly just wanted to be able to talk to Jason again. If all Jason managed to regain was his speech (which was actually a whole lot!!) Dick would be content.

Jason wouldn't be, he knew. But it would be enough. And after seeing the results Ms. Kinsolving got with Bruce after his back injury, Dick was almost certain some victories could be won on Jason's end.

In his head, Jason was thrashing in the chair and running away. But he was perfectly still, and perfectly silent. The very picture of placidity.

Bruce was seated on the couch, but the moment he saw Jason, he stood up. Alfred was standing as well, on Bruce's right with a feather duster in hand. But on Bruce's left-

Oh.

Jason's internal writhing stopped the moment he saw her, truly saw her.

Because she was absolutely nothing like his mother.

Dark, supple skin and almond eyes. Short, curly hair that complimented her square jaw. Full lips, painted a deep red, almost black. Shiny pearl earrings, slightly yellowed with age. No smell of smoke, no nervous gleam in her eyes.

She looked stern, but strong, even in a soft pink two piece suit. Her eyes tracked his as he was rolled forward, and for the first time, Jason felt embarrassed just for being.

Her eyes were intelligent, his were dull. She sat at attention, he was slumped. Her lips curved, his were flat.

He felt stupid - in the very sense of the word.

Dumb.

He couldn't even acknowledge her with a flick of his eyes. Couldn't straighten his posture to show that he saw her. He could only stare blankly ahead, as though he saw nothing at all.

Despite it all, she smiled.

It was small, and nothing like Dick's bright, toothy grins. But it was genuine, and that was all that mattered.

Genuine was good.

"Hello Jason. My name is Shondra, and I think I can help you, if you'll let me." Were her first words to him, and Jason decided he liked her voice.

In the following days, he'd decide that he liked her, too.

 

…

 

Peter awoke to the sound of ventilators, and noticed that it wasn't so hard to breath anymore.

The humming was back, and Peter smiled

 

...