Archive of Our Own

Tim tilted his head, watching the new photographer follow along behind Vicki Vale. He moved to be as unobtrusive as possible as he lifted his camera, snapping shots of whoever Vale stopped to talk to. His secondhand suit made him stand out like a sore thumb, but due in part to its...shabby appearance. It was at least one size too big, possibly two. Tweed which...helped him blend into the walls mostly. It didn't work for him, and came across as tacky. He was tall and gangly, awkward in that way that some people are when they aren't used to being tall. He had brown eyes and brown hair that he really should have run a comb through at the very least.

None of that mattered, and Tim wouldn't have cared...except Rodrigo Guevara did not exist. He had the stuff that you would need to get a job, a social security number, and a birth certificate. Nothing else, though. No social media presence. The birth certificate only linked to a government database confirming its existence. There’s no record of hospitals, mother, father, or friends.

He had been following the Gotham Gazette around like a lost puppy over the course of the last 2 weeks. Going to galas and somehow always managing to get pictures of the various vigilantes, clearer than anyone else had managed to so far.

The whole reason Bruce had set up this particular gala was in order to get him here so they could learn more about him, but in the end, he was just a photographer. His bags were X-rayed, Superman listened and checked and sniffed and whatever else they could think to do. Rodrigo simply did not exist! Dick thought he was undocumented. Except his accent was more Queens, New York.

Bruce had spent a small portion of the night finding ways to get along with the guy. The way they figured, IF he was an assassin, or a thief of some kind, or really any one of a number of things, then getting Bruce alone would get him to do something. So far all he had done was take pictures of Bruce. Also... clumsily flirted with him.

Yeah, Rodrigo Guevara didn't even try to hide the way his features melted into the most infuriating little smile the moment Bruce started talking about his reasons for the Gala. Bruce got passionate about making green spaces throughout Gotham in order to help with pollution. Guevara was utterly enraptured, Bruce hanging off of his arm as he chattered, while simultaneously trying to get all his kids together. He used the excuse of family photos to ensure everyone got their own look and made their own decisions about Rodrigo "Call me Roddy" Guevara.

Tim watched him for a moment longer before shaking his head. They planned to have an... interrogation with him. Though if he was honest, Tim didn't think he really had anything to worry about from the awkward man. Maybe he was something normal! Maybe he was just a dude who crossed the border, maybe illegally, got a buddy to give him documents, and started a normal life.

Tim sighed. "Just once it would be nice for it to actually be the least problematic option."

"Mister Wayne." He said with a boisterous laugh. "I'm a contract photographer." Oh! They could get him alone and wouldn't need to be masked to do it!

Okay.... Here we go. Let's do this one more time.

Hey! My name is Peter Parker Rodrigo Guevara, and I am the one and only.

Well... Nobody right now, laying low and all that.

Before that, I was Spider-Man. The one and the only... A laughably false statement. There are more spiders than there are Bats Here.

Take that, Batsy! My clutter outdoes your cauldron. Really small wins!

Weird that we both have sexy, flirty, cat-themed villains...And swing from rooves...If Bat was a Peter Doppleganger, it looked like it was either money or power...not both...

Damn...

Where is here? Gotham City. So far, the least expensive place. Ever. Rodrigo was making great money and from the look of it, might be able to BUY Wayne Industries.... Not apartments... Penthouses?... It was long-term homeownership in a two-bedroom that was snazzy as heck; it had its own deed and everything!

Pete-Rodrigo Guevara. Homeowner. May would be proud.

He missed her already.

Beyond that! For the first time in his life, Peter was doing amazingly! He wasn't rich, but because of the constant attacks, you had to be insane to stay here. Rodrigo, with his truly astounding metabolism and bonkers reflexes, actually fit in Gotham quite well.

Actually, it was kind of fun.

Peter didn't know why he was here, honestly. He'd gone to sleep on that shitty couch, the subway's "calming" vibrations lulling him to sleep after a particularly harsh fight with Goblin that left him barely able to breathe. The slow, dragging breaths rattled in his chest, the pain dulled by Hulk-grade Tylenol.

He had been so rudely awakened by free falling. Not from a short distance either; twisting in the air showed a weird black ripple in the air behind him. Peter examined it in the seconds he had, body twisting, thrusting a wrist forward automatically, his fingers pressing down on the... nothing in his palm.

Fuck.

Other hand?

Nothing.

Double Fuck.

He twisted in the air as he fell and looked around. He was... way up there. The cold was making his joints ache. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes shift through a couple of different spectrums, really hoping things from his room had been brought along.

He frowned, not catching the much-hoped-for glint of silver or red in any way he tried to look. Buildings were getting closer, so we were very quickly approaching plan time, and Pete was stuh-ruggling on the plan side.

He was near a tower, big, old, boxy. Big-ass clock. Not that one. Tower within falling distance, big W. All edges and gargoyles.

Okay, now that he was looking at it, he wondered if this was Noir's place. It gave off a serious 'Dystopian Detective Story.' Vibes. At least if it was Noir's home, then at least Pete could access the Web. Maybe Madam would get a hold of him so he could go home.

Focus. Free-falling.

With a sigh he tilted his body and aimed for W tower. Letting the wind sweep him over, doing his best to control his descent until he was in line with the building. He spread himself out as much as he could, trying to slow himself as W tower's red blinking airplane light thing zipped past his eye and he grabbed the post. He lurched suddenly, his shoulder SCREAMING as he quickly grabbed the pole with his other hand. His hand rubbed raw, ripping at his palms as he lifted his legs, wrapping himself around the pole like a fireman. He growled to himself, using his feet, thighs, and hands to slow his descent. 'Hang on, Parker!'

His feet hit the roof hard, not finding any kind of traction; he tumbled over and slammed against the ledge of the building. After catching his breath, he looked out over the city. "Well, this sucks."

Wayne Tower. That's what he was dangling from that night. It was seriously too bad WE didn't have its own newspaper. Wayne was such a pure good boy. He has so much love for his city that it is, frankly, adorable. The way his eyes lit up whenever Peter would ask a question about all the good things in the city, and that same sad melancholy the New Yorkers seemed to carry when talking about all the ways their cities were failing.

It made Peter want to coo. It was the cutest damn thing. Big, rich golden retriever man.

...Who is unfortunately Suspect Number One for being the Bat. A hero knows a hero, and the way the Bat was observing him told Roddy that the bat suspected he might be something more, too. A hero knows a hero.

"Please, Mister Wayne, I really do need to take pictures of other people." He teased with a smile. The Waynes, all of them, had been absolutely dominating his time. Bruce had found a reason to take one of his arms and was sticking close, all charming smiles and bubbling laughter. Interrogation without the mask. This fucking adorable dog man must have done a background check on Roddy. Yeah, Roddy didn't do false identities. Sorry, Dogman. Roddy isn't a threat, promise.

"Oh, come now, Roddy!" he said with a boisterous laugh. He had a few of his children, most likely Robins if the way Tim Drake-Wayne was hyper-focusing on him was any sign. It wasn't obvious, but Roddy never even once managed to leave his line of sight. "I have so few reasons to get family photos!"

"Mister Wayne." He said with a laugh. "I am a contract photographer." This would be an excellent excuse for some alone time with the Waynes so he can put these sweet sunshine children at ease with how much of a non-threat he is. "Here." He turned, hand dipping in his pocket as he took Bruce's hand. Calloused, rough. That is a similar burn scar, someone grabbing the grapple line with their bare hand early on? Painful lesson, Pete sympathized. He also pretended not to notice as several hands shot up, possibly for hidden weapons, or in Brick Shithouse's skunk-striped case, fully pulled his gun off his hip, and wrote his number in the man's palm. "Call me here any time after noon. We'll meet up wherever you want to do family photos. Sound good?"

Bruce had a sharp look in his eyes when Roddy looked up, his eyes on Roddy's hand, still holding his, their scars partially lined up. That's right, precious golden retriever man. A hero knows a hero. When their eyes met, Bruce broke into a slight, forced but excited smile. Just a hint of the mask in his eyes. "I'll look forward to it." Awwww~!