Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There are very few things Peter Parker hates more than Gotham City. 

Unfortunately, Gotham City seems to know this and is not pleased by the information. 

The second the portal spits him out, cold rain soaks him. Not normal rain either, but Gotham rain, the kind that feels personally committed to delivering a dry-cleaning nightmare. 

The sky hangs low and swollen overhead, all black clouds and sick yellow light bleeding up from the streets. Everything smells like gasoline and old metal. 

New York smells alive. Gotham smells haunted. 

Peter perches on a gargoyle for a second, rain dripping off the edge of his mask, and squints down at the city with deep suspicion. 

“Okay, Peter,” he mutters to himself. “You’re in Gotham now, and you’re going to hand out letters to your fiance’s adoptive but evil family that he still loves for whatever reason. So you’re gonna be kind, and you’re gonna enjoy— yeah, who am I kidding? You’re gonna get the hell out of here.” 

And take, like, ten showers to wash Gotham off before the wedding, but some things don’t need to be said aloud. 

A police siren screams somewhere below him. 

Peter screams back. 

In hindsight, he should’ve made Stephen come with him for emotional support. Or Wong, because Wong could probably survive Gotham by glaring at it until the city apologized.

Peter crouches lower on the gargoyle and scans the skyline. 

Gotham’s architecture looks like catholic guilt was its urban planning guide. Gargoyles leer from the rooftops. Buildings claw upward in jagged shapes. Every third window looks either abandoned or haunted. Mostly both. 

His communicator crackles softly in his ear. 

“You’ve been stationary for four minutes,” Stephen says. “That’s concerning, considering the signal between our two worlds is fading.” 

Peter snorts. “I’m preparing my emotions.” 

“For delivering invitations?” 

“For not committing many crimes.” Peter grins at the long sigh Stephen lets out and adds, “Tell Tim I’m being brave.” 

“I’m sitting right here.” Tim’s voice cuts in, warm with amusement. “Also, you’re being dramatic.” 

Peter gasps. “You send me into Gotham alone and I’m the dramatic one?”

“You’ll survive.”

“And I’ll do so out of spite.” 

Tim laughs softly, and God, Peter misses him instantly. 

It’s ridiculous, really. They’ve been apart for maybe five minutes, but Gotham feels fundamentally wrong without Tim, like the city noticed Peter arrived without its favorite victim and took that personally. 

Peter presses two fingers briefly to the inside pocket of his suit where the invitations are stored in waterproof casing because, unlike Gotham, Peter believes paper deserves rights. 

“Okay,” Tim says, gentler now. “You don’t have to stay long.” 

Peter’s chest does something embarrassingly soft. He thinks he might marry Tim a thousand times. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says, because if he thinks too hard about loving Tim Drake he’s going to end up monologuing to a gargoyle. “I’ll survive your terrible murder city.” 

“Gotham’s not that bad.” 

Peter stares out across a skyline that must’ve been cursed by a whole bloodline of angry witches. Lightning flashes somewhere in the distance. 

“Timothy,” Peter says flatly. “Be serious.” 

Tim laughs again, quieter this time, and Peter wants New York with a sharpness that aches behind his ribs. 

Because for one terrible second, Peter thinks, with sudden violent clarity: Tim was a kid here. 

Not the Sanctum. Not the warm gold light in the library or Wong pretending not to be way too invested in reality TV. Not their apartment, half-full of unpacked boxes and dumb domestic arguments about what color bookshelf to get. 

“Signals cutting out, Pete,” Tim says, voice crackling. “Be safe?” 

“Always.” 

“Mr. Parker has never once followed that promise,” Stephen says. He goes to say something else, but it’s lost to static. 

And then movement flickers three rooftops over. 

“Great,” Peter mutters, spider-sense spiking. “The locals found me.” 

Four shapes emerge from the rain-dark skyline. 

Batman lands first. Of course he does. Dramatic bitch. 

The cape spreads around him like a cheap emo copy of the Cloak of Levitation. Beside him lands who Peter can only assume is the Red Hood, judging by his bulkiness and, well, his red hood. Spoiler lands in a blur of purple and black, followed by Orphan. 

They fan out automatically, like he’s a potential threat. Personally, Peter doesn’t get it — take away the fact that he’s a meta, masked, standing on a gargoyle and dimensionally trespassing, he’s harmless. 

Batman’s voice is low and rough beneath the rain. “You’re far from home.” 

Peter immediately dislikes him all over again.

Honestly, it’s sort of impressive. Bruce Wayne could say good morning in an irish accent and Peter would still hear it in emotionally unavailable. 

“Wow,” Peter says. “You truly are the world’s greatest detective. What gave it away: the interdimensional portal or my winning personality?” 

Red Hood snorts, then clicks his gun’s safety off. 

Batman ignores that entirely. “Who are you?” 

Don’t let the grammar fool you, Peter thinks, That was not a question. It was definitely a demand. 

Then, for extra measures, he thinks, bitch. 

Look, it’s not his fault. Gotham is designed to be hated. New York has weird vigilante etiquette where people introduce themselves before threatening bodily harm. The whimsy doesn’t come from laughing gas. The property damage occasionally comes with emotional honesty. 

Gotham acts like everyone’s in a hostage negotiation and no one is making it out alive. 

“I’m looking for Robin,” Peter says. “Or— well, he was Robin at some point. You know: black hair, blue eyes, a whole lot of anger in a tiny little body.” 

Spoiler rolls her eyes. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” 

Peter just blinks. 

Batman’s expression doesn’t change, which is a little fascinating. Peter’s pretty sure Bruce Wayne was born 47 years old and disappointed. 

“Robin is unavailable,” Batman says. “State your business.” 

Peter stares at him through the rain. This is exactly why Tim had trust issues. 

“I’d rather talk to him directly.” 

“You won’t.” 

Cool. Great. Fantastic conversation skills are happening right here. 

Peter rubs a hand over the front of his mask. “Look, just call Damian and tell him it’s Peter Parker and—” 

That gets a reaction from each of them. 

Batman’s posture shifts. Red Hood narrows his eyes. Orphan tilts her head slightly. 

Spoiler points at him. “How do you know his identity?” 

Oh. Right. Normal people probably don’t ask for vigilantes by government name. 

In Peter’s defense, Tony Stark and the Sanctum Sanctorum have completely destroyed his understanding of operational secrecy. 

So he considers his options carefully. 

Option one: tell them Tim sent him. 

Absolutely not, because apparently Dick and Damian haven’t told them Tim’s alive, got interrupted telling them Tim’s alive, or collectively decided surprising Batman with interdimensional resurrection should happen later. 

And that is one conversation Peter is not stealing. 

“I promise you, if you just call Damian, we can get this all cleared up.”

Batman takes one step closer. “How do you know Robin?” 

Peter’s patience finally snaps. 

Rain runs down the back of his neck. Gotham smells like mildew and mold. Batman keeps looking at him like Peter personally invented crime. 

“I know Damian because your kid collects brightly-colored superpowered friends like pokemon cards,” Peter says. “I’m one of them. And I’m here to deliver invitations, not do any crimes, so either call Damian, or— hell, call Dick if you have to. At least take me to your weird cave so I can stop getting rained on.” 

Rain splattering across the roofs is the only sound for a long moment. 

Then Spoiler clarifies, “Did you say you’re here for invitations?” 

Peter realizes, abruptly, that maybe arriving in his Spider-Man suit and demanding access to Batman’s youngest child might not have given that impression off.

In his defense, Gotham brings out the worst in him. 

Tim once told him the city does that to everyone — makes people into sharper versions of themselves. 

Peter thinks maybe he was right, and that’s exactly the problem. 

Because standing here now, surrounded by the city that taught Tim to expect abandonment before comfort, Peter feels something ugly coil beneath his ribs. 

He looks at Batman and sees every sleepless night Tim ever had at sixteen. He looks at the rooftops and sees the shape of the boy Tim used to be. 

No wonder he learned how to disappear here. It’s not a place designed to let people stay. 

Batman studies him for a long moment, then says, “Follow us.” 

Peter sighs toward the sky. 

“Great,” he mutters. “Can’t wait to go to the Batcave. Historically, nothing bad has ever happened there.” 

———

Dick Grayson is halfway through paperwork when Bruce calls. 

That’s the first warning sign. 

Bruce Wayne does not call. He barely even texts. Most of the time, it’s surprising to get more than a grunt from him in person. 

So either someone’s on fire, or Bruce found out about something Dick’s been hiding. 

Dick answers on the second ring, already pushing up from the desk in his apartment. “Hey, B. If this is about Nebraska, know Lois signed off on it before Clark or I—” 

“Care to explain to me who Peter Parker is?” Bruce interrupts, voice flat as Kansas. 

Dick stills. 

For one, horrible second, his brain supplies impossible options in rapid succession of his little brother bleeding out on the floor again. 

“Is everything okay?” Dick blurts, already grabbing his keys before he even realizes he’s decided to leave. 

Around him, Bludhaven glows neon and rain-slick through his apartment windows. His escrima sticks are still sitting on the counter from patrol. 

On the other end of the line, there’s muffled movement. Then a very familiar voice cuts in, sharp with annoyance. 

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine except your stupid city.” 

Dick stops dead. 

Then he starts laughing. 

Not because insulting Gotham is funny — though, okay, Wally West does a hilarious impression of the city so sometimes it is — but because Peter sounds exactly the same as he did months ago standing over Dick’s hospital bed like an angry raccoon someone had taught human speech. 

Bruce goes silent, which means he’s reassessing the entire situation in real time. 

“Hey, Pete,” Dick greets, grin breaking wide across his face before he can stop it. “You in Gotham?” 

“I was, unfortunately, aware of that already.” 

There’s background noise. 

“We need to study this,” Stephanie says somewhere away from the phone. “How does he sound more hostile when he’s being polite?” 

“My fiance taught me that trick,” Peter says. “You wouldn’t like him.” 

“Is your fiance also Dick’s friend?” Jason asks. 

“Friend is too strong of a word for me and Dick’s relationship. He’s usually an inconvenience.”

Dick laughs harder. 

God, Tim really is getting married. 

The thought hits him right in the ribs, like it does every single time.

Tim told him, yeah, in the weeks he was at the Sanctum. Dick remembers the ring glinting on Peter’s hand and Peter saying no, you won’t be invited with enough venom to strip paint. 

But this—

Peter being in Gotham, willingly seeking Dick out even if it’s just because he loves Tim—

It lands somewhere warm in Dick’s chest. 

“Well,” Dick says, grabbing his jacket one-handed and tossing his keys in the air. “Try not to hurt anybody until I get there?”

“No promises.”

“Yeah, that tracks.” Dick shoves open the fire escape window. Wind immediately tears through the apartment. “Give me twenty.” 

 “You should speed,” Peter says. “I’ve been in this city for half an hour and at least five separate gargoyles have judged me.” 

Dick snorts. 

Behind Peter, Cass says something too quiet for the phone to pick up. 

Then Peter says, deeply offended: “No, I’m not scared of them. I just think that’s rude and a gargoyle glare every six minutes is insane.” 

Dick bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t start laughing again. 

In the distance, Gotham stretches dark and endless beneath the rain. For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t look quite so haunted. 

———

Tim Drake is standing in front of the fridge like the answers to life lie behind expired yogurt. 

They don’t. 

The fridge light glints softly across glass bottles and leftover takeout containers. Peter has labeled a carton of dumplings with a sticky note that says MINE :) THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED. 

Wong neatly wrote No one is afraid of you beneath it. 

Tim stares at both notes for a long moment. 

Around him, the Sanctum creaks from the late hour. Pipes murmur through the walls. A ward shifts upstairs with the low thrum of distant magic. 

He hasn’t left the Sanctum since Peter went to Gotham. 

Objectively, he knows Peter’s fine. Peter can bench-press cars and survive falls that would liquefy normal people. Gotham’s vigilantes probably won’t hurt him once Damian steps in. 

That doesn’t ease the pit in Tim’s stomach. 

The Cloak of Levitation drifts into the kitchen doorway and pauses there expectantly. 

Tim glances over and says, before the Cloak can make a rude gesture, “I’m not spiraling.” 

The Cloak floats closer and smacks into the back of his head. 

“Rude.” 

It ripples this time. 

Tim narrows his eyes. “You are spending too much time with Stephen.” 

The Cloak preens, which, unfortunately, confirms it. 

“I heard that.” 

Stephen steps into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and an old navy t-shirt that says MIDTOWN SCHOOL OF SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY DECATHLON, because Peter thinks it’s hysterical seeing the Sorcerer Supreme dressed like a PTA member and Stephen claims the material is soft. His hair curls slightly at his temples. 

Tim’s chest eases automatically at the sight of him. 

Stephen notices the open fridge, the untouched food, and Tim standing there like a man personally betrayed by dairy products in rapid succession. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Any chance you’ve been staring at that refrigerator for less than five minutes?” 

Tim shuts the fridge with more dignity than the situation deserves. “Maybe I like the ambiance.” 

“The ambiance is expired yogurt.” 

“It’s vintage,” Tim corrects. “Still tastes bad, but it sounds cooler.” 

Stephen hums like he’s humoring a child having a very serious conversation about dinosaurs. It should bother Tim more than it does. 

The Cloak floats over to Stephen immediately, traitorous little fabric that it is, and drapes itself across his shoulders. 

“You’re enabling him,” Tim informs it. 

The Cloak flicks one corner dismissively. 

Stephen crosses toward the kettle and begins to fill it automatically, because tea is the default setting for difficult conversations in the Sanctum. Tim’s not sure when that happened, but Wong has weaponized it intentionally. 

“You heard from Peter?” Stephen asks. 

“Nothing.” Tim leans back against the counter. “But he has the charm, so he’ll be fine. Even if he thinks Gotham’s gargoyles are sentient.” 

Stephen’s mouth twitches. “Who’s to say they aren’t?” 

Tim ducks his head to hide his grin. 

Steam starts curling from the kettle. The kitchen fills with warmth slowly, edges blurring gold beneath the hanging lights.

He should probably go home tonight. 

His apartment is only twenty minutes away by driving and instantaneous by portal. There’s food in the fridge and books on the shelves and Peter’s clothes strung across every piece of furniture. 

But the idea of a home outside of Gotham and not the Sanctum feels— wrong, somehow. Even if it’s his. 

Stephen glances over as he reaches for mugs. “Something’s bothering you.” 

Tim snorts quietly. “Bold claim.” 

“I walked in on you staring at the fridge,” the sorcerer deadpans. “And yesterday, you reorganized the spice cabinet.” 

“It was chaotic.” 

“It was alphabetical. Now it’s organized by ‘emotional significance.’” 

“You’re just mad that smoked paprika has more range than you.” 

Stephen hands him a mug. Their fingers brush briefly in the exchange. Tim curls both hands around the tea. 

The warmth settles into his palms. 

For a minute, neither of them speaks. They’ve gotten good at that, too. 

Finally, Tim asks, “Do you think I’m making a mistake?” 

Stephen freezes almost imperceptibly. Then, carefully: “With the wedding?” 

“No,” Tim says quickly. He huffs a laugh. “God, no. Peter’s objectively my best decision to date, which is inconvenient because he knows it.” 

“That does sound terrible.” 

“He’s unbearable about being loved, Stephen. Unbearable.” 

Stephen smiles faintly into his tea. “Then what would be the mistake?”

Tim looks down and watches the steam curl and disappear from his mug. 

“Inviting them.” 

Outside the Sanctum, New York glows gold and alive against the dark. It’s nothing like Gotham. 

And still sometimes that’s the problem. 

Because Bruce used to be everything. Gotham did. Batman and Robin were his constellations and the city his one true north. 

He spent years shaping himself around that family so carefully he almost disappeared inside it. He’d wanted to. 

Tim rubs his thumb against the mug’s handle. 

“Part of me keeps thinking—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening like the sentence takes work to even share. “I don’t know. Maybe younger me would’ve wanted them there.” 

Stephen says nothing. 

That’s what Tim appreciates about him the most, actually: Stephen rarely rushes to fill silences that are still becoming themselves. 

“He spent so long trying to earn it,” Tim says eventually, a little quieter now. “Bruce. Gotham. All of them.” A humorless smile flickers across his mouth. “Feels a little cruel not to let him have this one thing.”

The kettle clicks softly behind them as it cools. 

Stephen leans one hip against the counter. His eyes are darker now, more earnest. More caring. “And what does present-you want?” 

Tim opens his mouth. He closes it right after. 

Because that’s the problem, really: Present-Tim wants impossible things. 

He wants Bruce there. He wants Dick to make jokes at his wedding. He wants Damian to pretend not to cry. He wants the life he has now to reconcile with the life he lost. 

He wants Peter happy. 

Most of all, he wants Peter happy. 

Tim exhales slowly. “Present-me is worried it’s selfish.” 

Stephen’s brow furrows slightly. “Inviting your family to your wedding?”

“Inviting my trauma to Peter’s wedding,” Tim corrects before he can stop himself. 

The words land heavier than he wants them to. 

Tim grimaces immediately and stares into his tea harder, like he can drown the sentence retroactively. It doesn’t work. 

Stephen watches him for a long moment, then smiles with a huff of laughter he only gets when he’s about to say something incredibly condescending or painfully parental. 

“And have you,” he begins slowly, “considered talking to Mr. Parker about this?”

Tim glowers into his mug. 

“That’s a no, then.”

“I am going to.” 

Stephen raises an eyebrow. 

“Eventually.” 

Another eyebrow. 

Tim sighs dramatically. “Okay, okay. I’ll find a time to do it. You don’t need to do the eyebrow thing.” 

“The fact that I can win this argument through lifting my eyebrows alone proves you knew you were in the wrong.” 

Tim mutters something deeply disrespectful into his tea. The Cloak floats over to pat his shoulder. 

Stephen’s expression softens a little around the edges, the way he only lets it late at night, when no one else is around but Tim or Wong. 

“Peter’s marrying you, Tim. I doubt he’s under the impression you are completely unattached to your complicated history.” 

Tim huffs a laugh. “That’d be easier, though.” 

“Mm.” Stephen takes another sip of tea. “For you, maybe.” 

Tim looks up at him then. Stephen doesn’t elaborate. Tim’s heart beats steadier anyway. 

He stares at the tea for another moment before asking, a little too casually, “Movie night?” 

Stephen looks suspicious immediately. “It’s midnight.” 

“I’ll only make one bag of popcorn, then.”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “You don’t need an excuse to stay over, child.” 

Tim scowls at him. 

The truth of it sits warm and awkward in his chest despite the expression. 

He could go home. He has a new apartment that’s mostly unpacked, with furniture he spent way too long picking out. Peter would be just as happy to land there. 

But the Sanctum still feels like safety in a way his nervous system hasn’t entirely learned not to cling to. And Stephen — as impossible and infuriating as he may be — is still something Tim once thought he’d never be allowed to have: a parent who stays. 

The Cloak drifts between them and tugs insistently on Stephen’s sleeve. 

He glances down at it. “I suppose you’re picking the movie?” 

The Cloak ripples smugly. 

Twenty minutes later, Tim is sprawled sideways on the couch with his socked feet hanging over one armrest while Stephen closes his eyes in visible regret. 

“Why,” he asks slowly, “are you and the Cloak so annoyingly fond of this movie?” 

Tim grins. “Because Benedict Cumberbatch plays a remarkable version of you. And the movie’s version of Wong is hilarious.” 

Stephen sighs, but the movie begins to play. 

Tim spends most of it providing deeply unhelpful commentary and way too detailed fun facts, while Stephen mutters increasingly offended corrections under his breath. 

“I was not that appalling.” 

“Sure, Stephen.” 

“And my apartment was much nicer than that.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

“And we both know that’s not how sling rings work.” 

Tim laughs harder at that than the joke deserves. The sound echoes warm through the Sanctum. 

By the time the movie reaches the halfway point, exhaustion has settled over him in slow waves. 

Peter still isn’t back yet. Gotham still exists. Bruce Wayne probably still breathes like a disappointed thunderstorm. 

But the couch is warm beneath him. The Sanctum hums around his bones. Stephen sits solid and steady at his side, and Tim leans closer without thinking about it. 

Stephen shifts to make room before Tim even fully settles. 

Tim blinks slowly at the screen. 

“You know,” he murmurs, sleep pulling at the edges of his words. “Benedict Cumberbatch really does look like you.”

Stephen snorts softly. “Go to sleep, Tim.” 

“Rude,” Tim mumbles back. “Wong would want to talk.” 

But he lets his head tip sideways anyway, resting against Stephen’s shoulder. The Cloak moves higher around him, like it's tucking him in. 

Tim feels Stephen glance down briefly. The elder doesn’t even hesitate before a hand comes up to rest against Tim’s hair. 

“G’night, dad,” Tim murmurs. 

The last thing he registers before sleep takes him completely is the Sanctum’s steady breathing and Stephen’s shoulder beneath his cheek, solid enough to trust his weight against. 

———

Dick arrives twenty-three minutes later on a motorcycle loud enough to qualify as a public threat. 

The engine growls through the cave entrance before Peter even sees him, echoing off stone and ambitiously evil metal architecture. 

Peter slouches automatically. 

Which is ridiculous, by the way. He is not relieved. He’s Spider-Man. He fights aliens and survives group projects. 

But Dick Grayson is at least a known variable in this city full of gargoyles and emotional repression, so when the motorcycle finally swings into view, Peter feels some ugly knot in his chest loosen anyway. 

Dick pulls off his helmet as he dismounts, rainwater dripping down the back of his neck. His eyes land on Peter immediately. 

And then he smiles, warm and easy and painfully out of place in Gotham. 

Before Peter can prepare for it, Dick steps forward and pulls him into a quick hug. Peter allows it, mostly because Bruce Wayne has been staring at him for half an hour and Dick’s at least familiar.

Dick pulls back just enough to grin at him. “Good to see you, Pete.” 

“You say that now,” Peter mutters. “Give Gotham another hour and it won’t be so good.” 

Behind them, Batman clears his throat with the force of a judicial sentencing. Peter wants to punch him. 

Dick glances over his shoulder. “Right. Sorry.” He gestures vaguely between them all. “Look, I know protective instincts are probably high, but they’ve been dating for years, so you are gonna have to accept it.” 

Silence crashes between them like a car wreck. 

Peter blinks. Jason blinks. Stephanie blinks. Peter’s pretty sure the random dinosaur statue in the back blinks. 

Bruce’s expression somehow goes even more expressionless, which Peter honestly didn’t think was possible. 

Then Jason asks, “Who?” 

Dick, for his part, looks genuinely confused. “Peter and Tim?” 

More silence. 

“Oh my god,” Peter says. 

Dick’s smile drops into horrified realization at exactly the same speed. 

“Oh my God,” he echoes.

Peter points at him accusingly. “You told them about my existence but not my name?” 

Dick points right back. “You didn’t bother telling them who you were?”

“I thought you hadn’t told them Tim was still alive yet!” 

Bruce goes utterly still. 

Behind him, Stephanie whispers, “This just keeps getting worse.” 

Peter drags both hands down his face. “This entire family communicates like it was assembled by a cursed fax machine.”

Bruce ignores him entirely, gaze locked onto Dick now. “This is Tim’s fiance?” 

And there it is. 

Peter feels it happen in the room like pressure dropping before a storm. 

Dick sobers immediately. The warmth settles out of him and sharpens into something gentler and much more careful. 

“He’s okay,” he says quietly. 

Bruce doesn’t move. 

Peter hates, suddenly and irrationally, that Bruce Wayne looks relieved. 

Because Peter knows grief. He knows guilt. He knows the awful shape love takes when it loses someone. 

But he also knows that sixteen-year-old Tim Drake ran himself into the ground for people who only noticed the collapse. He knows the way Tim still says Bruce like the word means something devastating and holy all at once. 

He knows how Gotham carved survival directly into his bones. 

So maybe Bruce does get to grieve Tim, but Peter gets to be angry for him. 

“He’s more than okay,” Peter says before the silence can rot. “Actually, he’s pretty goddam happy. Don’t know if you guys know what that word means.” 

Every eye in the cave shifts toward him. Peter squares his shoulders. 

“He lives in New York now,” he continues. “He has people who take care of him when he forgets to sleep. He has an apartment he leaves his shoes all over because he’s a menace to society.” Peter pauses. “And he’s getting married in a month.” 

The last words echo faintly through the cave. 

Dick’s expression softens immediately. Everyone else looks like they were punched. 

Peter exhales sharply through his nose. Then he reaches into the waterproof pouch tucked beneath his suit and pulls out two charms with notes attached. 

Peter walks forward before he can second-guess himself and hands one of them to Dick, who takes it carefully. The paper gleams softly beneath the cave lights, gold ink catching along the edges. 

“For you,” Peter says. Then, after a beat: “Damian and Jon, too.”

That gets everyone’s attention again. 

Bruce looks up sharply. “Kent?” 

“Yes. What are you gonna do about it?” Peter makes a face at him solely because he can, then tosses the second charm at Bruce. “This one’s for the rest of you. If you come.”

The charm glows faintly against Bruce’s glove. 

“You’re inviting us,” he says very carefully. 

Peter grimaces like he regrets every life decision that led him here. 

“Look,” he says, “I hate Gotham, alright? I think it’s what happens when a city develops clinical depression and starts biting people about it. I think your architecture is stupid. And I still think you all need several years of intensive therapy.” 

“What a glowing review,” Stephanie mutters. 

“But Tim loves you.” 

That quiets the room once again. Peter swallows. 

“Even after everything,” Peter says, voice roughening, “he still loves you. Do you understand how insane that is?” 

Bruce’s jaw tightens. 

Peter presses forward anyway because if he stops he’s just gonna start thinking about Tim at nineteen, bleeding out in a room somewhere above them. 

“He wants you there,” he says. “That’s the important part. Not whether I like you, because I don’t. I barely tolerate Dick.” 

“You tolerate me?” Dick asks, smiling, trying to ease the atmosphere. 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

Dick grins. 

And there it is again — that impossible warmth to him that Peter doesn’t trust but can’t quite hate anymore. It’s awful, honestly. 

Dick glances around the cave once before looking back at Peter. 

Then, gently, like he’s changing the subject instead of offering an escape route, he says, “You wanna see embarrassing photos of Tim as a kid?” 

Peter freezes. Every instinct in his body sharpens. “How embarrassing?” 

Dick’s grin turns positively evil. 

“Oh, catastrophic.” 

Peter considers his options for half a second. On one hand: Gotham. On the other: photographic evidence of tiny Tim Drake. 

This is, unfortunately, the easiest decision he’s ever made. 

“Lead the way.”

———

Wayne Manor looks less like a house and more like someone challenged grief to become architecture. 

Peter notices the second they step through the old clock tower and cross the threshold that means they’re no longer in the cave. 

Everything is enormous in a way he hates. It’s too rich in a traditional sense — nothing about innovation and all about old wealth.

The ceilings stretch too high, and the halls are too long. Portraits stare down from dark-paneled walls like the building itself is waiting for somebody to disappoint it. 

Rain taps against the windows, a little softer now than earlier in the night. 

Dick walks half a step ahead of him, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. 

“So,” he says lightly, “welcome to the world’s most emotionally constipated museum.”

Peter snorts. “That explains the cave.” 

“Exactly.” 

They move through the manor slowly. 

Dick points things out as they go, like he’s trying to fill the silence before it can ever fully settle. 

“That room’s technically for entertaining guests, but Bruce mostly just broods in there.” He gestures left vaguely. “Library’s haunted by Alfred’s disappointment. We all got into a fistfight in that room.” 

“I’m starting to think Gothamites communicate exclusively through damage.” 

“You say that like New York’s better.” 

“It is better,” Peter says immediately. “Our trauma comes with whimsy.”

Dick laughs softly. 

And Peter realizes later, somewhere between the impossible wealth of old wood and older sadness, that there are no photos of Tim displayed. 

There are pictures of Dick as Robin. Jason with an awkwardly teenage grin. Damian looking deeply offended by something off screen — though from Tim’s stories, that was just his face back then. Steph and Cass are huddled together in multiple photos, never without a peace sign. 

But no Tim. 

Dick notices Peter noticing. His shoulders shift almost imperceptibly. 

“Bruce took them down,” he says quietly. He keeps walking as he talks, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “He couldn’t look at them.” 

Peter’s stomach twists unpleasantly. 

Because that’s awful. Because it’s human. Because Tim deserves better than becoming unbearable to remember. 

The manor creaks softly around them as they walk. 

Dick continues to point out rooms as they pass, voice lighter on purpose. 

“That’s the west study. Nobody uses it except Bruce when he pretends he’s not avoiding sleep.” He gestures farther down. “Cass broke Jason’s nose in that lounge once.” 

Beneath Dick’s attempts at humor, the Manor still feels wrong in a way he can’t quite explain. Like everyone here learned to walk around grief without touching it directly. 

Eventually, Dick stops outside a closed door. He just looks at it for a moment, like he’s half expecting it to disappear. 

Then he pushes it open. 

Tim’s room is spotless. It’s not just clean — it’s controlled. 

Peter knows the difference immediately, because he knows the way Tim leaves coffee mugs on counters and hoodies over chairs and books open face-down because Peter insisted the pages won’t die from temporary disrespect and Tim grew too tired to argue. 

This room looks like someone was terrified of taking up too much space in it. 

Peter’s chest aches. 

“Oh,” he says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t even know if Dick hears him. 

There are scattered pieces of Tim everywhere: in the stacks of carefully labeled case files. In a half-disassembled gadget tucked into a drawer. In medical textbooks beside detective novels and engineering manuals. 

Peter walks farther into the room slowly. 

This is it. 

This is the room where Tim almost died. 

Peter looks at the spotless floor and thinks about blood soaking into it. About nineteen-year-old Tim Drake deciding what should’ve been the safest place in Gotham still wasn’t safe enough to stay alive in. 

“Well,” Peter says, voice sharp, “congratulations to all of you, I guess. Very impressive collective emotional negligence.” 

Dick winces a little. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”

Peter stops beside the desk. There are framed photos stacked carefully there, rather than displayed. 

Like someone couldn’t throw them away but couldn’t survive seeing them, either. 

Dick picks one up and shows it to him. Tim’s maybe thirteen in it, grinning as Dick has him in a headlock. There’s another of Tim asleep at the Batcomputer. A third is with Damian, glaring at the camera while Tim laughs beside him. 

Peter takes that from Dick automatically, thumb brushing the edge of the frame. 

“He was so little,” he says quietly. 

Dick smiles faintly. “Yeah.” 

Peter sorts through the stack. 

It’s stranger than he expected, seeing versions of Tim that existed before him: Tim with too-long hair and sharp elbows, Tim trying desperately to look older than he was, Tim exhausted in every single photograph, even the happy ones. 

Peter picks up another frame and freezes.

The boy beside Tim in the photo looks around their age, in a black t-shirt and leather jacket. His grin is sharp. He’s built like someone created a golden retriever and gave it superpowers. 

And Tim’s staring at him like he invented sunlight. 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Who’s that?” 

Dick glances over casually. “Kon.” 

Peter keeps staring at the photo. 

In it, Tim and Kon are shoulder to shoulder on some rooftop somewhere that looks better than Gotham, both mid-laugh. Kon’s arm is slung around Tim’s neck like he belongs there. 

“Kon,” Peter repeats carefully. 

“Superboy,” Dick clarifies. “The original. Kon-El. He and Tim were best friends when they were younger.” 

Peter never hated anyone more. 

“That,” he says slowly, “was his best friend?” 

Dick nods. For the son of a detective, he remains remarkably oblivious. “Yeah. They were attached at the hip for years.”

Peter squints harder at the photo. 

Tim’s expression is open in it — the kind of smile he usually only gets after Peter kisses him stupid or he breaks his Rubix Cube solving time. 

“Oh my God,” Peter says suddenly. 

“What?” 

Peter thrusts the frame toward Dick accusingly. “Kon was his crush.” 

Then Dick gets it. He laughs, loud and horribly annoying, then clarifies, “Nothing ever came of it. They just kind of had a thing for each other and never admitted it.” 

Peter gawks. 

“Tim had unresolved homoerotic tension with him? He looks like he could bench press the moon!” 

Dick laughs harder. 

And somehow, weirdly, the room breathes easier for it, less brittle and sharp around the edges. 

Peter carefully sets the photograph aside like it might physically attack him if he mishandles it. He continues flipping through the stack. 

There’s a school picture where Tim looks way too put together. There’s a blurry patrol shot with Dick upside down in the background for no reason. What a show off. There’s another with Tim asleep on a couch, book open over his face. 

Peter’s chest aches with each new version. 

Peter stills completely when he reaches for the last frame. 

This one is just Bruce and Tim. They’re sitting at the Batcomputer, Bruce’s head tilted toward Tim while Tim says something mid-laugh beside him. 

And Bruce is grinning. It’s open and unguarded in a way that doesn’t look real. Tim looks just as happy, no traces of exhaustion on him, just youth and the belief that comes with it that being loved and being safe might eventually become the same thing. 

Peter’s throat tightens. 

Because this is the version of Bruce Tim carried with him. Not Batman, nor Brucie Wayne, nor the man downstairs wrapped in silence and grief and control. 

This one, smiling at Tim like he hung the moon, too. 

This is the man Tim loved enough to survive on scraps of that expression for years. 

Peter feels something complicated and terrible crack open beneath his ribs. 

“It was his favorite,” Dick says softly. “He kept this one close.” 

Peter nods once because he physically cannot speak right now. 

And he understands something he wishes he still didn’t: why Tim still aches for Gotham when the wind shifts, why leaving hurt even when staying would’ve killed him. 

Because somewhere underneath the violence and the neglect and the impossible expectations, there had been this. 

Peter swallows hard. 

“He should’ve gotten to keep this version,” he says quietly. 

Dick looks down at the photo in Peter’s hands. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “He should’ve.” 

Dick stares at Peter for a long moment after that, and whatever emotion it is that flickers in his gaze, Peter hasn’t been in Gotham long enough to name. 

He leans back against his desk, arms folded loosely. 

“You know Bruce couldn’t hear Tim’s name for four years without shutting down?” 

Peter stills. 

Dick’s voice stays casual in the way people get when they’re talking around something sharp. 

“We avoided talking about him,” he says. “It hurt less to do so. But we’d slip up — mention an old joke, tell an old story, call a Batarang his.” He looks down at the photo again. “The whole room would just stop.” 

Peter doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. 

“Bruce most of all.” Dick shrugs one shoulder. “He’d go quiet. Worse than being angry. Like he’d left the room without moving.” 

Rain taps softly against the manor windows. 

Peter looks back at the photographs. 

Dick smiles briefly before it fades again. 

“When Damian and I told them,” he says quietly, “Steph was in disbelief. Cass cried. Jason was angry.” His mouth quirks. “Still is, I think.” 

Peter doesn’t doubt that. 

Dick exhales slowly. “But Bruce? Bruce got real tense, let out one long breath, and asked: ‘Why are you telling me this?’” 

He stares down at the photo in his hands. 

“I think,” he says carefully, “it was easier to live in a world where Tim killed himself to get away than to accept maybe Bruce just— wasn’t the one who could save him.” 

Silence settles between them, heavy and hurting. 

Peter looks around the room again: at the perfect corners, the organized shelves, the suffocating neatness that belongs to no teenager. 

“He should’ve been safe here,” Peter says quietly. 

Dick closes his eyes for half a second. “I know.” 

Peter swallows hard and looks down at the photo again. At Tim laughing and alive in a way Gotham rarely allowed. 

“The stupid thing is,” Dick says softly, “Tim and Bruce were so alike it used to drive me insane.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“Bruce would do something objectively unhinged,” Dick says, “and Tim would look at it like it was perfectly reasonable. They thought the same. Planned the same. Loved the same.”

“Badly?” Peter asks before he can stop himself. 

Dick laughs once, short and painfully honest. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes.” 

Peter looks back down at the photographs, where thirteen-year-old Tim Drake tries so hard to look older. 

“It’s different with all of us,” Dick continues after a while, as much for his sake as for Peter’s. “Bruce loves Jason like grief, and loves me like responsibility. Damian’s his second chance.” 

His eyes drift back to the photo of Tim. “But Tim?” 

Something in his face softens so completely it hurts to look at. 

“Tim was Bruce’s in every sense of the word,” Dick says quietly. “And Bruce was Tim’s.” 

Peter’s throat tightens. 

Dick smiles faintly. It’s still sad. 

“That’s the part people don’t really get.” He gestures vaguely. “Jason dying almost destroyed Bruce. Me moving out wrecked him for a while. Damian quitting was hard on him. But when Tim left?” 

He exhales slowly. 

“It felt like somebody hollowed him out and left the shape standing. Because Bruce didn’t just lose a Robin. He lost his.” 

Peter’s jaw tightens. Something defensive rises, sharp and possessive, beneath Peter’s ribs. 

“What if Tim just wanted to be his son?” 

Dick goes very still, and Peter almost regrets the sharpness. But then Dick exhales slowly through his nose, and all Peter can imagine is Tim letting out the same breath in this same goddamn room, hoping it would be his last. 

“I know,” Dick says finally. 

The room creaks softly around them. 

“When I was younger,” Dick says after a long silence, “I used to think Bruce loved us like missions. He was strategic. He was efficient. Like if he could just calculate every variable, nobody would get hurt.” 

He gives a tired little smile and laughs once. 

“Funny thing is, I’m the one with the mechanical heart now.” His fingers tap once against his chest absentmindedly. “But they’re the ones who love like machines.”

Peter looks at him then, for just long enough that he sees the exhaustion tucked into the corners of Dick’s smile and the grief that never quite leaves him. It’s the quiet, terrible look of someone who’s spent his whole life translating love into survivable pieces. 

And Peter gets it a little more. 

Dick reaches over and plucks another photograph from the box. Tim’s maybe fifteen, sitting cross-legged on the cave floor, halfway through arguing with someone off-camera. 

He looks exhausted and happy. 

Peter’s chest hurts. 

“He looks different,” he says quietly. 

Dick nods once. “Yeah. He does.” 

Peter traces a thumb lightly over the edge of the photograph. “But he’s happy now.” 

“I know,” Dick says softly, smiling small and real and just a little sad. “That’s what makes it hurt less.”

Peter just stares at the boy in the photograph — the one who doesn’t yet flinch at the sight of a batarang — and thinks maybe no amount of hurting in the world will ever make up for what happened in this house. 

And that, impossibly, Tim Drake doesn’t want it to. 

———

Tim wakes slowly to warmth and magic. 

For one heavy, sleep-blurred second, he doesn’t know where he is. 

Then the Sanctum hums softly around him. The television still flickers, throwing blue light across the library. Stephen’s shoulder is solid beneath his cheek. The Cloak hangs over the armchair nearby like a judgmental bat. 

And the charm around Tim’s wrist bleeds warmth. 

Tim’s eyes snap open. Stephen is already awake. 

“You felt that?” Tim asks, voice rough. 

Stephen glances at the glowing charm. “Mr. Parker continues to be incapable of subtlety.” 

Relief crashes through Tim so fast it almost hurts. He sits up immediately, heart suddenly pounding harder than it should. The blanket falls into his lap. Beside him, the Cloak perks up instantly and pats once against his shoulder in what feels suspiciously like reassurance. 

“I wasn’t worried,” Tim lies. 

Stephen gives him a look powerful enough to qualify as surgery. 

Then he lifts his hands, and golden sparks split the room open. The Sanctum responds eagerly, humming low and welcoming. Magic curls bright through the library. 

Peter Parker stumbles through the portal, and directly into Tim. 

He crashes half into his fiance’s lap, arms instantly around Tim’s waist like he cannot get close enough fast enough. Rainwater and cold Gotham air cling to him. 

“Oh, thank God,” Peter says into Tim’s throat. 

Then he kisses him. Hard. 

Tim barely gets a breath before Peter’s mouth is on his, warm and desperate and just a little wrecked around the edges. One hand fists in the back of Tim’s shirt and wrinkles the fabric. 

Tim makes a startled sound into the kiss. Peter uses it as an opportunity to deepen it. 

Behind them, Stephen sighs the sigh of a man who has seen this too much. 

Peter must not care, because he climbs fully into Tim’s lap right there on the couch, knees bracketing his hips while kissing him like Gotham has infected him and Tim’s the only cure. 

Tim laughs helplessly against his mouth. “That bad?” 

Peter pulls back just enough to stare at him with exhaustion. “Your city is haunted.”

“You survived.” 

“Barely. Batman looked at me for forty consecutive minutes.” 

“That’s just his face, babe.” 

Peter kisses him again before Tim can continue, messier this time, needier, like Peter spent the entire time there holding himself together through sheer force of spite and finally doesn’t have to anymore. 

Tim’s hands slide automatically to Peter’s waist. Peter shivers and grinds down into Tim’s lap. Tim chokes on a laugh. 

“Peter— Stephen’s literally right there—” 

“Don’t care,” Peter says against his mouth, completely unrepentant. 

Stephen pinches the bridge of his nose. 

The Cloak floats closer and dramatically covers Stephen’s line of sight, rippling in disgust. 

“I know,” Stephen mutters, petting its lifted hem. “It disgusts me, too.” 

Peter buries his face against Tim’s neck when he finally pulls away and breathes him in like he’s been gone for weeks instead of hours. He presses another kiss beneath Tim’s jaw, then another lower, then a third lower still. 

Tim feels something in his chest unclench completely at Peter being there again. 

“You smell like Gotham,” Tim murmurs into his hairline. 

Peter goes rigid with offense. “Literally why would you say that to me right now? That was just rude.”

Tim laughs again, softer this time. 

Peter freezes for half a second at the sound, then his entire expression changes. The sharp, frantic edge inside him collapses into something rawer. 

Peter looks at Tim like he survived something, like seeing Tim again fixed something under his skin. 

And then he stands abruptly and yanks Tim up with him. 

“Upstairs,” he demands. 

Tim blinks. “What?” 

“Upstairs,” Peter repeats, dragging him closer. “Before I climb you like a tree in front of your dad.” 

Stephen closes his eyes again. “Children—” 

“Peter—” Tim starts at the same time, heat crawling up his throat. 

“Nope. Conversation over.” 

He’s already manhandling Tim toward the stairs. 

The second they hit the hallway, Peter’s hands are everywhere. 

Tim barely gets two steps before Peter shoves him against the wall and kisses him again, harder this time, one thigh forcing its way between Tim’s legs. 

Tim gasps into his mouth. 

Peter takes advantage of it instantly. 

His tongue slides against Tim’s lips and into his mouth. Tim’s head tips back against the wall before he can stop it. 

“Missed you,” Peter mutters against his mouth. 

“You were gone for six ho—fuck—” 

Peter sucks down his throat hard enough to cut the sentence apart as he presses closer, every inch of him warm and solid and relentless. 

The friction is enough to make Tim’s thoughts blur embarrassingly fast. 

“Peter,” he breathes. It’s halfway to a whine. 

Peter hums against his skin and bites lightly beneath his jaw, the thigh between Tim’s legs pressing upward. 

Tim’s knees nearly give out. 

“Oh my God.” 

“Mmhmm,” Peter hums smugly. Tim would roll his eyes if he wasn’t too busy gasping for breath. 

They stubble the rest of the way upstairs like that. 

Peter stays behind him the entire time, both arms wrapped around Tim’s waist while he mouths at the side of his fiance’s neck, slow and possessive enough to make walking difficult. 

By the time they hit their room, Tim’s pulse is wrecked entirely. 

Peter kicks the door shut behind them and immediately crowds him backward into the bed. He starts dragging Tim’s shirt over his head, then, apparently impatient, rips the clothing off entirely. 

He pauses for one awful heartbeat just to stare at him, pupils blown wide, eyes dark and lips red. 

Tim opens his mouth to say something. 

Peter kisses him before he can. He’s less frantic now, more intentional, like he’s trying to communicate something too big for words. 

His mouth moves over Tim’s slowly at first, then deeper, rougher, until Tim’s hands are tangled helplessly in Peter’s damp curls. 

Peter kisses like he wants to undo him. Like he wants to take every sharp thing Tim ever survived and replace it with tenderness. 

Tim can feel it everywhere: in the way Peter can’t stop his hands from roaming, in the way he keeps dragging him closer like distance itself feels offensive, in the way he kisses across Tim’s chest afterward, mouth warm against old scars like an apology. 

“Peter,” Tim whines softly. 

Peter looks up, something tight underneath his expression. 

Something Gotham left behind. 

Tim reaches for him automatically. Peter catches his wrist halfway there and kisses the inside of it once. Then a second time, slow enough to hurt. 

“You know,” he says against Tim’s skin, “your family is deeply exhausting.” 

Tim snorts weakly. “That’s the official Wayne motto.” 

Peter looks up through damp curls, eyes dark and warm and still a little wrecked around the edges. 

“I saw your room.” 

The words land like a hand around Tim’s throat. Peter’s grip on his wrist loosens immediately when Tim stiffens. 

“Hey,” Peter says quietly. 

Tim looks away first. 

Peter doesn’t let him stay there long. 

He hooks his fingers beneath Tim’s jaw and turns his face back to gently kiss him again, mouth soft against his like he’s trying to smooth the sharp edges off the moment before it can cut. 

Tim melts into it. He always does with Peter. 

The conversation dissolves after that, because apparently Peter cannot stop touching him long enough to form coherent thoughts. 

Tim gets Peter’s suit off somewhere near the foot of the bed. Peter retaliates by dragging Tim fully into his lap, kissing him deep enough to leave him dizzy while fumbling impatiently with the buttons of Tim’s jeans. 

“Peter,” Tim manages to gasp against his mouth. “You’re— fuck—” 

Peter mouths at the corner of his jaw until the sentence dies completely. 

“Terrible?” He offers, unhelpfully. 

“Insane.” 

“Yeah, probably.” 

Then he kisses down Tim’s throat again. Tim’s head falls back as he does it. 

Peter makes a low, pleased sound at the exposed line of his neck and immediately bites lightly beneath his pulse. 

Peter kisses him through the next sound Tim makes, swallowing it entirely. 

Everything about him feels intense tonight, like Gotham cracked something open in him.

Peter gets Tim’s jeans open with increasingly distracted hands, muttering occasional insults to belts everywhere while kissing across Tim’s chest between words. 

He pushes Tim’s jeans down his hips just enough to press his mouth against the inside of his thigh. 

Tim jerks hard. 

“Peter—” 

Peter hums thoughtfully against his skin and does it again, slower. 

His hands spread warm over Tim’s hips, thumbs brushing lightly over skin while he kisses higher and higher up the inside of Tim’s thigh like he’s trying to leave proof. He definitely will. 

Tim’s breathing turns uneven. 

Peter notices immediately — the way Tim’s stomach tenses, the way his thighs part instinctively, the tiny helpless sounds he can barely hold back — and grins. 

Peter kisses another mark into the sensitive skin there, biting until Tim’s fingers tighten hard in his curls. 

“Baby,” Tim says weakly. 

Peter looks devastatingly pleased by that. 

“You have no idea,” Peter murmurs, pressing another kiss against his thigh, “how normal I was trying to be in Gotham.” 

Tim snorts. 

It turns into a gasp when Peter bites lightly. 

“You failed,” Tim manages. 

“Horribly.” Another kiss. “Your brother showed me pictures of your alien situationship.” 

Tim actually chokes on air. 

“Oh my God, he didn’t.” 

Peter climbs back up him immediately, frowning against his mouth while Tim grabs at his shoulder. 

“Kon-El was built in a lab, Tim,” Peter says, deeply offended. “That’s cheating.” 

“We never even dated—” 

“You looked at him with feelings.” 

“He was my best friend!” 

“That does not make it better.” 

Tim is laughing too hard to defend himself properly, which Peter absolutely exploits by kissing him breathless again. 

They end up tangled sideways across the mattress, Peter sprawled half over him, still kissing him between every breath like stopping would physically pain him. 

His hands slide slowly over Tim’s bare skin like he’s trying to relearn every inch by touch alone. Like Gotham made him different. His mouth is warm against Tim’s sternum, his ribs, his old scars. 

Peter kisses those twice. Every single one he can find. 

Tim’s chest tightens painfully. 

“Pete,” he says quietly. 

Peter glances up from where he’s mouthing another mark into Tim’s hip. “What?” 

Tim shakes his head once because he doesn’t actually know how to explain the feelings sitting inside his ribs right now. 

Peter watches him for a second, then his whole expression softens with impossible understanding. Tim can barely stand how loved that makes him feel. 

Peter kisses the inside of his thigh again, like he’s trying to rewrite something. Like if he leaves enough tenderness behind, maybe Tim’s body will finally stop expecting pain first. 

The friction between them turns messy fast after that. 

Peter presses flushed against him, grinding down without rhythm or shame as he climbs back over Tim, kissing him through every sound. 

Tim can feel Peter smiling against his mouth every time he loses track of a sentence halfway through. 

“Peter,” he gasps once, fingers tightening hard against his back when Peter mouths at his throat again. 

“Mm?” 

“You’re gonna— fuck— leave bruises.” 

Peter goes still for exactly one second. Then deliberately kisses another one into the base of Tim’s throat. 

They’re both fully undressed now, skin dragging hot against skin every time they move. Peter’s hands keep wandering lower, only to get distracted by kissing Tim again before he can accomplish anything useful. 

Tim honestly thinks that might make it worse. 

By the time Peter presses him properly down into the mattress, Tim's head is spinning and his whole body is hot as the sun. 

Peter braces himself over him for a second, breathing hard. Then, quietly: 

“You’re happy now, though, yeah?” 

Tim blinks up at him. 

Peter brushes damp bangs back from Tim’s forehead with trembling fingers. 

“Cause I saw those pictures,” he says quietly, words coming out in a rush but no less reverent for it, “and I just kept thinking—” 

His voice catches slightly. Tim’s chest aches when it does. 

Peter lowers himself enough to press their foreheads together. 

“I’m gonna love you so hard you forget what bad love felt like.” 

Tim’s breath leaves him all at once. 

“Peter,” he whispers, because it feels like the only word big enough to swallow all the emotions. 

Peter kisses him before he can say anything else, slow and deep and warm enough to drown in. 

The lights blur softer against the ceiling after that. The rest of it dissolves into breath and skin and Peter saying his name like it means home. 

And for all the anxiety and tears that comes with it — God, Tim Drake-Strange can’t wait to marry Peter Parker.