Chapter Text
Peter was getting pretty used to weird.
After all, when you're bitten by a radioactive spider, and your DNA mutates to give you some super sick superpowers straight from a comic book, you very quickly learn that the world didn’t care what you thought was normal. That it would just keep throwing curveball after curveball at you until you started dodging. So one day you’re Peter Parker, the skinny kid from Queens with asthma and crooked, thick-framed glasses, and the next, you’re Spider-Man. Swinging around in a Stark-made superhero suit, helping kind old ladies across the road and stopping muggings.
So you start to roll with the punches, because what else can you do?
It worked that way for a while. Hell, Peter even thought he had maybe found his place for a second when Tony recruited him—pulled him right into a fight against Captain America and his friends, of all people (Arm and wing guy were cool, though.)—he’d figured that was it. The big time. He’d get home, and his phone would be ringing off the hook with top-secret missions and Avenger-level threats across the universe. But when he returned, his phone was dry. Nothing other than his text threads with Ned and May, and the occasional social media notification. Not even Happy was responding to him. It was back to cat-from-tree rescues and low-level street crime.
Which was fine, of course! He loved, more than anything, helping the people of New York; he just wished he could help them on a larger scale, like, for example, taking down Fisk or facing a big alien threat. He just wants more! He was ready for it!
At least, he thought he was. It turns out, there's still a lot he couldn't handle. Like being handcuffed in an interrogation room of a city he’s never heard of, being accused of a crime he never committed.
His patrol had started out routine enough. He’d spotted the mugging from the rooftops. It was easy pickings. Zip in, web the bad guys, help the victim, and bounce before the cops show. But the guy had been stronger than he looked and had a mastery of an iron crowbar. The sickening crack against Peter’s skull had sent the world spinning
His memory was woozy after that, but there were blurry fragments that were coming back in brief, momentary flashes: He remembered swinging his punches harder than he should’ve, the wet squelch of a knife sinking into flesh not his own, the blood soaking through his gloves, the woman’s choked off scream. He had also stayed to press down on the wound, trying desperately to help, hoping that EMS would arrive on time, but unfamiliar rough hands had yanked him away, and his world went dark.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in some unfamiliar alleyway, the fluorescent high-beams of a cop car stabbing into his pounding head, covered in drying blood and being accused of murder by a guy built like a bear. And before he could even get his bearings, he was being read his Miranda rights and getting manhandled into the back of a patrol car.
Now Peter sat in the cold metal chair, wrists raw under the handcuffs, and tried really hard not to throw up
Now, Fear wasn’t an entirely new thing either.
He’d been scared plenty since the bite-scared of failing Aunt May like he did Ben, scared of failing Tony, etcetera, etcetera. But this feeling was an entirely new beast. This wasn’t the familiar knot in his gut before a bank robbery or the heart-in-throat rush when he barely dodged a bullet. This was something new. He was alone, and it just left him with a lump in his throat and a sick, unnamed feeling that rested deep in his stomach. He swallowed;
He wasn’t feeling too good.
His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He could feel his healing factor working overtime, but it wasn’t quite that fast. He could still feel the crowbar’s ghost cracking against his skull every time he blinked. He could still hear that woman screaming and the way his gloves had stuck to his fingers, saturated in blood when he tried to help her.
What if I made it worse? What if I—
He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through his nose the way May had taught him after Ben. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Except his spider-sense was prickling like static, warning him about everything and nothing because this whole city felt wrong.
Fourteen years old and already a murderer?
No. He hadn’t killed anyone. He was pretty sure. It was the muggers. But the victim’s blood was still there, drying under the grey Gotham University sweatshirt they’d thrown over him. And these cops (detectives? whatever they were) kept looking at him through the window like a dangerous caged animal. He could hear their mumbled conversations, just barely, a few words here or there. Mostly about social workers and something about a decade-old cold case. He tuned out most of it out because otherwise he was going to freak the eff out.
Roll with the punches, Parker.
Yeah, right, he tried that, and now his suit was gone. Like gone-gone, in fact, he was in completely unfamiliar clothing, a ratty tank top and some cargo shorts. The only notable item was the pair of branded skateboarding shoes. They were worn in and a bit on the tight side, but obviously cost a bit of money, which was weird, because he’d never cared about his shoes before; anything that looked half-decent and fit, he was happy with, but these were the shoes of someone who cared about that sort of thing.
It was almost like he’d been transported into a completely different person, which wouldn’t be possible because he’d seen himself in the reflection of the police car’s mirror, and it was him, the same Peter Parker he’d seen in the mirror that morning… So what happened to his clothes?
The old door creaked open, revealing a man in a trench coat with his hands in his pockets, and a woman in corporate wear, who was wearing a lanyard and carrying a clipboard.
A social worker, Peter, clocked easily. He was young when his parents died, but he did remember having to talk to a lot of people in lanyards and clipboards as he got settled in with Ben and May. The lady smiles at him as she enters, her heels clacking against the cold cement of the interrogation room. The man remained stern-looking, with his old-timey detective trench coat. It was a nice coat.
Spider-Man probably would have complimented it. Unfortunately, his suit was gone.
“Hello, Peter,” the woman said politely as she sat across from him. “My name’s Victoria. I’m your assigned social worker, and with me is Police Commissioner Jim Gordon, who will be handling your case on the PD side of things.”
Peter immediately stiffened. A police commissioner? On a case involving a kid? Even if he was a minor, the person he definitely did not kill must’ve been pretty high-profile for someone that important to show up in person. His spider-sense gave another uneasy twitch.
Beside her, Gordon hovered ominously, his serious gaze piercing straight into Peter’s skull like he could see every secret the boy was trying to keep buried.
“You’re not in trouble, kid,” Gordon finally said, his voice rough but surprisingly gentle. “You’re getting so pale it’s scaring me.”
He just swallowed hard, the fear that had been coiled tight in his chest suddenly exploding outward all at once. The tension he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in his back and shoulders unravelled in a rush, leaving him feeling limp and useless and exhausted, like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Can I get the handcuffs off then?” he croaked out, his throat painfully dry, jingling his painful wrists out.
Gordon only nodded, patting his pockets till he found the keys. He leaned over, the metal clinking as he worked the cuffs open. Meanwhile, Victoria stood once more, smoothing down her pantsuit with practised calm.
“I’ll return with some water and snacks,” she said. “You’ve been in here quite a while. you must be starving.”
She delivered that last bit with a pointed glance at the commissioner, who just rolled it off his back like it was nothing.
Peter rubbed his sore wrists the second the cuffs came free, trying not to let the relief show too much on his face, but the bright red sores spoke for themselves.
“You want ice for that?” Gordon asked, finally taking a seat on the other side of the table from Peter.
“No thank you, sir.” Peter mumbled, still trying to be polite.
Gordon didn’t get a chance to reply as Victoria returned, pushing the door open with her hip as she power-walked inside, carrying a decent-sized pastry bag, a plastic bottle of water, and a can of Coke. She set everything down on the table like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You work fast, Victoria,” Gordon noted, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
She smiled sweetly as she slid the items toward Peter. “Just because the police are slow doesn’t mean I have to be.” Her eyes softened a little when they landed on him. “Sorry, wasn’t sure what you like, so I grabbed a whole bunch of stuff. Take your pick!”
She had a weird accent, New-Jersey-ish, but in the 1920s.
He stared at the options, his stomach giving a sharp, painful pang as the hunger he’d been shoving down finally hit him full force. He reached for the water first, twisting off the cap and taking one large gulp, then another, and another, until the bottle was suddenly empty in his hands.
“Just let us know when you need to go to the bathroom,” Gordon commented in a dry, humour kind of way.
Peter managed a small nod and reached for the pastry bag, the smell of something buttery and warm making his mouth water. But the second his fingers brushed the bag, Gordon leaned forward.
“Look, Peter. You’re not in trouble. The blood we found on you doesn’t match the victim—”
The word victim slammed into Peter’s chest like another crowbar. His appetite died instantly. He set the croissant back down on the table, suddenly feeling sick again. Someone had still died, the lady in the alley that he couldn’t save, as well as a complete stranger.
“—It doesn’t match the victim,” Gordon continued, watching him carefully. “But forensics alerted us to a match on your blood and fingerprints.”
Peter’s hands froze. His spider-sense gave a low, uneasy buzz. “That’s not possible,” he said straight away, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He knew it wasn’t. He’d never been in Gotham, never even heard of it before tonight. He was wearing clothes he didn’t recognise, and he still hadn’t gotten his one damn phone call. None of this made any sense.
Victoria intervened gently, her voice careful. “Peter… your blood and fingerprints gave us a 99.99999…% match to Thomas Wayne.”
Peter blinked. “Who?!”
He doesn’t miss the shared glance between the two adults.
Victoria went on carefully, as if she were delivering bad news. He’d been on the other end of that voice before. When he was four, his parents died, and again with Ben. “Your father, Bruce Wayne, reported you missing on August 10th, 2005. It’s been over a decade.”
Peter slumped back into his chair, dragging a hand through his messy hair as the words crashed over him. What the hell? His parents were Mary and Richard Parker. He’d seen the old VCR tape of his own C-section, courtesy of a mislabeled Bambi cover, so he couldn’t have been kidnapped. He wasn’t related to whoever the hell Bruce Wayne was. This had to be some kind of mix-up. A really, really bad one.
“That’s… my birthday,” he said finally, voice small. The two adults stared at him, pity heavy in their eyes. “But you’ve got the wrong kid. I promise. Redo the tests.”
Gordon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We promise you Peter. We’ve ran the test three times and everytime it’s come up a match. I’m sorry, but this is the truth.”
“I was born in 2001, I’m fourteen,” Peter answered, the words coming out steadier than he felt. “I’ve seen my birth certificate. I’ve seen the tape of my own birth. It couldn’t have been my third birthday in 2005. I would’ve been four, and when I was four, my parents died in a plane crash. They were scientists, Mary and Richard Parker and after they died, I was raised by my aunt and uncle, May and Ben.” He was rambling, but he was really trying to make the point that they were wrong about this.
“I’m fourteen,” Peter said again, more adamant this time, his voice cracking just a little at the end.
Gordon took the lead once more, his tone steady but careful. “We ran the name—your name—through every system we have. Peter Parker does not exist in the United States of America. Neither does your provided guardian, May Parker.”
Peter’s hand gripped his hair almost painfully, fingers twisting in the strands as his mind spun. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. His chest felt too tight, the fear and confusion twisting together until it was hard to breathe.
“But I’ve been to the hospital! I had strep throat two years ago!” he blurted out. “And-and We have a family doctor. The same one since I was born. I have like a chart and insurance. Well, I think I have insurance, just not very good insurance. The nurses know me and they give me lollipops at every checkup—Did you check New York?”
“New York?” Gordon echoed, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Yeah. Queens,” Peter said quickly, clinging to the familiar like a lifeline. “Check Queens.”
Victoria reached out, placing her hand on the arm resting against the table in a soothing manner. “We’ll check Queens, Peter, but I promise you. The results won’t be any different.”
Suddenly. There was commotion outside, and a man in a nice suit, something that looked like what Mr Stark would wear, was fighting against uniformed officers. Peter could hear glimpses of their conversation even through the soundproofed walls, his enhanced senses picking up every other detail.
One thing in particular stood out.
“Let me see my son,” the man’s voice croaked at the end, raw and desperate. “You have to let me see him.”
Peter’s heart dropped for the guy. They’d already told him, but they were wrong. He wasn’t this Thomas Wayne kid. He couldn’t be.
Gordon turned around in his chair when he realised Peter's attention was elsewhere, and after seeing the commotion, he stood up swiftly. “Stay here,” he told Victoria, already on his way out the door.
The second he was gone, the window turned into a reflective mirror. A two-way mirror. Victoria turned back to Peter with a tight, professional smile. She clearly recognised the man, but she obviously had no idea about Peter’s super hearing.
Victoria turned him, a tight smile on her face. She clearly recognised Bruce, but obviously doesn’t know about Peter’s super hearing.
“Sorry about that, Police precincts, you know?”
Peter swallowed, his pulse racing. “That was him, wasn’t it?” he said quietly. “Bruce Wayne.”
Victoria nodded. "Yes, that's him."