Chapter Text
Dimension travel was a bitch, and Peter was rapidly learning that no matter which universe he landed in, the sky was always gray, his ribs were always cracked, and he was always, inevitably, crying.
He opened his swollen eyes to a city of shadows, breathing against the cold, hard, concrete; the ground smelled faintly of wet earth, dirt and blood clinging helplessly onto his skin. His senses were going haywire, screaming at him to get up, get up, danger.
He gasped, tears streaming down his face, and clawed at his chest. His head pounded ruthlessly.
Peter tried to focus on the feeling of blood rushing down his body. On the feeling of being alive again. He was no longer glitching, no longer drowning in nonsensical green, lost in the space between speed and time.
He was real.
Drizzles of rain poured down, turning his clothes damp. The sky was dull, and heavy with a blanket of clouds. Lightning pulsed without a sound, illuminating the night. Eyes darting everywhere, he took in his surroundings. He was in a dingy back alley, presumably in New York — only, a different New York from his own, if what Dr. Strange had told him still held value.
“You have to understand that everyone who knows and loves you— we’d have no memory of you. It would be as though you never existed.” A shaky breath. MJ’s hand holding his own. “You’ll be in a different dimension, completely alone.”
He shivered, and pushed himself up with his uninjured hand. His ears were ringing, and he resisted the urge to gag against the assault at his sinuses. His precious spiderman suit was gone; in its place, he was wearing oversized blue jeans, and a hoodie that was no doubt made for someone triple his size.
There was an insistent burning at the left side of his chest, right where his heart is, like a fire eating at the flesh.
His legs trembled, giving out on him entirely — though, to be fair, most of his skeleton felt like a bag of squashed beanies after his own little Tour du Monde en Quatre-vignts jours through the multiverse.
He assessed the damage; he could still walk, technically, but every step was a sickening crunch of misaligned ribs and fractured bones. Then again, anything was better than the glitching, or drowning in that endless sea of green, feeling more like a bag of raw flesh and meat than a living human being.
Peter rubbed at his eyes, swiping away the remnants tears with a brush of his thumb. He squinted at the alley’s exit, where he could distinctly make out the shape of cars whizzing by in a blur. Artificial yellow light flooded in from a street lamp, ticking on and off through the dark. A cat meowed lazily next to an overturned steel dumpster, before stretching and padding up to Peter, choosing to settle next to him and borrow his body heat.
Distantly, he could hear shouts and gun-fire. His senses had quieted down to a dull buzz on the nape of his neck after his assessment of the alley, so he deemed himself safe enough. For now.
He tried to speak, but the words died in his mouth. A dry wheeze emerged, collapsing into a violent, hacking cough. He paused, swallowed hard, and tried again.
“Hello,” he greeted the cat, throat scratchy and dry like he’d swallowed sand.
The cat didn't answer, merely regarding him with judgment. Peter tried to smile, but the stretch felt foreign on his face, more like a grimace.
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and letting Nat’s words wash over him like cool water. Food, shelter, clothing. Absent-mindedly, Peter pressed his palm flat against his chest, rubbing over the burning ache where his heart felt heavy. When was the last time he ate? He honestly couldn't remember. Time stopped making sense ever since … since Strange’s spell had severed him from the world, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit anymore. Since he’d held MJ and Ned for the last time, squeezing them goodbye all while the dam in his chest threatened to crack open. Since May had—
No. He flinched and shook his head. He couldn't finish that thought. The wound was still too raw. The weight of still being here when she wasn't felt sickeningly cruel and all too heavy.
He wasn't ready to open that particular can of worms.
Peter took a deep breath, and pushed himself up once more. Pain radiated down his spine as he rose, his vision swimming with pin pricks of black. He stood there for a long moment, waiting for the nausea to settle. C’mon Spider-man. You can do this.
Beside him, the cat let out a disgruntled mewl at the loss of heat and blinked up at him with curiosity.
Peter leaned his weight against the wall, shooting her an apologetic look. He shivered, and looked down at himself again. He shoved a hand into his pockets, trembling fingers digging past some spare change to pull out five crisp hundred-dollar bills (Aha!) and a scrunched scrap of paper.
Flattening the paper against his knee, he read: Good luck, kid.
His laugh was a bit watery. Bittersweet reverence swelled his heart, and he blinked away a fresh new wave of tears.
He didn't have his stark phone with him, nor his personal wallet. He reckoned it didn't matter— he wasn't exactly fortunate in the financial side of things and all his identification cards were useless. Peter Parker didn't exist anymore.
He put the papers back in his pockets and took a slow step forward. His knee buckled almost instantly, a white hot flare of pain shooting up his thigh but he caught himself at the last second. Peter huffed in frustration.
He couldn't stay in the alley any longer. The cold was creeping through the thin material of his sweater, and if his healing factor was running on empty, shock wouldn't be far behind. The prickling in his neck wasn't helping, his spider-sense thrumming higher with each passing minute. He needed to find shelter. Urgently.
Food, shelter, clothing.
The yellow street light flickered once, twice, thrice — and then he was off. He took a step, then another, dragging his battered body to the end of the alley.
The moment his worn sneakers hit the sidewalk, he wished he could drag himself back and hide. Everything smelled wrong, looked wrong. He felt the hairs on his back stand on end. Yes, his spider sense agreed, unfamiliar, hide.
People walked around in groups, a hostile look on their faces so different from the familiar warmth of New York. Sure, New York wasn't all sunshine and rainbows — but not to this extent. Jesus, what crawled up their ass and died?
As he limped down the block, people gave him a wide berth. They're all staring at him, he realized instantly. Peter cringed inward. Did he really look THAT bad? He lowered his head, intent on hiding, and instead came head first with his dirty, bloodied clothes. Yeah, okay.
Could you blame him, though? He could've done without the— everything, really. Without risking the destruction of his home universe because he exists, or his atoms tearing through the seams, or the sea of green, green, green.
The buildings around him looked like something straight out of an old Tim Burton movie. Peter doesn't know much about architecture, but he was pretty sure New York didn't have massive gargoyles. This city stunk of a suffocating mix of blood, rubbish and gunpowder. He found himself only able to describe the whole place as miserable. A literal shithole.
His first theory bubbled to mind— maybe this was some weird, darker, alternate version of New York. A New York that didn't have any superheroes or vigilantes to help it.
However, after a few minutes staring up at the high buildings, he realized he didn't recognize any of it—or any of the stores and food shops for that matter.
Maybe this wasn't New York at all, a quiet voice whispered in the depths of his mind, but he quickly shut it down. Knowing his luck though—
“...and tell him if he's not ready with my cawfee in five minutes, then we're taking his car and leaving without him, alright?”
Peter sighed. He’s in Jersey, isn't he?
This day couldn't get any worse.
But as it turns out, it could. Almost on cue, thunder cracked down the pavement, and the slight drizzle turned into a downpour. Perfect. Just— Perfect.
“Fucking hell. Okay,” He muttered outloud, hugging his sweater tighter around himself, the useless thing not really helping fend off the cold. Rain clung to his eyelashes, droplets of it falling down his cheeks. Or were those his tears? He couldn't tell anymore. “This is fine. I just need shelter.”
His eyes squinted through the fog, catching bold lettering mounted over a sign: Tom’s shelter, funded by Wayne Enterprises.
A shelter. He couldn't believe it. What the hell was his luck?
He rubbed at his eyes, willing it not to be a hallucination. He’d watched enough cartoons of characters on the brink of losing their minds in the desert hallucinating ponds of water to know a trick when he sees one. But no, the shelter was still there. If Peter was a cat, his ears would've perked up. Relief washed over him, sweet and dizzying.
Limping his way faster, trying not to think about how he must look like to other people, he quickly found himself on the doorstep. Before opening the door, his eyes caught on a discarded, wet newspaper. Printed in massive, dramatic ink across the front page of the Gotham Gazette was a headline that made Peter pause dead in his tracks:
BRUCE WAYNE — AGAIN: BILLIONAIRE FINDS NEW SOULBOND WITH TEENAGER DUKE THOMAS — WELCOMES HIM TO THE FAMILY!
“I’m sorry, what?” cried Peter. Dimension travel wasn't enough, apparently he'd had to land in a city that did not exist with … What was that again? He reread the paper dubiously. Soulbond. And who the hell was Bruce Wayne?
Thunder crashed overhead. You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Peter hurried inside the building, door thudding loudly behind him, signaling his arrival. The shift in temperature was perceptible; warmth greeted him, washing over his skin like a blanket. He shivered from the force of it.
Water dripped down his clothes, leaving a small puddle beneath his feet. Thankfully, the bit of carpet he was standing on absorbed it like a sponge.
The place was full to the brim. He’d volunteered at shelters before, but this is his first time seeing one this full. He looked around, eyes zeroing in on a young woman staring intently at the screen of her computer.
She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her hair swept up in a messy bun, strands falling in front of her eyes in a way that just had to be annoying. From the way she kept puffing frustrated gusts of air upwards to blow them out of her eyes, he was right.
Silently, Peter made his way up to her.
The front desk was impossibly high. Weird. Were all things scaled bigger in this universe? He had to crane his head up higher to peek over the counter edge. He stood there, waiting for a beat, but after a long moment of her tapping away at her keyboard, he gave up on her noticing him and cleared his throat.
“Oh, dear god.” She gasped softly, looking startled. Her eyes widened as she took him in. “What on earth happened to you?”
Peter chose to ignore that, for the sake of his dignity. “Hello. I would like a bed to stay in for tonight, please.”
Still gaping at him, she dropped her hands from the keyboard and reached for a stack of papers. Then, she chuckled light-heartedly, though the concerned furrow between her brows didn't smooth out. “Awfully Polite, are you?”
Recognizing a rhetorical question when he heard one, Peter just shrugged, awkwardly shifting his weight off his bad knee.
“Very well,” She smiled at him, the first welcoming gesture since he'd crash-landed in the city. “I just need you to fill in three questions for me, and you're all set.”
Questions?
An alarm blared in Peter’s mind, and he took a small, uncertain step backward. His hand tightened around the hem of his sweater.
Maybe the shelter was a terrible idea after all.
As if reading the panic darting across his face, she offered a reassuring wave of her hand.
“Hey, kid, relax.” The woman said gently, her tone dropping into something soothing and understanding. “It's just basic intake— name, age, and any emergency medical needs. Nothing crazy, I promise.”
She gestured off-handedly towards a sign at the front of the door, where the name of the shelter was plastered in big letters. “This is a Wayne shelter. We're strictly non-reporting, which means no matter what you tell me, nobody's calling CPS on you. You're safe here.”
The tension drained out of his shoulders, and he found himself nodding tiredly at her, “... Okay.”
She offered him a sympathetic smile and slid a pen across the counter towards him, along with the paper. Peter took the pen with shaking hands, and stared down at the three simple lines printed on the form:
- Name:
- Age:
- Emergency Medical Needs/Allergies:
His brain raced. Peter Parker was dead— erased from existence with Dr. Strange’s spell. But giving a completely fake name felt wrong. Just thinking about it felt exhausting. Peter, he wrote in a small handwriting, before adding: Stark. Tony’s last name. That was safe. Probably. He didn't know if this universe had its own version of Ironman, alive and happy. A pang of aching grief rumbled through his chest at the thought, and he squeezed the pen tighter, grounding himself.
For age, he wrote seventeen— then scratched it, and rewrote eighteen. He was in a new dimension, adding one year to his age couldn't hurt. Eighteen would open up more doors to him than seventeen could.
Under medical needs, he hesitated. He had cracked ribs, a broken leg, bruises littering his arms, and... He lifted his free hand to his head, fingers digging into his temple. Yup. That was definitely a concussion. However, the last thing he needed was a hospital visit. He scribbled: just need sleep. Peppermint allergy.
He slid the paper back across the counter with a sigh, “Done.”
The woman looked down at the paper, skimming through the content. Her brows shot up minutely before settling back into place. Then, she looked up at him with a small smile, “Alright, Peter. Follow me.”
She stepped out from behind the high desk, and gestured for him to walk behind her. Thankfully, her steps were deliberately slow so he wouldn't have to struggle with his limp. Peter almost teared up at the small act of kindness, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.
Stopping at a door at the end of the hallway, she opened it to reveal a big room. Inside, multiple beds were lined up. The light was dim, three lamps illuminating the space.
“Bed twenty-four is yours for the night,” She said, stepping back to give him space. “Bathrooms are down the hall if you need to wash up. Sleep as long as you need.”
Peter swallowed past the tightness in his throat and gave a curt nod. “Okay. Thank you.” He murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
“Good night, Peter.” She turned to leave, then as though remembering something, she looked back at him and smiled amusedly. “Oh, and for the record? You look about twelve, kid. You don't gotta lie on the form to get a bed, you know?”
What.
“Twelve?” He sputtered, face turning beet red. That had to be an exaggeration, or some type of screwed-up joke. Right, yeah. That made more sense. Thank god none of the avengers were here to witness this absolute humiliation. He would've never lived it down. “Uh, yeah. I know. I didn't lie.”
With that, she huffed and closed the door behind her. He gaped at the wood, equal parts offended and deeply indignant. What a weird lady. Sure, he'd always had a bit of a baby face, but twelve? He could easily pass for eighteen!
Groaning, he turned on his heel and limped his way toward bed twenty-four. On top of the mattress was a neatly folded change of clothes; a quick look telling him the clothes were about his size. He scooped them up and dragged his battered body to the bathroom, eager to get the filth out of his skin.
Taking a long hot shower, he scrubbed at his body until the flesh was raw and pink. Once done, he discarded his dirty clothes into the trash can and pulled on the hoodie and black sweatpants.
He leaned over the sink to wash his hands one last time, still feeling inexplicably dirty. Then, as he patted his hands with a towel, he casually glanced up at the foggy mirror.
Peter’s heart stopped, and dropped straight to his ass.
Holy shit.
Blinking back at him was not Peter Parker, high school senior and Stark Intern. Blinking back at him was a child, with eyes too wide and cheeks too round and pink. The spark in his eyes he’d lost after the snap was back in full force. His eyes … that … that were not brown anymore, but a dull, stormy green.
His hand shot up, fingers twitching as he touched his face. He tentatively smiled, and the reflection smiled back. His smile dropped in horror. That was him; not a child look-alike trapped in the mirror. It was actually him. Fuck. Holy fucking fuck.
Taking a concerning amount of toilet paper in his haste, he swiped at the mirror precariously, clearing the fog.
That is when he noticed the white strand— a stark, pale lock that curled down his forehead. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling the incriminating curl right down his nose to inspect it. He yanked on it, hard, his breathing turning shallow and fast. He tugged and twisted, thumb scraping frantically against the lock. But the strand didn't budge, and the ‘dye’ didn't rub off.
Peter stood there, gripping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white. No wonder, he thought, a cold wave of dread washing over him as he remembered the stares he'd gotten on the street. It wasn't just the limp or the bruises. No. It was him. He looked strange.
You're a freak, Flash Thompson’s voice rang in his ears and he hunched in on himself. Shit. What to do? There's no way to blend in anymore. He’d never seen anything like this. He's gonna stick out like a sore thumb.
His vision blurred as angry tears welled up his eyes. Losing his universe wasn't enough, apparently. His treasured eyes— the only thing connecting him to his mother, were now gone too.
Calm down. Clearly something went wrong with Dr. Strange’s spell. Or, maybe this was a side effect of multiverse travel?
He stepped away from the mirror, squeezing his eyes shut in disgust. A sudden, hot flare of rage urged him to break the stupid thing. But he forced himself to take a deep breath, and hurriedly left the bathroom.
Back at his bed, he stared resolutely at his hands. All his scars and callouses were gone. Instead, the skin there was soft and pliant. He spread his fingers, shuddering as he realized just how tiny they were. All in all, a child’s hand; definitely not the big and brave Spider-man’s. How he hadn't noticed this before was beyond him.
Reality crushed down on him, like a bucket of ice cold water.
He was terribly, suffocatingly alone. Stranded in a different dimension where no one would ever truly know him.
He’d never see his friends again, never build legos with Ned or steal shy glances at MJ as she sketched drawings in her seat, sun catching the edge of her face and turning her messy curls a pretty shade of brown-ish red. He’d never count the tiny dusting of freckles on her nose, or kiss her senseless as she sputtered and laughed.
He'd never see Aunt May again, or run into her gentle arms, or hear her voice as she called him out for breakfast— and he swallowed down his bile as he realized : he was going to miss her funeral. He clutched at his heart, feeling it break into tiny pieces. At least, Happy would be there. Happy, who Peter always felt safe around. Who grumbled and rolled his eyes at his ramblings, but would smile fondly when he thought he wasn't looking.
He'd never see the avengers again, either; huddled onto the sofa in the tower for another one of their pizza parties, going through one movie after the other. Their laughter rang in his ears, taunting him. Flashes of sitting in the lab with Tony and Banner, of Nat and Clint training him (a pat on his shoulder, a ‘Good job, Pete.’), of Steve and Bucky smiling softly at him as he rambled in the kitchen, while Wanda braided her hair in the living room. Memories that hurt too much to think about.
There was no magical wizard here to send him back. Everything was lost to him, entirely out of reach. He could imagine that part of his life (because now it was just that; a chapter that ended, a picture in a camera roll, a fleeting touch from a cold hand) as a burning box, where he could see all his memories but never actually touch them.
Slowly, he put his arms around his knees, hugging himself. His eyes burned, and he sniffled into the quiet pathetically. In his head, this is my fault played over and over again, like a broken record catching on the same note.
Peter bit into his burger and munched on it with his brows furrowed. (May used to laugh and poke at his forehead whenever he made this particular face, teasing that she could hear the gears turning inside his head.)
His legs hung over the roof’s edge lazily as he watched people walk back and forth along the dimly lit streets; he looked down at two particular adults arguing animatedly about Harry Potter.
“That’s bullshit. Snape knew Remus was a werewolf and still went anyway. Why would he do that unless he was a complete idiot?”
“Because Sirius told him to go there, Salma!” The blonde woman shot back, looking agitated. “He literally set him up! How are you defending that asshole?”
Salma rolls her eyes, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “Okay, yeah, Sirius is an asshole.” A pause. “But he's an attractive asshole, sue me.”
Up on the ledge, Peter took another bite. He felt a tiny twinge of guilt for eavesdropping, but ultimately, not enough to stop. It was a bad habit he’d picked up years ago; what started as a guessing game with Karen on what each passerby’s life was like, soon turned into actually listening in to conversations and mutters. He was not a creep. It was just … soothing. Like sitting at a crowded dinner table, silently listening to the voices of idle chatter. Or, like how people sometimes leave the TV on as white noise to sleep. Except he was on a rooftop … in the middle of the night … brooding as though he ate a sour lemon.
He blinked, only now remembering to do so, and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Geez, Parker. Get a grip.
It’s been four days since he found himself in Gotham. Four ruthless days spent buried in towers and piles of papers and documents at the local internet café.
His first day was spent lounging in Tom’s shelter, and collecting as much information as possible. To his immense relief, this universe and his last one were not so different— at least not fundamentally. Everything was practically the same, save for a few cities here and there he wasn't familiar with.
Oh. And a ridiculously long list of superheroes he’d never heard about. Seriously, there were at least five different vigilantes operating in Gotham alone. At first, his immediate thought was: What do they need so many heroes for in one place? But then he read the crime statistics for Gotham, saw the police reports, and … Yeah, fair enough.
Peter found it difficult to focus on the list. Superman was the first name to come up. He’d thought the name was ridiculous, but at least not as bad as Antman. Peter would rather shit on his hands and clap than to be named Antman.
Then, he’d clicked on the first link and was pleasantly surprised. Multiple pictures and videos popped up, all overlapping at once. Superman had laser eyes! And a cape! Cool …
He switched to a different tab, reading briefly through Wonder Woman’s page. She was wearing a beautiful costume of red, blue, and gold hues. Somewhat reminded him of Sailor Moon— only a more terrifying version.
He’d gasped quietly once he’d learned she was the daughter of fricking Zeus! A demi-goddess, of all things. Loki would've had a field day with this one.
Scrolling, Peter huffed in irritation at the pertinent lack of pictures for the Gotham Heroes. But … maybe he could find one of them, and they'd help him. Surely they would beleive him? The multiverse couldn't possibly be that shocking.
He moved on to the list of Robins, but practically gave up on learning all their names after the fifth one. Why were there so many? There was more than one version of ‘Batgirl’, and was ‘Red Robin’ .. named after a chain restaurant? What the hell was this list? He sighed, and closed that tab. He’ll just have to wing it.
It seemed that they all worked under Batman. From what he gathered, it was a random middle-aged dude dressed like a furry whose hobby consisted of beating people up at night. He also despised metas (i.e., enhanced individuals, like Peter Parker), and basically banned them from entering Gotham.
Peter ran a hand over his mouth, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
Holy shit. Is he, like, an illegal now?
He had to stay away from the Bats.
The upside was that the rent here was incredibly cheap. (Peter suspected it had to do with how many houses and flats he'd seen blow up or evacuated since he came here.)
The bad news was that Peter was thirteen. He was insanely, enormously fucked. Not to mention—Peter worried his bottom lip— that he didn't even feel seventeen in his mind anymore. The regression wasn't only physical, but leeching into his thoughts, making him irritable and reckless, awakening in his mind urges he hasn't felt in years.
Maybe that's just what grief does, though. Irrational anger and social isolation. And then overwhelming guilt, heavy as a rock in his stomach.
Underneath the horror, the scientist in him couldn't help but thrum with twisted fascination. Whatever had happened to him, was a genetic mutation to the cellular level. His parents had spent their lives researching cross-species genetics, but this was so beyond anything he'd ever learned from their findings. If his DNA had been rewritten, forced into reverse by a multiverse spell, then was it possible to sequence it again? To turn himself back to his rightful age? He wasn't sure. Peter made a silent mental note to look more into it once he could.
He’d taken to writing messy notes in cheap paper, tracking his mental state, physical changes and overall personal observations. The resulting self-awareness only worsened his disgust and horror.
His spider sense wasn't helping, constantly buzzing in panic and confusion. It felt like an insect (or an arachnid, in his case) looking up at the sole of a shoe right before getting squashed. His bruises hadn't faded either, mostly thanks to his complete lack of appetite, which in turn tanked his healing factor. But hey, at least his legs were working again.
He had to be super smart about this; he needed a solid, well thought-out survival plan.
The streets were out of question. For one, Peter couldn't thermoregulate, and with how cold it was in Gotham, he would die before the end of the week. A very slow and painful death, his torturous brain supplied. Homeless shelters were not an option, either; staying there too many days in a row was risky, no matter what the front desk lady had assured him.
Money was his biggest hurdle. He needed to find a job, and fast. The sooner the better, really. But who was going to hire a wide-eyed, homeless thirteen year old who looked like he might barf at random points of the day?
He’d briefly considered digging into Bruce Wayne’s private accounts. With his skillset, and everything he’d learned from Ned, bypassing the firewalls would be easy. Tony’s words echoed in his ears about how ‘if you ever have to steal, kid, then steal from the rich. They’re the guys who won't notice.’ But sitting in that internet café, head pounding and vision swimming, Peter stared at the lines of code and backed out. He was too dizzy, too nauseous, and frankly, terrified of triggering an automated trace. (Nevermind, he’d thought forlornly as he closed the tabs, with my luck, the universe will make an example out of me.)
He clutched the money he had in his pockets, and decided it was enough for now. He’d still need to find a sustainable, legitimate source of income soon, though. Moving his mouse, he’d decided that only when things were super bad, he’d go for it.
His breakthrough came on his next google search; a list of schools in Gotham, which led him straight to Gotham Academy. A prestigious prep school full of what could only be the richest pricks of the city. Peter knew the type, his long years in Midtown High a testament to his pain.
He grumbled in annoyance under his breath at the thought of going back to middle school, of starting all over again from square one. He wished he could just fast-forward ten years to the part where he had his own apartment and a stable job in a city far from this shithole. But when has he ever gotten what he wanted?
Taking a sip of his lukewarm soda, he tilted his head to stare down at the dark streets below. Maybe he should jump off right now, and save himself the trauma.
Tony would've wanted you to graduate, a stern voice that sounded suspiciously like Pepper’s scolded in his head. Peter ducked his head, feeling a sharp pang of shame in his chest.
Back in the café, he had scrolled past paragraphs of boring history and academic achievements until his eyes focused on a section under the financial aid portal:
… Full scholarship recipients receive a weekly stipend of $120 for living expenses, access to the dining hall, and full coverage for all required materials and uniforms. The required GPA for a scholarship is to be maintained each …
Bingo! An allowance, a free lunch to help satisfy his hunger, and even better: Gotham Academy boasted an advanced AP Chemistry lab. That meant access to all the ingredients necessary to synthesize his web-fluid. Two birds with one stone.
The only hitch was that the semester had started a month ago, and he couldn't really enroll without a legal guardian signing off the paperwork.
So he created Karen Stark.
He couldn't use Ben, May or Tony’s names without his stomach churning violently, so he took the name of his sassy suit lady— the voice that had looked over him and kept him safe.
Wasting no time, he’d forged the digital paperwork, set up a fake phone number, and framed ‘Karen Stark’ as a loving, ambitious electrical-engineer who loved travelling. He’d gone so far as to make her socials, but kept all accounts private— barely any pics, as he had no way to fabricate those.
He didn't have enough money to hire a real-life actress, so this'll have to do.
Two days after that, he was sitting on one of the polished desks at GA and taking the test. He’d breezed past all the questions, and had struggled only mildly for the history section—having crammed three hundred years of lore the night before.
Phase one was complete. Now, he only had to wait for his acceptance email.
Then there was the matter of Soulmates. That one took a while to process. In this world, soulmates share a soulmark; some type of symbol etched in your skin, like a tattoo, mirrored in the body of your person to help you find each other.
Walking around, he’d seen it on multiple people. Most of the soulmarks were flowers, Peter noticed. Maybe each had a special meaning? There can't be enough flowers for everyone around the world, can there?
Most people had both familial and romantic ones, all of which developed at a random age, usually before a person’s twenties. After reading about it, he’d rushed into the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes— and there it was.
On his chest, right where his heart is, was a beautiful, black lotus with white strips. It hadn't been there in his old universe. That's what the burning he felt was, Peter realized, he’d been branded. He traced it with the edge of his fingers, enraptured by how it seemed to pulse and breathe gently at his touch.
Seeing as he'd screwed up his only chance at a real family back in his home universe, Peter automatically assumed this was a romantic bond— which, considering he was now thirteen years old again, wouldn't have much relevance to his life for a very long time.
What are the chances he'd find another MJ? Or, god forbid, another Aunt May and Tony Stark. A bitter taste filled his mouth at the thought; the idea of replacing the people he’d loved, of moving on from them felt like betrayal.
He jerked his hand away, and pulled his shirt back down, hiding the dark lotus. Chewing on his lips, he dressed up quietly.
“Tragedy .. the damage, the destruction .. you saw it with your own eyes.”
He, of all people, didn't deserve a second chance. Not after what he’d cost everyone around him. J. Johan Jameson was right all along— Peter Parker was a walking disaster. Everything he touched turned to ruin.
“When will people wake up and realize that anywhere spider-man goes, chaos and calamity ensue?”
It’s fine, he told himself, he wouldn't let anyone get close to him again, wouldn't let anyone suffer just because they knew him. It was better this way.
He wouldn't give up Spider-man. He couldn't. Peter Parker was a weak, small and angry coward. But Spider-man was different. Spider-man was a promise he’d made to his family. A responsibility. He was strong and brave in a way Peter would never be. Spider-man was a candle lit with a stubborn, unyielding fire in a sea of stark darkness, refusing to be put out.
Who was Peter Parker, if not Spider-man? And who was Spider-man without Peter Parker and his anger?
That's right. Anger was too small of a word to describe what Peter felt nowadays. It's a pulsing in his head, a burn in his bloodstream. It itched to burst out of his skin.
In some ways, it was a full circle moment; reminding him of his first days as a vigilante. He was angry the first time he’d been thirteen, too, he recalled. When Uncle Ben was shot right in front of him, because he’d been too much of a coward to let him in. His mistake had cost him his life. It had all happened in one blink— one moment, his uncle was shielding him from a crazed robber, then the next, Peter’s hands were soaked with blood as he sobbed on the ground, holding a corpse.
Peter swallowed the last dry bite of his burger, wiped his hands on his jeans, and pulled his hood lower over his eyes.
…watching…
His spider sense twitched, the hair on the back of his neck standing up pin-straight. There was no danger, he could tell instantly.
He’d felt their eyes on him ten minutes ago, and he'd been quietly hoping that whoever it was would eventually leave him alone. But from the distance, approximately two buildings over, he could hear a steady heartbeat.
There was a muffled pop of gunfire somewhere further, followed by another, and another. Strangely enough, Peter didn't feel inclined to get up yet. He knew it was late—he didn't know how late— but the city noise was distracting, and going back to the small room he'd rented felt depressing.
Now… if only whoever was watching him could move on with their night.
Agh. Why were they just standing there, staring at him? What did they want with him? Was he doing something suspicious?
It could only be a vigilante. Just his luck. Peter twirled a loose brown curl around his finger restlessly. He was certain of it now— because the sound of a grapple gun cut through the air with a swoosh, and then there was the soft patter of feet moving.
Wait.
Were they coming towards him?
Peter fidgeted in his seat, and tilted his head curiously towards the side. Should he make a run for it? He was pretty sure he could outrun and lose them, whoever it was. But then, that would make him look even more suspicious. And he wasn't even sure what he'd done first to guarantee all this attention! Seriously. He’d just been eating his burger in silence.
No. He’ll just stay put and pretend like he didn't hear an—
“Hey, you shouldn't sit on the ledge like that. It's dangerous.” A voice called from behind him, calm and chastising.
Peter startled, his head snapping around so fast you could almost hear it crack. Right in the middle of the rooftop stood a masked man, wearing a black skin-tight suit with a blue bird stretching across his chest, shoulders and down his arms. Twin Escrima sticks hung from his back. No cape…
His wavy black hair fluttered softly in the breeze. There was a small smile on his face, but it looked almost shaky.
His face felt strangely familiar, though Peter had no idea where he would've seen it before. He’s only been in this universe for four days after all.
Peter blinked, before processing what the man had said. And then, ever so slowly, it clicked.
Oh. Ohhhh. He was dangling his feet off the edge of a tall building, constantly looking down at the street below. He almost slapped his own forehead, not having realized how bad this must've looked to a random outlooker. Gee, nice going, Parker.
Peter carefully moved his legs, positioning them back on the ground. He leveled the man with a raised eyebrow, then said, “Better now?”
The vigilante nodded, tension seeping out of his shoulders. He smiled, bigger now and more genuine. Two matching sets of dimples peeked at Peter. With slow, purposeful steps, he moved towards where Peter was now standing.
“I’m Nightwing.” He said, waving a hand at him. The motion felt slightly childish.
Nightwing. Peter recognized the name from the website he'd been looking at. He was … what was it again? The first Robin?
Peter raised a hand and waved back. “Uh. I’m Peter.” He greeted back automatically, rubbing awkwardly at his neck with his other hand. He felt the man’s eyes follow the motion, but he couldn't tell if they actually did. Not with the stupid domino mask on.
He wondered if that's how civilians felt interacting with Spider-man, and made a mental note to make the eyes of his suit more animated.
“Hi,” Nightwing smiled, gentle, “You okay? It’s a bit too late to be hanging around rooftops.”
His peter tingle was acting weird. It was almost … excited? Or, maybe curious? Like a dog wagging its tail, and rolling against the floor. A sudden rush of dopamine hit his bloodstream, sharp and dizzying. His heart did a little weird flutter.
Peter shook his head, and swallowed hard. “Oh, no. It’s not what you're thinking— I’m fine. More than fine.” Then, because it didn't feel like his words were any reassurance, he added after a beat, “Promise.”
Nightwing frowned. “Alright,” he said, crossing his arms, “You know there’s a curfew, though, right?”
A curfew?
“Huh,” Peter turned around, and walked back over to the ledge, ignoring the sharp skip in the man’s heartbeat or the sudden elevation of his pulse. A mischievous grin spread over his lips, and he resisted the urge to snicker as he peered closely down to where he’d last seen the two adults chattering. “I swear I’ve just seen people walking around. Is the curfew thing only for minors?”
Before Peter could blink, a gloved hand shot out, grabbed his shoulder and moved him away from the ledge. He yelped, alarmed by his spider-sense deciding not to warn him. “Dude, so not cool—”
“You're not from around here, are you?” The vigilante interrupted smoothly, stepping around Peter and leaning back casually on the wall. He glanced over, most likely feeling the heat of his glare, and raised his hands in a placating ‘I come in peace’ gesture with a sheepish smile.
Peter scowled. “That obvious?”
Nightwing huffed out a laugh, though it was more amused than mocking, “Yeah. Kind of. Where did you come from? New York?”
“Queens.” Peter shot back, mouth running faster than his brain, “Are you gonna arrest me?”
That seemed to break the hero’s faux-casual composure. Nightwing straightened, thrown off by the question. “Arrest you? Why would I do that?” His head tilted.
“Because I’m breaking curfew.”
Nightwing stared at him, then let out a small, exasperated smile. “No, kiddo. I’m not going to arrest you.” His tone softened, “But I am a little concerned, though. What’s a kid from Queens doing hanging around rooftops at this hour?”
“I dunno. Just wanted to get fresh air, I guess.”
“At .. three A.M?”
Peter shrugged, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and staring off at the side of the roof where a very fascinating mouse was clawing at the wall. The shadow of his hood swallowed his face almost entirely. With how dark it was, there was zero chance of Nightwing seeing the ugly bruises marring his face.
“Hmm.” The vigilante hummed, relaxing further into the wall and tucking an arm behind his neck. His smile dimmed into something a little too observant for Peter’s liking. Even with the mask hiding his eyes, the tightening of his jaw and his posture gave him away— he was studying Peter.
Peter took a step back, wanting to create as much distance as possible. “I should go,” he said, words tumbling out fast. Nightwing seemed like a nice guy, but something about him set off every internal alarm Peter had. “My mom will be worried, I told her I’d … uh, come back soon.”
Nightwing didn't seem to buy it for a second. He took a step forward, only to stop abruptly as a crackle of static broke through the silence: “Nightwing, we need you. Now.”
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden feminine voice, before tracking it down to the man’s earpiece.
Ah. comms. Peter had shared a private line with the Avengers back home, specifically during team missions. That had been super helpful, and also really annoying at times.
The vigilante let out a long sigh, reaching a hand to rub at the back of his neck. He glanced off towards the distance, then back at Peter, assessing. “Guess I should go too.”
“Okay.”
“Stay safe, Peter.”
Peter rolled his eyes, his nervousness melting away in lieu of his usual snark, “Sure, dad.”
Through the tiny earbud, Peter’s ears picked up a burst of muffled laughter. Nightwing snorted, barely audible, and gave Peter a quick, dramatic salute before jumping off the building.