Chapter Text
In the Gotham City Police Department, a betting board was hidden behind the homicide file cabinet. The question wasn't if Bruce Wayne would adopt the newest orphan on Robbins Street, but when.
Ten-year-old Peter Parker (again, which was a biological insult) had no idea that his head already had a price on it in the form of a college fund sponsored by police officers. He was just trying to survive in a city that looked like it was designed by a depressed Gothic architect.
"He moves exactly like you did at his age," Jason Todd snarled, swinging his legs from the cathedral gargoyle. "He's got that weird circus flexibility and a sense of humor that makes you want to punch him. He's Dick 2.0."
"Hey!" Dick Grayson protested, adjusting his Nightwing mask. "My humor is fantastic. And no, he doesn't look like me. Did you hear him laugh when he dodges punches?" It's identical to your maniacal laugh when you were ten and stealing the tires off the Batmobile.
Tim Drake, checking three tablets simultaneously on the Batcomputer, chimed in without looking up: "Genetically speaking, his movement patterns and facial features have an 84% match with the family standards. We could be brothers. We should give him a DNA test. Or just fake it; Bruce won't notice the difference at this point."
"He's an insolent, untrained street urchin," Damian declared from the shadows, crossing his arms. "He's not worthy of sharing our bloodline."
(Although, secretly, Damian had already seen the boy feeding a three-legged stray cat and had decided that, if Jason was right, at least the brat had good taste in animals.)
In the Wayne Manor kitchen, Alfred Pennyworth silently poured tea. He didn't need statistics, laughter, or DNA tests. Alfred had seen him one afternoon in the park: the boy had caught a porcelain teapot falling from a stall with such inhumanly perfect reflexes that he didn't even blink. Alfred saw it, sighed inwardly, and had already started searching through children's clothing catalogs for the right size. He was a Wayne. All that was missing was the paperwork.
Meanwhile, in a dark alley, Peter Parker blew on his frozen hands. He was trapped in the body of a ten-year-old boy, his spider-sense constantly buzzing due to the ambient paranoia of this city, and to top it all off, the local "heroes" dressed up as flying rodents.
But Gotham wasn't so bad if you knew who to look to.
"Here, kid," a soft voice said. Pam, the green-skinned woman everyone called "Poison Ivy," emerged from an abandoned greenhouse. She handed him a perfectly ripe apple. "You need vitamins. If those men in black bother you, ten cents." I can use them as fertilizer.
“Thanks, Pam! You’re the best,” Peter grinned, taking a giant bite.
Later that night, he wandered past the old theater. Harley Quinn (the girl in blue and pink who always seemed one joke away from a nervous breakdown) spotted him and relaxed with delight. “Baby Spidey! Look what I knitted you!” She tossed him a poorly made wool hat with spider ears. “So your brain doesn’t freeze!”
“I love it, Harls. It matches my eyes,” Peter joked, putting it on immediately.
And when the cold became too unbearable, Peter would simply head down into the sewers. Waylon, the enormous crocodile man who made mobsters tremble, would move aside in his nest of old blankets and newspapers to let the boy snuggle up against his warm, scaly side. Waylon didn’t care about space; Peter was silent and unafraid.
Bruce Wayne rubbed his hands inside the Batcave. On the giant screen, security footage of Peter played.
“Why is he hugging Killer Croc?” Bruce asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I saw him sharing a sandwich with the Riddler yesterday. The Riddler was helping him with his math homework!”
“Well, the kid’s charismatic, Bruce,” Dick said, barely suppressing a laugh.
“I want him to stop befriending my villains,” Batman growled. “He’s dangerous. We need to bring him here. Security. Protection.”
In his alley, Peter Parker stuffed a shiny piece of metal from an alien spaceship he’d found—his “treasure” for trying to build a portal back to New York—into his backpack and sighed as he watched a caped figure land on the rooftop across the street.
“Oh, please,” Peter muttered, rolling his eyes with pure Queens sarcasm. Bat people again? Doesn't this city have pest control? I just want to pack my things and go home, stop trying to adopt me with your eyes.