Chapter Text
Song: Family Line — Conan Gray
His family thought he was a fool, but he never had been.
They believed he knew nothing about the capes, the masks, the hidden suits, and the secret names they used when they went out at night. They believed Peter was simply too naive to realize what was happening around him. But he knew. He had always known.
That early morning, hidden among the shadows of the staircase, Peter silently watched as Tim entered the hallway still wearing his Red Robin suit. There was a little dried blood on his knuckles and a small cut on his lip. From what Peter had overheard through the communicator he had stolen from Duke, everything had started with a simple bank robbery. Apparently, one of the criminals had been wearing extremely durable armor, and Tim hadn't realized it until after punching him. Peter had to suppress a smile imagining the face Tim had probably made when he discovered that his hand had lost that particular battle.
Alfred walked behind Tim with the first-aid kit in one hand, ready to tend to his injuries, while Damian followed them, taking the opportunity to tease Tim for failing to notice the armor. Tim tried to ignore him, although he was clearly beginning to lose his patience. Bruce was the last of the group, walking slowly while holding a cup of coffee, wearing that tired expression Peter had learned to recognize perfectly after so many years.
“Damian, keep your voice down,” Bruce scolded as he walked. “Peter is still upstairs, sleeping.”
Damian waved his hand dismissively, making it clear that he didn't particularly care, and simply took another hallway before Bruce could say anything else. Bruce remained there for a few seconds, watching his son disappear down the corridor, before letting out a long sigh and continuing after Alfred and Tim, who seemed to be heading toward the kitchen.
Peter remained hidden in the shadows of the staircase, watching as Bruce disappeared down the hallway.
His family could keep believing that he knew nothing, and honestly, Peter had no intention of taking that peace of mind away from them. He had learned a long time ago that some people needed to believe their secrets were safe.
He briefly glanced at the clock beside him. Three-thirty in the morning. A little earlier than usual, although that didn't matter much. Peter let out a small sigh and allowed himself to smile. The only thing that truly mattered was that they had returned.
Everyone was home.
And now he could go back to his room, close his eyes, and fall asleep again knowing that, at least for that night, his family was safe.
When he opened his eyes again, he found another pair of eyes staring directly at him. Ace was sitting beside the bed, looking at him with the kind of patience he seemed to reserve only for the occasions when he wanted something from him.
“Good morning... Ace,” Peter murmured, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
The dog climbed down from the bed to give him some room, and Peter took a few seconds before sitting up. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the last remnants of sleep, and almost instinctively began stroking Ace's soft fur. The dog wagged his tail and moved a little closer, happily accepting the affection while Peter continued petting him absentmindedly.
After a few minutes, he finally got up and headed to the bathroom, with Ace following closely behind. He took a quick shower and, after drying himself off, approached the mirror. He ran a hand across the fogged-up glass, clearing a small area until he could see himself clearly.
For a moment, he simply stared at himself.
At first glance, Peter Grayson-Wayne was a completely ordinary man. He had fair skin, brown hair, and brown eyes that still held a certain warmth despite the few hours of sleep. Small freckles covered different parts of his body, some barely visible and others standing out whenever the light fell directly on his skin.
However, there was one feature that always managed to draw a little more attention.
His birthmarks.
Peter slowly raised his right hand and looked at it. He had six small marks: one on each knuckle and another on the back of his hand. They were irregular, each one slightly different in shape from the others, but together they formed a strange and, in their own way, rather beautiful pattern.
He couldn't help thinking about his mother. He remembered how, when he was little, she would take his hand between hers and place little kisses on each of those marks, as if they were something precious. She would always tell him how much she loved him, assuring him that those little spots were one of the many things that made him special.
Peter smiled faintly at the memory.
Would she still love him if she knew that he could barely remember her anymore?
The question appeared in his mind, and for a moment, the smile disappeared from his face. There were things about his mother he could still remember clearly: her voice, the warmth of her hands, the way she hugged him. But the memories were slowly fading, like a photograph losing its colors with the passing of the years.
No.
He looked away from his hand.
That would break her heart.
And that was the last thing he wanted to do to her.
He finished getting ready and, standing in front of the mirror, awkwardly adjusted his tie for the third time. He had never been particularly good with them, although after so many years, one would think he would have learned by now. Eventually, he managed to get it more or less straight and looked at himself one last time before finally giving up.
Just a normal boy surrounded by extraordinary family members.
Ace immediately walked over to him, wagging his tail as if he had been waiting all that time just to accompany him.
“Ready?” Peter asked as he opened the door.
Ace answered with a small bark.
Peter smiled and left his room with him, closing the door behind them.
Another normal day began at Wayne Manor.
Conversations could be heard at the end of the hallway, although they were so quiet that the words barely reached Peter. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he recognized that tone perfectly. It was the same one they used whenever they were talking about things they didn't want him to hear.
Ace, far less interested in family secrets, happily walked ahead and entered the dining room before Peter. The moment he crossed the doorway, the voices immediately fell silent.
Peter had to suppress a smile.
When he entered a few seconds later, everyone seemed completely focused on their own business. Tim was checking something on his phone while hiding his injured hand beneath the table, Damian was eating with an expression of absolute boredom, and Duke was calmly drinking his coffee. Bruce, seated at one end of the table, seemed far too interested in the newspaper in front of him.
As if none of them had been talking about vigilantes only a few seconds earlier.
“Good morning,” he greeted them with an awkward smile as he took his place at the table.
“Good morning,” Duke replied with a genuine smile.
“Good morning, Peter,” Bruce said.
He had momentarily lowered the newspaper onto the table to look at him.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes... very well, Dad.”
Bruce nodded slightly, satisfied with the answer, and picked up the newspaper again. Peter began serving himself breakfast while Ace settled underneath the table, patiently waiting for any opportunity to get some food.
Peter casually glanced at Bruce's newspaper. On the front page was a somewhat blurry photograph of a bank, with the robbers lying on the ground. The headline took up a large portion of the page:
“Batman, Robin, and Red Robin Prevent Bank Robbery.”
Peter quickly looked away.
He didn't want to read that while he was eating breakfast.
He focused on his plate and pretended he hadn't seen anything, while around him the dining room slowly filled with the small sounds of an ordinary morning: silverware clinking against plates, the coffee maker running, and Ace wagging his tail beneath the table, waiting for someone to drop something.
For Peter, it was simply another day at home.
Breakfast came to an end, and after saying goodbye to the others, Peter quickly went upstairs to his room to brush his teeth, grab his backpack, and check one last time that he hadn't forgotten anything for class. Before leaving, he went back to Ace and scratched him behind the ear one last time.
“See you later, okay?” he murmured before heading toward the car, where Alfred was already waiting to drive them.
As usual, they made a quick stop at Barbara's house to pick up Cassandra and Stephanie, and once both of them got into the vehicle, they continued on their way to Gotham Academy.
Peter tried to focus on anything else during the drive, but it was difficult to ignore it. Everyone seemed to be paying attention to their phones. Every few seconds, the sound of another notification could be heard: a message, some conversation that seemed to continue without end.
He kept his eyes fixed on the window, pretending he didn't care, until he finally pulled out his own phone and checked it out of habit. There was nothing. Just a YouTube notification telling him that one of the content creators he followed had uploaded a new video.
Of course, he was already used to it, because his siblings would share information about their patrols with Peter when he supposedly “didn't know” about their double lives.
“What's going on?” Stephanie suddenly asked.
Peter looked up. She was looking at her phone, and Cassandra leaned slightly toward her to see the screen. The two exchanged a glance and began laughing about something Peter couldn't see. Tim also looked up from his own phone, read the message, and smiled faintly before typing a reply. Damian was simply drawing in his notebook, ignoring everything even though his phone was also receiving notifications. Even Duke seemed to be participating in the conversation, although Peter had no idea what they were talking about.
He tried to look over Tim's shoulder, but the phone quickly disappeared from view when Tim tilted it toward himself.
Peter looked away.
He didn't want to seem nosy.
So he turned his attention back to the window as Gotham passed before his eyes.
“Peter?”
Stephanie's voice made him turn his head.
“Yes?”
She looked at him for a few seconds before smiling.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
And she went back to looking at her phone.
Peter slowly nodded.
“Okay.”
He turned toward the window again.
He didn't press the matter.
He never did.
After all, if they ever wanted to tell him something, they would be the ones who had to do it. Peter had learned a long time ago that he should never insist, no matter how much curiosity gnawed at him from the inside.
He had already made that mistake once.
It had been years ago, when Jason died.
Jason had been buried that very afternoon. It was a beautiful afternoon, far too beautiful for such a sad moment. The sky was clear and the sun illuminated the cemetery, as if the world didn't understand that someone had lost a son that day.
Peter still remembered how Bruce had kept his head lowered throughout the entire funeral and how he had held Peter's hand the entire time, so tightly that it seemed that if he let go, he would fall apart right there. Even though the pain was killing him inside, Bruce never let go.
When they returned to the manor, Bruce disappeared shortly afterward. Peter knew perfectly well where he had gone, even though no one had told him. He was probably somewhere in the Batcave, trying to find a way to deal with a pain he didn't know how to express.
Peter, on the other hand, didn't want to be alone.
He followed Alfred to the kitchen and stayed there while the butler began preparing dinner. For several minutes, neither of them said a word. Peter watched Alfred move around the kitchen, trying to find the courage to ask a question that had been tormenting him for days.
Finally, he gathered enough courage.
“What did Jason die of?”
Alfred stopped.
Peter knew what Bruce had told him. Even the newspapers had reported the news. But that answer had never made sense to him. He didn't want to hear what had appeared in the newspapers or what Bruce had decided to tell him. He wanted to know the real reason.
“You already know, Master Peter,” Alfred replied after a few seconds, lowering his gaze slightly. “A terrorist group killed Jason.”
“No!”
The shout escaped Peter before he could stop it. A fury he had never felt before tore through his chest, mixing with all the sadness and confusion he had been accumulating since Jason's death.
“I want the truth!” he demanded, his eyes filling with tears. “Right here. Right now!”
“Peter!”
Bruce appeared in the kitchen doorway. His face was still marked by the pain of the funeral, but now there was something else in his eyes. A hardness Peter wasn't used to seeing directed at him.
“Don't yell at Alfred,” he said firmly. “The truth is what I told you. End of story.”
Peter stared at him.
For a moment, he waited for Bruce to change his mind. To understand that he wasn't asking out of curiosity, that he needed to know what had happened to his brother. To understand that continuing to hide things from him only made everything hurt more.
But Bruce said nothing else.
Peter stormed out of the kitchen.
At that moment, he believed that after his outburst, Bruce would understand that hiding things from him was wrong. He thought that maybe Bruce would finally talk to him and explain what had really happened.
What he got instead was a one-way plane ticket to Switzerland and a brochure for his new school.
Peter still remembered crying. He had begged. He had promised that he would behave, that he wouldn't ask again, that he could forget everything if it meant staying home. But nothing he said changed the decision.
At the end of that week, Alfred packed his bags.
They took him to the airport.
And they sent him away from Gotham.
Since then, he had learned his lesson.
If they wanted to tell him something, they would tell him.
And if they didn't want to, Peter wouldn't ask again.
Even if it meant sitting across from them every morning, listening to hushed conversations and pretending that he knew absolutely nothing.
But Peter Grayson-Wayne wasn't a fool.