Chapter Text
It’s been about a month. A month since he fell into that portal and his idiot brother followed. A month since they had to fake their lives and records—a skill that came far too easy thanks to HYDRA and a month since Pyotr had started this school thing.
Well, he wasn’t Pyotr anymore. That person doesn’t exist for the time being. No, he is now Peter
Benjamin Parker.
Peter Parker was a kid with average grades that always finished his homework and was never absent without reason. Peter Parker minded his business and exuded a feeling of compliance. Peter Parker was
just another face in the hallway—someone you might’ve exchanged some words with but for the life of
you couldn’t remember his name or face afterward.
Peter was no one of importance, which entailed that he was just another long number in a system,
another name on some attendance list, another person that could go through the process of life without the world stopping to acknowledge them.
But for some reason, in the fourth period, Peter Parker became someone.
As usual, every Monday morning, Peter had history for the fourth period. The physical structure of the class was nice, as he’d expect from any private school worth its salt. Heated flooring kept the sharp winter air at bay, ensuring the room stayed at an ideal temperature—a relief, considering he couldn’t thermoregulate. Warm lights hanging overhead were gentle on his heightened eyes, and the walls were
well-decorated with posters of historical figures that differed slightly from the ones Pyotr knew, world maps before and after certain wars and the occasional history pun.
The class itself was…good? The history was different from what HYDRA had taught him and from what he later learnt once he was allowed to do missions. He often chose to keep quiet, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of his peers. As for the general ambience of the class? It was quiet, only getting a little loud when Mr. Jackson allowed time for debate. Peter definitely liked his teacher. He was on the younger side, but still demanded respect and obedience—reminding Peter of his older brother,
Maxim.
The only annoying aspect was that the room had those combination desks meant to seat two students. Fortunately for Peter, his deskmate, Timothy Drake-Wayne, had an attendance record this year that was
shorter than his own--and mind you, Peter had only come into existence a little over a month ago. That aside, it meant Peter got double the desk space.
Unfortunately, Peter had become too comfortable. It was routine at that point: he entered the class, found his seat, pulled out his history book, wrote down the page and date, and then closed it. Then, he opened his journal—crammed almost to the brim with math problems—landed on the page where he was busy
reproving the Poincaré Conjecture. Since it was 2001 in this world, the problem hadn’t been solved yet,
and it would be nice to figure it out before Grigori Perelman did. He wouldn’t tell anyone, though;
Perelman deserved his flowers. Besides, it was also really hard staying a no one once the whole world knew your name after solving a Millennium Problem .
The heavy oak door of the classroom clicked shut against its frame, snapping Peter out of his thoughts. He didn’t look up immediately; a true no one wouldn’t care about who walked in late. Instead he closed
his journal and opened his textbook and pretended to study.Still his sensitive ears picked up on the soft,
near-silent footfalls of the newcomer— states so quiet that anyone else in the room would have missed them entirely.
Gotham Academy’s king of truancy arrived.
Timothy greeted the class with a practiced, light tone. Mr. Jackson offered only a tied look that clearly communicated, “Seriously, Drake?”
Timothy made his way down the aisle towards their shared desk, his stride was relaxed but his gaze
active. A half-second pause in his footfall as his eyes landed on Peter, the faintest tightening at the corner of his eyes as he ran an adept sweep over Peter’s hands, shoulders and uniform line. Timothy’s eyes locked onto Peter's.
Glacier blue met honey-soaked brown, analysing every feature on
Peter’s face, searching for his memory for a face that didn’t exist.
He wouldn’t be able to, of course. First, because it was the first time, to Peter’s knowledge, that they had ever met; second, because it was by design that Timothy would forget Peter’s visage. By the end of the
year, they would have graduated high school and gone their separate ways, with Peter not even becoming a footnote in Timothy Drake-Wayne’s story.
In that split second the pair locked eyes, Peter had also confirmed something else: Timothy Drake was
someone. If Timothy died tomorrow, it would reach global news and by some undiscovered natural law the world would stop for a fraction of a second and acknowledge that a someone had passed.
And when Timothy ceased his intense observation with a slight crinkle between his brows, Peter knew the boy couldn’t place him anywhere—and was growing frustrated by it. Timothy sat down and reached into his bag, presumably to pull out his books. It was at this moment that Peter remembered that his
history textbook was still sitting on Timothy's side of the desk. He scrambled to pull it back before his deskmate took offense in his hurry, Peter’s journal slipped and tumbled into the space between them.
Timothy’s eyes darted to the now open journal, taking in the spread of calculations and mechanical
drawings. Luckily for Peter, the journal landed on the page where he’d been working out the Poincaré Conjecture.Peter could fabricate a plausible excuse for college-level-calculus–but topology? He’d be better off packing his bags and asking Maxim to buy him a one-way ticket out of the country.
Peter quickly snatched the journal up and stuffed it in his bag while Timothy finally found his books and placed them on his side of the desk then offering his right hand in greeting.
“Names Timothy,” he said with a small smirk. “Timothy Drake.”
Peter hesitantly reached for Timothy’s hand and shook it gently. “Peter, Peter Parker.” Peter gave a small, wary smile, his cheeks becoming flush to feign bashfulness. He even made his voice wobble slightly. It was not every day a no one met a someone. And it certainly was
not everyday a someone shook a no one’s hand.
When the handshake broke, Timothy took one final, long look at Peter, studying the shorter boy’s features with precision that would rival the Black Widow’s. He ensured that every detail of Peter's face—down to the slight bump in his nose was burnt into his memory.
In that instant, Peter knew that all his efforts at being no one were for nothing.
In Timothy Drake’s eyes, Peter had become someone.