Chapter Text
Peter was falling through realities again.
The terror was immediate.
Hadn’t he stopped? Hadn’t the fall ended? Why was he here again, being made and unmade and made again in the image of whatever answered as gods? He couldn’t even scream his horror and rage at the injustice of it all, his body frozen and helpless to the fall.
He’d done this already! Why? Why did he have to—
The breath was punched out of him as he landed on something hard that shattered upon impact. Peter gasped, useless as his winded lungs struggled to refill themselves. The throaty wheeze turned his stomach. It sounded too much like—
“Peter?”
He rolled into a crouch, hunting blindly in the dark for—!
She was there, crumpled against the rubble of Peter’s impact. He stared. His aunt stared back. As though he were the ghost. As though he was the one who—
“You’re alive?”
They flinched at the words spoken in concert, then flinched again as understanding fell on them. Peter stared, greedily memorising the curve of her jaw and her dark brown eyes and the smile lines etched into her skin.
She wasn’t smiling now.
His aunt was the first to speak. “I saw you die,” she breathed, voice ragged. Peter flinched a third time.
With a pained groan, she attempted to pull herself from the rubble. Peter flew to her side, hauling debris away as though it were leaf litter. Laughter gusted out of her and she eyed him with wonder. “Oh, I never got used to that sight, did I?”
‘Did’…? The past tense filled him with immediate dread. Peter worked faster, intent on unearthing her, but it was no use: the more he threw away, the more there was to bury her as reality crumbled around them, falling in on a singular point that was pinned in place by his aunt’s body.
“Peter—”
“No.”
“You need to stop, Peter.”
“No!” he snapped. His hands were bloody, fingers torn. One glance and he couldn’t bear to look back at her face. Her expression was resigned, in stark contrast to Peter’s rising panic. “No, I can’t! Not again, I can’t!”
Cold fingers brushed across his cheek. He blanched with revulsion even as he attempted to lean into her touch. Just one more second. One more moment. Let him preserve this. Let him keep her with him for as long as he could get away with.
She laughed breathlessly. It was a high pitched, rattling wheeze.
“Please don’t — don’t leave me!” Her face blurred behind a veil of burning tears while the world continued to disintegrate around them.
“Oh Peter,” she said—
— only it wasn’t his aunt’s voice anymore. It was Norman, grinning that too-wide grin. Too many teeth.
“Have you already forgotten? It was you who left this time.”
Peter threw himself back with a sharp cry of horror and Norman followed, the rubble that had buried his aunt now weaponised against him. It tore through his skin like paper. He screamed and twisted, searching desperately for her.
“Bring her back!”
“It’s the way of things, Peter. She made you weak! This was my gift to you!”
“A gift?” he snarled, so full of rage he was burning with it. The stink of cooked flesh filled his lungs. “You destroyed everything!”
He launched himself at Norman. There was a startled yelp from the man and then they were grappling. They wrested for dominance, but Peter was stronger and had the element of surprise. He pinned the man down by his throat and ignored the sharp blows to his exposed ribs.
“I should snap your neck!” Peter hissed.
Norman laughed in his face.
“Snap? Oh, no, Peter. Don’t you remember, kid? Spiders bite.”
Peter felt the truth in Norman’s words. His teeth twisted in his mouth.
“Peter—”
Norman began struggling like a pinned fly. He leaned in—
“PETER! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
And Peter flinched back as Norman landed another jab at his ribs. A blister of pain burst, bright and clear. He hissed. Blinked.
And the man struggling under his hands wasn’t Norman.
It was Jason.
A wounded noise escaped his chest as he realised what he’d nearly done. He threw himself back, off the floor and scrambled away, intent on making as much space as he could. Jason immediately sat up, wheezing and rubbing his throat were Peter had—
“Peter—”
“Oh God.”
“Peter, you’re okay—”
“You’re not!”
“Peter, calm down.”
He didn’t understand how Jason could look at him so mildly.
“I was going to—” Nausea flooded him. He clapped a hand over his mouth. If he hit himself hard enough, he could probably break his teeth.
“But you didn’t.”
“I nearly did!”
“But you didn’t.” Jason edged towards him, but he stayed well out of Peter’s reach. “I’m fine.”
It was dark but the sky was uncommonly clear. Faint moonlight from the waxing quarter cast silver streams into his room. Jason was still mostly dressed — another late night at his job — and his streak of white fringe stood out bright in the dark. But Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ring of swiftly forming bruises on the lower part of his neck. He was hit but another violent wave of guilt-driven nausea. But his stomach was empty — it was early morning and his metabolism had long since burnt through his late-night snack before bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said behind his hands. “This — this was a mistake—”
“Peter—”
“I’m sorry.”
Alarm flickered over Jason’s face. “Pete…” He adjusted his crouch, but Peter was faster. He jumped at the window, thrust it open and clambered out even as Jason lunged, wrapping a hand around his ankle. But Peter was stronger and sticky. He tore his leg from Jason’s grip and threw himself out the window, landed hard on the concrete several stories below, and ran off into the night.
“For fuck’s sake,” he thought he heard Jason curse.
Peter ran, until all he could hear was the wind rushing through his ears and the sleepy sounds of an unfamiliar, unfriendly city.
— + —
The phone rang a handful of times while Jason stared out the open window in disbelief. Peter was long gone, which was fortunate because he didn’t know what he’d do if someone were to see him at that moment.
Twelve days he’d managed to keep Peter around. Call him an idiot, but he’d started to think the guy had begun settling in. He had a job, he’d grown increasingly confident out on the streets, and only bugged Jason a couple of times about his ‘magic guy’. And Jason had been calling Constantine. He just wasn’t getting through. Who knew where the warlock was. Hell, for all he knew.
And now, this.
He rubbed his throat guiltily. His right hand throbbed. Peter was made of sturdy stuff. It had taken a hell of a lot more force than it should have to finally break him out of the nightmare he’d been trapped in.
“It’s getting late, you know,” the voice on the other side of the line said when they finally picked up. “Even by my standards.”
“Are you O tonight?”
Babs was quiet for a second. “I am now…”
“Peter had a nightmare. He’s run off.”
Babs cursed. He could already hear the tell-tale clicking of her keyboard. “How long?”
Jason glanced at the little digital clock on the desk. Peter had got it from work last week — someone had tried to fleece broken appliances — and he’d been proud to show off his handiwork when he fixed it. The time read 3:09. “About two minutes ago.”
“Two minutes?” she said with open scorn. “What are you calling me for? He can’t have— oh.”
“Yeah. Meta, remember?”
“Shit. That kid’s fast.” More clattering on her side. “He’s already in Burnley.”
“Shit,” Jason echoed. He abandoned Peter’s room and swore again when he saw Peter’s beaten-up sneakers by the front door. The idiot wasn’t even wearing shoes. “I’m worried he’s gonna try and disappear again. Link his location to me?”
“Already on it.” Jason felt his phone vibrate in his hand. Then, falsely innocent: “Again?”
“Guy’s got commitment issues.” And a guilt complex a mile wide. “I thought he was getting to a good place.”
“And now, this.” Babs’ sigh gusted through the line. “I’ve sent Robin in pursuit. He’ll get there before you.”
Jason grimaced, even as his chest loosened slightly. It had to be Timbo: Bruce would have strong-armed Damian home by now. Not the worst choice, by far. But Tim had been pestering him to meet Peter ever since he’d learnt they were ‘dating’ and Jason had stonewalled him at every opportunity. Too soon, he thought, to inflict those lunatics on Peter…
Now, it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice.
— + —
Twelve days.
That was how long his peace in Gotham lasted.
Not even two weeks and he’d already spat in the face of the one lick of kindness shown to him.
He should have known better. It was stupid to think that living with someone — even someone as ‘worldly’ and well-armed as Jason clearly was — could go without consequences. Stupid and foolish and far too optimistic for his own good.
And now what did he have to show for it? A ring of bruises around a good man’s neck, bloodied feet and a fierce ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the probably (definitely) cracked ribs Jason had dealt him.
What the hell had be even been about to do to Jason? His dream had already fragmented like wet tissue beneath his scrutiny, but he had vague memories of his aunt, buried in rubble. Of Norman Osborn and that awful, taunting laugh. And Peter had woken with Jason pinned beneath him, mouth open at his throat as if he’d been about to—
Peter pulled violently at his hair. With a trembling hand he prodded at his teeth—
Nothing.
Just normal teeth.
Relief gusted out of him. He didn’t know what he might have done if he’d found another change. The spinnerets were bad enough, and all he’d chosen to with them was ignore their entire existence. Had he found himself with fangs he might actually have followed through with his earlier thoughts and torn them out entirely, medieval barber-style.
Peter let his hand fall back and looked around him. His running had brought him to a marina which was where he stopped, not quite ready to jump into the murky waters surrounding Gotham and swim across the bay to the mainland. Every heave of his lungs caused sparks of pain to radiate from his ribs, but Peter welcomed it. He contemplated pushing harder on the bruising, pressing into his chest until he felt the rib snap. A little more and it might puncture a lung. If he did that in the water, he’d drown for sure.
It wouldn’t be the first time Peter would drown. It’s just that this one might actually take—
No.
He collapsed into a crumpled of limbs at the edge of the boardwalk. It didn’t matter that he was dangerously close to the edge and one wrong move might send him tumbling into the water.
He stared at his right foot as he contemplated what he had to do now. The skin was torn and bloodied from his sprinting; the jump from Jason’s sixth storey window probably hadn’t helped either. Peter’s body was built sturdy but extended running without the protection of shoes had certainly done a number to them. When he wiggled his toes, pain throbbed up and down his lower legs.
He did it again, just for good measure, then left it be to take stock of where he’d ended up.
The boardwalk he’d perched on was raised several yards above the water. White moonlight bounced off the ragged shapes of masts and booms and antenna from the boats that dotted the marina. Almost all were dark. No lights. The air was still and quiet, interrupted only by the hushing of the water and the odd rhythmic clang of something banging against something else metal and hollow. A salt tang, laced with the acrid funk of pollution, sat thick in the chilled air.
Asleep. The marina was at rest, like much of the city. What even was the time? In his rush to escape, he’d left his phone at Jason’s — idiot! Everything of his was there: phone, watch, shoes, hoodless spider suit, money from his job! All of it, still sitting in that room.
He’d have to go back. Steal in while Jason was at work tomorrow, or while he was out walking Dog. Take them with him and leave Gotham again.
And go where?
It didn’t matter.
Or, no.
It did.
Though he knew he should keep well enough alone — this wasn’t even his universe! — Peter knew himself enough to accept that he’d never outrun the siren call of Spider-Man. Hell, twelve days into Gotham and he’d already caught himself staring one too many times at the shoebox he’d shoved under his bed. Inside lay the spider suit. He liked to imagine that if he pressed it to his face, he would still smell the traces of Queens.
Besides, Gotham was teeming with heroes.
Far be it from him to encroach upon their territory, especially without knowing the lay of the land. He liked to think himself smarter than that.
So… Somewhere he could live alone, but not a place where he’d be alone. Living the hermit hero life was much easier in a city than out in the middle of nowhere.
Peter chewed on his thumbnail as he looked across the sleeping marina. Which part of Gotham was this? How far did he run after jumping out the window? He knew that Gotham was practically an island, but that didn’t mean every inch of waterline was likely to have its own congregation of boats. That he could see the mainland however suggested he was probably on the west side of the city.
… Provided that was the mainland he could see across the water.
Behind! Above!
Peter barely twitched as his senses tingled. The twang of awareness — like a bow string (or a web…) being plucked — had become increasingly familiar ever since he’d first twigged to the change. He’d noticed it several times on his walks to and from work and — less frequently — while out with Jason and Dog. They’d been triggered enough that he’d regained control of his reactions.
He readied himself for a fight. Even though his tingle (though that didn’t feel like the right term anymore) hadn’t suggested the attention on him was hostile, he was aware that — dressed as he was — people might think him easy pickings (though what they thought they could get from him was anyone’s guess). Better to be on alert than caught by surprise.
There was a soft ripple of fabric and a skss of disturbed gravel and Peter twisted in his ball of misery in time to see a black and yellow cape settle around the man that had jumped down from the warehouse behind.
Though the dim moonlight washed everything out, Peter recognised the uniform. Red front, green armguards and a pointed domino mask. As any self-respecting vigilante would have, he’d done his research.
The recognition didn’t calm him down — if anything, he found himself on high alert. What was a Robin doing here? Was he here for Peter? Because he’d hurt Jason? Or was Robin here for something else and Peter was just caught in the middle?
Peter kept himself still, though he knew Robin had already spotted him — it was his attention that had alerted his senses, after all. Only when Robin took a hesitant towards him did Peter stand. His feet burned with the renewed pressure, but he wanted to be ready to run if needed.
“Hey,” Robin called out carefully. Though there was a road and a boardwalk between them, Peter picked up his voice perfectly clear. “I reckon you’re a long way from home.”
Okay. So he wasn’t going to mention the past week of intermittent stalking, then. Well, if Robin wanted it going unsaid, Peter would be kind enough to leave it that way.
Robin carried on when Peter took too long to respond. “You look like you could use some help.” Peter caught the minute flick of his head as he was studied. “And some shoes.”
“I… left in a hurry,” he said, and held back a shiver. The early hours of October were anything but warm, and Peter only had thin sweats to contend with the cold. Now that he’d stopped running, he was reminded of why a built-in heater was the first thing he added to his suits.
“Do you need help? Are you hurt?”
It was strange, feeling the pressure of someone’s attention on you. Peter had always thought of such a thing in a figurative manner, but as he’d grown accustomed to these new, heightened senses, he found himself increasingly aware of the weight of people’s gazes. He felt it now, while the oldest Robin looked him over as though he might discover more injuries.
“I’m fine,” Peter said, but Robin wasn’t convinced. He took a step closer, and Peter shifted without thought, back foot slipping behind to make a fast getaway.
Robin immediately froze. “Woah. Hey.” He held up his arms in placation. “I just wanna hear you properly. Talking kinda soft there.”
Peter thought about it for a moment, then nodded stiffly.
Robin crossed the dead street and joined him on the boardwalk but remained several feet away.
Closer, Peter could see how young the vigilante actually was. He was maybe a couple of years older than Peter, and had a few inches on him, though part of that was probably down to Peter being barefoot while Robin wore boots. It was unnerving, looking into whited-out eyes. Without the modulation of Peter’s masks, it was hard to track the man’s facial expressions.
“Where are you from?”
Peter blinked. “Huh?”
“I doubt you live in the Hill, right? Where did you come from?”
“Oh…” He licked his lips as he thought. He could give a lie, but considering the small handful of times he’d caught Robin trailing him (and why was that? Was it just coincidence? Did it have something to do with his appearance here? Had that weird portal sparked some kind of unknown sensors or something? But if it was just that, why hadn’t he made himself known?).
In the end, Peter settled for the truth.
“I was staying in Park Row.”
“Do you… want to go back?”
Oh.
Peter recognised that tone. It was the same one he used on victims; particularly those he suspected of domestic violence.
He bit back a bitter laugh. How wrong Robin was.
“It’s not like that,” he tried.
“Like what?”
“Like… you’re thinking of. I’m not — no one’s hurt me. I just…” he grimaced even as he forced himself to admit it. “I just — had a bad dream. Didn’t react well when I woke.”
“Are you in danger?”
He did laugh then, but it was a mirthless sound that brought up a spark of pain he just barely masked. Damn ribs. “No.”
Provided of course, Jason didn’t shoot Peter on sight. But Jason deserved an apology before he left — for good, this time. Now that he’d calmed down a bit, Peter saw reason in facing the music and saying sorry and explaining why it was a bad idea for him to stay. It was definitely a better choice than sneaking back in while Jason was out.
Not even two weeks of reprieve… Parker luck strikes again.
“Do you need help?”
He shrugged. “Directions? I… I’m not a local.”
“Yeah. I guessed from your accent.” Robin’s lips twitched. “New York?”
“… Yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“Nice try,” Robin said. Peter shrugged, unrepentant. It was a bit of a novelty, playing civilian, but he found himself slipping into his smartass persona the more he calmed down. “I asked first though,” Robin prodded again.
“… Peter.”
“Okay. Peter. Can I get you some shoes? Those bare feet are killing me.”
Peter glanced pointedly at Robin’s utility belt, and then down to his boots. “Why? You gonna share? Or have you got some roll-up shoes in there?”
Robin cracked a too-broad grin. “I know a guy around here. He wouldn’t mind sharing[1].”
“… Okay.”
“Then, I can take you back? If that’s what you need?”
He nodded. And then, as though planned, his stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly, and Peter sighed heavily while Robin laughed at him.
“Hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
“Well, that I can help. Here—” Robin pulled a crushed but perfectly edible protein bar from one of his many pockets. “The vigilante business is hungry work,” he explained, and Peter held back a knowing smile of his own. He only hesitated for a second but in the end, hunger won out and he let Robin drop the bar into his hand.
“Stay,” Robin ordered as Peter tore into the bar and finished it in all of three mouthfuls. It would do until he could get back to his snack stash. “I mean it, Peter. You look like you could do a runner again, but just know, I will find you, and I will kill you.”
Peter raised a brow.
“That was a joke. It was a reference to—”
“Taken. I know. But you didn’t do the voice.”
Robin snickered, but quickly sobered. “For real, though. Can I trust you not to run off? Gotham isn’t safe, even at this time of night.”
“Yeah.” Peter nodded slowly to match his promise. “I… I have to go back.”
Robin pointed at Peter and put on a deeper, more gravelled tone. “Sit. Stay.”
He rolled his eyes to be spoken to like a recalcitrant dog but sat down anyway. His feet really were killing him. “Woof,” he said, because the opportunity was right there.
Robin left, launching himself right over the railing and half-fell, half-glided with his cape down to the closest pier below.
“Neat,” Peter murmured, and watched as the impractically colourful vigilante practically melted into the dark; black and yellow cape and all. Peter tried to track him as he ran past boats but lost him between one pier and the next. It was scarcely a few minutes before he reappeared and made his way back to Peter. For a moment, he wondered how Robin would get back up without using the main ramp, but then Robin pulled out a goddamn grappling gun.
His brows rose with respect. Grappling hook wasn’t as cool as webs, but it was still cool.
“Here.” Robin thrust a pair of flip-flops into Peter’s hands. “I figure these had a better chance of fitting. You need a band-aid? I’ve got Superman or Wonder Woman.”
“I’ll pass.” Peter wiggled on the flip-flops. Any damage would heal by morning — the virtue of regular meals! — and there was no point in bothering. Better just to bear the temporary pain.
He pulled himself up and caught Robin take back the hand he must have offered to help him stand. Peter kindly didn’t mention it.
“I’ve got a ride a couple of blocks from here. Think you can make it?”
“I’ll manage, thanks,” Peter said wryly, and rattled off the next street along from Jason’s when Robin asked for an address. He wasn’t about to lead a vigilante to Jason’s place, what with the concerningly large amount of definitely illegal weaponry stashed inside. Though it had shrunk in the past week, Peter still found the odd knife or gun or garrote strapped underneath things (or on one occasion, hidden in a book). He suspected Jason had simply hidden the rest of his armoury in the roof-space.
The Robins had a good reputation in Gotham, but Peter didn’t want to put Jason in a difficult position. Or, a more difficult position than he already had.
“Hey,” he said as they walked the empty streets to Robin’s ‘ride’.
“Mm?”
“You use a voice modulator, right?”
Robin tilted his head, but his expression read wary. “… I do.”
Peter took a step in close, hunting for its presence and thought he could make out a patch over Robin’s Adam’s apple, though it was so close to skin in texture it was practically invisible. Robin skirted away, startled by the proximity.
“That’s amazing!” Peter tapped at his own throat in demonstration as he moved back. “It’s practically invisible! How does it work? Does it change my perception of your voice? Or does it alter it at the source?”
“Ah… Trade secret?”
“Boo, you whore.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised: if it were Spider-Man, he would have kept mum about his tech too. But it did give him ideas. Before his transplant to Gotham, Peter had been struggling to find a way to fit a modulator into the suit wiring; with only a cheap Ebay soldering iron and the wires he’d stripped from his ruined suits and scavenged electronics, it was difficult to replicate the same quality of Mr Stark’s suits. And of course, now he had to start from scratch, though the job at NRE helped him there. They had plenty of resources for Peter to draw from: devices and appliances beyond repair, scraps too impractical to use in projects… it was paradise for a tinkerer like Peter.
Their footsteps slowed as they rounded a warehouse and Peter spotted what could only be Robin’s motorcycle. It was a sleek custom build in red and black, with the same logo plastered tastefully on the side that Robin wore on his chest.
He sighed. “What is it with Gotham men and motorcycles?”
Robin turned to him, brow raised.
“The guy I’m… living with,” but not for much longer, “has one too.”
“Ah. Well, his probably isn’t as tricked out as mine.”
Peter knew. He just knew that if he asked, this Robin could probably talk for hours about all the mods he’d made to his ride. Call it premonition, or the naked tone of competitive pride in his voice, or just an awareness of what Bike People could get like.
He didn’t ask.
Robin handed over his helmet. He looked a little disappointed. “There’s only one. I lost the other yesterday. I’ll drive carefully though!”
Peter hoped Robin’s idea of ‘driving carefully’ was more accurate than Jason’s was, but he put on the helmet and resigned himself to another ride with a practical stranger.
— + —
Robin didn’t manage to take him back to Jason’s because they were stopped by a one-man blockade just as they crossed the border of Park Row.
Robin cursed in — was that dismay? — and slowed his bike to a stop.
The man standing in the middle of the empty road was massive. Tall and built like a thug, crossed arms only emphasising the heft of muscles barely contained in a tight black tee. The sleeveless red hoodie kept the top half of his face in shadow, but he wore a red muzzle that reminded Peter of those old pictures of the Winter Soldier, back when he served the dark side and didn’t know what shampoo was.
Curiously, for all the intimidating figure he cut in the dark, Peter’s senses barely sparked.
“Red,” Robin sighed.
“Former Red.”
Red Hood. The guardian of Crime Alley. There were differing reports about his alignment on the Gotham blogs and a frankly wild history that ranged from the deeply concerning (surely the story about heads in a suitcase was made up!); to the fascinating (apparently he used to kick around with a Superman clone and a woman with a massive axe?); to the moderately reasonable (most agreed he’d worked closely with the Bat menagerie in the past), to the present and his rumoured hand in the takeover of the Iceberg Lounge.
Peter wasn’t sure what to really make of him. Non-reactive tingle or not.
Red Hood nodded to Peter, still wearing Robin’s helmet. “Is that Peter?”
Peter startled. He tore off the helmet to scowl at the man properly. His fingers were clumsy with the cold. “What’s it to you?”
In front of him, Robin snickered quietly while Red Hood straightened, somehow growing even taller.
“Your man is looking for you. Trouble in paradise?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. He was filled with the abrupt certainty that was said solely in retribution for his cheek. He hopped off the bike, stumbled a little — sweatpants weren’t great at heat retention when riding a motorcycle, who knew — then mustered himself. Shoved the helmet into Robin’s hands. Marched up to the man. Stared up into the gloom of his hood. Red Hood wore his own domino mask beneath the muzzle, but unlike Robin’s, the eyes glowed a dull red.
Creepy.
“Why would my man be talking to you?” he asked, voice pitched as sweet as he could, but it was all a defence mechanism. He was wary: regardless of the stories, Hood was known for meting out a brutal (and occasionally deadly) form of justice. He couldn’t be sure what Jason might have said about why Peter had run away.
As though sensing Peter’s desire to flee again, the Red Hood clapped a gloved hand on his shoulder. He jumped at the touch, but again, his senses curiously didn’t go haywire.
“Oh, we go waaayyy back,” Hood drawled, sounding amused. His voice was deep and definitely modulated. Like gravel and honey. Peter wondered what he usually sounded like. “He’s out lookin’ for you and called in a favour. Worried you might’ve got hurt.”
Hood glanced pointedly down at Peter’s bloodied, flip-flop clad feet. The blood concealed how blue they’d turned from the icy ride behind Robin.
“They were like that when I got here.”
Behind them, Robin straight up cackled. They both turned back to see him all but squirming on his bike. He looked, frankly, gleeful.
“You’re still here?” Hood growled. “Go home.”
“Not even a thanks?”
Red Hood remained pointedly silent. Peter stepped deftly out of his grip and turned to face Robin properly. “Thanks. For the help.”
“Sure thing, Peter.” His grin was endlessly suspicious. Peter suspected he was missing out on the punchline to the joke. “You keep those shoes, ‘kay?”
“… Sure.”
“See you around, Pete! Keep out of trouble, Hood!”
“Fat chance,” Hood grumbled. Peter waved at Robin, and the man waved back before peeling off with a lively rev of his engine.
They fell into an awkward silence as they watched Robin disappear around a corner. Peter was suddenly struck by the nerves he should have felt earlier.
“You okay?”
He looked up in surprise. With Robin gone, Red Hood’s demeanour seemed to have mellowed, though there was nothing obvious he could pick out to indicate so.
“Um.”
“Jason said you had a rough night.”
He scratched at his elbow. He didn’t deserve this kind of consideration. “That’s… one way of putting it.”
“You come across any trouble?”
He shook his head mutely. The Red Hood nodded decisively.
“Good. Let’s get back. See if we can beat Jason.” Peter was given another once over. “You good to walk?”
And like that, Peter found his voice again. “Well I sure as hell don’t need to be carried.”
It was hard to tell, but Peter was pretty sure the twitch of Hood’s shoulders was out of amusement, though he didn’t make a sound.
“Suit yourself. C’mon.”
Peter trailed along behind Hood for at least a block, meek as you please, until finally he couldn’t help himself (yet again) and asked something that had been bugging him since the Red Hood had stopped Robin.
“What’s up with your symbol?”
Red Hood paused and turned around, head tilted. “Whaddaya mean?”
Peter gestured at the red symbol emblazoned on his chest. “Is it like, a heart?”
“A heart?”
“Doesn’t seem very badass to me. Doesn’t it kinda ruin the aesthetic?”
“It’s—” Red Hood pulled back the sides of his hoodie to reveal an expansive chest. “Shit, it’s a representation of my mask.”
Peter squinted. “It’s giving… fifth-grader origami heart.”
Silence fell between them. Then—
“I have never been so offended in my life.”
Peter gave him a winning smile. “Just saying. Branding is important, y’know. But you can spin it! With all this—” he gestured to Red Hood’s… everything, “you could spin it however the hell you want.” He tapped his foot in thought. “It could be, like, a representation of your love for Gotham? And the eyes are like, a metaphor for your omnipresence?” He put on a deeper, enigmatic voice, “Villains beware: the Red Hood is watching you.”
More silence.
Red Hood started walking again. Peter had to trot to keep up with his massive strides and he realised the other man must have been regulating his pace to match Peter’s.
“I’m just saying—”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, c’mon. You didn’t speak to like, a single person about the rebranding?”
“Next time you’re in danger, I’m letting you get mugged. Screw your pal and his favours.”
“First off, never got mugged. Secondly, technically, that was Robin, not you. You just swooped in to take the credit. Like the Vulture.” He frowned in remembrance, then veered his thoughts in a different direction. “Speaking of birds. Don’t people get confused? Two Robins?”
“Trust me, it’s a damn sight better than the hundreds we used to have[2].”
That… Peter stored that away to research later. “But… how do people refer to them? The big one and the little one? The skittles one and the goth one?”
Hood snorted. “The last one. That is exactly what they’re called.”
Peter squinted up in suspicion as they walked (well, Peter walked. The Red Hood stalked). “I think that’s a lie.”
“I think I wanna be there when you call the little one ‘goth Robin’.”
Peter laughed and skipped a couple of steps to catch up. His flip-flops slapped against the concrete. Every now and then he felt the plucking of unseen eyes, but with Red Hood’s presence, they quickly passed over him.
The light mood didn’t last. As they got closer to Jason’s apartment, Peter grew increasingly antsy. The moment he saw the familiar red brick, he stopped on the sidewalk. Hood twisted to stare down at him.
“You good?”
Peter swallowed down his nerves and glanced between Hood and the dark windows of Jason’s apartment.
“I… was he angry?”
“Angry?”
“I. Um. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to!” He laughed in self-deprecation and tugged harshly at his hair, unable to hold on to Hood’s red stare. “It… it was a bad dream. And then it wasn’t anymore.”
“He’s not mad, Pete.”
Peter looked back at the vigilante. “He should be.”
“You said you didn’t mean it? That the truth?”
He nodded.
“Then the only thing he should be mad about is that you ran off without puttin’ on yer big boy pants.”
Peter laughed weakly. “Yeah, that’s fair. I wasn’t thinking straight. But I came back to apologise before I—”
“Before?” Hood prompted when it was clear Peter wasn’t going to finish his sentence.
He shook his head. “Thanks for the escort.”
“Let’s make this the last time we meet.”
Peter thought that likely but didn’t say so. He took a few steps towards the apartment block, before pausing again and turning back. “Hey.”
Hood crossed his arms and waited.
“You know we’re not — Jason and I aren’t actually a thing, right?”
He chuckled. The modulator turned it dark and sinister. “Yeah. I know.”
“Then… why?”
“Why?” The man titled his head in a startlingly similar manner to Robin. “‘Cause it’s fuckin’ hilarious.”
Peter’s mouth open and closed, fish-like. Eventually he managed to keep it closed. The Red Hood thought their conspiracy to fuck with Jason’s weird family was funny. Cool.
He decided to put that reality into the same box as all the other things about the Red Hood he didn’t know what to think about. Eventually, he nodded.
“I. Um. Bye!” he said, smooth as curdled milk.
Red Hood’s laugher chased him straight across the street and up the apartment steps.
“See ya, Peter.”
— + —
Text only [HERE]
[1] You can bet your ass Timberly is living in that ridiculous houseboat from the new Robin comics in this fic. It’s too dumb not to include.
[2] A reference to the ‘We Are Robin’ run (DUUUUKE!) and the Robin War arc. Essentially, a shit load of Gotham kids decide to take on the mantle of Robin. Duke becomes their leader, more or less.
[TEXT ONLY] BATFAM: YOUNG ADULT EDITION
Rude-Robin 3:52AM: OMFGGGGG
Rude-Robin 3:52AM: guess who just met Peter!
Rude-Robin 3:53AM: THIS GUY. he is a HOOT
I’ll Spoil YOU 3:59AM: the Peter u think we don’t no uv been stalkking? J’s Peter?
Rude-Robin 4:00AM: I am feeling very attacked right now and that is not appreciated. It was for SCIENCE. Also, p sure Peter doesn’t know J=RH
I’ll Spoil YOU 4:02AM: holy shit a complete normie??!!?!?!?!?!?!
Orphan Annie 4:04AM: bed 1st. Talk at b.fast.