Chapter Text

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Part One: There was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Spider

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider
That wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her;
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly;
I don't know why she swallowed a fly – perhaps she'll die!

Peter did not like to talk about how he ended up in Gotham.

This was not because it was traumatic (although it was).

It was not because it was painful (although it was).

It was because it was heinously, excruciatingly, mortifyingly embarrassing.

It was a Thursday. Late April. Peter liked this time of year because the weather was finally starting to take summer seriously, but not too seriously for things to get uncomfortably hot and sticky like it would in July and August. It made patrol a pleasant experience rather than a grim one, and it was still cool enough that wearing his spider-suit under his civilian clothes was a perfectly reasonable idea, instead of sheer lunacy.

(Not that the presence of the spider-suit saved Peter, in the end.)

That the weather was pleasantly cheery — clear skies, a light breeze and temperatures under seventy-five — was about all that April (or May, which would start up in a handful of days) had going for it. Truly shocking, but May did not look like it was shaping up to be a Good Time for Peter. It bore the dubious honour of not only reminding Peter of his spectacular failure on Titan and getting disintegrated out of existence; but also (more devastatingly) of reminding Peter of Her.

An entire month — thirty-one days — of Her namesake. Peter wasn’t sure how he was going to survive.

But for now, it was still April, and rather than waiting for the inevitable nosedive into a thirty-one-day pit of grief, Peter was instead hunting for work. Again. Because stupid New York rules said he couldn’t get his GED as an under 19-year-old unless he’d either graduated high school or been out of school for more than twelve months.

Neither milestone Peter had achieved, thanks to the Erasure.

Doctor Strange had done a much more thorough job than Peter had anticipated. The way he’d phrased it, it just sounded like everyone’s memories of Peter Benjamin Parker would be erased. Fine. NBD. Peter could just carry on his life, eventually return to MJ and Ned — the only people he loved he had left — and reconnect with them once they stopped thinking he was insane. He’d have pictures to prove he wasn’t lying. Or mad. It would be. Fine.

Bzzt! Wrong.

Instead, Peter Parker had been erased. Not just the memory of him. His entire goddamn identity. Poof! Gone. Files corrupted; pictures blurred or ripped from existence entirely; hard-copy documents Peter might have been able to submit as proof scrambled into gobbledegook. The results were devastating. Every single safety-net — either aunt or Tony induced — was stripped away. He’d stolen back some of their belongings from the ruins of Happy’s apartment, only to find his entire childhood and family had been razed to the ground. Suddenly, trying to convince MJ and Ned they knew him didn’t seem such a viable option.

It fucked with his head. Peter Parker didn’t exist, but Peter did exist. He was there. He remembered the click of Ben’s camera as he captured Peter and his aunt at the park, but now the photograph only held Her.

If a tree falls in a forest but there’s no one there to hear… did it ever exist at all?

The scale of the spell Strange had cast was frankly terrifying. Did Stephen know when he’d put it up as an option? Was it ignorance or incompetence? Negligence or malevolence?

It didn’t really matter, he supposed. Even if Peter were to confront the sorcerer about it, the man would be utterly incapable of answering since he’d erased his own damn memory too.

What did matter was that Peter was once again looking for a job.

Because Peter was a non-entity without a GED, and non-entities without GEDs generally didn’t find stable, legally protected work. Especially ones with baby faces like his. To add (self-inflicted) insult to injury, Peter was — perhaps against his better judgement — still Spider-Man. And without the structure of school, or the presence of someone in his life to enforce said structure, Peter had found it incredibly difficult to juggle civilian life with vigilante life in any reasonable manner.

Needless to say… Peter got fired from his job. A lot.

Fortunately, in a world still fighting to return to a new normal after the Blip, work for non-entities without GEDs was readily available… if you knew where to look. And Peter knew where to look.

Only problem was that half his possible employers seemed to know each other and had started clueing in to some guy called ‘Peter Parker’ having a tendency to turn up to work horrifically bruised or even more horrifically late. Rather memorably, the woman ‘interviewing’ him for a job last month had literally shoved him out the room when he told her his name. Which was exceedingly rude, but also a telling example of how he’d soured the reputation of his God-given name yet again.

But it was no biggie! Peter just changed his name when he introduced himself. Bam! Problem solved…

It mostly worked.

So it was that on a Thursday in late-April, Peter was chowing down on a New York hotdog as he trekked to the next victim place on his job-hunting list, when his tingle flared with alarm.

Up an access road into a parking garage, his instincts screamed at him. Peter bolted without thought towards the flare — there was something dangerous, something he had to stop. A sudden roar — like when the air from the donut ship was sucked into the vacuum of space — exploded into the quiet afternoon and Peter sped up, all but flying up the access ramp. He was tearing at his shirt with one hand to get at his mask and then he—

Then he—

Look. It was embarrassing enough just thinking about what he did. But he did it, and it happened.

There was too much going on at once. Peter was running; he was running while distracted trying to get his mask on single-handedly (why hadn’t he dropped the hotdog? Even now, he couldn’t answer that question); he was running on a scant hour’s worth of sleep. There were various reasons why he didn’t react fast enough, but much like Strange’s spell, the reasons didn’t matter.

There was a star-shaped void in the middle of the asphalt, the edges crystalline and fragmenting, curling in on itself and crumbling out of existence. His eyes widened. He felt the rush of hot air sucked into the void. And then he—

He tripped.

On a speedbump.

Peter Parker, AKA Spider-Man, AKA one of the most acrobatically gifted super-heroes around, tripped on a speedbump and fell straight through the strange, star-shaped portal.

And Peter Parker disappeared for a second time. And for a second time, there was no one to mourn his exit, stage left.

He was still holding onto that goddamn hotdog.

— + —

Peter fell through reality.

There was no better way to put it.

He shattered through worlds like panes of glass. Splinters of universes pierced through him, world after world after world after world tumbling past without end.

It was agonising. It was sickening. It was horrifying.

To be made and un-made. Torn apart and rebuilt but wrong wrong wrong only to be unravelled again like an old sweater and re-bound in a new configuration. It was nothing like Thanos and turning to dust. It was worse, so much worse.

In amongst his terror, thoughts of the other Peters struggled to surface. Was this what reality-jumping had felt like to them? He hoped not. He was certain he’d go mad with each new re-write of his body. The fall stretched into eternity. Despair flooded him. Perhaps he would break through worlds forever — no. He was falling forever! This wasn’t like the other Peters this was something new entirely and he tried to grab on to something — anything — to break his fall but everything he touched shattered or exploded or burst into nothingness the moment it touched his skin!

And then the multiverse took mercy on him, and he fell one final time — rewritten, reconfigured, refitted — and landed on scratched wooden floorboards, where he promptly dispelled the contents of his stomach with extreme prejudice and force.

— + —

When Peter returned to his senses, it was to the overwhelming stench of bile, a vision of the heart-breaking ruins of his half-eaten hotdog, and the disgruntled awareness of a gun pointed at his head.

“Aw hotdog, no,” he bemoaned.

The uneaten remains of his hotdog were long gone, lost somewhere between universes five and ten, he thought. His mask and backpack had disappeared too, but Peter noted that his web-shooters remained intact and were hopefully still in working order after his traipse through what could only have been the multiverse.

“You got a few more things to worry about than a hotdog, dude,” a brusque voice said.

Peter looked up. The speaker towered over him, broad-shouldered and hard-faced, suspicion and the threat of violence written into every inch of his posture. The look was only intensified by the handgun aimed at his head.

“Um,” he said meekly. His eyes caught on the shock of white in the fringe in black hair. “You mind putting that away?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t lower the gun. “Who the fuck are you? How did you get here?”

“I…” Peter trailed off as he took in ‘here’.

‘Here’ was a clean but slightly run down living room, walls painted the familiar magnolia cream of so many rental properties (Peter had viewed a lot of apartment before he finally stumbled across a landlord who didn’t ask questions, so he would know), and a perfunctory but disordered collection of furniture: a battered leather couch; a medium-sized TV perched on top of a coffee table; mismatched stools tucked under the breakfast bar; and notably, three massive bookshelves. Only one had been stocked, but there were several boxes stacked on the floor, their genres clearly labelled. As evidenced by the pool of his own vomit, Peter had landed in the midway point between kitchen and couch, exactly where a dining table should reasonably have gone. Whoever had just moved in clearly had no intention of entertaining.

He returned his attention back to the man. He couldn’t help himself. It was the gun. It was always the gun that triggered his smartass meter. “Did you not see?”

“Oh. I saw. I saw a lightshow straight outta hell, and some star-shaped thing spit you out. It shorted out my TV.”

“Well.” Peter really wished the guy would put the gun away. Or down. He’d settle for down, at this point. Maybe then he’d stop running his mouth. “Then I guess you saw how I got here.”

“No. I saw what got you here, but that don’t answer how you got here, dumbass.”

“Rude.” For that, Peter raised his arm and webbed the guy’s gun, yanked it back and out of sheer reflex, bent the barrel in half and dropped the mangled weapon on the floor. 

There was a profound silence as both of them registered what happened. Peter was horrified at his own casual display of strength without the protection of a mask. Later, he’d blame it on being dimension-addled, but the cat was already out of the bag if they’d seen how Peter got here. What was a little super strength in the face of that?

The man stared at him, open-mouthed and scandalised. “You motherfucker! That was my second favourite gun!”

Peter jumped to his feet — the smell of vomit was still far too close to comfort, and he was a sympathetic puker. “If it was your second favourite gun, maybe you shouldn’t have been pointing it at me.”

“If you didn’t want me pointing a gun at you, you shouldn’t’ve crashed into my living room!”

“Well I couldn’t exactly help that!”

The man reached down. Peter raised his webshooter again in warning.

“Unless you want to lose your first favourite gun, I wouldn’t.”

Grey eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I absolutely would dare.”

The man lowered his hand. He was definitely pouting as he looked at the ruins of his gun at Peter’s feet. “… was my third…”

“Come again?”

“… I was going for my third favourite.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Look, dude. I promise, I’ve genuinely got no idea how I got here. One second, I’m in Manhattan eating a hotdog, the next I’m — uh — sucked through a damn portal and puking my guts up on your floor. If you could just like, tell me where I am and point me to like, the nearest ATM, I’ll be out of your hair and back in Queens in no time.” He frowned. “Assuming we’re still in America. Oh my God, we’re still in America, right?”

“You’re in Gotham.”

“Gotham.”

“Park Row, more specifically. Which, speaking of, there’s no way you wanna use any cash machines around here unless you wanna be immediately mugged or lose all your money to a skimmer.”

“Yeah…” Peter held up his hand to pause. “I’m still stuck on the first bit. Gotham? Where the hell is that?”

He didn’t like the way the man’s gaze turned assessing. “New Jersey.”

“Oh. Ew.”

The man rolled his eyes.

At least that answered the question of whether he was still in America. But the answer was still fairly unhelpful. And a little bit concerning. Peter went to grab his phone and suddenly, the man was pointing a knife at him. He held up his hands.

“Hey, dude, I was just getting my phone.” He did so — slowly this time. The man didn’t lower the knife. He looked on edge.

Heh.

Somehow, despite his tumble through realities, Peter’s phone still worked. The relief however was short-lived when he saw that it had no service, though it was picking up a Wi-Fi network.

Peter swallowed nervously. His phone was top of the line and then some, after the long string of upgrades he’d made. And he was clearly in a city — one glance out the window was enough to confirm that, if his hearing hadn’t already picked up the familiar background hum of people living on top of each other. Not to mention… Peter was no geography whizz, but his time on the decathlon team meant he knew his stuff when it came to cities in the US — especially ones so close to home. But he’d never heard of anywhere called Gotham.

There was definitely a reason why that was, but Peter was clutching at straws. He really didn’t want to think of why his phone wouldn’t be picking up a network, or why he didn’t recognise a New Jersey city called Gotham. A theory was forming (well. Not so much forming as it had already coalesced into something substantial and scary). One Peter knew he wouldn’t like the confirmation of.

And in the face of crushing, existential horror or denial, Peter would pick denial any day of the week.

“Say,” he said carefully. “I don’t suppose Gotham is like, a nickname for somewhere? Like the Big Apple?”

The man raised a brow. There was a nick through the arch, and the faintest trace of a scar that disappeared into his hairline. “No. Though it does have its fair share of nicknames. Shithole. City of the Damned. The Badlands. The Asshole of North Amer—”

“Okay, okay, I get the point!” Peter held up his hands and the man blessedly fell quiet. He glanced out the window again. The sky was overcast and grey; the kind of weather that made it almost impossible to tell what time of day it was.

Alright. Best bite the bullet and get it over with. He looked back at the man.

“So… Quick question… Have you ever heard of the Avengers? Or — I dunno — Iron Man?”

The man raised a brow. “Who the fuck is Iron Man?”

Peter clenched his hands. No biggie. Peter 2 and 3 didn’t know about them either. Maybe this could still be salvageable.

He wanted to ask.

He had to ask.

He didn’t want to know.

Peter asked: “What about… Spider-Man?”

“Spider who?”

Yeah… Peter really could have gone without knowing. He collapsed back into a crouch and hung his head between his knees, hands pressed against the back of his neck. The man made a quiet sound of alarm, but Peter wasn’t bothered — other than the background caution of his Tingle, there’d been no other indicator of danger from him since the knife.

He was fighting back the panic when a thought occurred to him, and he glanced back up at the man, who looked supremely uncomfortable to be in the vicinity of Peter and his imminent breakdown.

“Hey, what month is it?”

“September… Why?”

Peter giggled. The sound bordered on hysteria. “Well. Guess that’s how I’ll survive May, then.”

Chapter Text

He knew.

Of course he knew.

He’d have to be an idiot not to have realised what had happened, sometime around him transforming into a fucking pig and passing through a world of black and white. But there was a difference between knowing and knowing, and Lord Above, but Peter would really have rather not known.

But he did. And there was no escaping that. Peter wasn’t in New York anymore.

Scratch that: Peter wasn’t on Earth anymore.

Well.

His Earth.

Somehow, by virtue of a freaky star-shaped portal he’d totally not tripped into (read: definitely tripped into), he’d ended up in an alternate universe. A universe without an Iron Man, or — though the man hadn’t answered, Peter could presume it anyway — an Avengers or Spider-Man. That in and of itself wasn’t the final nail in the coffin, but it wasn’t a good sign either. After all, Peter Two and Three had both come from alternate dimensions. In fact, he could be lucky and be in one of their worlds! Just ‘cause this guy didn’t know who Spider-Man was didn’t mean it wasn’t possible...

Peter Three would be thrilled.

Peter One, however, doubted he’d be that lucky.

Unless Spider-Man just wasn’t a household name outside of New York, he suspected that wherever he was, it didn’t have a Spidey. Because that wasn’t how Parker Luck™ worked.

The enormity of what had happened solidified into a vice around his chest.

Oh God.

Oh no. Oh God.

Peter was in another universe!

What the hell was he gonna do? How the hell was he getting home? Did a normal Peter Parker even exist here? Or was he just going to be subject to the Erasure of Peter Parker Take 2: Electric Boogaloo? He couldn’t — he couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t! He’d already scraped together an existence from nothing and it had cost him — so much more than he’d been prepared to give. To go through all that again, so soon after the first erasure? He was certain he’d—

“— Kid!”

There were hands on him — light brushes against his arm but it was enough. Peter yelped and shoved the hands away and then he was suddenly standing and bending defensively behind the breakfast bar—

Where had the breakfast bar come from?

He blinked. Realised his head felt loopy from hyperventilation. He bit his lip and tried to regulate his breathing.

He blinked again. Saw that the hands that had touched him belonged to the man with the guns and knives. The man who had told him where and when he’d landed. The man who was still crouched on the floor.

They stared at each other while Peter fought to regulate himself. Slowly, the man stood up.

“You good?” he asked, soft and slow like you would to a scared animal. Peter supposed he probably was one at that moment. He certainly felt closer to that than human.

Eventually, he nodded back. “What’s… what’s your name?” he asked, desperate for something — anything — to latch on to and distract himself with.

The man considered his question. The clear hesitance to answer was enough to make Peter suspicious, but he wouldn’t write him off as a gangster just yet. Maybe there were other reasons why a guy armed to the teeth would be reluctant to tell Peter his name. Maybe he was a secret agent! Or one of those crazy preppers… Or a vigilante.

Okay. That one was probably a stretch.

“Jason,” he finally said, and Peter’s instincts told him it was the truth. “You?”

“Peter,” was out of his mouth before he could even think to give Jason a fake name. It would have been poor show to have done so, but he’d learnt the hard way what could happen when he trusted the wrong people with his identity.

Terrible, awful, tragic things.

He had the fortitude, at least, to keep his last name to himself.

“Peter…” Jason echoed. He kept his posture lax, but given he was half a head taller than Peter and easily twice his size, it didn’t help in the intimidation department (even if Peter could probably deck him with ease, the human side of him still baulked at his sheer physicality. There was a heft to the man that set his teeth on edge in warning). “Can I come closer, Peter?”

He blinked again. What an odd question. Why would he even need to ask something like that when it was Peter who’d invaded his space?

“Pete?”

He dug his nails into the meat of his palm to drag himself back to reality. “Hi. What?”

“Can I come closer, kid? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Jason probably wasn’t far off. Not only was he light-headed from his panic attack minor freakout, but he still felt shaky and nauseous from his untimely jaunt through the multiverse.

He nodded.

“Thank-you.” Jason entered the kitchen space, but he just passed Peter to grab a glass from the drying rack by the sink and take a water bottle out of the fridge. He poured the water into the glass then held it out.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Peter should have hesitated. Just because it was bottled water didn’t mean it couldn’t be drugged. But he was thirsty, and his mouth tasted like vomit, and frankly, it was ludicrous to suspect this random stranger to have drugged the water when he had no idea Peter would appear. A year ago, Peter would have looked at a thought like that and said he was insane.

A lot had happened in a year…

He drank the goddamn water. Skulled it like a man in a desert. The water was sweet and cooled the burning rasp in his throat, even if it sloshed uncomfortably in his now empty stomach. Though every bone in his body wanted to slam the glass down on the counter in satisfaction, he set it down carefully.

Jason nodded, pleased. “You hungry?”

Yes.

“No.”

Even if he was, the thought of eating made him want to puke all over again.

Speaking of… his eyes trailed back to the vomit still pooled on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he cringed. “I didn’t — I can clean that up—”

“No,” Jason said. He stepped closer to Peter, still slow. “It’s fine.”

“But I—”

“My floor, my rules, kid. Besides, it looks like you don’t even know how you’re meant to clean it up.”

“But—”

“Just, sit the fuck down,” Jason ordered, and pointed towards the couch.

Peter did as he was told. Jason followed like a shadow, but veered away before they reached the couch and opened one of the closed doors that led into the living space.

To his surprise, a dog bounded out just as Peter collapsed onto the soft leather. It made an immediate beeline for Peter, tail wagging like mad, and hopped right onto the couch to place its enormous head in Peter’s lap.

“Um…?” Peter said.

“Guess that answer’s that question,” Jason murmured, too low for a normal human to have picked up.

The dog chuffed at Peter, practically demanding attention. Without even meaning to, Peter found himself patting its head in long, smooth strokes. Its ears were a slightly darker tan than the rest of it and velvet soft. Peter wasn’t an expert when it came to dogs — owning one had been out of the question for multiple reasons throughout his childhood — but he thought it was maybe a pitbull.

“What’s its name?” he asked as Jason retreated back to the kitchen and piled a number of things from under the sink onto the counter.

“Dog.”

Peter frowned. “Dog.”

“You’re real good at the whole echoing thing, aren’t ya?” Jason snarked. He was tearing off paper towel and letting it fall onto the vomit. “Her name is Dog, kid. And no, I ain’t calling her something else.”

Peter numbly scratched Dog’s massive head, and her eyes closed in bliss. He felt hollowed out, the water in his belly a heavy presence that seemed to accentuate the scooped out feeling.

“Don’t… call me that,” he said eventually.

“Huh?” Jason didn’t even look up, preoccupied with using a plastic bag as a glove to pick up the paper towels.

“Kid. Don’t… don’t call me that. Please.”

The man did look up then. Peter felt a little like a bug under a microscope, or a dead frog about to be dissected by a class of teens. He half expected Jason to scoff and call him that again, but he just nodded.

“Alright. No more kid.”

“… Thank-you.”

“… It’s no big deal.”

It was to Peter. Kid was a name that didn’t belong to him. Not anymore. It was a name that belonged to Mr Stark. To a different time, when Peter was a kid even if he’d never thought of himself as one. A time that had been erased, leaving Peter Parker Almost Adult — then later, Peter Parker Actual Adult — the only person around to remember a time when he really was a child.

If a child falls in a forest, but there ’s nobody left to remember, did it ever really die at all?

Peter let his head fall against the sofa and stared numbly at the popcorn ceiling. The overcast weather made everything seem grey and he suddenly understood why May used to hate the ceiling in the bathroom so much.

“So, Peter. You wanna tell me why you freaked out?”

Peter rolled his head to glare at Jason. “No.”

“Not every day you see someone fall outta a portal, is all.”

“And yet, you seemed pretty chill about it,” Peter pointed out. “Do you wanna tell me why that is?”

Jason chuckled. He’d started spraying the damp spot on the floorboards with an enzyme cleaner. “Fair cop.” Regardless of his task, it didn’t seem like he could stay quiet for long. “You a meta?”

Peter frowned with incomprehension.

“Metahuman?” Jason clarified, seemingly half surprised he didn’t know the term. Peter could take a punt at what it meant. “Or what — an alien? Not a lot of people who can just bend a gun like its putty.”

His cheeks flushed. He shouldn’t have done that. Peter always tried to be so careful. Had he been more with it, a display of strength like that would never have happened. What if Jason wanted to sell him out? If he thought he was an alien, there was no telling what he might do to Peter—

As though sensing his freak out, Jason held up his hands in placation. “Chill, dude. Meta or alien, I’ve met both.”

“Is that… normal?” Was it normal? Peter had met both too, of course, but he was acutely aware that his life had taken a turn for the extraordinary ever since he got bit. Who’s to say meeting metas or aliens wasn’t normal for the everyday person? Certainly not Peter

“Normal for others? Nah, probably not. But I’ve been around the block a few times. Met a whole lotta people.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. The answer was somewhat telling, but he doubted Jason would clarify if asked. “So… you’re not going to throw me over to the military?”

Jason grinned. “Well, if I was, would I tell ya?”

His stomach twisted. Peter began to carefully push Dog away. It wouldn’t take much to escape through the window and—

“God, chill ki—Peter!” Jason sighed. He looked immensely exasperated. “I’m joking.”

Peter laughed, high pitched and nervous. Dog immediately reclaimed her spot on his lap; her weight helped a little at calming him down again. “Joking. Right. Funny.”

“Yeah…” Jason’s pale eyes landed back on Dog. “Guess I’ll keep stuff like that to myself. Wouldn’t’ve anyway: a friend of Dog is a friend of mine. She’s a good judge of character.”

“She’s nice.”

“Yeah, she’s a peach.”

They both went quiet. Peter let himself grow calm as he continued to pet Dog, who basked under his attentions, rolling over onto her back so he could rub her belly. Jason finished cleaning up the mess Peter had made and soon began clattering around in the kitchen. It was a surprise when he suddenly had a mug shoved under his nose.

“Ginger and lemon,” Jason said at Peter’s questioning look. “And crackers—” an unopened packet of water crackers were dropped beside him. “For your stomach.”

“… Thank-you.” The simple kindness threw him for a loop. It had been months since he’d experienced anything close. Peter took the mug. Jason’s hands were rough: thumbnail bitten to the quick, the skin around his knuckles thickened with calluses. A worker’s hands.

With one hand occupied, Peter tore the package open with his teeth and cautiously nibbled at a cracker. There was no immediate reaction, so he shoved the rest of it in his mouth and washed it down with the hot tea.

“Geez,” Jason said. He had sat down on one of the boxes of books, rather than join Peter on the couch, a mug of what looked and smelled like normal tea resting on his knee. “You don’t have to inhale them, bud.”

Peter grimaced and swallowed down the last of the cracker. “Sorry, I — did you want some?”

“Of those?” Jason scrunched up his face at the offered packed. “No way. They’re all yours. You just don’t gotta eat ‘em all at once, I mean.”

“If you don’t like them, why do you have them?”

“To offer to unwanted guests,” the man drawled.

Peter munched on another cracker pointedly.

“No offence,” Jason added, a sardonic grin curling up.

“None taken.” Peter glanced at his landing spot. “Can’t imagine I was invited. Unless you’re into the occult…?”

“No…” Jason’s expression abruptly turned sad, though he attempted to hide it as he sipped his tea. When he lowered the cup, his expression was neutral. “No occult here.”

“Damn.” Peter grimaced. Maybe he was simply asking too much for it not to have been an accident. He swallowed thickly. Unless someone had seen him fall through the portal, he doubted there was anyone who would even know he was gone. Sure, people would quickly notice Spider-Man’s absence (and more than a few would probably celebrate it) and his landlord would get pissy if he missed the rent, but otherwise… no one. He didn’t even have a job, so there was no one to wonder where he’d gone.

The hollowness in his gut expanded.

He was so very, very fucked.

Dog chuffed and butted her head into Peter’s stomach, demanding more attention and effectively cut off his spiral before it could properly begin.

“You got somewhere to stay?” Jason asked. That assessing look had returned and Peter didn’t like it.

“Sure I do,” he lied.

Jason stared, a brow raised. Peter gave as good as he got. Or tried to.

“In Gotham,” Jason specified.

Peter wasn’t a good liar. He knew this. He panicked about his answers or didn’t think his responses through and would get caught out. Nine times out of ten, his face gave the game away. Things were easier as Spider-Man, but he wasn’t Spider-Man. At that moment, he was Peter Parker, and Peter Parker couldn’t lie to save his life.

This seemed to be something that Jason immediately picked up on. He didn’t even have to respond: Jason had clearly already made up his mind when he set his mug down on an empty shelf and said simply: “You can stay here the night.”

“Eh?” He sloshed hot tea over his chest in startlement and hissed as it rapidly cooled. “No, I’m good.”

“You stay a night on the streets here and Gotham’ll eat you as a midnight snack,” Jason said with a roll of his eyes. “You can sleep on the couch. There’s no spare bed.”

“I’m fine! I can find myself a hotel or something.”

Jason chuckled. “You’re really not from around here at all, are ya?” That was the understatement of the century. “You’re tossing up between getting mugged or trafficked in half the hotels around here. Unless you got enough money for the real swanky places, that is.”

Peter tried to tally how much cash he had and internally cringed (fat chance his bank card worked unless there was another Peter Parker with the same account). Definitely not enough for even the sleaziest of motels. That was all shades of Not Good.

“I can’t just—”

“Sure ya can,” Jason spoke over him easily. “I just offered, didn’t I? Besides, you’re — what? — seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

Jason grimaced. “Eighteen. Christ. Adult or not, you’re too young to be wandering through Park Row at night.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter scoffed. “You can’t be much older than I am!” He studied Jason carefully. Though the guy was seriously muscle bound and had a fierce cant to his face, he still looked youthful. “You can’t be more than twenty-five.”

Jason’s brows rose in surprise. “Yeah?”

Peter nodded, more confident in his guess. “Twenty-four, tops.”

“Still a little cold,” he said, and smiled sardonically. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Five years isn’t much,” Peter smirked back. In fact, were it not for the Blip, Peter would be twenty-three himself. Of course, with the disaster of a life he’d lived, half the time he felt leagues older than even that. He’d certainly seen much more than your average eighteen-year-old.

“Whatever.” Jason drank his tea, and grimaced. “Point is, you ain’t in New York anymore, Toto. Gotham is a different kettle of fish, and I’m guessing you’re strapped for cash.”

“But! You don’t even know me! For all you know, I could rob you blind and run off with all your money!”

“You think my dog would let you?”

“I think your dog would let me leave with her if I scratched her head enough!”

“Ha!” Jason cackled. He stared ruefully at Dog, who had not moved from the place she’d claimed over Peter. “Yeah… here’s hoping she doesn’t actually shift loyalties that quickly.”

Peter offered the man a weak grin.

Jason checked his watch suddenly and hummed. “Well, I guess you can make your choice later. It’s time for Dog’s walk.”

Dog immediately perked up at the W-word and jumped off the couch. She trotted over to the door by the kitchen, where a leash hung from a hook, and watched Jason expectantly.

“You feeling better?” he asked Peter, studying him carefully as he slung on a faded denim jacket and popped a pair of sunglasses on his head.

“Um.” Was that it? Was Jason just going to kick him out now that Peter had said no? It was fair enough. The guy didn’t know Peter from diddly squat. But the dismissal felt jarring after his attempts to convince Peter to stay.

“Pete? You good?”

He nodded jerkily. “Oh. Um. Yeah. I’m fine now.”

“Good.” Jason pointed to the crackers. “Take them with you. You look the sort to get hungry, and I ain’t buying food along the way.”

“Um?”

“What?” Jason smirked. “You think I’m letting you go that easy? We’re going for a walk, so you can see just how fucked a city Gotham really is.”

Peter’s stomach fluttered with complicated emotions. On the one hand, Jason’s kindness was a balm: he’d not experienced (or allowed for) much consideration from others since the Erasure. It felt good — to the point of being terrifying — to be acknowledged. To be offered something as simple as ginger and lemon tea. But on the other hand, he knew it was a kindness he shouldn’t accept. Parker Luck had proven itself to be just as deadly and brutal to Peter as it had been to the rest of his family. New universe or not, Peter knew that he should keep himself to himself.

There was only one option. One path to take.

Peter stood. He kept the crackers on him, as Jason had suggested. “Okay.”

Jason bent down to put the leash on Dog, then opened the door. It opened to a poorly lit hallway that felt very reminiscent of his own shitty home. A faint smell of old, wet carpet seeped into the apartment. Dog didn’t seem to mind, and all but dragged Jason out the door.

“C’mon, Pete!” he said, laughing at Dog’s antics.

Peter sighed, but followed, and Jason handed him Dog’s leash before he fished out his keys.

“Yeah. We’ll see who’s so keen to go sleepin’ rough then,” Jason muttered as he shut and locked the door behind them.

Peter rolled his eyes, unseen by Jason. Really. How bad could Gotham be?

Chapter Text

Gotham was a shithole.

Or at the least, the district they were in — Park Row, colloquially known as ‘Crime Alley’ according to Jason — was.

He hated to admit it (and he would not admit it out loud), but Jason was right: it was an entirely different city than Peter was used to. The closest he could compare it to was Manhattan after the Battle of New York, or the absolute meltdown the world fell into immediately after the second battle with Thanos. Even then, Park Row had a grimness that New York at its worst could never hope to replicate.

There was a distinct feeling of disrepair to the place: potholes big enough to break an ankle or pop a tire with; windows barricaded or blockaded with sheets of plywood; graffiti tags scrawled across just about every patch of wood or metal or brick they could touch; and a general sense of griminess that no amount of heavy scrubbing could ever dream of removing.

The people they passed either ignored them, eyed Jason and Dog with wariness, or watched them with a speculative eye that made Peter’s tingle itch. He spotted concealed (or in some instances, unconcealed) weapons on an alarming number of Gothamites, though for most, his senses only lightly buzzed with awareness. Those, he suspected, were carrying for purely defensive purposes, which certainly said something about the calibre of the city he’d found himself in.

Jason led them to a little park several blocks away from his apartment. To call it a green space felt generous: most of the grass had been left to grow long and was now on its way to dying, the long strands turned golden from the late summer heat. In a corner, there was a children’s playground, covered with graffiti much like of the rest of Park Row. The blue plastic slide had definitely been set on fire once before, but there were still a couple of children clambering over the jungle gym and one particularly stubborn girl using the swing set — though it screeched in protest with every peak of her swing. There were no parents in sight, but he did see a couple of teens lounging on a bench nearby and keeping watch.

They were both smoking.

Jason let Dog off the leash, and she made an immediately beeline for the children. The girl on the swing squealed with delight when she saw her and flew off the seat with a flourish, immediately rushing to pet the dog. Her tail wagged so fast it was nothing but a blur of tan.

“Oi! Jen!” Jason shouted. Both Dog and the girl’s heads swivelled at the call. He chucked a ball at them, and Dog leapt up to catch it. She offered the now slobbered tennis ball to Jen, who took it without care and lobbed it into the tall grass. Dog was off like a shot, while a couple of the braver children joined the girl.

“Why extend the effort when you can use child labour?” he smirked when he saw Peter’s look.

“It’s your dog. Shouldn’t that be your job?”

“Naw.” Jason walked away from the children, following the path that circled the circumference of the park (if it could be called that. Really it was just a line in the long grass that had been tread upon enough to mark out a route). Peter followed closely. “They don’t get much of a chance to be around animals. Friendly ones, that is. It’s good for ‘em.”

“Aren’t you worried someone might steal her?”

“Heh. They could try. Pretty sure Dog would tear out their throat before she let herself be taken.”

Peter’s brows rose. Was it smart to trust her to the tender mercies of children, then?

Jason caught his dubious expression and rolled his eyes. “She’s fine. Jennie’ll keep the other kids from being too rough with her.”

As they circled the field, Peter munched on the crackers and sweated in his double layers of suit and clothes. He wished he had some water to wash them down with, but it was better than nothing. It filled his empty stomach and temporarily sated the never-ending black hole that was his appetite. That was enough.

Peter’s standards for ‘good food’ had dropped quite substantially since the Erasure. Every day was a battle between what calories he could fill himself with and an enhanced metabolism exacerbated by his Spider-Manning. It was a battle he frequently lost, and he knew his body had been showing the signs of that failure for months.

These days… Well… He took what he could get.

Now that he was outside, surrounded by the September warmth, he felt a little more grounded. A little more alert. Despite this, Peter couldn’t help feeling struck by a sense of unreality as he ate.

A new universe.

A world utterly alien and yet utterly familiar.

The grasses his hands brushed through felt tangible. The warm air that filled his lungs felt authentic. The sounds of the city were ordinary and routine (okay, maybe not that distant gunshot… but maybe it was just a firework?). All the same things he’d experience in New York.

And yet… he couldn’t escape the sense that it was all terrifyingly ephemeral. Blink once too many and it would disappear and he’d be falling through realities again.

He needed to go back. Staying here was out of the question. But how? Was there a Doctor Strange here? A Sanctum? Though he was reluctant to trouble the man (even if he didn’t know who Peter even was — here or in his own universe), he was probably Peter’s best bet for returning home.

Even if New York hadn ’t felt like home for six months.

Of course, getting to New York was another problem entirely. Peter had woefully little cash: probably only about ten bucks. Maybe fifteen if he counted up his coins. He had no idea yet where Gotham was in New Jersey, but it was a safe bet to say that wasn’t enough to get him to New York (then again, how much was a bus ticket here? Surely there’d be a bus that would take him, right?). Hitchhiking was an option, but not a smart one. Stowing himself away on a train headed that direction was probably his safest bet, but that still meant he’d have to work out which train would get him there, or he’d be even more lost than now.

Getting to a library was the best choice. Unless things were different in Gotham, chances were he’d get free Wi-Fi and access to a computer. Maybe he could even sort out the problem with his phone and retrofit it to the networks here. 

“So… you’re from New York?” Jason asked, breaking Peter’s chain of thought.

He glanced at the man. Tall and hulking, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and sporting at least one lazily concealed weapon, Jason struck an intimidating figure. But he also had a dog that loved children, and a half-filled bookcase with titles from Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. He’d held a gun to Peter’s head, but he’d also made Peter tea and cleaned up his vomit. He didn’t really know what to think of the man. Even his tingle chose to stay quiet on the matter.

“Yeah,” he said, remembering Jason had asked him a question. “Queens.”

It wouldn’t hurt to tell him, even if it was Queens from a different universe.

“You got someone who could pick you up?”

“No,” he said, realising too late that he probably should have lied. But he was eighteen. It’s not like he needed an adult to help him. “I can get back on my own.”

Jason hummed. A glance his way showed Peter that he wasn’t quite satisfied with the answer, but before he could ask more, they’d reached the children again. Jennie and Dog bounded towards them through the long grass, Jennie’s thin brown hair flying about her head in a halo as she ran. Bits of dead grass clung to the strands and her clothes as though she’d gone rolling around on the ground with Dog.

“Sup, Jay-boy!” Jennie shouted, and Peter held back a laugh at the unfortunate nickname. Jason didn’t seem to mind — looked more resigned than anything — and he shot the girl a lazy salute.

“Jen-ster. How’s your ma?”

Jennie came to a stop a few feet away, eyeing Peter with the same assessing look half the Gothamites they’d passed had. He smiled awkwardly back and the girl — who couldn’t be older than ten — returned it with a look of extreme cynicism that was jarring on someone so young.

“She’s fine. Working tonight, so she wanted me outta the house while she slept. Who’s this?”

“Pete,” Jason said, and clapped a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder. He tried not to jump out of his skin at the touch. “He’s from New York.”

“New York?” Jennie titled her head but was unimpressed by Peter’s exoticism. “What you doing here?”

“Just, ah, passing through,” he said. Jennie nodded with approval. Evidently a wariness towards outsiders in Gotham started early, though he felt a little offended by the attitude.

Jason and Jennie started chatting. Though his questions were innocuous and polite, it was clear Jason was checking in on her and the other kids. Peter got the impression he had taken over the role of watchdog, since their parents were nowhere to be seen. Again, he wondered what the man’s deal was: armed but non-threatening — or at least, not to the children. Was he a cop? Part of a gang? Ex-military? He held himself like someone used to violence, and the calluses on his hands could just as well be from fighting as from hard labour.

Unease stirred in his gut. What was he doing here, wasting time dog walking while he was so far from home?  Peter shouldn’t be there! It might have been a different case had he been dressed as Spider-Man, but he wasn’t. He had his own neighbourhood. His own people to watch over, and every second spent here was another second Queens went without its own protector.

“I gotta go,” Peter breathed. Couldn’t stand there watching Jason speak to Jennie like he was her big brother, or protective uncle. It was all too normal. It set his teeth on edge and his pulse hammering with panic.

Peter didn’t do normal. Not anymore.

Jason glanced at him in question. Peter took a step backwards.

“Pete?”

Peter just shook his head, turned tail, and ran.

Jason swore and called after him. Peter heard thundering footsteps follow through the grass. Dog barked excitedly as she gave chase, clearly thinking it was a game.

Had Peter been normal, he might not have made it. Jason was tall and used to running, but Peter was fast. He put on a burst of speed — enough to get away but not draw attention to his unnaturalness — and leaped over the waist-high chain link fence at the end of the park, deaf to the cries of his name.

His feet pounded on the concrete beyond, but the solid ground only allowed him more speed. It wasn’t long before Jason’s shouting and Dog’s barking disappeared — perhaps they’d given up, or perhaps he’d lost them — but Peter didn’t slow down until he was certain he was no longer being followed. His tingle was still a wary hum in the background, but it was no more or less than it had been before. Gotham was just that kind of city, it seemed.

Peter rested on a wall by a convenience store as he fought to calm himself. His hands shook. His pulse hammered, panicky in his throat though he’d not run far or fast enough to merit it.

Peter didn’t belong here. Peter wasn’t safe here (and here wasn’t safe from Peter). It was pathetic. Less than two hours and Peter already wanted go home.

Peter had wanted to return home for a long, long time.

If a house disappears and there ’s no one left to mourn it, was it ever even a home at all?

Tears prickled in his eyes and he thumped his head sharply against the brick. Stared angrily up at the sky, the grey clouds hunkered in close to the city.

Focus, Parker. Library first. By his estimation, it was early afternoon. Jason had told him it was a Saturday, so unless things were really dire, chances were there’d be a library open somewhere in the city.

Whether or not there was a library in Park Row was another question entirely. But Gotham couldn’t all be like Crime Alley — though Peter was sure he was probably still in the district. There had to be multiple libraries or internet cafes — hell, even a McDonalds, now he thought about it! — that would offer him free Wi-Fi. Then Peter could work out how to get to New York, and that would be that.

Simple.

He scrubbed his face and straightened, then walked into the convenience store he’d been loitering outside of. The old man at the counter eyed him warily — something Peter was quickly getting used to. He felt the man’s eyes track him as he bee-lined for the fridges at the back, where he picked up a large bottle of water and the most pathetic tuna sandwich he’d ever laid eyes on, but it had protein and fat and carbs and was cheap, so it would have to do.

Peter offered the man a smile as he reached the counter. Where there would normally be candy bars for people to impulsively purchase, there was instead a row of gas masks by the til, which was… disconcerting. What the hell went on in Gotham that gas masks were something they’d sell in a convenience store?

He kept the question to himself and placed his bounty down. Prices seemed on par with New York — veering just into this side of expensive, and Peter handed over his cash nervously: were things divergent enough here that even the tender was different? But the man barely looked at the money and handed him his paltry change without comment.

“You need a bag?”

Peter nodded, and summoned the courage to ask him where the closest library was.

“Library?” the man asked dubiously. He scratched his head as he thought. “There ain’t no library here or in the Bowery. Closest is probably in Burnley, to the west.” He eyed Peter up. “You lost, kid?”

Peter held back a grimace at the moniker but shook his head. “There’s no internet at home,” he lied. “But I’ve a tonne of homework to do. Figured I’d give it a try.”

The man nodded approvingly. “Good kid. Yer education’s important. Get you outta this shithole. Here—” He pulled out his own phone and tapped through to maps. Peter looked over the directions intently and took a photo with his own phone for good measure. He thanked the man profusely and was rewarded with a gruff smile.

“Keep outta the gangs, kid,” the old man ordered as Peter left, and he bit back a laugh. The only way Peter was joining any gang was if he was going undercover.

He left feeling a little lighter, weighed down simply by a blue plastic bag with his lunch.

The feeling did not last. Not even a block away from the convenience store, his senses flared on high alert moments before someone barrelled into him from behind and shoved him into a narrow access street.

Peter yelped and swung his bag — heavy with the bottle — at his assailant, but they dodged and blue plastic flew wild. He was shoved against the wall, his head slammed against the rough brick.

Something sharp pressed into his ribs. Peter froze at the unspoken threat. All they’d have to do was use a little more force and the knife would split between his ribs and pierce his lungs. He let the hands pat him down and cringed when they found his phone.

“Jackpot,” the person — a man — wheezed.

“C’mon, man. It won’t even work for you—!” Peter tried and was summarily shut up with a slammed head on the wall for his troubles. His ears rang — no. His ears were… growling?

“Hand over the phone,” a deep voice said behind him, their tone laced with threat.

Peter frowned, half-dazed. “But I already—?”

The knife against his ribs disappeared, and his mugger stepped back. Peter belatedly realised the voice wasn’t talking to him. He turned just in time to see his would-be mugger reluctantly hand over Peter’s phone to Jason.

Jason, who had another gun aimed at the man — thin and waifish, skin sallow and hanging off his frame like he’d lost a lot of weight far too quickly. The mugger backed away, hands in the air.

“Drop the knife,” Jason ordered. His tone was almost bored.

The knife clattered to the ground. The growling was coming from Dog, hunched threateningly beside Jason.

In truth, Peter found her bared teeth and raised hackles the most shocking part of it all.

“Now, fuck off,” Jason drawled. The mugger didn’t need any more permission. He scarpered, leaving Peter, Jason and Dog alone to the alley. As soon as he was gone, Dog was at ease and began nosing at Peter anxiously.

Still watching the mugger’s exit, Jason handed the phone back to Peter and he immediately pocketed it, immensely relieved to have it back. That phone was his lifeline. And he’d not been lying: no one else would have been able to break into it without Peter’s help. Without him, it was little more than a hunk of plastic, glass and wiring.

“Th-thank-you,” he rasped. Jason grunted, still not looking at him as he crouched to pick up the discarded knife, folding it closed and slipping it into his left boot.

“Sorry,” Peter said, and stared down at Dog, shame faced.

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

Peter glanced up at the taller man. His temple throbbed. When he rubbed it with the back of his hand, it came away bloody. Damn head wounds. “Eh?”

“You’re strong. Stronger than him.” Jason finally turned to look at him, and he inspected Peter’s head with a deep frown on his face. His touch was light — barely there. Peter’s heart rabbited anyway. “Why didn’t you fight back?”

“Because…” Because Peter Parker isn’t enhanced. Peter Parker has to hide himself, for Spider-Man’s sake. He couldn’t answer with that, so he said the next best thing: “They’re not strong. It’d be unfair.”

“Unfair,” Jason said flatly, unimpressed. He showed Peter his hand, fingertips bright red with Peter’s blood. “They’re playing unfair. You play by their games and you die. You defending yourself is what’s fair.”

Peter had nothing to say to that. He watched absently as Jason squirrelled away his gun and pulled a hanky (seriously? A guy like Jason carried a hanky? The dichotomy hurt Peter’s brain) from a pocket in his jacket. The man went to touch him again, then paused as though suddenly remembering himself.

“Ah. Can I?”

Peter nodded, and Jason cleaned off the blood carefully. He hummed thoughtfully as he worked. “It’s only shallow. Hold this.”

He followed Jason’s instructions meekly and held the hanky against the scratch. “How did you find me?”

Jason smirked. “I just asked people if they’d seen a lunatic running like the hounds of hell were following ‘em.”

Peter squinted at him around the hanky. Even from what little he’d seen of Gotham, he found it unlikely that any local would be willing to answer a question like that. Further prodding probably wouldn’t give him an answer though. Maybe Jason just let Peter think he’d out-run him?

No… that was pretty unlikely. 

“Well… thanks,” he said reluctantly. He did not say ‘you were right’, though Jason’s answering smirk said that he read that into his response anyway.

“You’re done with your freak out, then?”

He grinned back. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

“Ah. So I should expect another around dinner time?”

Peter giggled, definitely bordering on hysterical. “Yeah… that’s probably accurate.”

“I’ll be sure to lock the door. Or are you planning on crawling out the window this time?”

Laughter burst out him without thought. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Right. Lock the door. Barricade the windows. Tie you down with Dog. Speaking of—” he handed Dog’s leash over to Peter. “Maybe this’ll keep you from running off again, yeah?”

The temptation to stick his tongue out was strong, but Peter valiantly managed to withhold it. He gestured to the mouth of the alley. “Lead away, my knight in denim armour.”

Jason barked with laughter and modelled his denim jacket roguishly, popping the collar with a wink. “Come along then, princess and noble steed.”

The man began to march away, but Peter paused as a thought occurred to him. He had just noticed the imprint of his handgun, tucked into the back of Jason’s black jeans. “Sorry about the gun, by the way.”

Jason turned and stared, gaze narrowed as he took Peter in. Peter wondered what he saw.

“No you’re not,” Jason said eventually.

Against his better judgement, Peter laughed, but it was a soft and fragile thing. “No, I’m not.”

Jason nodded once, then turned back around and Peter followed without complaint.

Dog trotted along beside him, entirely unaware of the unspoken truce set out between her owner and his new guest.

— + —

Jason definitely didn’t want to be here, but with his own special set up trashed by Roman last year, he didn’t have much choice. He wanted answers and at least he could trust Barbie to be moderately discrete.

Peter was asleep back at the apartment, conked out with Dog not long after dinner. Jason was reasonably certain the kid wouldn’t run off while he was gone but had made sure the hidden cameras were on and the motion detectors were activated to alert him to any movement.

He praised himself again for managing to stick that tracker on Peter. The boy had screamed ‘flight risk’ the moment they’d walked out his door. Without it, Peter would have probably been lost — the guy could run. He comforted himself with the reminder that he’d hidden another tracker in Peter’s shoes. If he did pull another runner, Jason’d be able to track him down again.

With great reluctance, he knocked at the door. Almost immediately, he heard a clunking and the snk of deadbolts pulled back. The door swung open.

“I heard you were back in Gotham,” Barbara said. She only looked moderately unhappy to see him, which, frankly, felt like an improvement from some of their past encounters.

“Figured I’d come and say happy birthday,” he said, and held up the cheap bottle of red wine he’d bought on the way. He’d even taken the time to stick a plastic bow on the neck.

Barbara was using crutches today. He’d heard the neural implant wasn’t working so crash hot anymore^[1], but it was one thing to know it, another to see it. When Barbara caught him looking, she glared, daring him to say something, but Jason gestured behind her instead. “Can I come in?”

“No,” she said, but stepped back to let him inside anyway.

“Always knew how to make a guy feel welcome,” he drawled as he stalked past into her apartment. Barbara shuffled and clunked behind him, but Jason was under no compunctions that the woman was any less of a threat. He’d seen her deck a man and break his kneecap all from the comfort of her wheelchair before. 

Jason dumped the wine on the kitchen counter and took in the apartment. Clean lines, wide spaces suitable for a wheelchair and every window had a blind spot to hide in. There were several birthday cards lined up along her kitchen counter and an enormous bouquet of flowers — no doubt from Bruce — sitting pride of place on her dining table. 

“Why are you here, Jason?” Barbara asked. She leaned against a crutch but showed no signs of discomfort. “I would’ve thought you’d be too busy sorting out your empire to see any of us.”

She said the word ‘empire’ with naked irony, though her expression remained neutral. He grinned back crookedly.

“I’ve been delegating for a while now.” Though he’d noticed signs of things creeping back, which he’d have to nip in the bud soon before anything could get out of hand. “It’s been a relatively clean transition home.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t think you’ll be forgiven that easily.”

“What? For Cobblepot?” he drawled. “He’s alive and licking his wounds somewhere^[2].”

“After you nearly killed him!”

“‘Nearly’ being the operative word there—”

“And imprisoned him for months!”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “Considering he should have been in prison, I hardly see how that’s a problem. I worked by B’s rules, even if they’re shit.”

And he’d not trusted Jason’s process. Which was… predictable. Frustrating. Hurtful. But predictable.

For a while there, Jason wasn ’t even sure if he was going to let the Penguin live at all. 

“He was starving!”

Well. Miguel really had spilled all. He wondered who to? Maybe Drake? Red Robin and Bunker had worked together as Titans, from what Miguel had told him. Jason hoped the guy was doing okay. His ‘betrayal’ had been disappointing, but not unsurprising. He was clever and likeable and had been thriving at the Iceberg Lounge, but it wasn’t a shock that Jason’s more… brutal forms of justice might have rubbed the man the wrong way.

“He was on a weight loss plan,” Jason said, smirking.

 Babs threw a glass paperweight at him.

Jason deflected it easily. It bounced off the back of the sofa and landed with a heavy thud on the floor. The hum of conversation from the downstairs neighbours suddenly fell quiet.

They both stared at it, then at each other. Barbara’s lips twitched, clearly against her better judgement, and Jason grinned back in response. His hand was throbbing.

“Still got a mean swing, Babs.”

“Of course,” she said haughtily, and hobbled into the kitchen to pull out two wine glasses. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.”

Jason sat on one of the stools and accepted the glass of wine. It was as disgusting as he’d expected it to be for five bucks. Bitter and drying, but still better than half of the swill he’d had from bottles fifty times the price.

“I had a surprise guest.”

“Had?” Babs pulled a face as she sipped at her own glass. “Someone we know?”

“No.” He pulled out a little baggie, feeling like a bit of a drug dealer. Inside however, was the blood-stained hanky he’d used to mop up Peter’s head wound. “They’re definitely not from around here.”

Understatement of the century. Jason had a pretty good idea about Peter’s origins, but he wasn’t about to share them with anyone else. Not even Peter. He kept mum, even when Barbara shot him a suspicious look.

“They’re not a hostile,” he clarified.

“That doesn’t offer much comfort, Jay.”

“Just… can you check their DNA? See if they’re human, or alien.”

“Alien?” She set down her wineglass. “Jason, just who have you found? Are they in Gotham?”

“No,” he lied. “I came across them just before I got here. They left with Artemis when we split ways.”

Barbara wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t press further. That was what Jason appreciated about her. Sure, she could be an absolute cow — especially when she had the cape on — but he could trust her to be discrete as Oracle. Provided, of course, her assistance didn’t pose a threat to Gotham.

Of course, if Peter was a threat to Gotham, he wouldn’t be around long enough for Barbara or anyone else to even get close. Jason would make sure of that, one way or another.

“You know I’ll have to tell B if there’s anything dangerous going on,” Barbara warned as she inspected the blood-stained baggie.

“I’ll let you know if they’re in Gotham.”

“… I’m sure.” Her flat stare made it abundantly clear that she didn’t believe a word. God bless Barbara for letting it slide.

He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even nine yet. “Well. Better get back.”

“Are you on patrol tonight?”

“Probably.” Though he didn’t want to risk being out too long and Peter deciding to make a run for it again.

Barbara hummed. “Wait here,” she ordered, and disappeared into a room at the far end of the living space. He could see several computer screens in the quick glimpse he had before she returned. She tossed him an earpiece, which he tucked into his jacket.

“Since it seems like you’re back to stay… however long that lasts,” she said. “You may as well keep in contact.”

“We’ll see,” Jason muttered. Barbara rolled her eyes, uninterested in his hesitance.

“It’ll be good to have another hand, as always. Most of us are wary about encroaching on your ‘territory’.”

He raised a brow at her tone. “From what I hear, you’ve been multiplying by the day. Give it a year and there’ll be more vigilantes than civilians.”

She laughed softly. “Maybe. And yet it never feels like Gotham gets better.”

Jason thought about the Crime Alley of his childhood and shook his head. The streets were brutal, but they’d been monstrous as a child caught rough sleeping. “They are better. Not by much, but they are.”

Her expression softened. “I’ll take your word for it. And I’ll let you know about those DNA results.”

“Sure. Keep yourself safe, Barbie.”

“Bye, Jay.”

He left her to it and checked his phone as soon as she shut the door behind him. Peter hadn’t moved, still stuck in a dead sleep. He let himself sigh with relief.

— + —

Text only^[HERE]

^[1] I've not read a lot of Barbara Gordon's recent comics, but according to her wiki: “as a consequence of her long-term overuse of the neural implant, it has become strained, and resultingly her mobility varies from day to day, ranging from her peak ability to operate as Batgirl to being wheelchair-bound.” Also see here: https://www.cbr.com/batgirl-death-metal-oracle-implant/

^[2] In the Red Hood: Outlaw run, Jason shot the Penguin for framing his father. Later, after he returns to Gotham after being banished by Bruce, he takes control of the Iceberg Lounge and imprisons the Penguin in his own panic room, while he, Miguel Barragan (AKA Bunker) and a few others ran the casino. Eventually Miguel learns Jason had been imprisoning the Penguin and sets him free in disgust.

^[3] Text Messages — Saturday 24th September — 10:04PM

Babs: Hey you know how J is back

The Pretty One: Yes!!! I’ve been meaning to break in and make him make me waffles

Babs: RIP Alfs waffles 

The Pretty One: he probably won’t shoot me, rite?

Babs: I think hes got someone with him

The Pretty One: !!! O rly!!

Babs: you should say hi sometime

The Pretty One: I SHOULD!!!

Chapter Text

Peter woke early to dawn scarcely more than a trace of warmth on the horizon. The overcast day had extended into the night, turning the sky a sickly yellow-green with light pollution. He’d taken comfort in that: if he ignored the events of yesterday, he could almost fool himself into thinking he’d simply fallen asleep on his own shitty sofa.

He stared at the little patch of night visible from the couch and took stock.

Despite falling asleep early, he was still plagued by the same bone-deep exhaustion he’d been unable to shake since October. Not that it had been an uninterrupted slumber. By his reckoning, Jason had left twice during the night: once, a few hours after Peter had fallen asleep in a post-dinner haze; and a second time in the early hours of the morning. In both instances, Jason’s return had woken Peter, though he’d feigned sleep to avoid any conversation.

Peter didn’t resent the disruption. At best, Jason had probably only a couple hour’s rest himself, meaning the morning hours would be for Peter to do as he pleased.

After Peter had been woken a second time and he could hear light snoring from Jason’s bedroom, he’d begun searching for ways to get to New York (connecting to Jason’s WiFi had been simple enough: fortunately, things weren’t so far off here that he was working with incompatible frequencies). He knew he had to leave. Grim anticipation filled him with purpose, but… he couldn’t quite bring himself to sit up.

It hadn’t taken long for him to find some very interesting things about the place he’d ended up. Jason was right: Gotham was dangerous. None of his findings brought him great comfort — nor did the simmering wariness of his tingle, or the occasional spatter of gunfire through the night (though it had calmed significantly as the evening wore on).

 Eventually, Peter had been unable to keep his eyes open and fell back into a doze.  Now it was dawn and there was only the hum of a normal city to contend with. He’d be safe out there this time. And he still had his spider-suit on, though he dreaded to think what it smelled like. It would be easy to get up and leave.

He just… had to do it.

His fragmented sleep left him feeling worse than usual, his eyes burning and his pulse shivery. But it was fine. It was a feeling he’d long since accepted was a standard for his existence now. He’d learnt to cope.

“Get to it, Parker!” he whispered to himself.

Still he didn’t move.

“C’mon, loser!” he tried again. Slapped his legs for good measure. Peter had Plans™ for today!

With Herculean effort, he flicked off his blanket and then, as though blessed by divine intervention, his senses buzzed. There were a pair of thumps. Then the door to Jason’s bedroom swung open and Dog came scrambling out.

Peter bit back a sigh when Jason followed out at a more sedate pace.

No use pretending to be asleep this time. Especially when Dog immediately made a beeline for Peter and shoved her cold, wet nose in his face.

“Don’t — crap, sorry. I bet she woke you,” Jason huffed. To his credit, he did sound vaguely apologetic to have thwarted Peter’s plans to secretly leave.

“It’s fine,” Peter sighed and sat up. “I was already awake.”

“Oh? No early morning escape, then?” There was a pause, and then his face split into a broad grin as he took in Peter’s defeated expression. “Or not… Did I beat you to the punch?”

“….”

“And after all my help!” Jason’s scandalised tone was definitely an act, but Peter felt mildly guilty regardless.

“Who even wakes up at dawn?” Peter complained to smother the feelings and crashed back onto the couch. He was immediately accosted by Dog licking his face and couldn’t help but laugh. “Did you even sleep last night?”

Jason titled his head, mouth curved cautious. “You heard me come in?”

“Yeah. At like, two.”

“Ah… Family emergency.”

Peter lifted himself up on his elbows. “Are they okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just — uh — boy problems.”

Peter hummed. “Lame.”

“Yeah.” Jason flicked on the kitchen light and Peter hissed dramatically. The other man chuckled. “Coffee?”

“Ah. Yes, please.”

Dog abandoned her fussing to tail Jason as he clattered around the kitchen with the coffee machine, and Peter shuffled back to prop himself against the arm rest to properly observe. His chest ached to watch the domestic scene. The exasperated grin Jason sent Dog when she tripped him up. The quiet gurgle of the percolator and soft chatter of the radio that was switched on. The practised familiarity to Jason’s movements as he shuffled around the kitchen. Peter hadn’t experienced anything close to it since Ma—

Since the Erasure.

Certainly, he tried to put on a brave face when he was alone, but his sparse little apartment made it agonisingly difficult to feel at home. There was nothing there to connect Peter to his friends and family. Even his pictures had been brutalised by Stephen’s spell: each and every picture that once had him in it now only showed a blurred, concealed or disfigured face.

At first, he’d put them up on the walls anyway, but his absence made him feel trapped in a sense of unbelonging. Like he wasn’t real anymore. Like he didn’t really exist at all. Like he was just a figment of someone else’s imagination that had lived beyond its use-by date—

“So, we going to New York today?”

Jason’s question broke the quiet. Peter blinked. There was a mug held expectantly in front of him, and he followed it to callused hand, up muscled arm, to handsome face.

Crap. He’d lost time again.

It needed to stop, but he didn’t know how.

The mug wiggled a little and Peter took it before Jason ended up pouring it on him or something equally petty. The heat of the mug burnt painfully, but it cut through the remaining haze in his mind.

“You look like a creamer, one sugar kinda guy,” Jason said as he shoved Peter’s blankets onto the floor and sat at the other end of the sofa.

“No sugar, actually,” Peter said smugly, then winced at the rudeness. “But I don’t really mind, thank-you.” And then he frowned, finally registering the first thing Jason had said. “Wait. We?”

“Well, you’re skint. I’m not. And I could do with a day trip.”

Peter shifted with discomfort. “I’m not — you don’t have to—”

“Let me be real with you, Pete,” Jason interrupted smoothly. He crossed a leg and Peter’s attention abruptly zeroed in on his socked foot. The man’s toes curled as he re-settled. It was bizarrely disarming. “I don’t think you’re from New York—” he held up a hand to silence Peter’s immediate outcry. “You do a good impression of one, I’ll give you that, but at the very least, I don’t think you’re a present-day New Yorker. Now, I ain’t gonna ask questions. Dog’s stamp of approval is clear enough for me, but even if it weren’t, I’d be following you to New York. Whatever it is you’re after is clearly gonna be an adventure, and I want in.”

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek rather than respond. He probably shouldn’t be surprised by the conclusion: even a cursory look at the makeup of this new universe showed him it was just as crazy — if not more — as his own. The only thing it was missing was its own Blip, but there’d been plenty of other Armageddons over the years. And it wasn’t like Jason was wrong about the time travel. When his phone had finally connected to the WiFi, Peter had been shocked to learn it was only 2016.

So yeah… in a way, he was a time traveller…

It was just that that wasn’t all that Peter was.

Staying quiet was probably his best bet. Let Jason draw his own conclusions. Provided, of course, those conclusions wouldn’t end up concluding that Peter was a threat. He shuddered to think what kind of damage a man like Jason could manage if he saw Peter as one. Though it had never blared with alarm since their first meeting, his senses remained a dull tingle around Jason, like day old sherbet on the tongue. It was similar to what he’d felt around some of the Avengers that had fought the second battle.

“And if I find what I’m looking for?” he asked eventually.

“Then we part ways and I’ve got myself an interesting tale.”

And if I don’t? Peter wasn’t brave enough to voice his biggest fear. He could hardly bear to think about the consequences. Although he knew he was smart, he was no Tony Stark. Making himself a machine to let him travel the multi-verse was out of the question. Unless he stumbled across the secrets of the universe or got some serious help, he was screwed.

Of course, he already knew that. A cursory look last night pulled up results for a Doctor Hugo Strange, but no Stephen. It did not bode well …

“So? You up for travelling to New York the — and I want you to know, it pains me to say this — the legal way?”

Peter sighed and hung his head. The strong smell of coffee wafted upwards. Despite his reluctance to rely on the help of a man he barely knew, Peter didn’t have much of a choice. He could say no for the sake of his fear and pride and get there the hard way, or he could suck it up and accept the freely given help.

And if Jason ended up being a bad guy? Peter was reasonably certain he could overpower the man. For all that Jason looked like a moderately less beefed-up Captain America, he was pretty sure those were just the muscles of a normal strong man, not an enhanced man. So, unless it was normal here to lift a bus without breaking a sweat, Peter would be fine.

“Yeah,” he said against his better judgement. “I’m in.”

— + —

Peter didn’t understand what Jason thought he meant by travelling ‘the legal way’, but he was pretty certain that regardless of the change in universes, speeding was still a crime. In fact, if anything, speeding was more harmful than anything Peter might have done to get to New York.

Turned out, the only ride Jason was interested in taking to New York was his motorcycle, an experience that Peter had been jittery about the moment he learnt of it. He was simultaneously nervous and excited, even if it meant that he was forced to ride tandem.

They left shortly after breakfast, but not before Jason had disappeared with Dog to leave her with Jennie — apparently, she lived a block away and was Dog’s unofficial babysitter. Peter thought of running off while the man was gone but wasn’t convinced Jason wouldn’t somehow manage to find him again… he could do without the embarrassment.

So he’d remained, sipping at his forgotten coffee while he waited. The shivery feeling he’d felt on waking had not dispelled as it usually did, but Peter stubbornly ignored it. Upon Jason’s return, he had skulled the rest of his now cold coffee, meekly donned one of Jason’s spare jackets and helmet, and attempted to listen attentively to the impromptu lesson on how to ride before hopping on behind the man.

“Hold tight,” Jason had said, voice coming clear through the linked speaker in the helmet. That was the only warning Peter got before promptly learning that Jason was an absolute maniac on two wheels. He took corners too tight, wove through traffic with reckless abandon and in general was the exact kind of rider that Peter had always thought were just attention seekers.

It was a good thing Peter was sticky. He wasn’t completely comfortable being so close to someone after months of isolation, but he felt confident enough in his abilities that he only had to hold onto the sides of Jason’s jacket and squeeze his thighs around the bike.

Except of course, when Jason swerved too quickly and the bike tilted in a way that felt entirely alien to Peter. In those all too frequent instances, it took quite a bit of effort to keep himself from squeezing too tight. The last thing he wanted to do was break the man’s ribs for turning too fast.

If he thought the wild riding would ease off once they got out of Gotham and onto the highway, Peter was mistaken. Travelling early on a Sunday meant that most of the traffic was trucks. They were easy to move around, and yet Peter found himself becoming increasingly twitchy. He attention narrowed in on every little thing they passed, and he twisted to and fro to try and see them better, heart in his throat the entire time.

Jason seemed to quickly tire of behaviour, because as soon as they came across a gas station, he took the exit and pulled up in the parking bay out front. The man ripped off his helmet and twisted to scowl at Peter.

“You trying to kill us, Pete? Fuckin’ sit still or you’ll fall off!”

“So-sorry,” Peter stuttered and tugged off his own helmet.

The buzzing he’d attributed to the motorbike remained fizzing beneath his skin and it didn’t matter how much he regulated his breathing, his pulse remained erratic and rabbity. Now that the roar of the engine and the wind wasn’t present, his ears rang like bad tinnitus, and he couldn’t shake the twitchiness.

Jason clocked onto his hyperactivity almost immediately. His eyes narrowed and he dismounted to look at Peter properly.

“Your pupils are dilated. Did you take something while I was gone?”

“No—” His attention was abruptly stolen by a woman and toddler that exited the gas station. The child was crying, complaining about something Peter couldn’t make out through the ringing—

Jason clicked his fingers and dragged Peter’s eyes back on him. “Are you… sensitive to caffeine? I make strong coffee.”

It took more effort than it should to keep his focus on Jason. There was so much going on. He struggled to remember what Jason had just asked when there were cars and people and just too much around.

“I… I’m not normally?” he managed. In fact, usually Peter found that his metabolism burnt through caffeine too quickly for him to ever appreciate the stimulant.  If this was a caffeine thing, it was new.

“Well, it can’t be the food if I’m not affected, and there’s nothing in the apartment that could get you like this.”

Jason chewed on his thumbnail as he thought. Peter’s attention narrowed in on the movement for barely a second before he was twisting around to catch the woman slam the passenger door on her child, the toddler’s cries immediately muffled.

Jason cursed lowly and snatched the helmet out of Peter’s hands.

“Right. Off you get.”

Peter dismounted and immediately stumbled. Jason caught him with a soft grunt before Peter did something wildly embarrassing like fall over.

“Shit, you’re heavier than you look. Your limbs made outta lead?”

“I’m a black hole made flesh!” Peter giggled, then giggled harder at Jason’s unnerved expression. “Just kidding!”

“Yeah… I figured,” Jason said, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. He glanced away, searching for something, and then nodded. “Alright, Pete. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

“Okay!”

With hands placed firmly on Peter’s shoulders, he was led away from the bike and around the corner of the gas station to stop outside one of two public restrooms. Jason leaned around him to open the door, and Peter flinched at the stink of bleach and urine that seeped out into the open air.

“Pete, I’m gonna need you to camp out in here until you can calm down.”

“But it smells bad!”

“Yeah, sorry about that bud, but you’re wiggin’ out and you need as much sensory deprivation as you can get until you calm down.”

“That’s the opposite of sensory deprivation! That’s — that’s sensory… dilation? Cremation? No — conflagration!”

“Fine, here—” something was shoved into his chest and Peter fumbled to catch it. It was a gas mask, similar — if a little sleeker — to the ones that had been on sale in the convenience store. “Put that on. If it can manage to filter out fear toxin, it can hand a Parkway gas station bathroom.”

Peter was bundled into the bathroom while he was still trying to fit the mask on, and Jason flipped off the light for him.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a few with some water. You’ll know it’s me ‘cause I’ll knock like this—” he knocked a brief pattern on the door and Peter nodded. After a moment studying Peter, Jason left and he locked the door.

With the lights out and the gas mask on, Peter was submerged in a pool of black. Rather than fumble around in the dark when he knew he’d only have to get back up, he pressed his back to the door. He wiggled his toes, crossed his arms over his chest to rest his fingertips on his collarbones, thumbs interlocked, and gave butterfly taps to the delicate bones as he breathed deeply^[1].

He was in a gas station bathroom. His senses were going haywire. He was alone.

The walls gently vibrated from the hum of a generator — or maybe it was the refrigeration units from the store? The closed door muffled the roar of the parkway. Hot breaths puffed across his lips, trapped by the gas mask. His pulse was still a stressed hammer that left his stomach churning with nausea.

Jason thought it might be because of his coffee. Peter hadn’t been affected by caffeine like this before, it was something new. Yet another ridiculous thing to deal with because he was too stupid to leave well enough alone—

No judgement, he reminded himself. That was what the YouTube video had said. Clouds passing by.

He resettled. Possibly, this was a novel, adverse reaction of caffeine. A reaction he had never had before. That was distressing, but it wouldn’t stay that way. Sooner rather than later, his metabolism would work through the stimulant. He’d be okay.

By the time Jason returned with the same knock as promised, Peter felt a little more grounded and less likely to literally start climbing the walls. He kept his eyes closed when he opened the door and Jason handed him a bottle of water.

“Come out when you feel ready,” Jason gruffed.

Peter thought he was doing a terrible job at pretending not to care. He also didn’t know how he was meant to feel about that.

Bottle in tow, Peter edged his way around the room to find the toilet, slowly lowering the lid down so it wouldn’t slam. He sat. Clutched the bottle between his legs and resumed the butterfly hug.

Time passed achingly slow, but eventually his pulse returned to something close to normal. The ringing in his ears died down. He dropped his hands to his knees and slouched against the cistern, just taking the time to breathe deep and slow.

Blindly, Peter cracked open the water bottle and downed half of it in one go, then stood and stumbled over to the door. The bathroom wasn’t perfectly dark; over time his eyes had acclimated. It didn’t take much effort to find the light switch. His eyes stung with the new stimulus and he shlepped over to the basin, shoved up his sleeves, and splashed his face with cold water.

The shock of temperature left him feeling a little more human. His reflection dripped water and Peter stared at the familiar vision. Haggard blueish circles beneath brown eyes, too-thin lips, an awkwardly square jaw and cheekbones that veered into then ‘too sharp’ territory from one too many missed meals. Pulling back his hair — too long, he’d needed a cut three months ago — revealed the cut on his temple, already almost healed. Six months ago, something so small would have already been nothing more than a pinkish scar by now.

Six months ago, Peter had been properly fed.

Six months ago… Peter was a real boy.

He splashed his face with more water before he could spiral, but something on his wrist caught his attention and he whipped his hand to his face to study it up close.

Beneath his dripping web shooters — disguised as wrist cuffs when not in use — there was a slit in his skin. Not a wound — the skin was healed like it was always meant to be there. It was only visible because he’d shoved up his sleeves and jostled the shooters. Peter rubbed his thumb over the slit and inhaled sharply at the increased sensitivity.

When he pulled his thumb away, it took with it a gossamer thread of silk.

Peter yelped at the feeling and jerked his hand back. The silk snapped.

Nausea filled his mouth with saliva, throat constricting. Wrong wrong wrong! It felt so alien and foreign. The closest he could compare it to was getting stitches that one time he’d been given an appropriate dose of local anaesthetic, after the second battle against Thanos. Not painful, but not comfortable either.

He wrenched back the shooter on his opposite wrist. In the exact same spot was another slit — a spinneret.

A whine escaped his throat as he pressed both wrists together, spinnerets on full display.

Freak, something soft and spiteful sneered. Peter bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

A sudden caffeine sensitivity.

Spinnerets like Peter Two.

When Peter had landed for that final time, crashing into Jason’s living room, he’d been certain he’d been rewritten. The feeling had dispersed by the time he’d had enough time to stop and think… but perhaps he shouldn’t have been so certain he’d come back ‘normal’.

He sobbed. Just the once, but the sound came straight from the chest and echoed off the unforgiving restroom walls.

It wasn’t enough to have been erased? He had to become a stranger to his own body too?

There was a knock at the door.

“Pete? You good?”

His head snapped towards the voice. He’d thought Jason would have wandered off. Had he been there the whole time?

Finding his voice was a perilous task. One wrong move and any sense of composure he’d managed to grasp would crumble. Eventually, he found his voice, thin and reedy as it was.

“Fine! I just — just need a minute!”

Jason’s doubt was clear even with a door in the way. “… Take your time. New York ain’t going anywhere… Probably.”

Peter bit his knuckle and rested his head against the mirror, fighting back unreasonable tears. Some new spinnerets shouldn’t leave him so distressed. Under normal circumstances, he would have been fascinated by them.

But today? Peter could only interpret their appearance as an ill omen.

Because… if even Peter Parker One couldn’t survive, what chance did he have of finding his way home?

^[1] Peter is making use of the butterfly hug technique. He is not an expert, having self-taught himself the action. Much like Peter, I’m not an expert, but from what I can gather it’s not necessarily intended as a self-soothing technique, though Peter is leaning on it as one. Learn more here:  https://emdrfoundation.org/toolkit/butterfly-hug.pdf

Chapter Text

It took another fifteen minutes before Peter felt stable enough to leave the restroom.

Jason’s bright eyes immediately took stock, but Peter was reasonably certain he wasn’t in danger of falling apart, even if he felt a bit like Humpty Dumpty, broken and reassembled wrong, missing something integral to his body that made him Peter.

He tried to reason it out. So he had spinnerets now? So what? That just meant he had a backup if his web shooters broke. And who was to say he wouldn’t lose them again the moment he got back home? For all he knew, he’d go through the same unravelling nightmare to return and find himself reconfigured as Peter Parker One, sans spinnerets and able to continue chugging coffee like it was lifeblood.

(Peter didn’t know what he felt more sore about. The spinnerets or the new caffeine intolerance. Was this how freshly diagnosed lactose intolerant people felt? Forever struck by the temptation to have another go anyway and damn the consequences? It was the worst.)

“You good?” Jason asked as Peter shut the bathroom door behind himself.

Peter nodded, wordless. Jason did not appear convinced but didn’t push. He was good at that.

A sandwich was held out to him, and Peter ate it mechanically as they walked back to the bike. It tasted of nothing, but Peter forced it down. New additions to his body or not, the empty feeling in his stomach suggested that his advanced metabolism was still up and running. Even if it wasn’t, he knew he was underweight: again, thanks metabolism for that!

Time slipped again when they got back on the bike. One moment, they were veering around a truck that had come onto the highway; the next, skyscrapers loomed above them, and Peter was home.

Except… it wasn’t. Because even though they were travelling through the familiar traffic of Manhattan, there was no Avengers Tower.

There was no Avengers Tower. Just another forty-something floored glass building that looked no different from its neighbours.

Peter already knew there was no Tony Stark here. He’d gone looking. Just as he’d gone looking for Doctor Strange. But it was one thing to know. Another thing to know. To see it in the flesh? The absence of the man Peter had idolised? The absence of a group that had been a stalwart of Peter’s childhood? It — as with everything else he’d had to process so far — was hard to stomach.

He held onto Jason’s jacket a little tighter and focused on the thrum of the bike and the stink of exhaust fumes that seeped through his helmet. The last thing he needed was to lose time again: Jason knew where they were going — he’d input the address back at the gas station — but Peter needed to be present for whatever he was about to find.

Even if he really, really didn’t want to be. Because the churning in his gut suggested he wasn’t going to like what they found (or wouldn’t find).

Riding through the city felt surreal. Like he’d left for decades and come home again. There were buildings and shops that were familiar — places that were clearly so essential to the fabric of New York that they’d survived entire dimension jumps — but equally, there were buildings or shop fronts that were new and completely foreign to him.

No. Not new. Different.

Was this how Captain America had felt when they’d thawed him out of the ice? Plagued by the familiarity of home, but tormented by the changes? Changes he’d never seen, nor consented to. The real New York existing only in fallible memories, never to see the light of day again...

Bleecker Street looked much the same when they arrived. Hope surged, fizzing hot and happy at the sight of 177A — the Sanctum was still there! Sure, the door was green, not red; the familiar grid-shaped circular windows were missing; and the detailing around the windows was less ornate and geometric… but the green-blue copper roof and brickwork was familiar to Peter.

Jason parked them right on the pavement, indifferent to the rules on parking. Peter didn’t bother saying anything. As the engine cut out, Jason kicked out the stand but remained seated while Peter dismounted and tugged off his helmet.

“Nice place,” Jason remarked, peering up at the building with an assessing stare. “You live here?”

Peter shook his head. “Queens, remember? But… someone who can help does.”

Probably.

He left Jason and walked up the short stairs with trepidation. The door was closed and there was no plaque to indicate if the building was a business or a home. Now that he looked closer, the door knocker was different, too. No brass, just painted iron.

The hope died down to a low simmer. Maybe it was like MJ used to say: expect disappointment and avoid the feeling altogether. But Peter couldn’t do this alone. He needed help.

With a steadying breath, he knocked — three times for luck.

There was no answer.

Peter waited a few minutes. This time, he tried the intercom. It rang four times before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

Feet shifting nervously, Peter swallowed. He didn’t recognise the voice and wished the camera by the intercom worked both ways. “Hi. Um. Is there a Doctor Strange that lives here? Doctor Stephen Strange?”

“No?”

“Are — are you sure? He’s a sorcerer?”

There was an incredulous pause. “… Is this a prank?”

“No! What about a — uh —” Crap, what was his name again? Stephen had barely introduced him in passing! “A… Wong?”

God, he hoped he got his name right.

“No Stephen’s or Wong’s here, kid. Look, this place is a nightclub; I just rent out the top floor.”

Peter clutched his arms and dug his fingers in deep enough to bruise. They could be lying to him. Could be concealing their origins. But the niggling voice in the back of his mind told him they were telling the truth.

Just in case, though… “Okay. Maybe I got the wrong address. If you do meet a Dr Strange or Wong, could you tell them I was looking for them?”

Another pause, then a heavy sigh that was grainy through the crappy speaker. “What’s your name?”

“Peter. Parker. Tell them I’m — uh — well travelled and was hoping for guidance.”

“… Sure, kid.”

The intercom clicked off. Peter waited a little longer, just in case they opened the door for him anyway, but there was nothing. He stepped back, but not before peeking into the windows on the ground floor. Sure enough, he could make out the dim shape of a bar and tables between the green velvet curtains hanging down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispered, and rested his head on the cool glass for a second. His limbs felt heavy with dread. Today seemed to just be filled with Ls.

A Parker Luck kind of day.

“No dice?” Jason asked when he finally mustered enough energy to unglue himself from the window.

“Did it look like I was lucky?”

Rather than be offended by Peter’s knee-jerk snark, Jason chuckled. “Naw. Looked like you tanked it. Guess they’re not here yet?”

It took longer than it should for Peter to remember that Jason’s leading theory was that he was a time traveller.

He nodded. “I guess not,” he said, and hoped the strain in his voice was interpreted as disappointment.

“Is that it?”

“No.” He breathed in deep to ground himself. “There’s somewhere else I want to go, first.”

Jason pulled up his navigation and Peter rattled off the familiar address.

“Alright. Hop on. Good thing it’s a Sunday — I don’t want to even think about what this would be like at peak hour tomorrow.”

The ride to Queens was uneventful. Peter forced himself to take stock of what had changed and what remained the same and was over-joyed to learn that Delmar’s was still around. It was tempting to ask Jason to stop by and get some sandwiches, but he wasn’t sure how well he’d deal with seeing a familiar face right now (or not seeing one). Chances were he’d fall into the same creepy behaviour he’d done with Ned and MJ right after the Erasure.

They slowed as they reached their destination, but Peter didn’t even need to get off the bike to know it was a dead end.

The apartment block wasn’t even there. In its place was a park. A big fat empty absence where there should have been a six-storey building. He couldn’t keep the pained noise at bay when he saw it but was protected by the road noise and his helmet from detection.

Jason pulled up by the kerb. He flicked up his visor as he turned around, so all Peter could see of him were his pale eyes and slightly squished cheeks. “I’m gonna guess this ain’t what you’re looking for.”

Peter shook his head. He refused to lift the visor, so Jason did it for him. It must have been uncomfortable to twist around like that, but the man showed no signs of discomfort.

“What was meant to be here?” Jason asked.

It was a struggle to find the words, but he managed. “My apartment.”

But that was a lie. It hadn’t been his apartment for close to a year. Not since they’d been forced to relocate after Beck’s doxxing. But that little two bedroom was his home. Sure, it wasn’t the same place they’d lived in before the Snap, but to Peter it had felt close enough. The furniture and belongings — saved from being sold or lost by Mr Stark — had history. A life spent with Ben and Ma—his aunt, and later, just Peter and Her.

A life they’d had to abandon because Peter was too naive to know that he was just being used by Beck (‘It’s only temporary,’ she’d promised. ‘Only until things calm down.’ Only, things hadn’t calmed down. Things had gotten worse and by the time he could return, She was gone and all of the pictures that used to have Peter and his family in them now only showed his family with a half-smudged face of a stranger).

A heavy hand resting on his shoulder ripped him from his spiralling thoughts. He blinked back the tell-tale burning in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said. He sounded sincere. “… Is there anywhere else?”

There were other places. Of course there were. Ned or MJ or Happy. Maybe even the Stark’s house, out in the countryside. They should check. At least one. Third time was the charm, as the saying went. Only… Peter was pretty sure the charm here was ‘give Peter Parker a full-blown breakdown’ and he would much rather avoid that when travelling with a man he barely knew, on a bike that would kill even him if he fell off.

Peter shook his head. “Sorry you couldn’t get your adventure.”

Jason huffed and rolled his eyes. “Nah. I don’t mind — think of it like a day trip. Plus, it’s as good excuse as any to stop by O’Keef’s.”

“O’Keef’s?” Peter didn’t recognise the name.

“Oh. You’ll love it. Best burger joint in New York.” Jason glanced at his watch. It was a smart watch, and a heavy duty one at that. The glass was thickened with additional protection, a little chipped at one corner, and the strap was a wide woven material that Peter could guess would be hard to break. “They should be open by now, though it’s a little early.”

“I could eat,” Peter said softly, then again, louder when Jason looked up in askance.

“Cool. My shout.”

Ordinarily, Peter would have protested. But he had less than ten bucks to his name and was facing homelessness the moment he and Jason parted ways. He wasn’t going to turn down a hot meal. Not when he could already feel the gnawing hunger creep in. God! Give him a few square meals at regular intervals and suddenly his body forgot how to acclimatise to going hungry!

Jason drove a little more sedately this time, perhaps because he was less accustomed to the scenery. He took them into Brooklyn (ew) and they stopped outside a diner. The name O’Keefs was written in large blue and white lettering over the glass windows.

“I stumbled across it a few years back,” Jason explained as he took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. Peter took one look at his own reflection in the glass and winced before doing the same. Mostly he just succeeded in making it look even more like a rat’s nest. “I always try to stop by when I’m in the city. Don’t be fooled by the decor — this place is legit.”

Peter immediately understood what Jason meant by the decor. It was a vision straight out of the fifties — and looked about as old — with tufted red vinyl seats and stools; brown and cream checker tiles that stuck stubbornly to his shoes; glossy tables with peeling veneer; and a long line of fluorescent strip lighting carried along the bar. The place smelled of old oil and coffee, sunk deep into the very fabric of the building.

Despite the rundown nature of the place, it still boasted a healthy number of patrons — though most of them had to be close to the same age as O’Keef’s itself.

Jason didn’t bother waiting to be served. He led Peter to a booth by the window, taking the side facing the oncoming traffic. Thought the move didn’t surprise Peter, it left him feeling antsy, knowing his back was to the door. At least he had a window, so he wasn’t totally blind.

“Get their burger, if you know what’s good for you,” Jason recommended. “They’re filthy. Eat with a knife and fork kinda filthy — if you wanna get freaky. But so good.”

“Noted,” Peter drawled.

It didn’t take long for a waitress — middle-aged, strong ‘mom’ vibes — to wander over and take their drink orders. Peter nearly asked for coffee, before remembering the disaster of the morning. He wasn’t quite prepared to accept the sudden caffeine intolerance, so asking for decaf was out of the question. In the end, he settled for lemonade and a caramel milkshake — again, at Jason’s recommendation.

“Did you seriously not know you were caffeine intolerant?” Jason asked when she’d left.

Peter grimaced. “… No?”

“Did you just, never drink coffee?”

God. How was he meant to answer that? No, I used to drink cheap, shitty instant coffee like it was water but then I travelled the multi-verse and came out all wrong? It felt a bit too heavy for eleven-thirty on a Sunday.

He settled for a half-hearted shrug.

“Weird,” Jason said, pointing at him for emphasis. “And tragic. You know that means you can’t even drink tea.”

Peter smiled banally. No hot leaf juice? Oh no. How would he survive.

‘You’re shit at lying,’ Tony had once told him, not long after he’d finally begun opening up to Peter after the Vulture Incident. ‘You’re better off just keeping your mouth shut and letting people draw their own conclusions.’

Peter had taken that advice and ran with it. Better to keep quiet then let the lie slip.

The waitress returned with their drinks, and they rattled off their orders. Jason didn’t comment on the extra serving of fries Peter ordered for himself.

As soon as she left, Peter immediately tried the milkshake. It was thick enough to plaster walls with, filled with crushed cookies that clogged the straw, but so so good. Jason was pleased by his reaction and sipped his coffee.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, tone light in a way that immediately put Peter’s hackles up. “Did you have a mission, or was your trip an accident?”

He held back a wince at the word ‘trip’. If he could, Peter would like to never hear that word again, if it meant he’d not have to think about how he’d fallen through that stupid portal.

“Accident,” he confessed. “Why else would I be looking for places that don’t exist?”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a bad boss? Or you really suck at research.”

If he had a fry, Peter would have flicked it at him. He was feeling petty enough for it. “I’m a free agent. No agendas here except to get back home.”

Jason studied him over the rim of his mug. Peter held his stare boldly for once and refused to be the first to blink.

Jason broke first, huffing and rolling his eyes. “I believe you. Though I don’t think you’ve any idea on how to manage that.”

That makes two of us.

“I’ll work something out.”

“And until you do?”

“… I’ll work something out.”

“Hmm.” Jason sipped his coffee. “Thought so… Come back with me.”

“Huh?”

“Come back with me. To Gotham.”

Peter scrubbed his face tiredly. “Back to Gotham? I’ve got nowhere to stay!”

“You’ve got nothing here either,” Jason said with a dismissive shrug. He slouched back in his seat, the picture of self-assuredness. “I’ve got a spare room. You can stay with me.”

Anger flushed through him, bright and irrational. “What’s your deal, dude? First you tell me Gotham isn’t for me. That it’ll eat me alive. Then in the same breath you tell me to go back with you?”

“Well, not technically the same breath—”

“Jason!” Peter hissed.

Jason laughed softly, entirely unmoved by Peter’s anger. “Look, ki—Peter. It’s clear that whatever you were hoping to find ain’t here yet—”

“I’m—”

Jason waved off his immediate attempt to defend. “I told you; I won’t ask questions.”  Peter rose a brow. Jason smiled, sardonic. “Okay. More questions. Don’t see much point when I know you’re just gonna lie to me.”

Peter glared, mulish.

“My point is, I’ve been around the block a few times. Trust me when I say you’re not even the third strangest thing that’s happened to me. Not even close. Not even in the last year.”

He wanted to chase that line of thought, but suspected Jason would simply pull the same trick and obfuscate. The man seemed to enjoy playing the enigma.

“Good news for you is, I’m a guy with connections. I can probably find someone to help you, if you stick around.”

Peter studied Jason warily. His offer felt genuine, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man still had another agenda at play. The instinct was sharp and clear and these days, Peter tried not to ignore his Tingle.

“You want to keep an eye on me, don’t you?”

Jason’s expression remained carefully neutral. Peter dug deeper.

“What are you? Military? Secret service? A cop?”

“You fuckin’ wash your mouth out,” Jason growled. Though his tone was playful, he looked disgusted by the very suggestion. “I’m a force of chaos and you best not forget it.”

“Chaos...” Peter thought of the clear care and attention he’d shown for the unaccompanied children in the playground. Those weren’t the actions of someone who thrived on chaos. Rather the opposite.

Jason read his disbelief and grimaced. “Okay, fine… Chaos against the instruments of systemic violence, then.”

Peter’s mouth twitched. “Are you worried I’m going to try and change the future?”

Jason shook his head. “I’ve seen what happens to travellers who meddle with time. Trust me: if that’s what you were planning, I’d already know.”

Peter’s mouth fell open with surprise, but he supposed he shouldn’t be so shocked. This place was as crazy as his world was and they’d managed time travel just fine. Brought back to half a universe to boot. Who was to say this world hadn’t done the same?

He’d have to look it up when he had the chance.

Their food arrived then: a mountain of a burger with smashed patties, dripping with cheese, hot sauce, and the extra pickles Peter had asked for. The additional serve of loaded fries were set between them, which was cute. But there was no way Peter was letting Jason have any of them.

“Anything else, hun?” the waitress asked. Peter shook his head, already salivating at the food.

“We’re good, thanks,” Jason said with a winning smile — the cleanest Peter had seen from him yet, and entirely foreign on the man’s face. The woman left them to it. Peter immediately fell upon the burger and had to bite back a moan of pleasure.

It had been months since he’d been able to enjoy something so good and he took the time to savour it. The patties were juicy, the lettuce gave a satisfying crunch, and the pickles added an acidity that cut through the fattiness of the cheese and meat.

“You’re right,” Peter said after he’d swallowed his first mouthful of heaven. “They are good.”

Jason grinned back, all teeth. “When I’m right, I’m right.”

There wasn’t any more talking until both had finished their burgers and moved onto the fries. Jason was a mayonnaise kind of guy, and Peter wrinkled his nose at the sight.

“It’s what they do in Europe,” Jason drawled.

He pointedly sprinkled hot sauce over his, brow raised in challenge. “I guess we can’t both be sophisticates.”

Jason snatched the bottle off him, sneering. “I was just getting to that.”

Peter wolfed down his fries, mouth tingling pleasantly from the hot sauce, and then descended on the loaded fries.

“You really can pack that away,” Jason mused. He was still only halfway through his plate. “Where’s it all go?”

“Hollow limbs,” Peter deadpanned.

Like he hadn’t heard it before. He’d long since stopped getting embarrassed about his appetite. A feat made easier when he justified it in terms of the needs of Spider-Man. Spidey needed food to do his job to the best of his ability, therefore, Peter needed to eat as much as he could afford.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I never said I’d go back with you.”

Peter slapped away Jason’s hand that tried to creep towards the fries. Jason stole one anyway. It was one of the extra cheesy ones Peter had been saving. Prick.

“You never said you wouldn’t.”

“I still don’t really understand why you’re offering. Seems like a bit much for a guy you’ve only just met, even if you do want to keep an eye on me.”

“I’m a good judge of character. And… if I’m honest, Pete, you look one bad day away from a mental breakdown. Call it a favour.”

Rude… but not untrue. Peter kept his response to himself and chose instead to throw a spanner in the works. “What if I’m, like, a freak? What if I really like feet? Or ate pizza with a knife and fork?”

“And do you?”

Peter was already grimacing at the thought. “No. But I could be!”

“Then I guess I’m make sure to keep my shoes on and put a lock on the utensils drawer when I order take-out.” Peter laughed despite himself, and Jason’s eyes glittered with amusement. “There’d be ground rules, of course.”

“Of course.” He frowned. “Like what?”

Jason nicked another fry. Peter curled an arm protectively around the rest. “Don’t touch my weapons. Stay inside after nine.”

“A curfew? I’m not a child!”

“No,” Jason said calmly. “But you aren’t a local, either. And if your attempt at getting mugged is anything to go by, you’re not built for Gotham streets after dark, extra strength or not. I think nine is generous.”

“Oi! I didn’t attempt to get mugged. I was mugged. Not my fault you turned up before the deed was done.”

Jason barked with laughter. This time, when Peter smacked his hand away, he kept it back. “You’ve got the makings of a Gothamite, I’ll give you that. We can work out the rest when we get back.”

“Sure. And a chore chart,” Peter drawled.

“I take it that’s a yes, then.”

“I’ve resigned myself to the idea.” He offered Jason the final two fries — a little sad and soggy — to settle it. Jason eyed him wryly but ate them anyway. “It’s better than being homeless. Plus, you have Dog.”

“Ah. Did she sweeten the deal?”

“Honestly, you should have just led with that. I’ve known her less than a day and already I would die for her.”

Jason’s eyes crinkled and warmed as he grinned. “See? Good judge of character.”

“I could still be a freak.”

“I know how to deal with freaks.”

Peter wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. It was fun bantering with Jason. The lightest he’d felt in more than half a year.

“Just so you know,” he warned, “I could totally just break the utensil drawer lock if we order pizza.”

“I guess I’ll just hide it, then,” Jason smirked back. And that was that.

— + —

They hit the road after lunch. There was the usual traffic to weave through leaving New York and entering Gotham, but otherwise, a clean run. Without caffeine in his system, Peter was a much better passenger and Jason was reasonably certain, now that the guy had actually agreed to it, that he wouldn’t try to run off when they returned.

He felt safe enough, therefore, to leave Peter in the apartment with instructions on how to operate the TV and a (joking) promise not to drink any coffee while he was gone.

“Shame,” Peter had snarked. “I was going to enjoy my four PM psychotic break.”

Wise ass.

The journey up to Bristol was easy: not a lot of people wanting to spend their weekends in Gotham. As always, Jason was awash with feelings of nostalgia and unease as he drove past the palatial homes and gated manors. He zoomed through familiar streets and took the front entrance to Wayne mansion.

Predictably, Alfred was waiting for him by the front doors despite his unannounced visit.

“Been a while, Alfie. How you been?” Jason said breezily in an attempt to conceal his discomfort. Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead back at the manor unless something serious was going on — especially after his banishment during the whole Penguin saga[1]. But he had things to pick up and had it on good authority (Damian, the hellion) that Bruce was away on ‘business’.

“I’m well, Master Jason. It’s good to see you back in Gotham.” Alfred’s gaze was calm and non-judgemental. That was why Jason liked him best.

“I’m here for a while, I think,” he confessed as Alfred shut the doors behind him.

Alfred smiled with sympathy. “I heard of the incident in Qurac[2].” Jason chose wisely not to ask him how he knew. “How is Madame Gunn and her new charges?”

“Charged,” he grinned. “But they’ll come out okay.” Probably. As good as a handful of teens who’ve been raised to be villains could, he hoped.

“May I ask why you’re here? As much as I wish it were, I doubt this is a social call, though you should know it is a Sunday.”

Jason winced. “Yeah… I won’t be staying around for family dinner.” Not now. Not ever. “I’m, uh. Picking up a few things. I’ll be needing the truck too, if it’s not being used.”

“It is not.”

Jason followed Alfred to the kitchen, where the keys were kept. He paused when he saw Tim, sitting at the kitchen table nursing a coffee while he flicked through something on a tablet. Jason imagined he was here early for family dinner.

“Timbo,” he said warily. The kid could be a mixed bag: they definitely got on leagues better than they used to, but he was always acutely aware of the heavy past that hung between them.

“Jason,” Tim said with a wry twist of the lips, as though he saw straight through him. “I hear you’re setting up shop again.”

“… Yeah.”

“No Outlaws?”

He narrowed his eyes. As if he didn’t know. Brat. “No.”

“Shame.” Tim huffed and leaned back in his chair. “Kon was hoping to meet Bizarro.”

“Ah.” Fat chance of that now. Unless Connor Kent was willing to travel to Hell for him. Literally.

He swallowed back the soft swell of grief. He’d barely had Bizarro and Artemis back before they’d left him again. Artemis at least, was easy to find, but Bizarro…

Well, there was no easy way of getting to Hell except death, was there?

“Here, Master Jason.” Alfred interrupted his pity party with his usual poise and grace, handing over the keys to the truck. Tim’s gaze narrowed in on them immediately.

“Taking something?”

“Yup.” He held up the keys and made a swift retreat, calling back a ‘Thanks!’ as he left, but he paused at the stairs as a thought occurred to him. He circled back, peeking his head around the doorjamb.

“Hey, Alfie?”

Alfred looked up from the counter where he’d returned to the preparation for dinner. That was something else to consider. Peter could eat. They’d have to go grocery shopping tomorrow.

“Yes, Master Jason?”

“Do you still have my old clothes? Y’know, from when I was a teen?”

Pete was probably close to his old size. The guy was pint-sized: anything of Jason’s now would swamp him, and he saw no point in buying something new when there were perfectly good clothes just lying around for the taking. Even if he did feel a little weird about giving Peter clothes he used to wear before he’d died.

Alfred blinked slowly, then his expression grew distant in thought.  “… Yes. I believe they were put into storage in the attic. Shall I fetch them for you?”

He waved off the help. “Naw. You’re busy. I can manage on my own.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’ve got a guest.”

Alfred’s brows rose, as did Tim’s. “A guest? Has Miss Artemis returned already?”

“Nah. Last I heard she was kicking around Mexico. I’m taking a mattress, too. I need a better one ASAP. Let Bruce know he’ll be needing to buy a new one: I ain’t giving it back.”

At the kitchen table, Tim’s brows rose even higher. “What do you need another mattress for?”

Jason frowned. “I just said?” He turned back to Alfred. “FYI, I might come back for the bed frame.”

“I will have it unassembled for you. Do you need anything else?”

Jason pondered on it, but clothes and a mattress were the most pressing items. He shook his head.

“Would you like to stay for supper? There is no Master Bruce, but many of your siblings will be here.”

“Sorry, Alfred. Won’t be changing my mind: I’ve gotta get home.”

“You could always return with your guest?”

Jason laughed outright. “We’re good, thanks Alfie.”

He heard Alfred sigh as he left again, and only felt a little guilty. He loved the man like a grandfather but sitting down for dinner with the ever-growing brood of siblings — Bruce or no Bruce — was where he drew the line on most days.

Besides, he had an apartment to return to and a guest he had to make sure hadn’t broken into his coffee supply.

— + —

Click [HERE] for text only

[1] In RHATO (Rebirth), Jason shoots the Penguin when he learns that his father had been framed for a crime by him. This is set up to be attempted murder by Jason, but is later (arguably) retconned to have all been a plan by Jason to take control of Penguin’s empire… What’s really important though is that the deal he’d made with Bruce was, if he killed anyone, he’d be out for good. Long and short of it, Bruce beats the everloving shit out of Jason (who barely fights back. He’d also lost Artemis and Bizarro the same day, so he was hanging on by a THIN thread), Roy sweeps in and saves him before it looks like Bruce will actually kill Jason. The first volume of Red Hood: Outlaw has Bruce make it clear Jason’s not welcome back to Gotham, even if he didn’t actually kill the Penguin. But in later volumes he’s allowed back in Gotham so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯¯ hooray for zero character resolution I guess…

[2] In the final RHO (Rebirth) volume, there’s a big show down between the Outlaws and the Untitled in Qurac (the place Jason’s death was retconned to) and an attempt to free Trigon from Hell. It ends with Bizarro killing him and then kinda getting stuck in Hell as the new king of the demons, so they don’t wreak havoc on Earth. Sad for Jason, as he’s now lost another bestie.

There’s also a storyline thata’s resolved at this point where Lex Luthor had asked Jason to train up some villain kids, but Jason ends up dissolving the program and having Ma Gunn take the kids in, to be taught by a few other reformed (???) villains.

[3] BATFAM: YOUNG ADULT EDITION

Rude-Robin 4:55PM: News! (add image)

Rude-Robin 4:56PM: 1! RH has a guest. 2! He was cagey about who they were. 3! He said he needed, and I quote:‘a better mattress ASAP’ and he wouldn’t be giving it back.

I’ll Spoil YOU 4:57PM: ?!?!

Rude-Robin 4:59PM: He said he might come back for the bed frame. Sounds like a long-term guest

Orphan Annie 5:00PM:  ?!?!?!?!

Rude-Robin 5:02PM: He’s also taking all the clothes he used to own as a teen

I’ll Spoil YOU 5:03PM: OMGGG

I’ll Spoil YOU 5:05PM: HAS HE PULLED A BRUCE?!?!?!

SIGnature moves 5:06PM: If he has I will literally die

Chapter Text

Peter Benjamin Parker did not exist.

Sure, there were a few Peter Parker’s kicking around north America. A cursory search found a lawyer Peter Allen Parker from South Dakota, and a teacher Peter John Parker from Toronto, both in their mid-thirties. There was a Peeta Christine-Lee Parker in LA — a student around his age — but her parents and extended family didn’t match at all. Peter Benjamin Parker didn’t pull up any results except a single, archived obituary of a 56-year-old man from Arkansas who’d died in 1936.

While Jason had left him alone for ‘errands’, Peter lounged on the couch and ran a half-hearted search for any traces of a Richard or Benjamin Parker, a Mary Fitzpatrick or May Reilly and came up with equally fruitless results. A few names that rang true, but further digging brought up zero matches for his family. It didn’t take long for him to give up: even if he did go hunting for them, if Peter Benjamin Parker didn’t exist here, there wasn’t much point in finding people who were in effect, complete and utter strangers.

Not unless he really was planning on taking that four PM psychotic break.

Peter checked the time and sighed. Left alone for forty minutes and he was already bored. He scratched at his wrists and firmly ignored the reasons why the skin there itched so badly. There was no way he was going to think about them any time soon.

His eyes travelled around the apartment and landed almost immediately on the boxes of books.

‘Don’t touch my weapons,’ Jason said…. Presumably, he didn’t count his books in that category.

Peter nodded, decided. The choice was simple. He could spend the next hour or so wallowing in existential horror and fall further down the rabbit hole as he categorised all the ways this universe was irreconcilably different from his own, or he could keep himself busy by doing Jason a solid and sorting out his bookshelves.

There’d been enough moving in his life to know that if they’d not been unpacked before now, they’d stay in that box forever.

Decided, Peter rolled off the couch onto his feet and meandered over to the kitchen. There was a box cutter in the utensils drawer — along with a handgun and scatterings of bullets that Peter avoided. He figured a box cutter didn’t fall under ‘weapons’ except in a secondary category.

The blade snked up and down as he surveyed the boxes. What would be the most satisfying and tedious? By colour? Or genre and author…

“Genre,” he murmured, and attacked the boxes with vigour.

— + —

Jason returned with Dog to find Peter sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of books and a half-filled bookshelf. At the sight, Dog yipped excitedly and she bowled into him, knocking over one of the carefully curated book towers.

“Woah!” Peter laughed brightly as he struggled to avoid being licked in the face.

Jason chuckled and hung up Dog’s leash. “Been busy, I see.”

“I got bored,” Peter said. From the doorway, the only part of his face visible over the top of Dog and her furiously wagging tail were his eyes and a chaotic cloud of brown curls. “Thought this’d be safe…. I left your weapons over there.”

Jason ignored the naked judgement in Peter’s voice and followed his pointed finger to the haphazard mountain of guns and knives piled on the couch. He returned his gaze to Peter.

“I used a glove,” Peter said defiantly. Now that he looked, there was in fact an oven glove tossed beside his weapons. “Technically not touching.”

A sudden clarity washed over him as he understood what living with Peter was going to be like. The guy was a smartass, that was clear. Evidently all it took was the slightest feeling of security and he was mouthing back as good as the worst of the Bat-clan.  Any kind of rules Jason wanted to put in place would need to be carefully worded. He didn’t have a shadow of a doubt that Peter would take any hint of ambiguity and exploit that loophole with impunity.

“Well kudos for that,” Jason drawled, sighing as he shut the door with his foot.

“Why you thought to store your knives with the modern classics is beyond me—”

“I picked you up a mattress—”

“And don’t even get me started on the poetry! Flash grenades, Jason! Poetry doesn’t deserve that! I don’t even understand poetry and I know it doesn’t deserve that!”

“It’s a Gotham firework. It’s a kind of performance poetry,” Jason said with mock haughtiness. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Peter levelled him with a flat stare, but quickly cracked a soft smile. It made him look awfully young, erasing the haggard lines on his too-thin face.

“You said you got a mattress?” Peter titled his head in question. He gave Dog a final scratch before springing up. “How’d you get it here?”

“Stole a truck.”

Peter paused as he approached the Jason.

“I’m joking.”

“See, you say that. But your tone suggests otherwise.”

“It’s a family vehicle. I got permission.” Jason jangled the keys in proof.

“They could have left those in the car.”

“In Gotham? That’s as good as giving permission. Now c’mon. I don’t want stuff lying around too long or folks might actually get ideas.”

Peter slipped his sneakers on and gestured to the door. “After you, oh knight of dubious poetry taste.”

Jason chuckled and let them out, locking the door behind him. As they took the stairs down — no way was he going to trust the elevator — he asked about Peter’s mess.

“Hey, you’re not planning on sorting those books by colour, are you?”

“So what if I was?” Peter asked breezily. “It’s not like they were doing anything otherwise.”

Jason almost grabbed the boy, then thought better of it. Startling a meta was a bad idea. Thank-you Kori for teaching him that lesson. “Uh uh. I’m nippin’ this in the bud now. Ground rule number one: books are sorted by author, not aesthetics.”

Peter peered up at him, blinking innocently. Jason would eat his old helmet if that look hadn’t gotten the guy out of mountains of trouble in the past. He had the kind of big, brown eyes with heavy lashes that would have left any adult capitulating when he was a kid.

“But… I thought rule number one was no touching the weapons?”

“Rule number three, then.”

His grin was broad and cheeky. “You’re actually a massive nerd, aren’t you?”

“C’mon.” Jason muscled past Peter, who snickered.

“Your guns don’t fool me! I’ve seen your poetry collection!”

“Yeah, yeah. I like my literature,” Jason drawled and turned back to stare up at the teen in challenge. “It’s the foundation of culture.”

“From the man who puts mayo on fries? I’m not fooled.”

“I told you, it’s how they do it in Europe—”

They continued their banter down the five flights of stairs. Jason was struck by how easy it was to speak to Peter. Sure, he clearly had his issues — there was no forgetting that single, broken sob that escaped the gas station restroom — but he was quick-witted and bratty in a way Jason found surprisingly endearing. So what if Peter was probably one step away from a breakdown? Jason could hardly blame him for that; things would have probably ended far uglier had he been in Peter’s shoes. That he could get back up and start joking — defence mechanism or not — said a great deal about his resilience.  As much as he was reluctant to think it, Peter reminded him of the many kids Bruce had brought under his wing over the years.

But… there was no weight of expectation or history hanging over Jason and Peter. Nor was Jason afraid of hiding so many fundamental parts of himself like he had with Isabel. That ship had sailed within seconds of their meeting, when Jason had pulled a gun on Peter, and Pete had fucking folded the thing in half. If the portal hadn’t been a sign of something wild to come from their acquaintance, then that certainly did.

Bickering with Peter reminded him of Roy. The comparison ached. Fuck, he missed Roy. Sometime Jason would wake and could barely breathe with the shock of it, or would go to message the idiot and realise there was no one there to answer. He’d wallow. Allow the grief to crash over him, just for a second. Then he’d force himself to clean house with brutal acceptance and move on^[1].

Death was a revolving door among their crowd. He’d told Bruce the same when he’d broken the news, and he meant it.  And a tiny part of him lived with the hope something would happen to bring Roy back.

Shit, but he wanted a fucking smoke.

The mattress and suitcases full of clothes were still in the truck when they walked into the muggy summer afternoon. Peter tried to insist on taking the mattress, but Jason put his foot down.

“Take the damn suitcases, Pete. Carrying the mattress’ll only draw attention to yourself.”

Jason hauled it out before Peter could complain and locked the truck. Peter grumbled behind him and made a show of carrying the suitcases like they weighed nothing, all the way back up to Jason’s apartment.

If Jason was sweating by the time he reached the door, it was because it was pushing into the mid-eighties today, not because he was out of breath. When he glanced at Peter, he was annoyed to see that he wasn’t affected in the slightest by the six-storey climb.

He held out the keys and Peter slipped around him to unlock the door and hold it open. The mattress was left to lean against the couch while Peter came back in with the suitcases, locking the door behind himself.

“Did you steal these, too?” Peter asked with false brightness as he weighed them up.

“Yup. Same place.”

“What’s in here?” He bounced one of the cases in his arms like it was a beach ball.

“Fine china. They’re family heirlooms.”

Peter looked momentarily guilty, before he realised the suitcase hadn’t made a sound from the bouncing. “Is it clothes?”

“It’s clothes. Too small for me now but should fit you just fine.”

“Oh…” Peter’s face pulled a funny, but not unexpected expression. Jason remembered feeling the same when Bruce had taken him in. The conflicting mix of bruised pride, gratitude, anger and contempt. As he’d suspected though, their status as Jason’s hand-me-downs soothed the ego enough for Peter to accept them without protest.

“Thank-you,” Peter said, and set the suitcase down carefully.

“It’s nothing. You’ll need to air ‘em out. They stink of mothballs.”

“Oooh. Grandma-core. Sounds fun.”

Grandma-core Jason mouthed to himself as he turned to the spare room. He felt every one of those five years of difference between them. Heaven forbid if Peter was to meet Tim, Duke or Steph. He could only imagine what monstrosities they might inflict on the English language with their memeing.

“By the way,” Peter called after him while Jason hauled the mattress into the spare room.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much inside but a desk and another untouched bookshelf. He’d have to look around for a wardrobe tomorrow. A cloud of dust burst up as he dropped the mattress onto the floor. He winced. Guess he should have vacuumed beforehand.

But, with the job done he looked up expectantly at Peter, who was digging his thumbnail into the doorjamb, any prior trace of ease gone.

“Um. I… do you have a laptop or something I could borrow?”

Jason hummed. He did but didn’t exactly trust Peter yet with his own personal device. Probably never would. He rubbed his thumb over his lips as he thought.

“What do you want it for?”

The teen’s eyes skittered sideways. “Um. I. Uh. Need an identity?”

“And you could forge one?”

“What, like it’s hard?” Peter scoffed, joking and defensive at once.

“And you could cover your tracks?”

Peter nodded firmly, but his expression remained a little sketchy.

“Are you sure?” Jason pressed. The last thing he needed was Peter doing a half-assed job and siccing the feds on them for identity theft or fraud. He could have offered to have used Tim’s program, but it would have been difficult to explain how he’d attained it.

Peter’s expression steeled. He nodded again. “The security isn’t as good as where I — uh…” His eyes flicked around the room. “As when I’m from.”

Jason took note of the change in conjunctions. It was convenient to let Peter think Jason thought he was a time-traveller, but there weren’t a lot of the usual hallmarks of your standard time-traveller to go on (and wasn’t it fucking hilarious that Jason was qualified enough to say ‘your standard time-traveller’). In his mind, the biggest and most telling discrepancy was that Peter had no idea about the existence of Gotham. The most likely scenario was that Peter came from some alternate universe. But with Peter so damn squirrelly about the whole situation, Jason wasn’t going to push the subject and risk alienating the guy — or worse, making him run.

Again.

He crossed his arms. “I’ve got a spare laptop, but the screen is broken. I’d have to get it fixed.”

It’d been an impulse buy, months and months ago. Bought because it was cheap and he’d liked the specs on it, not long before his banishment for shooting the Penguin. The laptop was in one of the boxes he’d yet to unpack — he just couldn’t remember which one.

Rather than be disheartened by this, Peter immediately brightened. “I could fix it! I’m handy with electronics. I’d just need some tools.”

Jason smiled in approval. “I’ve probably got some.”

If he did have any, he knew for a fact they’d be a spare set from Roy somewhere. More than likely, they’d be in the same box as the laptop.

He spent the next twenty minutes looking through the few unpacked boxes — really, he shouldn’t’ve been such a lazy fuck when he’d first moved in — while Peter was tasked with sorting through Jason’s old clothes into two piles: what fit, and what didn’t. Those in the latter, Jason would drop off to Jennie to disseminate among her array of minions. The rest were for Peter to do with as he pleased.

By the time he finally uncovered the stupid computer — and lo and behold, there was a set of tools in the same box — Peter had two roughly equal-sized mountains of clothes on either side of him in his newly furnished bedroom.

“You really are a book nerd,” he complained when Jason appeared in the doorway, bearing the fruits of his labour in one arm. “Look at this!”

Peter held up a white tee — a little yellowed with age around the collar — that bore a print of a raven, perched on a bust of Pallas.

Jason grinned lazily. “That you know exactly what that’s referencing is telling, hypocrite.”

The shirt was immediately launched at him, and Jason let it fall impotently to the floor. He stepped over it and set the laptop, its charger, and the case of tools on the desk. “If you can get her working again, she’s all yours.”

Peter’s answering smile was tremulous. He set the sweater he’d been inspecting down in his lap.

“I… thank-you,” he said eventually, and Jason shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. But Peter was looking him straight in the eye, and there was nowhere for Jason to look without losing face. “For the clothes. The bed. That—” he pointed at the desk. “You didn’t have to do any of this. I know you’re only doing it because you want to keep an eye on me, but you didn’t have to. So… thanks.”

Jason scratched the back of his head. Without the burden of a bitter history to muddle the moment, he felt restless and awkward in the face of Peter’s sincerity. Undeserving of his gratitude. “It’s — fine. Not like I’ve spent money or anything, anyway.”

Peter smiled back, so sweetly that Jason had to leave.

“I’m gonna make dinner,” he said as he turned away.

“Do you want help?”

“No,” he said firmly, and left Peter to it. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t running away, but suspected he wasn’t fooling anyone.

— + —

Peter had fixed the laptop and was in the middle of setting up a new account when Jason announced dinner. When he emerged from his new bedroom (it was uncomfortable to refer to it that way when he had no idea how long he might be stuck here, but could think of no better term), he winced at the book towers he’d left behind.

“I should’ve finished the first job I started,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Jason waved off his apology as he served rice into two bowls. “I’ll fix it later. Don’t trust you not to throw a spanner in the works, anyhow.”

“Who? Me? Never!”

The man was having none of it. He’d evidently clued in quickly to Peter’s games. “Sit down and start eating, squirt.”

He could have made a snide comment about Jason overcompensating for something with all those muscles, but there was a hot meal set down on the breakfast bar and yet again Peter was hungry. Not to mention, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten something homemade that hadn’t been slapped together by himself. And Peter was no cook. He’d tried to follow along to YouTube recipes, but always got distracted or misjudged the cook time, ending up with food that was undercooked or burnt or on more than one occasion, both.

The bowl of chili attacked his senses with heady wafts of spiced meat and Peter descended upon it without ceremony. Jason snickered at his enthusiasm and nudged a tub of sour cream towards him.

“Try not to inhale it,” he teased.

Peter spooned a healthy dollop of sour cream on top and stirred it up with the chili and rice. “It’s so good,” he said, having swallowed his mouthful. “So good.”

Jason blinked rapidly, as though unused to the compliment, and looked away to tuck into his own meal. Peter suspected he was pleased, though.

They ate in comfortable silence, interspersed by the odd begging whine from Dog and Jason’s soft chastising. When Peter was reduced to scraping down all traces of chili from the bowl, he raised a question that had been on his mind while mending the broken screen.

“Say… how easy is it to find work around here?”

Jason set down his own bowl and glanced back at Peter, wary. “It depends on what kind of work you’re looking for.”

“In my experience, there’s not been much luxury of choice. But money is money, right?” Peter grimaced in remembrance of the many menial jobs he’d taken on since the Erasure but didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t see much merit in explaining how he already knew why he’d have an easy time breaking into the various government websites he’d need to craft a new identity.

“It is easier,” Jason mused. “But you gotta be careful, too. You stumble across fronts all over the place here. And you don’t wanna end up a henchman — or worse, a goon — or you’ll find yourself at the end of someone’s fist sooner or later.”

Henchman???

Crime capital of America. Right.

“If you’re good with fixing electronics,” Jason spoke slow, as though sounding out the idea before voicing it, “then I might be able to talk to someone. Though they’d want to see you prove it.”

“… No resumé?”

“Those don’t hold much stock around here unless you’re working somewhere real fancy,” Jason drawled. “Most of the decent jobs, you gotta know someone.”

“Nepotism! Great.”

“Good news for you, I’m someone in the know,” Jason chuckled. “I’ll make a call tomorrow.”

Again with the helping. Peter didn’t know how to properly thank the man. Having money of his own would make life infinitely easier, though. For one, he’d be able to buy himself more food, along with the materials needed to make web fluid; he’d done a stock take last night and was disheartened to learn that he was running on a limited supply. Not exactly a surprise when he’d lost his backpack to the dimension tripping.

And of course, there was the need to build himself a new mask.

What confused person had stumbled across that precious piece of tech? He couldn’t even remember what universe it had been lost in, but he was reasonably certain he was still holding it when he fell through the portal. Yet another reason he suspected there’d be no one to go looking for him.

Despite his plans, Peter didn’t have any immediate intentions of adding himself to Gotham’s hero roster. But the life always dragged him back into the thick of things, and Peter would rather be prepared than caught unawares.

“Thank-you,” he said eventually, ruthlessly smothering the rising distress at the thought.

Again, Jason looked uncomfortable at Peter’s words. But M— his aunt hadn’t raised an ungrateful brat. Kindness deserved acknowledgement, and there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that Jason had been nothing but kind so far. Gruff, certainly, but kind.

“I’ll be out again tonight,” Jason suddenly said.

Peter blinked at the change of topic. “Oh. Um. Okay?”

“Family stuff,” Jason followed up, as though neither of them could tell he was being evasive.

“Again?” he asked, just to see what the man would do.

“It’s an ongoing issue. Also, I’m a bouncer at a night club. Get used to late nights without me.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched without permission. “Is this a gang thing? Are you part of a gang?” He leaned in close, whispering as if their only audience was someone other than Dog. “Do you need help getting out?”

Jason grinned. “As much as one of my brothers likes knives, no. It’s not a gang thing.”

“Shame,” Peter tutted with disappointment. “I was hoping for something interesting to spy on.”

“Yeah. Don’t do that.”

“Aw. Afraid I’ll reveal your secret?”

“Afraid you’ll end up skewered, more like. For a meta, you’re way too soft.”

His smile slipped. When he blinked, he felt the sharp weight of the goblin glider in his hands. Heard the crunch of a cheekbone shattering beneath his fist. Saw an old man’s haggard face grin up at him with manic glee, so pleased with himself at having driven Peter to the brink of murderous violence.

“Soft…” he echoed and looked away.

He hadn’t felt soft when he’d nearly skewered Osborne with his own glider.

The stool screeched across the floorboards as he stood. His pulse raced with the memory and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach with remembered shame and disgust. So close. He’d been so close to making himself a murderer. The rage he’d felt — at Osborne, at Peter 2… he’d been ready to tear them both apart with his bare hands before he came to his senses — too late, too late to stop Peter from being hurt.

“I’m gonna get back to work,” he managed to get out, aware of the eyes on him. “Thanks again for dinner.”

He moved just slowly enough to not classify it as running away. Work. He needed work. Needed to bury himself in a project to escape—

“Peter.”

He paused at his door. Turned back. Jason had swivelled in his stool to study him, inscrutable.

“Remember the curfew.”

Peter nodded. Smiled wanly. “No going out after midnight, right?”

The weak attempt at humour worked. Jason huffed with wry amusement, and the feeling of butterfly wings pinned to a display board dissipated.  “I said nine, you mook.”

“Ten. Got it.”

Jason scoffed. “Alright smart alec. See if I save your ass again.” He got up and piled the dishes in the sink. Peter resolved to wash them after he’d got a hold of himself again. “I’m heading out in an hour. Won’t be back until late. If you need anything, help yourself. Just don’t—”

“Touch the weapons,” Peter finished. “Got it.”

“Yeah… I saw how you interpreted that,” Jason drawled, but he didn’t look like he minded so Peter counted it as a win.

Peter pointed to his room. It felt strange to think of it that way. “I’m gonna, uh…”

“Forge yourself a new identity. Sure.” Jason waved him off, and that was all the permission he needed to finally retreat, back into the room that wasn’t his, in the universe he didn’t belong to.

No break downs he reminded himself. Or at least, not until I’m alone.

^[1] In RH:O Vol 1, after Jason’s been banished from Gotham, Roy leaves him to go to a rehab facility, where he’s killed in a speedforce explosion. It’s a whole thing but not integral to the plot, except that at this point he’s dead and I am sad (of course, he’s resurrected by Infinite Frontier, because  no one ever dies for realsies in comics). Batman is the one to break the news to Jason and they hug it out, which I have Feelings about considering he beat the shit out of Jason in LITERALLY THE LAST FUCKING VOLUME.

Chapter Text

Logistically, constructing an identity for himself seemed to go a lot easier the second time around. New universe or not, most of the processes were similar to his own world, and this time, Peter had the Frankensteined remains of Karen to help him.

Weeks after the Erasure, in a fit of manic grief and loneliness, Peter had salvaged as much of Karen’s coding as he could: she’d more or less disappeared after the doxxing and Stark Industries severing the connection between Karen’s servers and his suit. He’d cobbled together what he could and hooked her up to his phone, but she was nothing like she’d once been. In fact, there was barely anything of her left, and certainly not enough for her to become the artificial companion he’d hoped for. But she was advanced enough to help slip his way into government websites without bringing attention to himself and forging new documents.

Birth certificate, social security… and then all the same for his ‘parents’. He half-heartedly forged a medical and high school history — no school results though. Those, Peter wanted to earn the legit way. And if he was here for longer, he’d start backdating a social media presence.

 Gotham was the perfect place for forging a new identity, at least. Too many instances over the years of records being destroyed by rogues or other disasters. With Karen’s help, re-making Peter Parker and Co. was a walk in the park.

But mentally? It was anything but.

The work filled him with dread… it felt like he was settling in for the long haul. It felt a little like resignation, even if it was just the practical choice. Jason had warned him that his ‘contact’ was likely to take their time getting back to him, even if he was good at what he did.

And… Peter couldn’t help but feel resentful as he went through all the same steps as before. Wasn’t once enough? Why did he have to be put in a position where rebuilding his identity felt routine? If he’d been better — less clumsy — he never would have fallen through that freaky portal in the first place. Idiot—

He abandoned the laptop before he could spiral into more self-recrimination. From experience, if Peter got too worked up, he’d end up doing something regrettable like destroying his new second-hand computer by accident.

So Peter fled to the living room. Jason was nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t think the man had left yet. Some of the sorted books had been stacked on the bookshelves, but the rest of the job had been abandoned as before. Dog lounged on her bed by the windows, stretched out to catch the last scrap of sun before it sunk too low in the sky. She acknowledged his entrance with a lazy tail wag, but otherwise ignored him.

Finishing off the first job he’d started seemed like a good idea. Even if Jason said he’d do it himself, Peter thought the menial task would use up just enough brain power to keep the flagellation at bay. He threw himself into the job, working through the non-fiction pile first and finding amusement at the broad range of topics Jason was interested in.

He was just lining up three books on the flora and fauna of North America when Jason emerged from his bedroom in a leather jacket and hoodie. Peter didn’t think the September weather merited the layers, but who was he to judge? Even the slighted summer breeze had him shivering these days.

Jason paused as he shut the door to his bedroom. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“You know the lights work, right?”

Oh. He hadn’t even realised how dim it had become. With the sun too low to reach the windows, the apartment had rapidly gone dark. A normal person would have fixed that by now…

Jason flicked the switch between their rooms and the space was bathed in warm light. Peter set the books he was still holding down and went to close the blinds. Even if the apartment was in something of a blind spot with the other buildings, he didn’t like the feeling of exposure. He blamed it on the doxxing; Peter had never been able to shake the paranoia of being watched since the day he’d looked out his living room windows to see a helicopter looking right back in.

“You’re heading out?” Peter asked. He hovered awkwardly beside the shelves, unsure of what to do with himself.

“Yeah. No funny business while I’m gone.”

The wry comment helped Peter find his footing again. “Funny business while you’re gone. Got it…” He plucked Jason’s copy of The Communist Manifesto from its new place on the shelf. “Does overthrowing the tyranny of capitalism count?”

“Depends. What system are you replacing it with?”

Peter grinned provocatively. It didn’t seem to fit properly on his face, but it was better than nothing. “Feudalism. I’m planning on installing Dog as our benevolent overlord.”

“Bad move. She doesn’t know shit about land tenure.”

“That’s fine! Neither do I!”

Jason shook his head, chuckling softly. “Alright. Well, if someone comes in, assume they’re here to rob you and gouge their eyes out.”

“Messy. Ew.”

“But effective. That or go for the balls.”

“Misogynistic! They could be a woman.”

“Still hurts.” Jason pointed a finger at Peter. “Just—don’t leave the place. And don’t go answering the door.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him. The warnings reminded him of the few times he’d been left home alone as a child. When he’d been too sick for school, but his aunt or Ben couldn’t take the day off work. “Are you gonna use a special knock? What about a codeword? So I know it’s you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m saying goodbye now.”

“Bye! Hope your family’s not really a gang!”

Jason’s muttered, “You’d be surprised,” probably wasn’t meant to be heard by Peter. Oh well. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late. See ya.”

“Have fu-un!”

Honestly, it was doubtful Peter would manage to stay up that long anyway. It had been a long and distressing day, following on from a night of unsettled and fragmented sleep. Not that Peter had slept well for months, but he hoped he’d manage better on that mattress Jason had dumped in his room.

Jason left with a wave of his hand. Peter heard the door lock and then he was left alone — well, except for Dog — in the apartment of a stranger. He swallowed. Told himself he was staying there because it was practical. Then went to carry on sorting out the books when he caught a whiff of himself.

Ew. It had been nearly two full days since he’d last showered and he smelled it. A wonder Jason hadn’t made a pointed comment about the shower. Peter abandoned the bookshelves, suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to just get clean.

Jason’s apartment only had the one bathroom, positioned between the two bedrooms. Despite the building’s general decrepitude, the bathroom was clean and surprisingly spacious — though the khaki tiles were dated and there were a few patches on the ceiling where the paint was peeling from prolonged exposure to moisture.

The shower pressure however, was excellent, and Peter set the temperature to near scalding. He hissed and jumped in and out until he acclimatised, skin pinking rapidly with the heat. Water sluiced over his face, tickling his lips, when he submerged his head beneath the spray.

His gaze trailed down to the drain and he imagined the trauma of the last two days trickling away…

… Washing away any trace of his universe…

                  … The dust and grime of his world…

                                  … The remnants of his hair wax, the jar still sitting by the bathroom sink in his own apartment…

All of it, washed down the drain…

Not even his body was his anymore. It felt like all that was left of Peter Parker were his memories and a headless Spider-Man suit—

The sob that tore out of his chest was deafening over the sputtering rattle of the extraction fan. It echoed off the hard tiles and bounced around inside his skull.

No Ned. No MJ. No Queens or Doctor Strange or Mr Delmar, who still made Peter’s sandwich just how he liked it, even though he didn’t know who Peter was anymore. No apartment, no pictures of Ben or his aunt and a figure scrubbed from existence. No camera that Ben had bought for Peter six months before he’d died.

All of it. Stripped from him.

Peter collapsed into a tumble of naked limbs onto the ugly green tiles. The water drummed onto his curled back as he wept — great, grotesque sounds he was glad Jason wasn’t around to hear. The hollowness in his chest had sharpened into something gnawing and hungry and Peter was certain it would swallow him whole. At its edges, pain blazed bright and hot and it fuelled the tears that he couldn’t even tell were tears or water. Both burned in searing rivulets down his face.

He missed his aunt. He missed MJ and Ned. He just wanted to hear their voices, speaking to him, acknowledging him, just one more time.

Peter’s breaths were awful, choking things, his throat closing up with grief and catching on inhaled water. But there was no way he was going to find the fortitude of mind to turn off the shower any time soon. So he sat curled up on the tiles and he wept.

— + —

He thought he might cry forever, but… eventually the sobbing fit faded.

The world returned to him slowly. Somehow, the water was still running hot — a miracle that Jason probably was the cause of — and the bathroom was cloaked in a thick cloud of steam. There was no way of telling how long he’d been in there for. His fingers had gone pruney even before he’d had his breakdown.

“Get it together, Parker,” he whispered, and pinched the soft skin of his neck, hard enough to bruise. Tired as he was, Peter barely registered the pain. His limbs were jelly, and he had to haul himself up with his sticky hands. Face planted directly beneath the shower head, he blindly finished cleaning himself, feeling a little more human with the catharsis over and done with.

A grim acceptance had settled over Peter. He was stuck here — at least until he could find a way to get back. Find himself a magic user or build himself a jumper. If Mr Stark could create time travel, Peter could totally make a multiverse transporter.

Totally…

He’d get home…

He had to.

Resolved, Peter shut off the water. He took his time drying himself and getting dressed, only to realise he’d left his fresh clothes in his room. There’d been no pyjamas in the hoard of clothing Jason had dumped on him, but he’d picked out a soft, baggy tee and a pair of running shorts that would do for sleepwear.

Sometime around that realisation, Peter suspected he lost time again, slouched on top of the toilet — lid down — and attempting to process the tangle of feelings with a butterfly hug… There was a throbbing at his collarbone that suggest he might have pinched himself again… He could only be sure of time having passed by his hair. When he came back, it had shifted from sopping wet to a slow drip of cold water down his shoulders and back. Some of the steam had dissipated too — that extraction fan worked like the little engine that could — but the mirror was still covered with thick condensation.

Scrubbing his hair with a second towel, Peter spilled out of the bathroom chased by a cloud of steam.

He froze as he saw that Jason was already back and was rummaging around in the fridge while Dog poked at his thigh insistently.

“Jason?” Peter asked, suddenly nervous. Shit. Had he heard him crying? Probably not, right? “You’re back earlier than—”

Jason turned around.

Peter’s stomach swooped with fear.

“You’re not Jason.”

The mistake was easy to make from behind: the man was a similar height — a few inches shorter, maybe — and had black hair, a similar length to Jason’s. Though their builds were different, when bent down to inspect the contents of the fridge and turned away from him, Peter didn’t notice until it was too late.

Oddly enough, his tingle wasn’t going off. Peter edged a foot backwards and held his fists up anyway. It wasn’t like this was the first time it had failed him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Okaaay,” said the man. Dark blue eyes ran over Peter appraisingly, and he was abruptly reminded of his nakedness. He didn’t appreciate the vulnerability but refused to react. “I can see how this might look—”

“And what might this look like?” Peter asked, voice kept deliberately light.

The man coughed with embarrassment. “Like a break in?”

“Right,” Peter confirmed. He cursed his unpreparedness. Short of whipping off his towel and using it as a — uh — whip, he’d been caught out. “And is it?”

“No?” The man winced at Peter’s disbelieving stare.

“Should I be scratching your eyes out?

“I’d really rather you wouldn’t. I promise, I come in peace?”

Peter wondered how the man had got in — the door was still locked — and then he noticed that the window above Dog’s bed was open.

“You came through the window?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes?”

“… Like a burglar.”

“Okay. I admit this doesn’t look promising. Look, I’m Dick, Jason’s brother.”

“Dick.”

“Yes.”

“Your name is Dick… In the year of our Lord, twenty-tw— twenty-sixteen. I thought names like that only existed in Dickens novels.”

Dick smiled beatifically. “Well. I can see how you and Jay might get along.”

“… Are you the one with the knives?”

“Eh?” Dick looked startled at the question. “Knives?”

“The one who likes knives. Jason mentioned him.”

“No.” Dick remained unnerved, which Peter thought was a bit rich for someone who’d broken in through a sixth storey window. “I’m the one from the circus.”

Circus… who in the hell was Jason? And what the hell was up with his family? Was he from the circus too? Probably not, right? Dick’s phrasing suggested the circus origins were unique to him. Peter thought he could see the resemblance to Jason with the black hair, but Dick’s jaw was more rounded, his cheekbones higher and his skin more naturally tanned.

“Right. He’s never spoken of you.”

Dick winced at Peter’s shameless dig and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m, uh, not always in Gotham?”

“I see.” He didn’t. At all.

A breeze from the open window reminded Peter he was half naked. He coughed awkwardly. “Uhm. I’m just gonna…”

Dick immediately understood and nodded, far too quickly to come across as natural. “Sure, sure.”

Peter slipped into his room and quickly re-dressed. His shirt was sinfully soft, with a faded, winged W printed on the front, and Peter took a moment to run a hand over his front in appreciation. For good measure, he put on socks too. It didn’t feel right to be meeting Jason’s brother in bare feet.

He wished Jason had thought to share his number with Peter before he left. See if Dick really was who he said he was. But Dog had evidently approved of his presence… for all that that meant.

“Where’s Jay?” Dick asked when Peter re-emerged. In Peter’s absence, he’d helped himself to various accoutrement for a sandwich, and Peter understood Jason’s reference to ‘unwanted guests’ a little better.

“Out.”

“Out?”

“Out.”

“Oh…” Dick looked only briefly disappointed at the lack of clarity, but it wasn’t like Peter could tell him even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. And ‘family stuff’ was a bit too nebulous to just offer up to a brother who didn’t seem to be included in that definition. “Wanna beer?”

Peter, with a caffeine intolerance that was barely twenty-four hours old, wasn’t sure that was a good idea. He opted for a white lie. “I don’t drink.”

Dick studied him a little more than Peter was really comfortable with. His gaze seemed to catch on the W-symbol on his shirt. Peter hoped it wasn’t like, a symbol for a hate group or something.

“Too young?” Dick asked, voice deceptively light.

“I’m just not a fan.”

Technically not untrue. Most of his experiences with alcohol had been limited to watching people make a fool of themselves (or others), becoming a threat to others, or the odd disgusting mouthful of wine or beer his aunt had parsed off to him before laughing herself silly at the faces he pulled. 

“Suit yourself,” Dick sighed, and pulled one out of the fridge for himself. “You wanna sandwich?”

Peter chewed on his lip, hesitant to accept the offer, but his tingle wasn’t going off, and other than just being incredibly awkward, he didn’t get the sense that Dick was out to hurt him. “I could eat.”

An understatement. Peter could always eat.

Cautiously, he crossed the room to sit at the breakfast bar. If Dick was going to poison him, he’d rather catch it from up close.

“So… not that you’re not unwelcome,” Peter said slowly as Dick began to butter several slices of bread — Wonder Bread, because Jason was apparently five years old. “But why are you here at…” he glanced at the time on his phone, “Ten at night?”

Shit, was that really the time?

“Ah. I work nights. And Jay’s only been back a couple of weeks, so I wanted to say hi before I went back to Blüdhaven.”

What kind of name was Bl üdhaven? New Jersey, man.

“… I see. You just missed him, then.” By at least an hour. “He said he’d be back late.”

“Yeah. I’ll have to come back again.”

“During the day.”

Dick grinned, any sheepishness long gone. “We’ll see.”

The man slathered wholegrain mustard on the sandwiches and topped them each with a generous pile of ham — but not before giving into a begging Dog.

“I didn’t know he had a dog,” Dick admitted while she lapped the ham slice off the floor. “What’s her name?”

“Dog.”

Dick blinked. Then he was laughing, loud and free enough that Peter, with his delicate nerves, jumped a little. He smiled wryly to cover up the reaction.

“I know,” Peter sighed.

“No words,” Dick chuckled. “I — seriously? Dog?”

Dog wagged her tail to hear her name.

“Yes.”

“That guy always was shit at naming things.” He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, then slapped thick slices of cheese on the ham, bread on top, and cut the sandwiches in half crosswise. It was a mark in his favour. Peter took his right off the cutting board rather than dirty a plate. He sniffed at it surreptitiously but couldn’t find anything untoward.

It was a good sandwich. Could have used something pickled, but as suppers went, it was a solid offering.

They ate in silence, Dick failing to ignore Dog’s begging (she’d found an easy mark, clearly) and Peter demolishing his sandwich like he’d never eaten before. From the continued glances his way, it was clear that Dick had something he wanted to ask, but Peter was content to wait the man out.

Eventually, Dick gave in. “So…”

He blinked at the expectant tone to Dick’s voice and realised that he’d never introduced himself. “Peter,” he said.

Dick smiled gratefully. His gaze dropped and lifted quickly in a once over. “Peter. How do you know Jay?”

Peter shrugged. “We kind of just… fell into each other.” He took another bite.

Something gleamed in Dick’s eyes. “Oh?” He leaned casually against the counter. “How long have you known him?”

“… Long enough.” Better to stay vague. Despite Dick helping himself to Jason’s apartment, it didn’t sound like the brothers were too close.

“And you’re living here? With Jason?”

Peter raised a brow at the strange tone and suddenly felt defensive. “Yeah. I live here. With Jason. He’s kind.” That sounded suitably appreciative for a grilling from a sibling, right? “He’s a good guy,” he added, just for good measure.

The gleam gleamed brighter. “Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

Peter shoved the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth rather than answer and give the game away.

Fortunately, he was saved from any further interrogation by a vibrating notice in Dick’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and grimaced at the screen. “Damn. I gotta go.”

“I’ll let Jason know you stopped by.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Dick waved off Peter’s offer with the hand still holding the sandwich, spraying fragments of cheese across the counter. “I’m sure he already knows!”

Peter frowned. Would he? Did Jason have cameras on his windows? That did seem like a Jason thing to have — doubly so in a city like Gotham. “… Sure.”

Dick scarfed down the remainders of his sandwich and fed the crusts to Dog, who was more than happy to take his scraps. Peter followed him to the front door and held on to Dog’s collar to prevent her from running straight out when Dick unlocked and opened the door.

“It was nice meeting you,” Peter said, though he wasn’t entirely sure if that was the case. The sandwich did do a lot of work at soothing his ruffled nerves though.

“It was excellent meeting you, Pete!” Dick said with more relish than Peter thought was warranted. He shook Peter’s hand enthusiastically, while Peter tried to make sure his grasp was the right side of firm. “Don’t be a stranger! You should get Jay to take you to the manor sometime! Meet the family.”

Manor?! What on Earth was up with Jason’s family? He’d have to ask him about it when he returned.

“Same to you?” Peter said. Dick grinned. Peter got the impression he’d just said something immensely funny, and he was now trying hard to hide his amusement. 

Dick’s phone went off again, and he let go of Peter’s hand. “See you around!”

“Bye.”

It was only after Dick had left that Peter wondered how the man had come in through the window when the fire escape was outside Jason’s bedroom…

It had to be a circus thing… Right?

— + —

Text only ^[HERE]

— + —

Peter did make an effort to stay awake, so he could tell Jason about the late night ‘visitor’, but only ended up falling asleep at his desk. He woke about thirty minutes later to a silent apartment and a brutal crick in his neck. He groaned, digging his fingers into the muscles in an attempt to alleviate the cramp, and stumbled away from the desk to fall, face first, into the mattress on the floor. It was as perfect as it had felt the first time he’d tested it. Peter barely had the fortitude to get a blanket over himself — the night had taken on a sharp chill — before he fell straight back to sleep.

He dreamed of Her.

When Peter next woke, sunlight streamed through the cracks in the blackout blinds and the windowsill. He suspected it was late morning, but the tragic smell of coffee was only just now seeping in through his closed door.

Peter closed his eyes again. The dreams weren’t new: these days they veered between heartbreakingly nostalgic or straight-up traumatic. He never used to dream of anyone he knew, but now… now that they weren’t a part of his life? Now they’d been torn away from him (or in Ned and MJ’s case, given up), they were all he dreamed of. His chest throbbed, even if all he could remember was the sound of her laughter and the feeling of contentment that faded as the dream dissolved upon waking. But he let himself bathe in that feeling, as much as it hurt to do so.

After all… that was all Peter had left, now. That, and the saved photos on his phone — those that hadn’t straight up corrupted.

Eventually, he came back to himself and Peter crawled out of bed with great effort. He ran a hand through the tangle of curls on his head — he really did need to get it cut — and emerged to see Jason standing by the window Dick had entered through, staring blankly down at the street below.

Peter felt immense jealousy for the cup of coffee held in Jason’s hands.

“Morning,” he said when Jason made no move to acknowledge him.

Jason turned only his head to greet him. “Hey. I hear you had to entertain an uninvited guest.”

Peter grinned, despite himself. Now that he’d slept, he could see the humour in it. “Sorry for not following your advice.”

“He’d’ve deserved it.”

“I take it he was your brother, then?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The eldest.”

“Are your siblings usually so…”

“Incapable of respecting boundaries like locked doors? Yes. Sorry in advance.” Something complicated twisted in Jason’s expression, before he turned back to watch the street, but did he point behind himself to the kitchen. “There’s cereal or toast or whatever. Help yourself.”

Peter did so and pulled the egg carton in the fridge after a brief deliberation. “I’m gonna have eggs on toast. You want some?”

“Sure. Pans are beside the stove.”

Dog, having realised that Peter was about to make breakfast, attempted to avail herself to him by weaving around his legs like a cat — no mean feat for a beast her size. He laughed at her antics but eventually rounded on her with a stern finger.

“Sit,” he ordered. Dog sat. “Stay,” he added as a follow up. Dog remained where she was, but Peter could feel her eyes on him as he cracked the eggs into the pans (he’d pulled out two, rather than crowd six eggs on the one burner) and loaded the toaster up. When he was done, he grabbed a treat from the jar Jason had shown him the day before and rewarded her good behaviour.

“She’ll be spoiled,” Jason said. He’d abandoned his post by the window to pull out the butter Peter had forgotten about, then sat on a stool to continue nursing his coffee.

“She’s already spoiled,” Peter snarked back. “Not even two days I’ve been here and I can already tell. Frankly, I think it’s a miracle she even listened.”

“Hm. True.” He whistled, short and sharp, and Dog left Peter to sit by Jason instead.

Peter worked in silence but didn’t allow his mind to wander unless he wanted the eggs to burn. When the toast popped, he handed them off to Jason and refilled the toaster.

“I only do sunny side up,” Peter warned, and chose not to explain that this was because anything more complicated usually turned into scrambled eggs when he screwed it up.

“That’s fine. There’s hot sauce in that cupboard.” Peter followed the direction of Jason’s pointing. When he opened it, the cupboard was entirely empty except for a bottle of Crystal and barbeque sauce. He turned a judgemental eye Jason’s way. “Crystal?”

“You are a fucking condiment queen. It’s that way or the highway, bud. I haven’t done a proper shop yet.”

“And… how long have you been here?”

“… Two weeks.”

Peter gave him a stare of extreme judgement. Jason just stared back and slurped obnoxiously at his coffee. Mildly intimidated and not a little bit jealous, Peter took out the hot sauce. He’d buy something better when he got his own money.

The next load of toast popped up, and he deposited the eggs on Jason’s freshly buttered toast. Gave the pans a quick rinse. Then he joined Jason with a glass of water (mournfully, he eyed Jason’s coffee) and began to eat.

Without Dick, Dog didn’t bother trying to beg for food (she seemed to have clocked on quickly that Peter would not be sharing his meals) and wandered off to her bed.

“By the way,” Jason suddenly said when Peter had moved onto his second slice of toast and egg and inferior hot sauce. “Dick apparently thinks we’re dating.”

Peter choked on his eggs. Jason whacked him on the back while Peter wheezed and struggled to remember how to breathe. There were tears in his eyes when he eventually managed to get out a strangled, “He what?”

“Don’t know what you said to him, but that’s what he’s got in his head.”

“I didn’t tell him anything!” Peter wracked his brain, trying to think of what he might’ve said that could have led to Dick thinking he and Jason were an item. “I was as vague as possible!”

“Hm,” Jason hummed, unconvinced. He finished the last of his coffee and took the time to leisurely sprinkle more hot sauce over his eggs. “Could be, that’s where you went wrong.”

“I was just trying to be polite.”

“Hm.” Jason reached out and lightly poked at something on Peter’s neck. “Could also be, he saw that and misinterpreted.”

Peter frowned. Tried to glance down but to no avail. He turned on the camera on his phone and reversed it. “Oh.”

There was the yellowing remnant of a bruise on his neck. Where he’d pinched himself. It was the right size and in the perfect position for being misconstrued.

“How’d that get there, Peter?” Jason asked carefully.

“I…” Peter quickly gave into cowardice and changed the topic. “We should clarify, right?”

Jason frowned, looking somewhat resigned but he let the matter drop. Peter glanced away, guilty.

“At this point, I don’t think it matters to him. He’s got it in his head we’re together and anything we say or do will just reinforce his opinion. He’s an ass like that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Eh.” Jason looked about as unphased as his tone, but Peter was burning with mortification. “It’s not the worst misunderstanding. And it does give you a cover.”

“Maybe. Or we could just, you know, tell them I’m your new roommate!” He groaned as he remembered something. “Oh my God, he invited me to ‘meet the family’! And you!” Peter rounded on Jason again, pointing an accusatory finger at the man. “Your family lives in a manor?”

Jason grimaced. “Ah. Yeah. Some do, but most have flown the nest by this point.”

“Most? Just how many siblings do you have?”

That Jason had to visibly pause to count was telling. “Five? Maybe. There’re a few others that could be counted as siblings, I guess. Bruce, my — uh — my foster father, he has a habit of collecting children. I’ve not been around enough in recent years to keep proper track.”

“Right,” Peter said dumbly. He couldn’t imagine such a full house — manor or not. He and his friends had all been only children, though Ned did have an pretty big extended family. “And you’re all adopted?”

Jason raised a brow. “Did Dick tell you that?”

“Dick said he was from the circus. He kinda made it sound like all of you have different origin stories. Like trading cards.”

“Ah, yeah. Most of us are. Or close enough to.”

“What even is your life, dude.”

Jason laughed. “Oh Pete, you don’t even know the half of it.”

Peter turned back to his eggs, but Jason wasn’t finished with the conversation. “We can clarify, if you’re worried about it.”

“Hmm…” On the one hand, Dick’s assumption was false. Manners dictated that they straighten out the misunderstanding. But on the other hand… it was a convenient cover. And…

Well.

Peter kind of just wanted to fuck with the guy. He had broken into Jason’s apartment without warning or invite, after all.

“Let him have this,” Peter said eventually, and grinned crookedly.

Jason immediately understood his intentions. He laughed. “You may regret that, you know?”

“I dunno,” Peter mused. “If I can sow a little chaos while I’m here, I think things’ll turn out just right.”

“Suit yourself, Pete.” Jason clapped a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder one last time before he turned his attentions back to breakfast. “When this all blows up, I’ll be sure to bring us some marshmallows.”

Peter nodded decisively. “So long as we’re on the same page.”

“Oh yeah. I can get behind a little chaos.”

They finished their breakfast in peace after that.

CLICK ^[HERE] TO RETURN From messages. The time reads 10:34PM

J:Why did you break into my apartment

Dickhead: Hes cute! Jaded. Protective. I like him.

J: ??? The fuck are you on about

Dickhead: Does he KNOW?

J: Dick

Dickhead: He has 2. Rite? If he’s living with u.

J: DICK!

Dickhead: a bit young 4 u tho don’t u think? Or is it just babyface? And a normie! Colour me shook

J: Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.

Dickhead: u 2 make a cute couple!!

Dickhead: Also, when did u get a dog?

J: I hate you so much.

Dickhead: <3

Dickhead: U shoud bring him to meet the famly some time! A would be thrilled!!!

Chapter Text

Read text only ^[HERE]

— + —

That evening, Babs was waiting for Jason’s arrival and didn’t so much as flinch when he jumped through the usual entrance on silent feet.

Or early morning, as it was, since Jason had spent most of his night at the Iceberg, checking in on the Su sisters^[2] and their operations. Business was going well — no risk of running out of gamblers in a city like Gotham — but he kept his ears peeled for any signs of the Penguin trying to insinuate himself back into the city or reclaim the Lounge. For now, there was nothing more than the typical whispers, but Jason knew it was only matter of time before Cobblepot reared his beaky nose again. In the meantime, Jason would plan and keep Gotham’s armoured underbelly as free of harm as he could manage.

He only left as most of the patrons were winding down, but not before promising to have dinner with Suzie and her mildly unnerving sisters later in the week.

“I take it you’re to thank for my uninvited guest last night,” he said to Babs in lieu of a greeting.

Barbara rolled around to smirk at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely know what I’m talking about, O. Thanks to you, birdbrain thinks I’ve got myself a boyfriend.”

Barbara laughed, long and hard. Jason waited it out (mostly) patiently. She had a good laugh… It felt like it had been a long time since Jason had heard it directed at him.

Jason didn’t mind Dick’s misunderstanding per sé — mostly because it didn’t affect him one way or the other to be considered queer — but no one in his family had shown much interest in Jason’s (very) sparse romantic exploits. It was strange to have Dick suddenly bragging about how he’d discovered Jason had returned to Gotham with a live-in boyfriend. He could already see that this was going to become a Whole Thing™, especially now that Peter had suggested they take the misunderstanding and run with it. Besides delight at the challenge of pulling one over his siblings’ eyes, he didn’t really know how to feel about the whole plan (what little of one there was).

“Could be worse,” Babs pointed out. “The batlings think you’ve pulled a B.”

Jason’s mouth fell open. Fortunately, it was hidden by his muzzle. “They what.”

“Your raiding of the manor did not go unnoticed. Their working theory is you’ve adopted a wayward teen to raise up as your protégé. They’ve been running bets on what his name’s going to be.” Babs smirked. “I take it from your reaction that’s not what happened.”

He shuddered at the thought. “No. No way. No how. Christ, they’re like a pack of suburban mums.”

“It’s been a slow couple of weeks. Apologies in advance for when Wing inevitably spills all. Things’ll really pick up then.”

“I give it a day.”

Babs grimaced in sympathy. “I could talk to him if you want.”

“Nah.” Jason slouched down into one of the roly chairs Babs left by the computers and took off the muzzle, though the domino mask stayed on. He worked his jaw with a faint grimace. “We’re gonna fuck with ‘em.”

Wicked delight sparked in her eyes. “Ohhh. I can’t wait for that.”

“You’re welcome for being kept in the know.”

“Cheap wine and fake dating conspiracies? You’ve been spoiling me with these belated birthday gifts, Jay. It makes me want to gatecrash to meet this new fake beau of yours.”

Jason chuckled. “You’d be a damned sight more welcome than Dickwing.” He nodded to the bank of screens. “What’d you find?”

The joking expression faded into something more serious, but only just. “Congratulations!” she cheered ironically, pulling up the file on Peter’s DNA. “It’s a human!”

Jason studied the documents carefully, but most of it could have been in Klingon for all he understood it. He might be an excellent detective, but he’d certainly not mapped out the human genome like some in the family.  “Meta, then?”

“Yes, but not in the classical sense. Best I can understand — because, and I’m sure this comes as a shock to you, I’m not a geneticist — his DNA’s been spliced with something inhuman. What that is, I can’t be sure…”

“Don’t bother.” Jason shut down the unspoken offer immediately. The last thing he needed was Bruce poking his nose into things he didn’t understand. Chances were he’d immediately spook Peter and then the guy would be lost to the wind. For good, this time. “Can you send the results to Simon?”

“… Amal^[3]?” Babs grinned. “I can do that.”

“I’ll call him in a few hours — it’s too early for London right now. Let him know you’ll be in touch.”

If Peter’s genes were a mish-mash of DNA, then Dr Simon Amal was his best choice for parsing out what he’d been mixed with. Not only was he an actual geneticist, but he had the added benefit of being someone Jason trusted to work discretely, thanks to his own history of self-inflicted gene-splicing.

“Any idea how he got that way?” Babs asked. She looked over the sequence map, where the abnormalities in Peter’s DNA had been highlighted in red…

… There was a lot of red.

“No,” Jason said, quiet. Those were a lot of changes to Peter’s DNA.

“Will he be a threat?”

Without hesitation, he shook his head. “No. I’m sure you heard from Wing, but he’s harmless.”

“That—” she waved at the sea of red, black and white barcodes, “would suggest the opposite.”

“Then he’s like Duke. Good. He has the potential to be dangerous, but so do we. And we can do a hell of a lot more damage. Pete won’t use his powers like that.”

Just that afternoon, after he’d returned triumphant from his interview, Peter had buried his face in Dog’s side and blown raspberries into her fur, laughing as she nipped playfully at him. Those were not the actions of someone who used their powers for evil.

“I went looking,” Babs confessed, as if Jason hadn’t already predicted she would from the moment she’d asked for Peter’s name. “He’s practically a non-entity. Sure, he’s got the essentials — birth certificate, social security, some sparse school and medical records… but that’s about it.”

“Hm.”

“I take it this isn’t a shock to you.”

Jason levelled her with a look.

“He didn’t just stumble across abilities like those by accident, Hood.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you also know that all of this has to have been forged. And it’s pretty convincing, too. Were it not for how empty the rest of his presence is, I might not have noticed at all.”

That at least confirmed Peter’s promise that he was as talented as he said it was. Jason was happy that it meant the only people likely to be busting through his doors were bats.

“Did you find him somewhere? Save him from experimentation?”

Jason kept quiet.

“Is he from the League?”

“No.” It wasn’t exactly their modus operandi.

“Something from Luthor?”

“No.” Jason had a recent history with Luthor and the children from hell^[4] he’d been asked to ‘train’ as the next super villains. For all Peter’s super strength and whatever else he definitely had up his sleeve, there was no way a guy like him would have made the auditions. He let someone mug him because stopping them would have been unfair, for fuck’s sake.

Babs made a sound of frustration. “You have to work with me, Hood! If he’s here in Gotham, we have a duty of care to ensure his presence won’t pose a threat!”

“And if it does, I’ll deal with it,” Jason said firmly. It wasn’t a lie: he would. He took the safety of Gotham seriously, for all that the bats thought he was just some bloodthirsty cowboy. “But right now, he’s just some guy who’s found themselves in over their head in Gotham.”

Barbara sucked her teeth, still unhappy, but let it go. “I’m trusting your judgement here, Hood. But if this blows up in your face, I’ll be the first to say: ‘I told you so’.”

“I’ll get it on a shirt for you,” he drawled, satisfied now that she’d backed off. “Maybe a mug.”

Babs’ phone suddenly dinged, and Jason simultaneously felt his vibrate. He glanced at the screen and sighed while Babs cackled at whatever had turned up on her device.

“Looks like Wing’s broken the news,” she snickered. “Brace yourself.”

Jason sighed again and stood up, slipping his phone back into his pocket. It continued to vibrate with unseen messages. “It’s been swell.”

“Let me know what Simon finds?” she asked hopefully, already typing back a response to whoever had messaged her.

“Sure thing.” He buckled his mask back and left her to it, jumping out into the unforgiving Gotham night.

— + —

Read text only ^[HERE]

— + —

Three days to get himself a job wasn’t a record for Peter, but things understandably felt different this time around. Hard not to when you found yourself transplanted into a completely different city and universe.

(Although, there was an argument to be made that it was not Peter’s first rodeo. After all, his return after the Blip had certainly felt like a return to a different world. And there was also the Erasure to think about. Sure, he’d not found himself in a new, foreign world, but the steps he had to take to create a life for himself — one that had disappeared — left him concerningly prepared for his unwilling immigration to Gotham.

He should have been sad about that fact, but all he seemed capable of mustering by day three in Gotham was a profound sense of resignation.)

There was also an argument to be made that the job had nothing to do with Peter, and everything to do with the man Peter had imposed himself upon. Say one thing about Jason: the man worked quickly. Within twenty-four hours, Jason had secured him an interview (‘It’s not an interview, it’s a trial,’ Jason tried to emphasise, but he was Wrong) and Peter spent the entirety of Tuesday morning fretting over what to wear for his interview later that day.

One would have thought, after the number of job interviews Peter had burned through in the past six months, he’d have been more confident choosing an outfit, but button-ups and Peter Parker didn’t mix well at the best of times. Wearing someone else’s clothes only seemed to compound the issue. They were all too short on the arms; too tight on the shoulders and biceps; or big enough he felt like a pre-teen was wearing their father’s old work shirts to the school dance. It drove Peter crazy.

In the end, he settled for a light blue shirt that wasn’t too tight around his biceps, a dark green Harrington jacket that still smelled faintly of mothballs (one of only two pieces of outwear he’d kept from Jason’s stash) and black jeans that were slightly too short but fit okay around the waist. All of the pieces, though certainly aged or ill-fitting, gave the impression of being high quality. Peter was yet again left wondering exactly what kind of life Jason had lived before he’d ended up in this (moderately) rundown apartment in Park Row.

Jason looked highly amused when he finally emerged from his room. The man was lounging with a paperback but set it down when Peter leaned over the top of the couch to try and read the blurb.

“Finally decided then?” Cold blue eyes passed perfunctorily over him. “About time.”

“I regret not washing my own clothes yesterday. It would have been so much easier,” Peter groaned and rested his head on the soft leather. Jason chuckled.

“You’ll be able to buy yourself some new stuff soon enough.”

“If I get the job.”

“You’ll get the job,” Jason said with a confidence that Peter didn’t think was deserved. They barely knew each other… even if he had impressed Jason yesterday by repairing a couple of appliances on the fritz in a fit of bored restlessness.

In a smooth motion, Jason rolled up off the couch and whistled at Dog, who immediately bounded over. Peter straightened and went to put his shoes on, passing Jason Dog’s leash when he approached the door.

Over the last couple of days, Peter had navigated Park Row with Jason and Dog several times. While he was by no means familiar with the district, he was reasonably certain he could navigate his way back to the apartment and felt leagues more confident outside.

Sure, Park Row wasn’t great, but it wasn’t like every other person he came across had the intention to hurt anyone else. Most people in Gotham appeared perfectly content to mind their own business. Their determination to treat anything out of the ordinary like it was anything but was close enough to Peter’s experience of New Yorkers that it gave him some comfort. Of course, his Tingle tingled far more than it ever did in New York (although it felt…  strange now… muffled, but not? Like his senses were working on a different frequency from before).  And of course, there was a shockingly large number of people who were definitely walking around with weapons… But otherwise, Gotham wasn’t as irredeemable as first impressions suggested.

Then again… maybe it was just the presence of Dog and Jason that tempered the behaviour of the Gothamites around Peter. Both cut undeservedly imposing figures that left many veering around them as though magnetically repulsed. Peter was both puzzled and jealous.

But anyway.

His ‘job’ (Peter refused to properly think it was a job until he saw cold hard cash in his grubby mitts) was on the blurred border between Park Row and Burnley. Peter had researched the route the night before and had already drawn out a route there, which Jason let him take them on with no small amount of amusement.

Jason seemed to do that a lot. Find Peter amusing, that was. He hadn’t decided if he should feel offended by that or not.

N&R Electronics was hunkered down beside a convenience store. It had a small glass frontage that didn’t do much more than advertise its latest sales and their opening hours. Peter spotted numerous cameras placed at various positions around the shop and the floor above to catch someone’s entrance from any direction (interestingly, he saw that one was even pointed upwards). We buy and sell new and used laptops, phones and more! You won’t find a better price in Gotham! the inscription beneath its name read in a cheery, blocky font.

They tied Dog to the light pole outside with a collapsible water bowl (Jason reassured him that no one would try to touch her) and walked in. Peter was surprised by how deceptively large the size of the shop was. The glass hadn’t given much away, which he suspected was a deliberate choice. It didn’t take a genius to guess that a place like NRE was a prime candidate for burglaries, filled full of valuable — if used — electronics.

And filled full it was. The store had everything: computers, TVs, game consoles, phones, washers and driers, hoovers and even a small music section with second-hand CDs and vinyls. Though there wasn’t a huge range to choose from, there was more than enough to make it a prime target for robberies. The security guard by the door knew it too: he eyed Peter and Jason (and the woman that came in behind them) with naked suspicion, though he let them through without stopping them. More security cameras littered the expansive store, in full view as though saying, ‘we’re watching, punk’.

Jason’s contact was the son of the owner: a mousy looking man in his mid-twenties with a nervy disposition which was only exacerbated when he saw Jason’s towering form. Peter still wasn’t sure on the specifics of his connection. Jason had been vague about his influence over Justin O’Brien, leaving it at ‘I got him out of some money troubles one time’ before promptly redirecting Peter into a conversation about his engineering experience.

Yet again, Peter wondered exactly what kind of man Jason was. ‘Bouncer’ didn’t quite seem to fit the bill, thought his late nights certainly did.

 He wasn’t sure if he was ready to ask. If he didn’t like the answer… where else could he go?

“Todd!” O’Brien exclaimed, hurrying around the counter to say hello. Peter held back a grimace when the man rubbed his hands on his jeans before offering to shake Jason’s. 

“O’Brien,” Jason said, and placed a friendly hand on Peter’s shoulder. He tried not to jump at the contact, but wasn’t certain he succeeded, judging by the amused quirk of Jason’s lips. “This is Peter.”

“Hello!” O’Brien’s forced cheerfulness was as mildly off-putting as his mildly sweaty hand. Peter watched as O’Brien took him in with a soft frown that was almost immediately smoothed away. “You’re, ah, a bit younger than I expected.”

“Baby face,” Peter said with a put-out sigh. Never mind that he was only eighteen. He knew his way around tech.

“Peter’s amazing with electronics,” Jason added with a lazy smile. “He fixed my laptop screen in minutes, and my TV when he broke it.”

The last one was only a half lie: it was it actually Dog who’d broken it. Peter took the fall though. He was a total sap cool like that.

O’Brien still didn’t look convinced, but another glance Jason’s way had him folding without so much as a peep. “… We can do a trial run. I’ve a couple of phones with shattered screens and a PC that needs a new cooling system. You think you can manage it?”

Peter nodded and tapped the strap of the backpack Jason had lent him. “I even brought my own tools.”

O’Brien was reluctantly impressed. Peter could tell. “Come out back,” he said. “We do all repairs out there. For security reasons.”

Given their location, that did not surprise Peter one bit.

Satisfied, Jason left them — Peter had already assured him he’d be able to find his way back. Yesterday, with his few remaining dollars, Peter had bought a new SIM for his phone and spent the better part of last night fiddling with the device to optimise its reception. He’d have no problem getting back to the apartment, and now that he was aware of the mugging risk, knew better than to let his guard down out on the streets.

Peter was both excited and apprehensive about walking back. He felt a bit like a child on his first day going to school without a chaperone. But he was a big boy. He’d learnt to navigate the real world for six months without a lick of support… he could handle the twenty-ish minute walk through Crime Alley.

‘Out back’ was actually the upper floor of the building, joined by a narrow set of stairs that smelled faintly of smoke. It was an open office space with several work ‘stations’, a little kitchenette and slumped couch for a break room, and a back wall lined with lockable cabinets full of boxes of spare parts. Peter was relieved to see an organisational system in place. All of the windows had heavy duty metal grates on the outside, and there were even more security cameras looking down on them.

How many times had they been broken into, Peter wondered, until they’d made themselves a system that worked?

There was a woman hunched over one of the desks wearing a set of magnifying glasses. At their arrival she pushed up the glasses and set them on the table, smoothing her hands through her hair. Peter thought she was somewhere in her late 30s, with chin-length brown hair and painfully thin eyebrows.

“Justin!” she greeted in a bright, friendly voice. “Who’s this?”

“Peter,” Justin said while Peter held out his hand for the woman to shake. Her skin felt unnaturally cool in his. “He’s here for a trial, to see if he’s as good as he says he is. This is Sandra. At the moment, she’s one of our two technicians.”

Peter glanced down at her desk: she’d been replacing a tablet battery, by the looks of it.

“Call me Sandy,” Sandra said, still shaking Peter’s hand. He withdrew and she let go seemingly reluctantly, though she masked it quickly.

“Sure,” he agreed, and her smile widened.

“If you need anything, you just let me know, okay?”

He nodded. Justin led him over to the next desk along. The set up was similar, but a little less orderly than Sandra’s. “This was meant to be Conrado’s job for when he came in tomorrow. You’ve got until closing to show us what you can do.”

Peter slid over the first of the plastic crates stacked on the desk. Inside was a phone with a screen so badly damaged he could have picked out glass with a fingernail. It was a smart phone, but of markedly lower quality than even the cheapest phones on the market in his universe. There was another box inside. The sticker on the side said that it was a replacement screen.

He smiled. It was like being a kid again, dumpster diving for tech that he could Frankenstein together into something useable.

Justin ran through the procedures for work — seemed like they ran a tight ship, checking in and out all tools, materials and products. It was probably a necessity to keep on top of it all when they were working with things that could be easily stolen and sold on. Peter listened attentively — the money for the job was good and he liked this kind of stuff. He didn’t want to screw it up from day one.

He ’d probably manage that well enough within a week.

When he’d run through all of the relevant policies, Justin let Peter get started while he sat on the couch to watch. Pushing away the mild discomfort at being observed, Peter settled in, confident he’d at least manage to pass a test like this with flying colours.

— + —

Several hours later, just before close, Peter left NRE feeling buoyant. He’d blasted through the repairs in half the time Justin and Sandra expected of him and spent the rest of the day harvesting what pieces of hardware he could from a box of tech Justin said they’d been meaning to salvage but never had the time for.

Needless to say, he got the job.

Peter could scarcely believe his luck. Three days in Gotham, with a forged identity barely forty-eight hours old that didn’t even have a completed high school diploma, and he’d landed himself his dream job. Or. His dream job for someone who didn’t have their high school diploma or a GED. O’Brien said he’d only be working part time for now, but the money was decent and promised performance incentives for good work.

Whoever the hell Jason really was, he had some amazing connections.

The only dampener on the whole experience was the odd vibes he’d got from Sandra.

As the trial had carried on, Sandra grew increasingly more fawning. She checked in on his work and showered him with bright, happy compliments. She came to see if he wanted a tea or coffee — and offered to leave and get him something else when he said he had a caffeine intolerance. She asked him innocuous questions about his accent, where he’d come from, where he’d learnt his stuff. Peter was hesitant to say that she was mothering him, but at times it certainly felt like there was something vaguely maternal in her behaviour.

He felt bad to feel so aggravated by her attentions — though he thought he hid it well. Perhaps it was simply because it had been only six months since his aunt’s death. Maybe he wasn’t used to being the centre of attention after months of being invisible. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like he deserved it, considering what had happened to his last mother-figure. Either way, it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if Sandra was unpleasant. Just a littler over-bearing with her desire to make him feel at home.

With his wallet full of cash from his trial run, Peter stepped into the convenience store next door to NRE and browsed the aisles, picking up Doritos and a bottle of OJ to sate the hunger pangs until dinner. There was a small pet food section, so Peter picked up some treats for Dog too. And a box of crackers, for Jason.

At the counter were more of those disconcerting gas masks, but Jason had thrown him a spare to keep safe any time he was out and about. It was of a significantly better quality. Peter had done his research yesterday to learn that a not insignificant number of the criminals in Gotham were partial to chemical warfare. It was a wonder that anyone chose to stay in the city when there were madmen like the Joker or Scarecrow running amok. Apparently there also used to be a number of issues with an eco-terrorist ‘Poison Ivy’, but she’d toned things down in the last couple of years. The other two however, were still a significant threat whenever they escaped from Arkham…

… That seemed to happen far more often than it should…

Peter was starting to suspect he’d had an easy run of things during his time as Spider-Man. Not a surprise to learn how many vigilantes roamed the Gotham streets when they had such vicious criminals to deal with. And to think that the majority of members on the Bat-Watch forums thought most — if not all — of their guardians were unenhanced? It was staggering and not a little bit humbling. He couldn’t imagine pre-bite Peter standing up against the likes of Two-Face or the Joker, let alone enhanced rogues like Bane or Killer Croc.

The cloud cover that had blanketed the city the past two days had finally broken by the time he emerged back on the street, most of his loot packed safely away in his bag. The setting sun cast the streets in warm gold that bounced off windows and the hard surfaces of passing cars. Peter couldn’t help but take a picture of one street corner, the shadow of a lamp post and hydrant slanting off parallel to the kerb, a car’s window flashing gold patterns across the dark pitted asphalt.

On impulse, he sent the picture off to Jason. The reply was almost immediate:

Nice view. How did the interview go?

Peter grinned, reminded of his recent success.

In twenty minutes you ’ll be looking at the new face of NRE!

Well done, Jason sent back. Still smiling to himself, Peter slipped the phone away and tore into his chips — bought with his own hard-earned cash… how novel! — to munch on as he walked back.

Now that he was walking the streets alone, he was much more conscious of the threat some Gothamites posed. His tingle was a constant prickle of awareness over his neck and shoulders, like ants crawling across his skin. Twice, his body side-stepped an attempt to brush past him and pick his pockets, all without conscious thought. It was unnerving — Peter’s instincts were certainly sharper than the average person’s, but they’d never been so attuned to danger before. Nor had his body reacted like it was disconnected from his own consciousness… Was it just another Gotham thing? Or was this yet another example of his rewritten body throwing a new surprise at him?

He resisted the urge to run a finger over his new spinnerets, stomach churning as he remembered their presence.

His good mood was rapidly slipping away when he felt it: crystal clear and razor sharp, like the plucking of a taut wire. His head snapped up and back, handful of chips halfway to his mouth.

There! Five storeys up on a rooftop. A dash of red. A flap of yellow. Then it was gone.

Peter stood frozen, staring upwards while Gotham moved on without notice. It could have been seconds. Could have been several minutes. But whoever had triggered his senses was gone.

Who was it? One of the bats? A rogue? He wracked his brains. It had to have been one of the many Robin iterations, right? But weren’t they usually out at night? That’s what all the forums said.

Reasonably, Peter knew there was no reason to suspect they were watching him. He was a non-entity in more ways than one. Chances were, they had just glanced his way while on a stakeout or something and Peter’s Tingle, suddenly dialled up to a hundred, had triggered an alert.

Without conscious thought his body stepped to the left, narrowly avoiding another someone attempting to crash into him. He caught their glare and matched it with his own, jaw set.

They kept walking.

The brief interim of sunshine had seeped away, and Peter was reminded of Jason’s warning not to hang around once things got dark. He sighed. Shoved his handful of chips in his mouth and started walking again.

He didn’t bother glancing back. Whoever had been watching was gone.

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]}

Message to The Bee-Gee. Time reads 8:37PM

The Bee-Gee: Yo what the name of your guest?

The Bee-Gee: And don’t lie to me and say they’re not there. O knows all.

Red Hood: Peter Parker

The Bee-Gee: tyvm

Red Hood: I’ll be stopping by tonight. You out or in?

The Bee-Gee: In today. Come to the clockT

^[2] In the Red Hood: Outlaw vol 2, Jason takes over the Iceberg Lounge after his ‘attempted’ assassination of Cobblepot. After the Penguin is let out of his imprisonment by Miguel Barragan (AKA Bunker), Jason leaves control of the Iceberg Lounge to Suzie Su and her sisters (they’re members of a crime family).

^[3] Simon Amal AKA Crux was a minor villain in the RHATO(n52) run. He alters himself with alien DNA in a desire to extract revenge for the death of his family.  After failing to strip Kori of her powers, Jason sends him to Arkham, where he is reformed. He returns in RHATO(Rebirth) as an ally who helps Jason create an antidote to the technovirus Black Mask had been using to control people.

^[4] In Red Hood: Outlaw vol 3, Jason is tasked by Lex Luthor to train up the next generation of villains (eventually he passes them on to Ma Gunn, who is apparently his grandma but this is never actually communicated to Jason????).  It’s a weird run, but I do love seeing Jason show off his competence and care towards these children who think of themselves as villains.

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]}

Message to Timberly. Time reads 3:09AM

Timberly: You got yourself a BOYFRIEND?!?!?!

Timberly: [Image with caption: I thought I was the only gay in the village!]

Timberly: JASON

Timberly: JASON DON’T IGNORE ME

Timberly: I MUST KNOW EVERYTHING! NOW WE’RE BOTH OUR FATHER’S DISAPPOINTMENT WE MUST SHARE NOTES

Jason: I’m screenshotting this and sending it to Steph.

Timberly: NO

Timberly: NO PLEASE DON’T DO THAT

Message from Steph to Tim. Time reads 10:44AM

Steph: TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE

Steph: WHAT IN FRESH HELL IS THIS?!

Steph: [Screenshot of his previous conversation with Jason]

Steph: PREPARE YOURSELF LOSER YOU ARE A COPY-CAT AT BEST

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.

Chapter Text

Jason rushed to his safehouse after watching Peter reluctantly disappear into the apartment block. He threw on his civvies and washed out the hastily reapplied black hair wax in record time. Hopefully, he could pass off the residual damp to running around hunting for Peter (not entirely untrue, after all). Peter was as spacey as they came, but he could be observant about the strangest (and most incriminating) of things.

Then again, Jason was increasingly certain Peter had been through the wringer even before his arrival in Gotham. It would explain why he clued into the kinds of things the average vigilante would be sweating about.

As he sped back on his motorcycle, his phone pinged from the devil himself.

I’m sorry. I’m home, the message read on his helmet overlay.

Jason gunned the engine even harder. He didn’t trust Peter’s promise to Red Hood one bit: all it’d take was a minute too long listening to those too familiar thoughts of self-recrimination and guilt, and Peter’d be out that window and on the lamb all over again.

Jason would know. He’d been guilty of the same behaviour at least once before.

(Read: many, many times before.)

A fraction of the tension in his chest eased when he roared around the corner and saw that the lights on the top floor were on, seeping into the night through the blinds. It was a promising sign, but he couldn’t shake the echo of Peter’s aborted sentence that bounced around his skull. ‘Before I—’

It didn’t take a genius to fill in the rest of that line.

A quiet part of him wondered why he even cared. Big bad Red Hood, chasing after some meta? Didn’t he have bigger things to care about?

But Gotham wasn’t kind to its metas. The soft ones even less. And he knew if he allowed himself to untangle the mess of thoughts snared around the topic of Peter Parker, he’d probably find some self-pitying tripe like just wanting to help someone the way he wished he’d been helped in the years before Bruce. A raggedly child without a home. Alone and scared and hurting, failed by every adult that crossed his path. Someone just hoping for a kind hand stretched his way.

He’d found a hand like that (never mind that it sometimes felt like a poisoned chalice. For all his ugly feeling towards Bruce now, he couldn’t deny the family they’d had then. Before). It was just the decent thing to pass on that kindness.

It did make him wonder though… was he doing this for Peter’s sake? Or his own?

In spite of his doubts, Jason was flooded with immense relief when he burst through the apartment door and found a sheepish Peter pinned to the couch by a snoozing Dog. She barely even twitched at the drama of his appearance.

“Peter,” he breathed, not even trying to hide the naked relief from his voice. The same relief he’d not allowed himself to show when he saw Tim turn the corner with Peter on the back of his bike. Red Hood had a reputation to maintain. “Thank God.”

“Um… Hi.” He sat up, dislodging Dog in the process, but she simply resettled on his lap with a disgruntled sigh.

“Are you okay?” Jason shut the door and kicked off his boots. “Hood said you seemed fine, but you ran out without your shoes!”

Not to mention his running away started with him jumping straight out of a sixth-story window.

Interestingly, Peter’s cheeks pinked. As they should for his damn lip. If he was like that with the Red Hood, Jason could only despair at the menace he’d be in front of an actual rogue…

Or worse: Batman.

(Though Jason had chosen to interpret it as a good sign at the time... If Peter had the wherewithal to be a mouthy shit again, he’d evidently walked himself out of whatever deep hole he’d fallen into when he’d run off.)

“I really am,” Peter reassured him.

Jason relaxed slightly: Peter certainly thought he was telling the truth. But Jason also remembered the amount of force he’d had to put in to hitting Peter just to get him to snap out of it. And that was with the butt of his knife, since Peter had done more damage to Jason’s hands the first few times he’d fought back.

Still… he was pretty sure Peter’s ribs were bruised. If not cracked.

He’d bring it up once he was certain Peter wasn’t going to run off again.

“Jason…”

“Mm?”

Peter had set his shoulders back, looking up at Jason determinedly. He was struck momentarily by the sight. Sure, Peter was roughened around the edges from his run, and rumpled and wind-tossed from the ride back, but there was no mistaking the rod of steel that suddenly appeared. The stare of someone who’d been forced to make the kinds of decisions that would have made the layman baulk.

If Jason hadn’t already suspected Peter had been involved in things far more remarkable than the average eighteen-year-old, he certainly did now.

Because that wasn’t the look of some chip-on-the-shoulder teen. That was the stare of someone who’d been chewed up and and spit out by life, emerging from the giant shit reality had taken on them snapping and snarling for more. For justice. For better.

It was the same kind of look he’d seen in too many of his siblings. Tim, Duke, Steph… him. All of them, children who’d been through far too much but chose to carry on in sheer defiance.

“You wanna drink?” Jason blurted out before Peter could apologise. “Tea? Hot chocolate?”

Shit... Did he even have hot chocolate?

Peter’s mouth snapped shut. He looked vaguely frustrated but nodded anyway.

“Any preference?”

“… Whatever you want.”

Jason made them chamomile tea by rote; no caffeine for Peter, they’d learnt their lesson. He caught Peter watching in heavy silence multiple times but chose not to comment.

He just didn’t want Peter to leave, he realised as he poured boiled water over the dried flowers. He didn’t want to be left alone again.

Two weeks, he reflected. Less than, in fact. Twelve days to find himself attached. Roy would have laughed himself stupid. Probably followed it up with something like ‘you’ve gone soft’. Ass.

It was only as Jason stirred honey into their mugs — more for him than Peter, whom he’d learnt had an aversion to many sweet things — that Peter finally spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice soft but unmistakably lined with steel. “For hurting you. I’m sorry.”

Jason took his time setting the honey jar aside and putting the spoon into the sink. He could see Peter watching him out his peripheral.

“Did you mean it?” he asked eventually. He knew the answer but was curious to see if that would change.

“… My apology?” Peter returned. When Jason glanced at the young man, he looked vaguely offended. “Of course I did.”

“Not the apology.” Jason waved off his offence dismissively. “I know you’re being sincere. I meant you hurting me. Did you mean to do it?”

Peter shook his head immediately. “I was caught up in a — a nightmare. I thought you were… someone else.”

Jason could take a solid punt at assuming it was someone who’d hurt Peter. Profoundly so. Asleep or not, Peter had looked furious as he’d overpowered Jason.

“Then you’re forgiven.”

“What?”

“You’re forgiven.” He shrugged as he picked up the mugs. “You had no control over your actions. Can’t blame you for that.” He grinned, sheepish himself. “I should say sorry, too. Should’ve been more careful. I knew you’re stronger than me. Shoulda anticipated you’d react badly if I tried to wake you.”

Never mind that Jason had only tried to shake Peter’s foot. If there was a next time, he’d chuck something at Peter from the door.

Peter didn’t appear convinced. Jason handed over his mug and settled on the end of the couch.

“Next time, I’ll—”

“There won’t be a next time.”

Jason shut his mouth with a click. Peter’s glare was fierce, but not necessarily directed at Jason.

“I… Staying here was a mistake,” Peter carried on. “It’s not that I’m not grateful — I am! It’s just that… I’m dangerous.”

“I know how to handle metas, Peter.”

“I nearly bit you!” Peter snapped.

Ah. So that’s what he’d been about to do. Jason would admit, he’d been a bit thrown there for a moment. Then Peter had woken up from his nightmare and Jason had pushed it aside in lieu of the more immediate concerns, like where the fuck had Peter gone and what kind of God forsaken disease he’d pick up running around barefoot in Gotham and how fast he could get to his safehouse and go hunting as Red Hood.

“I’ll admit that would be a bit off-putting.” He smirked at Peter. “Next time I’ll invest in a NERF gun. Shoot you from afar.”

“This isn’t a joke, Jason! I could kill you!”

“And have you? Killed someone, that is.”

The question threw Peter off. He blinked. The skin around his eyes flushed, like he was about to cry. Jason took pity on him.

“You’re not the devil, Peter,” he said softly. “Not even close.”

Peter looked away. Stared down at Dog, who had scarcely even twitched at Peter’s shouting, the lazy slug. “I’ve got people hurt before. Got them ki—” his voice broke. Jason watched as Peter swallowed down his grief. “Got them killed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He hid his wince. Even to his ears the words felt insincere, even if they weren’t. Jason wrapped his hands around his mug to avoid doing something stupid or awkward like patting Peter’s shoulder. Fuck. He really wasn’t made for this comforting thing.

“I’ve hurt people. Deliberately.”

“So have I.”

Peter shot him a sharp look. “It’s not the same. I could literally punch a hole through your chest, Jason.”

Jason grimaced at the image. But it wasn’t as if he’d never thought the same thing about Bizarro or Superman. It took a lot of faith to trust people with such power. Knowing how deep the goodness in them ran, like a coal seam burrowed deep into the earth, helped a great deal. He’d known Peter for less than two weeks, but he was already building a picture of the kind of man he was. Could trace the sweetness, past the fear and the grief and the guilt, to find someone so overwhelmingly bright, that Jason was scarcely better than dirt in comparison.

(See. This was why Jason felt more at home with the flawed types. The last thing he needed was to fuel the inferiority complex of a homeless thief thrust into grandeur at a far too tender age.)

He swallowed down those thoughts. “I know you’d rather punch your own heart out before you did that to another person—”

“You don’t know that!”

“Pete, you jumped out of a six-storey building because you got a bit too clingy—”

“Because I nearly killed you!”

“Because you were having a nightmare. You were acting on a dream.”

“That’s exactly the problem! I wasn’t conscious — what happens if the next time, you don’t wake me up in time?”

He shrugged. Artemis had her share of nightmares in the few instances they’d slept together. Same could be said for Essence. And he wasn’t even sharing a bed with Peter. It was scarcely a concern. “I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“You don’t understand!” Peter’s attempt to jump off the couch was thwarted by Dog and his mug of tea. Score one for the Todds. “I can’t stay here.”

“Peter,” he spoke as calm and as neutral as he could manage, certain that the slightest flicker of sentimentality would trigger a defensive reaction in Peter. He seemed intent on denying himself even the most rudimentary of kindnesses. Who did that sound like? “A nightmare doesn’t mean you don’t deserve help.”

“But—”

“If our positions had been flipped tonight, would you have blamed me? Kicked me to the curb?”

“If our positions were reversed, I would have been fine.” Jason doubted that, but he kept the thought to himself. It was clear that Peter was just clutching at straws, and his comeback was weak.

“Stop trying to punish yourself for something you had no control over,” Jason said, and firmly ignored the hypocrisy of his own statement. “I’m telling you, a bad reaction after a nightmare doesn’t make you a monster. And it doesn’t change my decision to let you stay here.”

If anything, it solidified his position. Peter and the rest of Gotham was safer with him here than elsewhere.

He held his breath as Peter seemed at war within himself. When Peter’s shoulders slumped and he hung his head, Jason let it out slowly with relief,

“It should,” Peter sighed, but the fight in him was gone. Now he just looked sad. And tired. It aged him. “This can’t happen again.”

“Then we make ourselves some more ground rules.”

Peter finally sipped at his tea and nodded, resigned.

They spent the next ten or so minutes drawing up more ‘rules of engagement’ (Peter’s words, not Jason’s) for their house share. Jason forced himself to be a fraction more open about some of his own triggers, just so it felt like more of a two-way street for Peter. He didn’t enjoy pointing out his own weaknesses and took care to mention only minor things. The kinds that anyone with a history of violence (victim or perpetrator) might share.

As expected, it was enough to sooth Peter’s ruffled nerves.

With Peter talked back from the proverbial ledge and the crisis averted, Jason felt he could breathe a little easier.

That was until Peter piped up in a deceptively innocent tone: “By the way, why does the Red Hood think we’re dating? And how does someone like him owe you a favour?”

Jason blinked. Ah. Yeah. He should’ve known he wouldn’t have gotten away with that ‘your man’ comment. The opportunity to fuck with Drake was too perfect to resist, but of course Peter wouldn’t understand the significance.

“The club I work in falls under his jurisdiction.”

The misdirect seemed to work. “Isn’t he a crime lord?”

“Ehhh.” He grimaced. “I don’t think anyone here could accurately describe what the Red Hood is.” Least of all himself. “Crime lord, vigilante, local investor and benefactor… he has fingers in a lot of pies.”

Peter tapped his finger against his mug in thought. “Including night clubs?”

He bit back a smirk. “Can’t be that surprising, can it?”

“I don’t know…” Peter’s face pulled something complicated, then smoothed out as he settled his ideas. “You know, the mafia in New York used to have a stranglehold over gay clubs? They tolerated queer people for as long as they made them money. But really, it was just exploitation of a marginalised group who had little power in society^[1].”

Something squirmed unpleasantly in Jason’s gut beneath Peter’s neutral stare. He ruthlessly shoved it down. “If it wasn’t Hood, it’d be the Penguin. Or worse: Black Mask.” Long may he rot in peace^[2]. “At least Hood acts out of necessity, not greed. I think it’s a safe bet who most in Park Row would prefer.”

“A necessary evil…” Peter hummed, gaze distant, before his clever eyes sharpened once more. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you not answering me. How’s a guy like you earn a favour from a guy like him?”

Jason sighed. Scratched the back of his head. “Pete… some things just gotta stay hidden under a veneer of respectability.”

Peter raised a scruffy brow. “Bold of you to suggest you’re respectable.”

Jason had to hand it to Peter: he couldn’t hold onto low spirits for long… that, or he was just very good at masking them. Were Jason not used to similar behaviour from Dick, he might have been unnerved by how swiftly and thoroughly he could complete the switch. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Jason retorted, aloof. 

Peter glanced pointedly up at the roof space where Jason had hidden the most dangerous of his gear. Huh. Guess he’d have to find a better hiding spot.

In the meantime: avoidance take two.

“Sorry Peter, it’s not my sordid tale to tell.”

That was better. And it wasn’t even like he was lying. He wasn’t about to reveal that the connection between him and the Red Hood was that he was Red Hood. Not only was it absolutely not something you tell a guy you’ve known less than two weeks, it’d jeopardise the identities of every bat connected to him.

“Still doesn’t answer my first question.”

Damn. Jason had hoped he'd forgotten that one.

“You guys must be pretty chummy to have told him about our… plans.”

Think fast. “It came up in conversation.”

Perfect. Idiot.

Peter’s brows rose. “You have regular conversations with the Red Hood.” He leaned over Dog’s substantial head to get closer to Jason, half amused, half genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you’re not in a gang?”

“I wouldn’t say they’re regular….”

“But it had to have been in the last week or so!”

Okay. Vague wasn’t working. Jason’s mind circled back to his prior observation: Peter could be perceptive about the most incriminating of things. Fucking inconvenient when trying to hide an alter-ego.

“Look. The guy knows everything that goes on around here. He wanted to know that the person he saw as an outsider wasn’t a threat.”

Jason didn’t enjoy Peter’s flinch at the ‘t’ word, but it served its purpose.

“Is that…” Peter chewed on his lip. “Is that why you offered? Because you thought Hood would want it?”

“No!” Jason was as surprised as Peter by the vehemence in his voice. “I offered because you looked like you could do with some kindness.” Even if I’m the drop dead last person who should be offering it. “Anything else was secondary.”

Peter looked like he was close enough to the edge that he wouldn’t even have minded if his suggestion was his original motivation. Not much of a surprise: it wasn’t the first time Peter had voiced such opinions. Jason resolved to never let him know just how much his own sheer curiosity held weight in his original decision.

“… Right.”

There was a hollow note to his response that set Jason’s teeth on edge. Not for the first time, he wondered what horrors Peter had survived. Besides the obvious universe transplant Peter was yet to admit to. The temptation to ask — to demand answers — was at the forefront of his mind. But he’d only just managed to convince Peter to stay. Again. He wasn’t about to threaten that delicate treaty to find out Pete’s sob story.

Without warning, a cracking yawn tore through his jaw. Peter winced.

“You should go to bed,” he told Jason.

He hummed in response but didn’t deny it. “You gonna do a runner while I’m asleep?”

“Only with Dog,” Peter huffed, embarrassed. “I’ve got work today.”

“Ah. Not gonna skive your responsibilities.”

“… No.”

Jason stood, satisfied. He didn’t imagine this would be the end of Peter’s commitment issues, but for now he was confident Peter wasn’t lying to him. “Then I’m gonna hit the sack. Before it’s actually daylight.”

Peter glanced out the window and winced. The first traces of dawn had crept into the night during their conversation. “Yeah. Good night. Or. Morning. Good… whatever.”

“If you’re taking Dog for a run, make sure you lock the door behind you this time.”

“Yes, mother.” Peter had the audacity to roll his eyes, like he’d not forgotten to do exactly that two days ago when he’d left for work. Jason expressed his doubt with a stare and a tilt of his head. Peter glared back mulishly. “Go to bed, dear,” he said when Jason made no move to leave.

He couldn’t help but smirk in return. “Enjoy your day, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to have dinner ready!”

He didn’t cackle at the pink that suffused Peter’s cheek, but it was a near thing, and Jason left him be, plodding across to his room. He was calculating when to set his alarm to get a solid six hours when Peter called his name. Jason paused on the threshold of his bedroom and turned to wait expectantly.

Peter had taken on that serious expression Jason had caught him wearing far too often for your usual eighteen-year-old. “Thank-you.”

“You’ve already said that. Plenty.”

“I know… but I…” Peter’s face screwed up in a grimace. “I just think it deserves to be said again.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Jason slipped into his bedroom, but still managed to catch Peter’s muttered ‘too late for that’ as he shut the door.

— + —

“Okay, I’ll admit,” Peter admitted, staring deep into the other’s eyes. “This is getting kind of ridiculous.”

They blinked. Waited patiently for him to carry on.

“It’s been nearly two weeks. I know things about me have… changed. I’m not the same person I was before… but!” He glared up at the sky — cloudy but not grimly so — until his eyes watered from the brightness. When he couldn’t bear it anymore, he glared back at his companion. “It’s ridiculous that I’ve not properly investigated these — changes. I am a scientist!”

They titled their head.

He pointed a finger. “Don’t give me that look! I may be a high school dropout, but I’m a scientist, dammit! It’s shameful that I haven’t investigated things yet! I can’t live the rest of my life with my head stuck in the sand!”

“Whuf.”

“Don’t give me that!” he cried and buried his head in his hands. “I’m traumatised! You wouldn’t understand!”

“Whuf.” A cool and wet nose poked at his hands. At his forehead, not swallowed by said hands. Blindly, he reached out and buried his face in Dog’s neck. She chuffed and snuffled at his ear.

“It’s just… it’s been hard. It makes me feel like I’m not me anymore, you know?”

Dog did not know. She made this sentiment clear when she licked his ear.

“Eww!” Peter let her go and flopped backwards into the overgrown grass. She quickly settled down beside him, happy to join in on floor time.

The long grass wasn’t the most comfortable thing to lie in. It was itchy and tickled where it swooped up over his face to brush against his cheeks. The on and off showers from the last couple of days left it damp. Moisture was already seeping through the seat of his pants. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to move. Dog had flopped down onto his arm, and she was a steady, warm weight pinning him down.

He’d walked her to the usual park, empty of children as it was a school day. That was fine: Peter wasn’t sure he was prepared to be sassed at by Jennie or her cronies. His delicate ego wasn’t prepared for its inevitable evisceration at the hands of an enterprising Gotham pre-teen. After running enough laps to tire out Dog, Peter felt loose and calm. More settled than he felt was allowed after his disastrous freak-out in the night.

But things felt… safer in the daylight. Hopeful. Solid.

It was a comfortable temperature: mid-morning (work started at eleven), right on the cusp of verging into ‘warm’ and perfectly tempered by the light jacket he’d slipped on. Today was another ‘grey day’. Gotham was apparently allergic to sunlight, and that first day he’d arrived had been an unusual phenomenon that had only been replicated one other time in the (almost) two weeks he’d been there. Today, though there was an unbroken blanket of clouds, there were a few patches that thinned and shone white as the sun and blue sky tried desperately to pierce through.

He closed his eyes against the bright glare. Dropped his free arm over his face.

“It scares me,” he confessed. He felt safe doing so, senses telling him the only creature nearby was Dog and the odd surly Gotham pigeon. “I thought I’d given up everything. My family. My friends… my name.” He swallowed. “My face. But at least I could see them! MJ and Ned. Even her grave. And I was still me.”

He twisted the wrist of his free hand. Felt the strange tug of unfamiliar shapes embedded beneath his skin and muscles. And when he poked at his teeth with his tongue, he thought maybe they felt a little sharper. The thorough inspection he’d conducted in the bathroom mirror when Jason had gone to bed had led to inconclusive results, but with the way Parker luck turned out, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if the fangs he’d nightmared up were just lying in wait for the best time to throw him into yet another crisis of humanity.

More than likely, it was just the leftovers of his nightmare leaving him paranoid. But Peter knew he couldn’t go on like this. Couldn’t just live in ignorance of how things had changed.

“I just gotta accept it,” he murmured. “This is me. For however long I’m here for.”

Still… he couldn’t quite bring himself to start on his… spinnerets. It felt like too much of a jump when he was already struggling to come to terms with all the changes that had taken place. Better to start small.

Better to start with his Tingle. Which had become less of a Tingle since he’d landed in Gotham, and more like an outer-body experience at times. The number of instances he’d sensed something, only to twitch towards it like a marionette, was frankly embarrassing. And faintly alarming. While Peter’s instincts had been finely honed before, since falling through realities it felt like they’d been sharpened into something that could possibly even be weaponised.

He didn’t understand the why or how of it, but it was about damn time he sorted out the what.

Of course… how he was meant to do that was another thing entirely. So far, the changes to his senses had resulted in an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction. A PING! You have a notification and it’s over there! Move NOW!

But that wasn’t a viable use of his senses. What if he was in the middle of a fight and his Tingle misfired? How would it react to multiple threats at one? He could get himself or someone else seriously hurt. Peter couldn’t afford to be unwittingly controlled by his senses. Getting them to work for him back home had taken time, but it felt natural. He was controlling his reactions to the Tingle, not the other way round.

Landing in Gotham was like having the rug pulled out from underneath him all over again, and he needed to go back to his senses running in the background like an antivirus. Instinctual, but trained instinct. Instincts he knew could trust his reactions to. And that was a far cry from whatever crap his head had landed in here.

A burst of warmth fell over him as sunlight sliced through the mottled cloud cover. Peter threw his free arm onto the ground. Wove his fingers through the razored blades and slowed his breathing down. His vision turned pink-red through his eyelids, then faded as the sunlight was swallowed again by clouds.

Falling into a meditative state was his best guess at getting his head around these new senses. He’d attempted it plenty of times in the past out of a not entirely misguided desire to gain some modicum of mindfulness. But usually, his brain was too jumbled and distractible. Before long he’d find himself circling around ideas he couldn’t afford to think about or giving up at the first sign of disorder.

Today felt different. Maybe because this time there was a purpose.

Or maybe it was just the soothing weight of Dog pinning his arm down.

As his body slowed, Peter let himself be swallowed up by the city. The cacophony of humanity blundered into him with all the grace of a tire iron: tires roaring over asphalt, an orchestra of speech and the ever-present thrum of electricity. A jumbled mess of the familiar and foreign. As it always was, the experience was overwhelming and his pulse picked up with the stress of it. The sensitive flesh between ear and jaw ached. His skin grew taut and hyper-sensitive.

It would have been easy to clap his hands over his ears and haul himself out of the moment. He wanted to. But Peter was determined. He hunted for more. Sought out the gentler, natural world the city had interposed itself over. Dog’s slowing heartbeat. Birdsong bursting through the chorus of a million radios. The susurration of wind through dry leaves and dying grass. And in the ground below, he found the damp scrinching of a trillion ants, beetles, worms and creatures infinitely smaller.

On instinct, Peter’s searching mind chased the sounds downwards. There was something strange about the descent, almost like—

He gasped and snapped open his eyes. Bright light immediately seared his over-sensitised retinas and the world snapped out of hyper-focus.

“Fuck!”

Dog twitched at his side but otherwise didn’t respond to his outburst. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed away the gathered moisture. His ears felt like they’d been stuffed full of cotton. Digging his knuckles into them did nothing.

Okay then. Again.

He didn’t allow himself further thought. It took more effort than before, now that he knew the price, but there’d been something… bright? The word was right and wrong all at once, but to his blindly grasping mind it had felt like holding onto a live wire. The shock of it, sharp and clear and fizzing, had snapped him right out.

But… it had felt startlingly similar to the alerts that made him twitch in place without warning.

Peter sank down — tentatively, this time — into that dark, infested place, now with a destination in mind. He wasn’t sure how, but there was a connection, travelling between him and the… thing below.

It was a shivery and indistinct connection, like a thousand gossamer threads cast in the wind. They twitched with the slightest of movements. He lunged at them but they sprang out of his grasp the moment he so much as thought of them. Instead, Peter imagined holding out his hand and letting one of the threads float into his palm. The connection zipped through him but this time he didn’t let go. Almost instantly he thought he could feel it thicken and strengthen.

Emboldened and excited by this (and he’d take the time later to freak out about the weirdness of it all. A Future Peter Problem: Current Peter’s favourite thing), he followed the thread down and this time wasn’t shocked by the effervescent network he found. Brushing his awareness against it cast a shimmering ripple outwards, like dropping a stone onto a sheet of silk drawn taut.

Peter was fascinated. He’d never experienced anything remotely similar on Earth I. It made him think of mycelium. A delicate mat of connections weaving in and out of itself, or like a—

Oh.

Idiot. He laughed and fell out of the connection. The return was just as disorienting, but he was better prepared for the drop.

It was like a web. A messy, chaotic one, closer in resemblance to a tangle web than the carefully engineered webbing on his suit. But the more he thought of it, the more it made sense. It used to be that Peter would get a general tingle across his skin — a physical sensation — or indistinct to sharpening feelings of wrongness. But recent reactions felt more like his awareness was plucked right out of thin air. Just as a spider sat in its web would feel the shiver across the silks as prey blundered across, unaware of the trap they’d stumbled into.

“Spider-Man,” he murmured. Laughed wryly. “Figures.”

New spider-adjacent anatomy (thank God it came out of his wrist and not his… elsewhere). A very real terror of some brand-new dental work. And a complete re-wiring of his alarm systems.

He rolled onto his side and rested his free arm over Dog. “It’s exactly what I was afraid of, girl. A total rewrite.”

Dog’s tail thumped lazily. She was entirely uninterested in his impromptu pity party.

But really, it wasn’t so bad. Peter could recognise that the only reason he was so distressed about the changes was because he’d had no say in the matter. No autonomy of choice. And worse: nothing left to call his own. Had these changes happened on Earth I (Peter’s new term for his home universe. Peter I, Earth I) he would have been excited.

But Peter wasn’t on Earth I anymore. He was on Earth G(otham), with no clear way of getting home.

… Home to what?

He shoved aside the familiar spiralling feelings of despair and replaced it with ruthless objectivity. If Peter ever wanted to get back to Spider-Manning, he needed to properly understand these new parts of himself. His senses and instincts were one of his greatest strengths, given how limited his actual combat training was.  Peter needed to return to that state, where he could act on instincts he could trust. Not the reactionary nonsense he was currently dealing with.

Resolute, Peter closed his eyes and chased after that web once again. 

^[1] True fact! Learn more here: https://www.thepinknews.com/2021/06/27/mafia-stonewall-inn-riots-lgbt-rights-pride-new-york-gay-bars/

Or here, if you’d rather listen: Stonewall and the History of Mafia Owned Gay Bars by Kaz Rowe 

^[2] In the end of RHATO (Rebirth) Vol. I, Black Mask injects himself with a techno-organic virus in order to control the Bizarro clone. However, this ends up destroying him by effectively leaving him catatonic (Jason could have given him the antidote, but choose not to, seeing this as a work-around for Bruce’s no kill policy). The volume ends with Jason leaving Roman under the tender mercies of Ma Gunn.

Chapter Text

An hour later, Peter jogged back to the apartment with Dog. He was running a little behind (what a surprise) but felt very pleased with himself regardless.

By no measure had he perfected anything. He still had to concentrate fully to connect. Slips in his attention left him dropping out. But he’d managed to trace other links on the web. All kinds: the steadfast and sombre glow of the trees lining the park; shivering shoals of insects and the brighter sparks of animals — mice, squirrels, birds and even some surprise lizards; the vibrant, pulsating beacons of two teenagers cutting school and exchanging a cigarette on the swings. It was… thrilling. Fascinating. Even a Peter salty over nonconsensual changes could acknowledge and appreciate that.

So far, his grasp of the web could only extend as far as the other side of the park without his head feeling like it was about to explode, but Peter thought that was still pretty damn cool. He was excited to get to work and test it out with more humans around. Hopefully with practice, he could get to a point where he could tap in and out at-will while his connection ran in the background. It all seemed far-fetched at that moment, but with enough work he hoped he’d find a way to make it work.

They made it back to the apartment in record time. Inside was quiet and dark, the blinds drawn. With Jason sleeping off the night shift, Peter took care to be as quiet as possible, but a fine-tuning of his hearing caught the hitch of Jason’s breathing anyway. The man slept lightly. Peter breathed a voiceless ‘sorry’ at Jason’s closed door.

Hurriedly, he changed into his work polo and made sure Dog’s bowl was filled with fresh water, then he was off. He took the stairs three or five at a time: the last thing Peter needed was a strike against his name for tardiness, less than two weeks into his new job. Peter liked working at NRE, even if he did find Sandra kind of overbearing and distracting (Sandra liked to talk), and Conrado was hot and cold.

To make up for lost time, Peter jogged half the way there, then walked the last part to cool down. His initial assessment of a ‘grey day’ had been wrong. While he was inside, the light breeze had temporarily cleared off the clouds, though the sun bore little heat. Even so, Peter felt bright and full of energy by the time he reached the store. He skipped inside, smiling broadly. Kyla, who was working the register, did a double take at his appearance.

“Gross,” she sneered without heat. “Your New Yorker is showing.”

“Ah, sorry.” Peter tried to school his face into an angsty frown, but he felt too pleased with his discovery of the web to manage. “Is that better?”

“Somehow, it’s worse. Thank fuck you’re a tech grunt, or you’d scare away all the customers.”

Peter glanced pointedly around the store. There was a single woman with short blue hair browsing the music corner. She’d glanced his way when he’d first entered, but otherwise ignored them. “I feel like the sun’s already done that. You Gothamites are something else. What? Afraid of a little vitamin D?”

“I hear it gives you rickets,” Kyla said sagely. Peter rolled his eyes. She nodded to the back room and tapped at the watch on her wrist. “Conrado’s not here today, by the way. Sandra asked me to send you up ASAP, so hop to it.”

Peter laughed and left her to it, passing through the back door and taking the steps two at a time. Alerted by his footsteps, Sandra met him at the top of the stairs with a broad smile.

“Peter! Just the person I wanted to see!”

“Hey, I’m not late, am I? I heard Conrado’s not in, but no one asked me to come in earlier.”

“No, no!” Sandra waved off his concerns and ushered him through into their usual workspace. It felt brighter than usual with the sunny weather. “You’re fine. But I do want to know… how good are you with coding and operating systems?”

“About as good as I am with hardware.” Maybe even better. He figured he probably shouldn’t explain that he’d been slowly reverse engineering a real AI, though.

Sandra clapped her hands with delight. “Fantastic! I’m going to get you completing Conrado’s work then. It’s a time sensitive job and Connie’s off tomorrow too, apparently—” Sandra’s expression twisted with what Peter thought might have been resentment, but it was smoothed away so fast he couldn’t be sure, “but I can’t just leave it until Monday.”

“If you show me what to do, I can get it done,” he hedged.

Sandra’s smile this time felt a little cold, but maybe that was just her eyebrows. They were particularly pointy today.

He hung his backpack on the back of his whirly chair and followed Sandra to one of the locked cabinets by the kitchenette. The locks needed a bit of a jimmy but Sandra managed fine, used to their eccentricities. Inside was a cornucopia of tech: phones, tablets, digital cameras, laptops and external hard drives. None were in their original boxes, quite a few lacked chargers, and all showed evidence of having been used in the past. Scratches, dings, a few shattered screens or the remnants of stickers. Each one was in a baggie and neatly labelled with a date and code that matched with NRE’s database.

“Grab a crate, Petey. It’ll be easier.”

Peter did as he was told while Sandra pulled out a little notebook and began selecting items from the shelves that matched the numbers she’d scrawled across. Three laptops, five phones and a hefty digital camera. She placed them all into Peter’s crate, then gave him a look of sympathy when she picked up the DSLR.

“That’s not too heavy, is it?”

Peter grinned. “It’s fine.”

No need to tell her he could pick up the whole cabinet with one hand.

He took the items back to his workspace and set the crate down. Sandra joined him with a work laptop and a handful of cables. She stood close enough he could smell her perfume: a powdery floral that burned the back of his nose. Hopefully, he wouldn’t sneeze all over the electronics.

“It’s a fairly simple task,” Sandra explained as she powered up the laptop. She picked out a phone to start with and plugged it in. “Mostly just restoring it to factory reset, but we have a special program to run first. Make sure there’s nothing dangerous lurking on the device that might escape that.” She gave him a sardonic look. “This is Gotham, after all.”

He raised a brow. “It’s that… common?”

“You’d be surprised. One time, we attempted to reset a tablet and it bricked the whole PC.” She motioned to the taskbar on the laptop. “We keep this air gapped, just in case.”

Peter kept his expression carefully neutral. He didn’t really see why they needed to run their own custom program for that, but maybe it was a quirk of technology here.

Sandra walked him through the process of starting up the program and clearing out the phone. It was a time-consuming but simple task. The laptop chugged away, the program ploughed through the phone’s OS and occasionally paused for manual input from him. It took a good forty minutes to finish the reset. He didn’t see why Sandra thought it was an important task; in that time, Peter had already removed a cracked screen on a tablet and started on the fiddlier task of repairing its speakers. It looked like the poor thing had been run over then dumped in a river.

“Where’s all this stuff even come from?” Peter asked as he disconnected the phone and exchanged it with another. Sandra, who’d been making them both coffee ( ‘I bought decaf, just for you!’ Peter didn’t have the heart to say no), paused in her pouring.

“We-ell…” she said and resumed her coffee-making. “We’re an electronics store on the edge of Crime Alley… when people hit hard times, they come to us and sell what they don’t need or can’t afford to keep anymore.” Sandra chuckled wryly as she grabbed the creamer from the bar fridge. “When you’re the only electronics business that’s managed to stay afloat this end of Gotham, you find there’s a hell of a lot of things people want to sell.”

Peter glanced at the laptop on the top of his pile. It still had a few stickers left on the outside. They were all symbols he recognised from the Justice League roster, though there was a conspicuous absence of the Batman. He would have thought someone would peel them off before selling it.

It also didn’t have a charger.

He sensed Sandra’s approach and didn’t flinch when she put his mug down on his bench (Peter had been intermittently dipping into the web on the theory that frequent exposure would make the connection more instinctual).

“We always check the provenance of the things we buy,” she said firmly, having picked up on Peter’s unvoiced misgivings. “It’s all above board. Promise.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head and smiling ruefully. “It’s just… Gotham, right?”

“Gotham,” Sandra agreed, and patted Peter on the shoulder. She tapped a blunt nail on the laptops. “Let me know when you get to those.”

“Sure.”

Sandra left him to it, and Peter shoved aside his suspicions. Things were probably fine: Jason had been the one to hook him up with this job, after all. It wasn’t as if he was going to throw Peter to the wolves when he’d already warned Peter about the number of fronts that ran in the city.

Everything was fine.

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

— + —

Jason had prepared for this moment. He knew it was only a matter of time. But as Peter’s stay had turned from days to weeks, he’d unintentionally lulled himself into a false sense of security.

Rookie error.

In hindsight, that was probably the entire reason behind their conspicuous silence. And like a mook, Jason fell for it.

Like a mook, Jason picked up the call without thought, not even pausing in his stride. Dog kept pace beside him, alert and watching the street.

“Yo.”

“Good afternoon, Master Jason.”

He didn’t stumble at the familiar voice. He didn’t. But it might have been a close thing. So it wasn’t Peter calling. Damn.

Then again, it wasn’t like Jason would have not picked up. But he would have been better prepared.

“Alfred. Not like you to call.”

“Well, I do what I must when no one thinks to call.”

It was fine. Alfred was safely ensconced in the manor. He couldn’t see Jason’s guilty wince. “It’s not even been a month.”

“On the contrary, it has been thirty-three days. And yet, only today did I learn that you now have a paramour.”

The blood drained from his face. This was definitely Timberly’s petty revenge for last night.

He glanced down at Dog, blissfully unaware of his minor crisis. It was one thing to fuck with his idiot siblings. They had no concept of boundaries and could do with some humbling (and yes, Jason absolutely recognised the hypocrisy of that statement. He just didn’t care, Your Honour). But it was another thing to pull the wool over the man who may as well be his grandfather. Jason had not thought the whole fake dating ruse through as much as he should have. Dammit Peter.

“Ah.” He contemplated spilling all. But while Alfred could appreciate a good subterfuge, Jason wasn’t convinced he’d agree to lying to Bruce about it. And there was no way Jason would ever be ready to share any kind of in-joke with Bruce any time between now and near infinity, so… “It’s… kinda new.”

“New enough to live together? You must be serious about them.”

It took all his considerable self-control to keep walking at a standard pace instead of stalking with agitation. Meanwhile, Dog continued to keep up a merry trot at his side, smiling her doggy grin at anyone fortunate enough to pass them by.

“It’s been… intense?”

“Master Timothy said he was quite the character.”

“Well, he definitely knows how to keep me on my toes.” Literally.

“Does he know of your—”

“Night life? Sure, he’s plenty supportive of the night shifts I pull at the club.”

Alfred’s silence could have been anything from disapproval at having been interrupted, to an acknowledgement that Jason was out in public. Jason decided to offer a touch more clarification.

“He’s not part of the family business. But I don’t know if it’ll stay that way.”

That was about as transparent as Jason was willing to be. Peter was a meta (probably) from an alternate universe and Jason was growing increasingly certain that he’d been using his powers in some capacity. Based on how cagey he was — and it was a practiced cageyness, not one borne out of necessity from his impromptu transplant — Jason was confident in thinking it was an unofficial capacity. Of the vigilante kind. He suspected it was only a matter of time until Peter tried out whatever he’d been doing on Gotham.

And Jason would be ready to either shut him down or bring him into the fold, based on how competent Peter proved himself to be.

Starting with that bargain bin Radio Shack.

“I see,” Alfred said, entirely opaque. No one could master perfect neutrality in their voice like Alfred. “Family dinner is from five on Sunday. I will be setting a plate for you and your Peter.”

“Eh? What? Alf—”

“As much as I regret needing to specify, Master Bruce has been in Metropolis for a scheduled business meeting the past week.”

Jason grimaced. “Alfie, I don’t think it’s the best—”

“I would like to meet the man who has grabbed your attention so. Give an old man his pleasures, Master Jason.”

He scrubbed at his eyes beneath his sunglasses. Saying no was option but it would only prolong the inevitable. Too many people forgot that Alfred Pennyworth was the man who had raised Bruce and the rest of them into the lunatics they’d become. But not Jason. Alfred might back down temporarily if he said no. But he’d merely take another route to get his way.

Bruce’s absence did sweeten the deal. Jason wasn’t ready to debride the festering wound of anger and grief as the rooftop flashed before his eyes. His cheek throbbed with phantom pain, chest constricting with the remembered fear that this time Batman might actually toss him off the building, adoptive son be damned.

He smothered the memories. While Jason would rather avoid the family meal entirely, it might actually do Pete some good. Just because Jason was the family pariah didn’t mean Peter had to suffer the same. Besides work, Jason and Dog, Peter didn’t exactly have anyone to speak to. He could do with some more people in his life, even if they were all secret vigilantes. Not to mention, Peter pulled off the kicked puppy look almost as good as Dog. It was the exact kind of heart-wrenching, mournful gaze that’d have Alfred doting on him in seconds. The guy could use some smothering and heaven knew Jason was not the man for that.

 Damn Alfred and his shameless exploitation of Jason’s pressure points. Who did he think he was? The butler of the Bats? Geez.

“Does he have any allergies?” The question cut through Jason’s thoughts with Alfred’s usual surgical precision.

Jason sighed heavily. “He’s got a caffeine intolerance.”

“I shall ensure our supply of caffeine-free drinks are plentiful, then.”

“Sure. Fair warning: he eats a lot. More than you’d think from the look of him.”

“Oh dear. Another to eat us out of house and home. However shall we survive.”

Jason bit back a surprised laugh.

“There is never a risk of running out of food on a Sunday.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Jason said under his breath. He’d not actually tracked how much Peter could eat, but it seemed he was always snacking or grazing in between meals. If he took Pete to one of those dumb eating competitions, he’d probably make good money betting on him.

‘Fast metabolism,’ Peter had shrugged when Jason asked. It explained why he’d been so underweight when he first fell into Jason’s living room. With a regular diet and income, Peter had been slowly gaining weight. The hollows beneath his cheekbones were filling out nicely.

“So, I shall see you and your Peter, Sunday evening? Come earlier and I shall make you an afternoon tea.”

He frowned. “Alfie, I didn’t say—”

“Humour an old man, Master Jason.”

Ugh. Jason was weak. “Don’t wait up for us.”

“Very well.” As unflappable as Alfred usually was, Jason was sure he could detect a trace of smugness in his response. “Oh. I do hope the mattress has been serving you well, by the way.”

Jason was still choking on that response when Alfred said his goodbyes and promptly hung up.

Somewhere through his conversation, Jason had stopped walking without noticing. He blinked down dumbly at Dog, who ignored him in favour of a good scratch.

Well. The whole fake dating thing was Peter’s fault in the first place. No time like the present to see just how far his new houseguest was willing to take a joke. Because there was no doubt that his siblings were about to be as trying as they could possibly be. Heaven forbid if Jason ever did have an actual partner.

His phone pinged in his hand and Jason cursed at the message that popped up. It was from Peter: yo, u did say u were picking me up, rite?

Jason didn’t bother responding. He was less than a block away. With a heavy sigh, he pocketed his phone, and they took off at a leisurely jog to NRE.

— + —

Peter was chatting with the girl working the counter at NRE when Jason arrived. He’d slung his backpack over a shoulder, already clocked off for the day, and grinned when he saw Jason stroll in with Dog.

“There’s my favourite girl!” he cooed and dropped into a squat to greet Dog. “Who’s my best daughter? It’s you! Yes it is!”

Jason shared a look of mutual understanding with the girl. It was a ‘this guy’s an idiot, but it’s somehow endearing, don’t tell anyone’ Look. The kind of Look Gothamites had for an elite group of outsiders. And Peter screamed outsider. In fact, the only thing that could have remotely suggested Peter belonged in the city was the semi-frequent haunted stare that crept in when he wasn’t paying attention.

She coughed and glanced down at Peter, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. Dog’s tail was wagging so hard it’d practically vibrated out of existence, and Peter had his face buried in her neck while she attempted to lick at every inch of exposed skin. It had quickly become Peter’s standard greeting for Dog and absolutely had not become the source of the Look.

“Has he been a good boy?” Jason asked the girl — her badge said her name was Kyla.

Kyla rolled her eyes. “He was late.”

“By a minute!” Peter protested, popping his head up in defence. He was immediately assaulted by Dog’s licking. “Oh ew — stop, girl! I didn’t even get in trouble!”

“That’s ‘cause Sandra likes you,” Kyla scoffed. “Consider yourself lucky: if that was me, she’d have been on my case the next three weeks.”

Jason assumed she was talking about Sandra Cowell. In her late 30s. Divorced — something to do with her husband’s less than savoury past. She managed repairs and refurb. Played favourites. Just as well she’d taken a shine to Peter. Peter looked like he needed a few wins.

“She’s not that bad, is she?” Peter asked, straightening from his crouch. He scrubbed at his face with the collar of his shirt, exposing a thin strip of pale gold skin above his jeans.

“She’s whatever,” Kyla said, warily noncommital. Jason added her hesitant judgement to Cowell’s dossier.

“Read to go?” he asked.

“Yup.” Peter slung his arms through both straps of his backpack and waved to Kyla. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she drawled. “Don’t get shot on the way home.”

Peter’s face spasmed. “You Gothamites are weird as hell.”

“And yet, look who’s willingly living here.”

“I wouldn’t say it was willing,” Peter muttered lowly as they left, then winced when he realised what he’d said. He looked up at Jason guiltily. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything.”

“It’s fine.” Jason wasn’t offended. And it wasn’t like it was untrue. Whatever his origins, Peter certainly hadn’t come here willingly, and even if he’d been friendly about it, Jason could see that he’d more or less pressured Peter into living with him. But it was just a practical choice: until he knew for sure that Peter was safe (for others or himself), he didn’t want the guy wandering around alone. After… yeah. Peter could go his own way after.

His bruised throat ached beneath his collared shirt. Jason ignored it.

“Good day?” he asked once they were outside. There was a pleasant warmth in the air that left Jason regretting his choice of jacket. Should’ve gone for the denim. Oh well.

Peter shrugged. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Mhmm.”

Jason wondered if this was what Bruce felt like, trying to squeeze a conversation from the many teens who’d passed through his manor. Then again, Peter was legally an adult who now had gainful employment… could be, there was something on his mind.

When he snuck a glance at Peter, his suspicions were confirmed. Peter was staring absently at the street with a preoccupied, troubled look. And yet somehow, he didn’t make a single misstep. Peter moved with uncanny grace, twisting thoughtlessly out of the way of anyone who passed too close.

His absent eye also meant he missed their tag-along.

“Well,” Jason hummed, and nudged Peter’s hand with Dog’s lead. He took it from Jason without comment. “If you end up with a problem, come to me.”

“Sure,” Peter drawled, snapping out of his daze. He smirked up at Jason like the shit he was. “Though I’m not sure how many problems I’m going to come across that’ll need all guns blazing.”

“In Gotham? You’d be surprised.”

Peter snorted with laughter and Jason’s chest flushed with pleased warmth. Then he remembered the conversation he’d had on the way here and the feeling dissipated. Fuck.

“Speaking of problems…” He grimaced. How the hell was he meant to phrase this?

“What?” Peter glanced up at him sharply. “What’s wrong?”

Just get it out. You’re freaking him out. “We’ve been invited to family dinner. Sunday.”

“Oh.” Peter’s laughter was soft and mocking. “Is that all?”

“You don’t understand Pete. My family isn’t… normal. They’re a bunch of hypercompetent dumbasses with a compulsive need to know everything—”

“Well that’s a fun contradiction—”

“And they will be subjecting you to the third degree. You won’t even notice they’re doing it.”

Peter’s brows jumped high. His dark eyes twitched to something across the street, then back to Jason. “I can handle an interrogation or three. Or we could just say no?”

“Mm… No dice.”

“Eh. Then it’s a good thing I’m not working Sunday. Oh. Also, I’ll be working earlier tomorrow. Staff absence.”

It figured Peter would roll with the punches. Despite the few rough patches early on (and last night) he’d proven himself to be… concerningly adaptable and resilient. As in, Jason was concerned about what must’ve happened in Peter’s life to make him so hardy. You didn’t just roll over and accept the crazy unless that was all you’d ever known. At some point, crazy wasn’t crazy. It was just your normal.

“Are they friendly, at least? Dick seemed fine to me. If allergic to doors.”

“Yeah, they’ll probably be fine.” Jason frowned in thought. “Maybe not Damian… He’s a prickly kid. Bribing him with Dog should do the trick.”

“See! We already have a game plan,” Peter said sweetly. His tone immediately had Jason on edge. “We take your family for a wild ride, while they think they’re pulling the wool over my eyes.”

Jason bit back a grin. “You’re a cheeky fuck.” Without thought he reached up and mussed Peter’s hair, laughing as the younger man squawked with outrage.

“I’ll be getting you back for that,” Peter warned him, eyes glinting dangerously. Jason was suitably intimidated (not intimidated at all).

“I’m sure… There’s something else to consider,” Jason said slowly, thinking back to Babs’ note about Peter’s conspicuously empty social media history.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Your shit awareness of current events.”

“Oh!” Peter looked up at him smugly. “I’ve got a solution for that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup! My parents were doomsday preppers.”

Despite his best wishes, Jason’s mouth fell open. “Eh?”

“Doomsday preppers! Y’know, the crazy folk who think everything’s a conspiracy and the world’s gonna end any second now. Most of them live off the grid. Try to be self-sufficient.” Peter was grinning like he knew exactly how ridiculous his backstory was. “It could explain why there’s so little documentation of me or my family… if they thought to go looking. Will they go looking?” He carried on without waiting for Jason to reply. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it. Anyway, story is, I ran away from home and have been slowly rehabilitating myself.”

“What the fuck, Peter.”

“It’s a great excuse!”

“It’s the story of a madman. How you gonna explain your fluency in pop culture? ‘Cause you can’t tell me you’re gonna manage to behave yourself around my folks.”

Peter’s face fell, but he quickly mustered himself. “Ah… I’ve been working hard to fit into modern society. And I watch a lot of TikTok?”

“The fuck is TikTok?”

Peter actually stumbled with shock. Jason shot out his arm to steady him.

“They don’t have TikTok yet,” he caught Peter whisper, which… huh. Was there actually time travel involved with Peter after all? Was he wrong after all? “What’s the point of living?”

Drama queen.

“Is this a future thing?” he asked, because fucking with Peter was fun. Peter’s attempts at subterfuge were adorable.

“Yep!” Peter said, falsely bright. “Totally a future thing. That’s it… Maybe I could invent it anyway?”

“Sure, if you wanna be unmade or whatever.”

Peter didn’t look particularly alarmed. Further confirmation he was less a time traveller and more a dimension jumper. He settled his earlier doubts. Maybe it was a bit of both. Not like that was any less believable than Peter falling though his universe into Jason’s.

Jason chose to return to the original topic. The whole off-grid thing could explain why Peter’s identity was so sparsely furnished. Still… “How’re your survival skills?”

“Oh. Terrible.”

Jason snorted. This guy.

“But, it’s not like we’re gonna go camping on your crazy rich dad’s land, are we?”

That was true. The most incriminating thing to happen would be Damian taking Peter out to meet that damn cow. “You ever met a cow before?”

“A… cow?”

“Why do you say that like you’ve never heard the word before?” He nudged Peter in the ribs and was nudged right back. “What? They don’t have cows in the future?”

“None.” Peter said, so seriously, and with such earnestness that Jason might have been fooled if he didn’t know him better. “Cows… they’re the animals that eat grass, right?”

“And make milk.”

“M—ilk?” He said the word slowly, like he was trying it on for size. Maybe they’d get through Sunday dinner in one piece after all. Jason huffed and ruffled Peter’s hair again. The strands were disarmingly soft.

Peter slapped his hand away, scowling. “I will dye that skunk patch pink, mister. So help me God.”

“Oh no. I’m quakin’ in my boots.”

“You’re not even wearing any boots!”

“Exactly.”

“I can be terrifying!”

“Uh huh.”

“I can!”

“Sure you can.”

“I don’t appreciate you patronising me.”

 In all fairness, Peter last night had been kinda freaky. Not enough to scare Jason, but it was a forcible reminder that Peter was a meta with super strength. One stuck in a nightmare. He withheld the urge to touch the bruises, hidden behind makeup and the collared shirt. No need to send Peter spiralling into guilt all over again.

The banter flowed between them like water. The easy ribbing had become a mainstay of Peter’s residence and Jason was surprised by how much he enjoyed it. It wasn’t the big brotherly tone between him and Bizz, or the sharper and condescending riffing with Artemis or Roy. But it turned their evenings — before Peter went to bed and Jason went out for his ‘security job’ — into something he looked forward to. Jason hadn’t been sure he’d find that sense of companionship again — not after the Outlaws collapsed for a third time — but there he was, sharing a meal with Peter; or destroying him when they watched reruns of Jeopardy after dinner; or watching Peter attempt to make a grilled cheese without burning it.

It seemed too, that the companionship did Peter some good. In the past week, Peter had begun to open like a Jericho rose^[2], unfurling beneath Jason and Dog’s not so tender attentions. He’d become more present, less likely to tumble away the moment Jason turned his back. He smiled more, became a little less self-conscious, more adventurous. Jason was certain now that Peter had been in a very bad place before he came here. He shuddered to think what might’ve happened had Peter turned up anywhere else in Gotham.

They were dangerous thoughts to have. Jason was a lone wolf: past experience fought hard to remind him of that. Not even love could let him keep someone, as Artemis had kindly demonstrated for him.

 Sure, he worked well enough in a team, but the permanent camaraderie the rest of his family had just wasn’t there. Partly, that was Jason’s fault. He wasn’t around enough. When he had been, in those earlier years, he’d been… volatile. Unpleasant.

Even now, years after he’d blown back into Gotham, angry and hurting and demanding justice from someone incapable of providing it, there was an impenetrable wall between Jason and his siblings. And he didn’t think it had been built by only himself.

But… it was mostly built by him…

Sooner or later, Peter would find his way back home. Jason would be alone again. That was fine. It was the way things were meant to be.

But until then… he’d take the companionship where he could get it.

They stopped into the little supermarket a couple of blocks away from the apartment — the entire reason Jason had even picked Peter up from work. It was grimy, the ceiling was water stained, the employees appropriately surly, and buying anything on special was a surefire way to end up puking your guts out, but it served them well enough.

They scoured the shelves for enough foods to keep them fed for the next few days; a tall order, given Peter’s metabolism. Which ice-cream to buy elicited a minor argument (‘Neopolitan is the best of all worlds’; ‘But the salted caramel’s on sale!’), and the superiority of chicken thigh over breast meat in a quesadilla brought up another (as if Peter I-Burn-Everything-I-Cook Parker was allowed any form of opinion on the matter), but they came to a compromise on each with no blood spilled. Peter tried to take more than his fair share of the bags afterwards, but Jason refused, citing it was still his turn to hold Dog’s leash.

Peter gave in quickly, but he was smiling as he did so.

And yet, despite their good mood, Peter grew increasingly twitchy as they walked back, laden with groceries. Finally, Jason had enough. He tossed all his bags over one arm and grabbed Peter’s sleeve and pulled him and Dog to a stop.

“Alright, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

Peter pulled a face at the idiom and went to glance behind only to abort the gesture. Ah. His grimace deepened. It was kind of adorable with his baby face. “You… might not believe me.”

“Humour me.”

“Fine.” The sigh that escaped his mouth could have felled a super. “I think there’s someone following us.”

Jason laughed, though he wasn’t surprised to find Peter had noticed. Observant little shit. “Oh. That. Yeah, there is.”

Peter’s dishevelled brows jerked up. “You knew?”

“Yeah.” He leaned close, curling his mouth in the way Roy had once told him gave people the wrong idea. Predictably, Peter’s breath hitched at Jason’s sudden proximity. “Don’t turn around. But it’s my sister. Or, one of them. Maybe. Things move too fast sometimes to keep track.”

Peter straightened. Jason grabbed his shoulder before he could turn around anyway. “Sister?”

“She’s shy.” A bald-faced lie. One Jason made sure she could read straight from his lips before leaning in again, so Peter shielded his mouth from view. “You’re the family’s hot topic. It’s been a slow coupl’a weeks.”

Peter’s shock morphed into that sly, chaotic look that would have looked right at home on any of the Robins. He took a step closer to Jason, hesitated, then rested the hand with the leash on Jason’s chest. To the casual observer, they would have looked like they were sharing a little intimacy, but Peter’s touch was so light Jason didn’t even feel it until he breathed in. “So, Operation Tomfoolery is a go?”

Jason couldn’t stop the wolfish grin. He mimicked Peter with a deceptive hand to his waist as he leaned in to speak direct into Peter’s ear. “It’s a go. But we will talk boundaries when we get home.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Peter said mockingly and pulled away. His cheeks were faintly pink. Jason should probably get them out of the sun. It was uncharacteristically warm for October.

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]} Gotham Girlies 11:28AM

11:12AM Harpy: Big surprise. Just saw J’s boyfy. Adorable nerd. Needs a haircut.

11:13AM (C)Ass: [eyes emoji]

11:13AM Steph Infection: WHERE. HOW. TELL ME ALL

11:14AM Steph Infection: PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN

11:16AM Harpy: No can do. Not a stalker like ur ex. Some of us have principles yannow.

11:16AM Harpy: But.

11:18AM Harpy: happened to be at NRE, Burnley. He works there apparently.

11:19AM Steph Infection: Verdict?

11:21AM Harpy: 100% out of J’s league. He’s happy, for one.

11:23AM Steph Infection: yeah? Tim met him last nite. Said he looked rough. Like he’d been thinking abt taking a long swim. In Gotham. He covered it well once Tim arrived tho

11:24AM Harpy: oh god. Not another one. Why can’t any of these men be well adjusted?!

11:26AM Barbie girl: [picture of Peter eating a dorito on the streets]

11:26AM Barbie girl: behold. The cold, dead eyes of a killer. He and J are made for each other.

11:27AM Steph Infection: GIRL DID YOU HUNT THROUGH CCTV FOR THAT YOU ABSOLUTE BEAST

^[2] A plant that can survive almost complete dessication but opens up with water.

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]} Gotham Girlies 5:45PM

5:34PM Steph Infection: [partially cut off image of two men walking a pitbull. Only their lower torsos are visible]

5:35PM Steph Infection: Okay first of all. When TF was sum1 gonna tell me J had a dog

5:36PM (C)Ass: :O

5:39PM Steph Infection: I cannot. They’re too cute. @Harpy ur rite though, he’s way out of J’s league

5:41PM Steph Infection: Theory: Peter is only with J for the dog. And J’s crime empire. But mostly the dog

5:44PM Barbie girl: he’ll be stealing her in the divorce

Chapter Text

After dinner, when Jason and Peter were safe from their ‘stalker’ (Jason’s inverted commas) and sated with cheesy quesadillas, rice and roasted vegetables, their discussion of boundaries went a little something like this:

“Sooo. Boundaries?”

“Boundaries.”

“Those things your family are allergic to.”

“Yes. I wanna to say that this afternoon—”

“And last week.”

“And last week — will be a one off, but I'll be honest Pete, they're crazier than a bag of bats—”

“Isn't it cats?”

“Huh?”

“Bag of cats. Not bats. You’re the literature buff. Shouldn’t you know this?”

“Would you shut up and let me finish a goddamn sentence?”

“…”

“Thank-you. As I was saying. They’re crazier than a bag of bats. And you're interesting ‘cause you're new. So they’ll be popping outta the woodworks like crazy.”

“So, we’ll have to be on our toes if we want them to think we're madly in love.”

“…”

“Don’t grimace at me like that. You agreed! You said you’d bring marshmallows.”

“I did. I will. I’m moreso objecting to the ‘madly’ part.”

“A situationship, then?”

“A situatio— Jesus Christ, is that what the young people say these days?”

“Wow. What are you, eighty?”

“Sometimes I feel like it. But no. I don’t think a ‘situationship’ is gonna fly. I ain’t the kinda guy who’d let a relationship like that lead to us sharing an apartment. And my folks know it.”

“Okay. So madly in love it is.”

“…”

“C’mooon, Jason! Let me have a little chaos.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, we need to get our stories straight. And we’re gonna need to put on a convincing show.”

“Sure.”

“So… Let’s start with what you said to Dick.”

“I said we fell into each other.”

“… Fell into each other.”

“I — look. In hindsight, there’s no defence. But at the time I just thought it was a great joke.”

“It was. It is.”

“You're not laughing.”

“I am on the inside.”

“...”

“So. We fell into each other. How’s a bouncer and an ex-doomsday prepper ‘fall into each other’?”

“Oh! This is a good one. So. My parents, they meet some culty-guy and get into real weird shit, okay? Tin-foil-hat conspiracy level shit. Things get nasty. I run away, but they chase me, and then! I run onto the road and nearly get run over by you!”

“Seriously.”

“Serious! It makes perfect sense — you drive like a lunatic.”

“I drive as sensibly as anyone else from Gotham.”

“You say that like you think it’s a valid argument. Hilarious. Anyway, I beg you to save me, and like a knight in — well, I guess it’d be leather — armour, you do! There’s some swooning along the way. Me, the sheltered waif; you, the rough-around-the-edges softie. It’s perfect.”

“… You just came up with the most far-fetched story you could, didn’t you?”

“I did. But that’s what makes it more believable! You wouldn’t just come up with something so absurd if you were faking it—shut up, don’t look at me like that. I know we’re faking it. But they don’t and that’s what’s important.”

“You’re gonna give me grey hairs, Pete.”

“They’ll join up with your skunk patch. It’ll make you look distinguished.”

“I don’t want to be distinguished, I’m not forty-five. I want to be intimidating.”

“Cute.”

“No, you’re—hm.”

“I’m…?”

“Infuriating. Let’s get back on track. There’s a lotta loose ends in that story: namely your parents and the guy they get involved with.”

“Does that really matter?”

“To my folks? Yes.”

“… I could make him an identity?”

“This feels like we’re falling more and more down the rabbit hole.”

“Which of us is Alice, then? It’s me, right? I did the falling, after all.”

“Let’s not get carried away with the Wonderland allusions. I could… have taken care of the guy.”

“… Define ‘taken care of’.”

“… Threatened? Convincingly.”

“With your… guns?”

“… Yes.”

“Hm. Okay. That works. And my parents… maybe you scared them off too? They didn’t want me if I wasn’t going to comply anymore.”

“Haaa… it’ll do for now.”

“Really? Honestly, I was expecting more pushback. Something more mundane, like you catching me when I fell off a fire escape or something.”

“Naw. The crazy tracks, honestly.”

“Huh.”

“Now that that’s outta the way, let’s circle back to those boundaries.”

“Yes.”

“What are you comfortable with?”

“… What are you comfortable with?”

“Not what I was asking, Pete.”

“But it is what I’m asking.”

“… Fine. I’m — Jesus.”

“Not that easy, is it?”

“Screw you.”

“Heh.”

“I will be getting you back. Don’t gimme that look. I am genuinely a dangerous guy.”

“Okay.”

“Ahem. Anyway…. Fuck. Fine, I’m fine with physical touch: hands, hugs… kisses…. Maybe. Not exactly gonna do that in front of my family, anyway. You?”

“I’m… probably the same.”

“Probably?”

“I… it’s been — a while. Since I… touched someone.”

“I see.”

“And when I did… we were. Close. We used to do — all of those things. But it — ended badly.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

“So, we should probably ease into it.”

“… Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“It’s not diseased, Pete. It’s just a hand.”

“… I know…”

“See? Just a hand. Five fingers and all.”

“It’s warm.”

“You’re not. Are you made of ice?”

“Ah. Sorry—”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

“… Sometimes it feels like I am.”

“Mm?”

“Made of ice. Sometimes it feels like there’s this — wall. Between me and everything. And it so cold and I can’t get warm. And then other times. It’s too much. Everything is everywhere. All at once.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? You didn’t get the reference. Guess it’s a — future thing.”

“Mm—!”

“Ah. Sorry. Your calluses feel interesting.”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

“We’re totally going to have to get used to this, aren’t we?”

“Regretting your choices?”

“Nope. I made this bed. I’ll lie in it.”

“And drag me along for the ride.”

“I think it’s only fair. You did put a gun to my head, after all.”

“If you recall, you bent that thing like a fucking pool noodle.”

“Worried about your hand now?”

“Not on your life, Parker. Now how about a hug?”

“… Okay.”

“…”

“… This is weird. It’s weird, right?”

“It is. Now, shut up, Pete. And get your elbow outta my damn stomach. I wanna watch Family Feud in peace.”

“Can you put the subtitles on?”

“Christ. Fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Shut up.”

— + —

Jason refused to drive them up to the manor. Peter wasn’t sure if it was pettiness or something else but given how accommodating he’d been the last two weeks, Peter wasn’t about to push it. Besides, the weather was good again (yesterday had poured with rain, as if to make up for a week of moderately okay skies) and he didn’t mind the walk from the car. Where the car had come from, he wasn’t sure. The understated SUV was a far cry from the monstrous truck Jason turned up with two weeks ago, new old mattress in tow.

He skipped ahead of Jason with Dog, appreciating the sun. It didn’t pack much heat (a running Gotham theme), but Peter took what he could get in this hellscape of a city. He was getting sick of playing the game ‘gunshots, or fireworks’?

Gunshots. The answer was always gunshots.

Where the bright light might have framed Gotham too harshly for casual examination, Bristol — to the north of the island city — was very green and very fancy. Big fancy fences and gates, fancy rich people cars and even fancier houses. It was the exact kind of place he’d expect to find a ‘manor’, and the exact opposite of what Peter would associate with the childhood home of Jason’s sordid origin story.

Jason caught onto Peter’s thoughts as they passed through wrought iron gates that opened (automatically!) upon their approach. “Don’t give me that look.”

Peter turned back around and continued walking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he called back over his shoulder.

“I’m Crime Alley born and bred. Got taken in by Bruce when I was twelve. Before that I was living on the streets.”

Peter winced, immediately guilty. “I—”

“It’s fine, Pete. I s’pose it’s the kinda shit you should know.”

Gravel crunched as Jason jogged to catch up. He held out his hand, fingers wiggling expectantly. Peter took it with only a second’s hesitation. They’d been ‘practicing’ but he was yet to get used to the heat and heft of Jason’s hand in his. It was wildly different from MJ’s slender fingers. Her skin had been smooth and slightly cool (though she used to complain that holding Peter’s hand was like holding a sentient corpse, only to grip tighter anyway) whereas Jason’s was work-roughened, warm and dry. He didn’t hate it… actually the opposite, if he was honest. But it was still a strange experience after months of — nothing.

Experimentally, he squeezed Jason’s hand. Jason squeezed back.

“We could always turn around?” Peter offered.

“No,” Jason said firmly.

The manor had emerged from its shielding copse of trees along the drive and Jason eyed it with resignation. Peter was impressed, intimidated and judgemental in equal measure: Wayne Manor was everything you might have expected from old money. Spires, gabled roofs, arched and mullioned windows with — jeez, was that stained glass? — multiple wings lurking behind the grand facade, and a large stone staircase leading up to the main entrance.

It was… a lot.

Dog tugged Peter along by the leash and Peter tugged Jason along by the hand. He followed reluctantly and with a heavy, churlish sigh.

“How bad can they be?”

“… They’re not that bad, really. Don’t tell them I said that though,” Jason muttered. “I just… there’s some. Not great memories associated with the place. I don’t like turning up unless I have to.”

Peter squeezed his hand in mute support.

The manor doors opened as soon as they reached the sandstone steps. An older man with greying hair and a pencil moustache stood by the grand doors. He wore a genuine waistcoat and bowtie. Wild. Beside him was a young teen — Peter thought he was somewhere in that nebulous age between eleven and fourteen, just before puberty would hit full force — with black hair and olive skin. Beside him sat an enormous Great Dane.

There was a moment where Peter froze, unsure how Dog would react — they didn’t exactly come across a lot of other dogs in Park Row — but she was calm and sat when commanded. The Great Dane didn’t so much as twitch. A good thing too, given it was almost the same size as the kid.

“Master Jason,” the man — Alfred, Peter assumed — said in an English accent as fancy as the rest of the house. Because of course he was English. “And I take it, this is Mister Parker?”

Peter, both hands taken by Jason and Dog’s leash, resorted to waving awkwardly with the leash hand. “Uh. Hi. Just Peter’s fine.”

The teen by Alfred’s side, didn’t actively sneer, but it looked like a close thing.

“Peter,” Jason motioned between Alfred and the teen, “this is Alfred. Wayne family butler. He’s the brick and mortar of this place.” Alfred’s expression didn’t change, but Peter thought his general demeanour softened at the compliment. “The squirt—” the teen scowled, “is Damian, the youngest of the clan. And the dog is—”

“Titus,” Damian said. His voice was pitched low, but Peter got the impression it wasn’t naturally that way. More likely an attempt to set himself out as implicitly threatening. And for sure, his narrowed green eyes certainly weren’t friendly. Bad news for Damian though: he was a head shorter than Peter and Peter wasn’t naturally inclined to be intimidated by others when he was usually — by default — the strongest in the room. And the boy had a dog. Another strike against his intimidation factor.

“Hi.” Peter smiled. “This is Dog — not my choice of names,” he added hurriedly when Damian scoffed. “That’s all Jason’s doing.”

“Of course it is,” Damian sneered. Now that he’d spoken a little more, Peter realised he had a slight accent. He wasn’t cultured enough to be able to place it as anything but vaguely foreign, but it was there. “He’s always been embarrassingly unoriginal. Dog is on brand.”

“Ah yes. From the melodramatic brat that called his dog after one of Shakespeare’s bloodiest characters,” Jason drawled back. He wasn’t remotely phased by Damian’s prickly speech. If anything, when Peter glanced up, he thought he caught Jason’s lips twitching in amusement. But maybe it was just a trick of the light…

“It’s distinguished.”

“Sure, if you wanna tell people your dog’s happy to turn its victims into pies.”

Damian raised a brow, as if saying: yes, that’s exactly what I was intending.

Peter glanced at Alfred. He was looking between the two siblings with dignified resignation. Peter bit back a grin.

“Dami?” someone called from the depths of the manor (Peter refused to think of the place as anything remotely resembling a house. It was the most ostentatious thing he’d ever seen. Mr Stark’s lakeside home was a ramshackle hut in comparison). “What are you — oh! Jay, you’re here!”

A familiar figure emerged in the doorway, ruffling Damian’s hair good-naturedly. The boy scowled and slapped Dick’s hand away.

“And Peter!” Dick cried, as if he didn’t already know Peter was coming. He grinned and bounded down the steps to shake Peter’s hand with the same enthusiasm as before. Dog’s leash rattled and bounced on his wrist with the force of it. “Hey! How are you? How you been settling in? I hear you got a new job.”

“And where’d you hear that from, Dick?” Jason asked innocently. Dick momentarily froze, but his beaming grin remained untouched — he’d spotted Peter and Jason’s clasped hands.

“Uh. Didn’t you tell me?”

Peter shared an amused glance with Jason, then chose to give Dick an out. “I think I mentioned it when you… popped in, right?”

Dick blinked. Both knew he’d done no such thing, but only one of them knew why Peter was giving him cover. “Oh! Yeah, that must’ve been it!” He let go of Peter’s hand and tugged on Jason’s sleeve. “C’mon—” he ushered them up the steps and through the doors, “Alfred’s set up a garden party sort of thing before dinner. You’re needed to eat all the cucumber sandwiches^[1].”

Jason snorted, but Peter paused with Dog on the threshold. “Um. Is Dog okay?” he asked Alfred. “I don’t know if Jason told you she was coming.”

“He did not,” Damian said. His eyes were trained on Dog with an intensity that was akin to a parent trying to discern if their child’s cough was ‘normal’ or pneumonia. “Is she house trained?”

“She lives in the apartment with us? So, yes.”

Damian nodded. “Then she will be fine. I will set out food for her.” Peter wondered if he’d have let her in anyway. He had that look about him.

Inside was as horrifyingly ostentatious as the outside. The foyer was less a foyer and more an atrium, with a grand staircase made of dark wood and a whole ass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There were oil paintings — huge ones, the kinds that probably cost hundreds of thousands of dollars — on the walls and delicate porcelain ornaments in glass display cabinets that were probably hundreds of years old or something.

Peter felt sinfully poor just standing there. He determinedly kept the feeling off his face and followed the others, Dog at his heel, through a door to the left and down a hallway with even more paintings and a long line of windows which made it feel wildly more inviting than the entrance did. The whole walk, Jason kept his hand firmly in Peter’s, as though worried Peter might wander off and be swallowed by the walls.

Fat chance of that. Peter wanted to see what constituted a ‘garden party sort of thing’ according to the kinds of people who thought this goddamn palace was a ‘house’.

He wasn’t disappointed. The garden party was in a conservatory packed with exotic plants: orchids, palms and dwarf banana trees, all sorts of climbing vines, and big elephant-eared plants Peter didn’t know the name of. In pride of place was a large iron-work table — glass topped to keep things level — that looked out onto the garden beyond. It was in stark contrast to the verdant chaos of the conservatory: a tightly controlled space of box hedges, neatly trimmed rose bushes (no roses though, what with it being mid-autumn), fading plates of hydrangeas and chrysanthemums, beyond which sprawled a broad lawn and trees lightly flushed with autumn reds and oranges. Alfred led them to the table, already set out with finger foods and sweating pitchers of iced tea. Two women were already seated and stared at them with undisguised interest.

“Master Jason told me you have a caffeine intolerance,” Alfred said when he saw Peter eyeing the drinks (it was that or meet the eyes of his watchers). “The red tea is a fruit tea. No caffeine. Unless you’d prefer something else?”

“No.” Peter smiled at the man’s thoughtfulness. “That’s great, thank-you.”

The two women — one blonde, the other with pin-straight black hair — lounged at the table as they approached. Their conversation had halted at Peter and Jason’s entrance and their sharp stares made Peter feel like a bug under a microscope. He forced himself to return the study in equal measure. Though her hair was different, he recognised the blonde: Thursday, it had been pinned under a cap. It was the ‘shy sister’ that had stalked them.

“Hello!” the woman crowed and jumped out of her seat. She bounced around the table with far more energy than a Sunday afternoon merited and drew to a stop in front of them. Peter was dismayed to realise she was taller than him. “You must be Peter! I’m Steph! More an adjacent than a family member. That’s Cass.” She nodded back at the woman who still sat at the table. Cass gave him a wave and Peter’s skin prickled with wariness. “And this is your dog?”

“Her name’s Dog,” Peter offered. “Jason named her. Ironically? … I think.”

Steph cooed appropriately, while Dick snickered.

“She’s beautiful. Can I?” Steph looked up, and Jason nodded. She held out her hand and Dog gave her a sniff. Her tail began to wag and Steph fell upon her, nonsense baby talk spilling from her mouth.

Peter flicked a glance at Jason while Steph fussed over Dog. “Shy?” he mouthed.

Jason grinned and winked at him, the weirdo.

“May I take Dog for a run?” Damian suddenly asked Peter, surprisingly polite considering the open scorn he’d shown at the front entrance.

“Oh.” Peter glanced at Jason, who just shrugged. Great help he was. “Sure. Hang on.” He bent down and gave Steph — who was promising a grinning Dog something about flower crowns — an apologetic grimace. Steph just laughed and stood up, skipping back to her seat.

“I won’t get between Damian and his beasts,” she drawled as she fell back into her chair.

Peter unclipped Dog’s leash and she trotted over to Damian and Titus, sniffing at the bigger dog cautiously. Damian nodded at him — apparently all the thanks Peter could expect to receive — then he ran out the conservatory with the two beasts loping along behind.

“Come and sit, Peter,” Dick said now that Peter was freed. “You look hungry. Do you want a sandwich? Or cake?”

“Sure. What kind of sandwiches do you have?”

“Do you like cucumber?” Peter’s eyes narrowed at Dick’s hopeful tone.

“They’re okay? I guess,” he said warily. Beside him, Jason huffed and let go of his hand. Peter shot him a meaningful glare but let himself be ushered along to sit beside Steph. Dick plopped down on his other side, leaving no space for Jason and Peter prepared himself for the interrogation.

Jason didn’t appear concerned by Peter’s boxing in. He placed a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder and then leaned in to brush a feather-light kiss against his cheek. “I’m gonna go make sure the gremlin doesn’t make Dog do something crazy, like walk on two feet or talk or some shit. Be good.”

Peter felt his cheeks heat up not so much from the surprise proximity, than the intense stares levelled at him from Dick, Steph and Cass. They were watching the two of them like Jason had just done something crazy like announce he was leaving for a research mission to Antarctica.

“Shame,” Peter managed to say, voice surprisingly calm. “I wouldn’t mind her learning how to turn the TV on.”

“I’ll see if he takes requests.” And with a squeeze of Peter’s shoulder, Jason abandoned him to the mercy of the Waynes (and adjacent).

Almost immediately, Dick began to pile the plate set out by Peter with perfectly cut sandwich triangles. There were a suspiciously large number of cucumber ones hidden among them. Peter raised a brow and Dick grinned, unrepentant.

“They’re good for you.”

“… I’m sure.” Still… as always, Peter was hungry. He picked one up, just to pacify Dick, but took one whiff of the cream cheese and quickly to put it down. The scent of dill had him holding back a flinch of disgust. The reaction was surprising, and with resignation he assigned yet another item to the ‘things I can no longer eat’ list.

Oh God. What did that mean for pickles?

You ate pickles on your sub just yesterday, dumbass, a voice suspiciously close to Jason’s snapped in response. The horror settled.

“Ah,” he said as the others stared at him, unaware of his crisis but still confused by his behaviour. “I, uh, don’t like dill.”

“Shame,” Dick sighed. “I suppose I can share the chicken ones with you.”

“Thanks.”

“Chuck the cucumber ones here, Peter. I’ll eat them,” Steph said and gallantly held out her own plate. Peter passed them along and bit into one of the non-cucumber sandwiches. Ham, a sharp and crumbling cheddar with a chutney. It was much more up his alley, and he finished it off in two bites. Peter finished off three more in quick succession.

“Say, you look kinda young, Peter,” Steph said while he ate. He paused mid-bite. “How old are you?”

He chewed and swallowed before he spoke. “Eighteen.” He didn’t like the insinuation in Steph’s voice, but smiled like he was used to the misjudging (because he was). “The curse of genetics, right?”

“Can’t relate,” Steph smirked. No surprise there: she was built strong-boned and no doubt her height led to people misjudging her in the opposite direction. “Cass can, though.”

Peter glanced at Cass. The woman did have a youthful face: with her smooth skin, full cheeks, round monolidded eyes and chin length hair, she gave off a feeling of agelessness. His skin prickled when their eyes met.

A threat. Dangerous, his instincts whispered.

Then Cass smiled and the feeling dissipated. He covered his discomfort with another sandwich.

“Drink?” Dick asked. Peter nodded and was poured a generous glass of iced tea, complete with slices of strawberries and a wedge of lime. Very summery and very out of place for mid-autumn. At least the conservatory was warm. Enough for him to wriggle out of his jacket and sling it over the back of his chair.

Dick’s knuckles, Peter noticed as he poured, were marred with familiar scars. Peter recognised them all too easily — they were the typical marks of a fighter. Borne from punching a few too many teeth or other hard surfaces.  Peter had them too, though his healing factor left them so faint they were practically indiscernible. Jason did too, and… now that he was looking, so did Steph and Cass.

Jason’s hands were easy to explain away. He was a bouncer. Inevitably, he’d get into fights. But the others? That was harder to justify.

His eyes shot between the girls and the looming height of Wayne Manor beyond the conservatory, then back to the girls. What were the Waynes and Wayne-adjacents doing to get themselves those kinds of scars? Maybe they all learnt to fight as a hobby… but if that was the case, they’d have learnt to protect their hands. Was it a rich person thing? Were they involved in a fight club?

…Was that a rich person thing?

He’d joked to Jason about his family belonging to the mob but hadn’t actually believed it. Besides, Bruce Wayne was renowned for his philanthropy and for being a bit of a himbo. Even a newbie like Peter knew of his reputation. He funded the Justice League. To think they’d let someone with mob ties do that was untenable. At least, if they truly were anything like the Avengers.

(Then again… the Avengers ended up being funded by neo-Nazis, so who was he to judge?)

Peter resolved to check the knuckles of the rest of Jason’s siblings when they turned up.

He took the glass Dick set before him and drank deeply. His web link (Peter was still trying out names for his new senses) twinged faintly, and when he glanced up, he saw Cass studying him again. Her smile broadened when their eyes met. She knew exactly what he’d been observing, exactly what he was thinking, and it amused her.

Peter sipped at his iced tea and hoped he was successfully hiding his discomfort. He forced himself to look away.

“So, tell us about yourself,” Steph asked. She had picked up a dainty fruit tart and was plucking off the jelly-covered fruits to eat them one at a time. “Where are you from? Do I spy a New York accent? How’s a nice guy like you end up in a place like this?”

Peter looked pointedly around the conservatory and the crisp gardens before he spoke, eliciting an ironic grin from his interrogator. “I grew up in New York — Queens — before my parents moved us to Ohio about four years back. Not much of anything going on there, which was exactly what they wanted.”

Steph latched on to the breadcrumbs Peter had set out. “Why’s that? Hoping for a scene change?” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Were they trying to dodge the draft?”

“Ah, no,” Peter said delicately, holding back a snicker at her ridiculous question. “They got it in their head the world was going to end. A few too many near misses, I think, and not enough faith in the JL. So, they bought a farmstead and started readying it to live out the next apocalypse….”

“Wait wait wait,” Dick breathed, leaning forwards, eyes intense. “Are you telling me your parents are doomsday preppers?” He sounded both delighted and disbelieving.

“They prefer the term ‘survivalists’,” Peter spoke grimly, like it was a dark history he’d rather not think about.

“But you’re so normal!”

Oh, how wrong you are, Peter thought, but said: “I didn’t take well to the change… We’re… estranged now.”

His three interrogators grimaced almost in unison and Peter was satisfied. Despite Jason’s misgivings, they seemed to take the story well… though he wasn’t convinced about Cass.

Dick was the one to ask the question Peter was still expecting. “So how did you meet Jason? I’ve tried to get the story out of him, but he’s been close-lipped.”

No surprise there. Since they only had a story as of two days ago. He smiled but kept it tight and unhappy. “It’s… well. It’s not the happiest of tales.”

“Join the club,” Steph said. Her tone was commiserating. Peter supposed she wasn’t wrong: children generally weren’t adopted out of happy households.

“Spill,” Cass ordered. Peter startled. It was the first time she’d spoken. He had to take a moment to re-organise his thoughts, jumbled up with his surprise.

“Uh. Well. I was always planning on leaving. That life held no appeal for me and I missed the city. But I was patient about it — knew things would be easier if I was eighteen before I left. But around the time I turned sixteen, my parents fell down the — well, I think the term you use now is ‘conspiracy pipeline’. A friend of theirs got them involved in some… not great things.”

Dick was frowning, but it wasn’t with disbelief. More like concern. “And Jason saved you?”

Awareness skittered across his senses, but Peter didn’t turn. “Ah, no, not exactly—”

“Telling tales about me?”

Unsurprised by the hands that landed on his shoulders, Peter twisted to look up at Jason and smiled warmly. It was a genuine smile: he was happy to see Jason again and was equally pleased to see that he looked a little more at ease. He and Damian must get along better than Peter had previously thought.

“Only the worst of them.”

“Hmmm.” A callused hand carded through Peter’s hair and his eyes fluttered at the full body shiver that resonated at the touch. He resisted the inexplicable urge to rest his face against the other man’s waist. “What do I have to do to get you to keep the one about the raccoon to yourself?”

Peter reached up and retrieved Jason’s hand from his hair before he did something embarrassing like start purring or dissolving into a puddle of goo in front of Jason’s siblings. He laced his fingers through Jason’s and trapped it momentarily against his chest. “I want TV privileges for the next three days.”

“Again?” Jason frowned playfully. “It was your turn last night.”

“Take it or leave it, Jace. I want my Housewives fix.”

Jason huffed. “Fine. But if I hear a peep about those grabby masked bastards, it’ll be three days straight of Ancient Aliens.”

“Noooo!” Peter cried and slumped dramatically in his seat. He wouldn’t have minded that, actually. Hate-watching the show brought him a special kind of vindictive joy. Mostly he was annoyed that Jason had implied that was something he wouldn’t like. It was like he didn’t know Peter at all…

Maybe Peter would let slip some made-up story about raccoons, just to fuck with him.

Unaware of Peter’s plotting, Jason laughed at his dramatics and disentangled his hand from Peter’s. “Shove off, Dickie,” he said and dumped Dick’s chair forwards almost absently. Dick squawked but rolled out with preternatural grace. He punched Jason lightly in the arm.

“I was comfortable there!”

“And you can be comfortable by Cass. Thanks ever so.” He plopped into the seat and casually threw an arm over Peter’s chair. “So, you were talking about me?”

“Only by virtue of your connection to Peter,” Steph smirked. “We already know your origin story.”

Jason shifted, eyes narrowing. Peter got the impression Steph didn’t like him very much. He reached up and took Jason’s hand — hanging from his shoulder — in his. Squeezed. Jason squeezed back.

Peter had schooled his expression into something he hoped was appropriately sad when he glanced at Jason. Jason picked up on the cue immediately and frowned like he cared. “You don’t have to tell ‘em, Pete.”

“I know,” Peter said softly and looked out the open conservatory doors. On the grass, Damian was teaching Dog some complicated trick with hoops. “But… I know it sounds crazy, but the more I say it, the less real it becomes.”

The corners of Jason’s lips twitched ever so slightly, but otherwise his expression remained ‘serious’. “Is that really a good thing, princess?”

Peter dug his blunt thumbnail into Jason’s palm in retaliation for the endearment, unseen by the others. “It is to me. You know how I feel about those days.” He looked over his audience as he began to make things up explain. “My parent’s friend… he fuelled their insecurities. Isolated us even further. Had my parents thinking the whole world was against them. It was like they were under his thrall. He even made them think I was—” he broke off, grimacing like the unfinished sentence hurt, and let the crowd draw their own conclusions before he carried on.

“At his recommendation, they took me out of school before I could graduate—” something passed over Dick’s face, too quick for him to identify, “and kept me on the property. Wouldn’t let me leave. At all. Things got bad… then worse. I got scared — real scared. Thought they would—”

He cut himself off again. Looked away again as he pretended to compose himself. Let his hand tremble as he reached out for his drink and sipped it carefully. The sweetness slammed into the back of his teeth. He put the glass down and looked back at his rapt audience.

It took a lot not to grin. Instead, he pursed his lips together as though unhappy.

“I ran,” he murmured, still loud enough to project across the table. “They… chased. I don’t remember much in the moment, just saw the road and ran for it.”

“I nearly hit him with my motorcycle,” Jason carried on. He sounded chagrined. “I still say it was a bad move, Pete. Runnin’ out onto the road like that.”

“Ah, but it brought me to you,” Peter said, grinning. “It’s a good thing you ride so safely.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “That’s not what you were saying last week.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Peter sniffed and turned up his nose. Jason snorted.

“Disgusting,” Steph said, but there was no heat in her voice. “You two are disgusting.”

“Cute,” Dick countered. He was holding himself so still he seemed to be vibrating with the force of it.

Cass remained quiet but looked amused. Peter wasn’t convinced she’d bought the story, but she didn’t say anything to challenge him, either. He tried not to let it bother him.

“It was a moment of divine intervention,” Peter confessed. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but he pressed on. “I hauled myself up off the road — palms bleeding, legs shaking — and fell right into his arms. I looked up — Jace is stupidly tall, don’t you think?” All other heads at the table (except for Jason) nodded. “And I thought to myself: ‘Oh. Here’s someone who can keep me safe’… I hadn’t felt like that in a long time.”

Finished with his ridiculous spiel, Peter turned and hid his burning face against Jason’s shoulder. He hoped the silent laughter he let out against Jason’s shirt was interpreted as something else.

Steph made a vomiting sound and Dick and Cass chucked balled up napkins at her. “Hey!”

“If you can’t be mature, you’ll be relegated to the little kids’ table,” Dick warned her.

“Bad news for you, there isn’t one.”

“Then I’ll tell Alfred and we’ll make one.”

Peter peeked up and shot Jason an amused glance. Looked like he’d won an ally in Dick.

“What were you going in Ohio?” Steph suddenly asked Jason.

Jason shrugged, nonchalant, as they’d planned. “I was riding back from Chicago.”

“Chicago? Didn’t—”

“What happened then, Peter?” Dick interrupted Steph quickly. Peter glanced between Dick and Jason but couldn’t read their expressions. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Jason filled in the rest. “I took care of it. Peter begged me to take him away, so I did.”

“What about your parents?” Bless him, but Dick sounded genuinely concerned.

“They won’t be looking for me,” Peter said, and he didn’t need to hide the grief. No one knew he was gone, because no one knew who Peter Parker was.

As though sensing the shift in his mood, Jason’s hand slipped down to squeeze his arm. “You’re not alone anymore, Pete,” he rumbled. “You’re safe.”

 For a moment, Peter let himself believe that. He sipped his drink to steady his traitorous thoughts.

“Hard to think of Jay as a knight in shining armour,” Steph drawled, but something hard lay underneath it. “More wolf-shaped, maybe. Always thought red was more his colour.”

“Watch it, blondie,” Jason growled. Peter frowned.

“I’m just saying, seems like Peter here was in a pretty vulnerable position—”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Why? Hit a little too close to ho—”

Peter slammed his drink on the table with just enough force to get the rest of them to jump. He stood. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make assumptions about me or Jason,” he said tightly. He was angry. Angrier than he should have been. “I’m an adult now, and I was an adult then when I met him. He gave me the opportunity to leave—” a half-lie, “and make my own way—” a half-truth: he had given Peter a job, “but I chose to stay. Don’t infantilise me by stripping away my autonomy. I’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime.” A truth.

He tugged at Jason’s shirt and the man stood easily. Peter levelled Steph with a stern glare. “Jason’s been nothing but kind and good. Better than most. He deserves your trust.”

Steph blinked but remained quiet. To his relief, she looked thoughtful, rather than offended.

Under his hand, Jason shifted in discomfort. “Pete—”

“C’mon,” Peter spoke over him. “I want to see what your little brother’s taught Dog.”

Jason allowed himself to be dragged away. Behind them, he heard Dick hiss something indecipherable at Steph.

Damian and the dogs had disappeared around the corner of the manor and as they stalked walked, Peter let his anger ease away. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he’d gotten so mad, except that he didn’t like to see others suggest Jason was anything other than a good, decent man. Sure, he had semi-questionable connections like the Red Hood, but he’d seen first-hand the kind of care Jason showed towards others. 

“Peter,” Jason tried again as soon as they were out of sight. Damian was nowhere in sight, though Peter could hear a dog barking — too low to be Dog.

Peter rounded on him. “Sorry,” he blurted out.

“Sorry?” Jason was frowning at him. “What for?”

“I didn’t — I didn’t think things through. Didn’t think she would imply—” He grimaced at the thought.

“Oh.” Jason chuckled. “Don’t worry about that. Not the first time my honour’s been called into question. Steph’s just pushing boundaries. I told you, that’s what they do. If anything, she’ll like you more now you’ve proven you’ve got a backbone.”

“Right…” Placated, Peter began to smirk. “I told you it’d work, didn’t I?”

Jason burst into raucous laughter. Suddenly Peter was airborne as Jason effortlessly picked him up and spun him around like a child. Peter found himself laughing too.

“You cheeky fuck,” Jason chortled. Peter hadn’t seen him look so bright before. “You pulled the wool right over their eyes!”

“I didn’t know I could be so good at lying,” Peter confessed when he was set safely on the ground again, though neither made any move to let go of the other. “But that was fun!” He kept his voice soft just in case someone overheard, but with his senses expanded on the web, he doubted that could happen.

“It was an Oscar-worthy performance,” Jason agreed. His blue eyes glittered with delight. “Let’s hope your identity holds up to scrutiny, eh?”

“It will.” Peter was confident about that. “I’m good at what I do.”

“Yeah, you’ve proven that.”

There was a disturbance on the web and Peter glanced up to see Damian round the corner, followed by two dogs trotting in unison behind. He came to a stop when he saw the two of them, and the light expression the boy wore disappeared.

“Todd,” Damian said. His green eyes flicked to Peter. “Parker. You should be with the others.”

“We needed some space,” Peter explained. Damian shared a meaningful look with Jason that Peter assumed he wasn’t meant to be privy to. He disentangled himself from Jason and nodded at Damian’s companions. “So, your verdict?”

Damian glanced down at the dogs. “She is not without potential.”

“High praise,” Jason drawled. Damian shot him a sharp look.

“I assume it’s no thanks to you, Todd,” he snapped. “But. Observe.”

Damian ran Dog through a routine of tricks, starting with a paw shake, a number of jumps over Damian’s outstretched arms, a funny little army crawl and ending with a bow. Peter grinned and clapped appropriately.

“And you taught her that so quickly?” he asked when Dog was back in a ‘sit’. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Of course. Someone here has to be competent,” Damian sniffed.

Peter could see why Jason was fond of the teen. He was a little shit, but there was still something endearing about him. Maybe it was the way his snobbish bluster failed to hit ‘genuine’. More than likely, it was a defence mechanism. Much like Peter’s snark, which seemed to come out whenever he felt threatened. He could see how Damian’s behaviour might get tiring for others, which no doubt reinforced the posturing even more.

“Can you teach me?” At Damian’s narrowed stare, he smiled benignly. “I’d like to see what we could do back in the city. There’s a park nearby we go to a lot.”

Damian’s attention flitted between him and Jason. Whatever Jason showed him had the boy nodding curtly. “Very well. Let’s see if you’re smarter than your partner, Parker.”

Peter huffed a laugh, and followed after Damian as he led them back to the gardens, though he thankfully didn’t veer towards the conservatory. Jason trailed behind with the dogs but detoured off to steal a plate of food for them, before he sat on the lawn and watched Damian teach Peter how to make Dog crawl.

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

^[1] Dick canonically hates Alfred’s cucumber sandwiches and this sends me.

^[2] BATFAM: YOUNG ADULT EDITION 3:15PM

2:59PM I’ll Spoil YOU: @Rude-Robin @SIGnature moves y TF are u2 not here losers

3:00PM Rude-Robin: STOP I’m mad abt this 2. be there at 4

3:02PM I’ll Spoil YOU: jst got a telling off frm Pettr for trash talkng his man. He is Good Egg™ Cass agrees

3:06PM SIGnature moves: ughhhhhh I wanted to meet him with y’all. I HAVE to know what kind of crazy matches Js

3:07PM I’ll Spoil YOU: O man

3:08PM I’ll Spoil YOU: the kinda crazy that grew up a doomsday preppr an nearly got sacrificed 2 a CULT

3:09PM SIGnature moves: :O

3:10PMRude-Robin: :O

3:11PM I’ll Spoil YOU: OK so mybe that last bits a lie. He got emotionl @ end and didnt finish. But sure soundd like it

3:12PM SIGnature moves: Can no one in this family be normal

3:13PM Rude-Robin: We fight crime on the reg

3:13PM Rude-Robin: so. No.

Chapter Text

For someone Jason clocked as a shit liar, Peter was shockingly adept if it meant he could sow some chaos. He hated to admit it, but Peter was right: the sorry tale he spun was just the right amount of unhinged to have his family buying it. The kind of story that wouldn’t have worked on a civilian but seemed perfectly reasonable for people in their line of work.

Jason reflected on this as they strolled back to the conservatory, once Damian had successfully taught Peter how to train Dog. The pair of them trailed behind Jason with the dogs, chatting as close to ‘amiable’ as the brat ever got. Meaning, to the average person, he’d’ve been unspeakably rude… good thing Peter wasn’t the ‘average person’ but instead a lunatic who’d already capitalised on the boy’s soft spot for animals. Clever fucker.

Not that Jason should’ve been surprised by that, either. Clever was an understatement when it came to Peter. In the last two weeks, he’d seen first-hand the kinds of things Peter could cobble together from scavenged tech. It was like having Roy around again (if Roy was part raccoon) and his apartment fucking looked it too. Tools and wires and half-assembled gadgets and appliances lying around like discarded clothes. Jason had studied a few pieces and was impressed by Peter’s neat circuitry and wiring. Seemed like Jason had picked himself up a new genius. If they ever got to that point, he could see himself asking for Peter’s input on some of the armour and surveillance designs he’d been stuck on.

If they ever got to that stage.

If Peter stuck around that long.

But if he did… Jason hoped he could keep the guy around.

For more reasons than he cared to admit.

Jason scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to someone defending him to his family. It didn’t really feel deserved, though he equally felt that was unreasonable to think so. Sure, he fundamentally disagreed with the no-kill policy shared by most of his family members — as far as he was concerned, there were some people who could never be rehabilitated or safely contained — but it wasn’t as if he killed indiscriminately. He had standards. But when he came across those who had no chance of redemption… those who would just hurt and hurt and hurt until there was nothing left but blood and dust?

Well… those he’d take out without a shred of guilt, knowing he had the vindication of the All-Blades^[1] to guide his hands.

And one of these days, he’d use them to take down the worst of the worst…

“Jace?”

He blinked. Peter had joined him, looking up expectantly. Just beyond, Damian watched with an inscrutable expression.

“Sorry, Pete. Off with the fairies.” He smiled and reached out. Peter slipped his cool hand into Jason’s. His fingers were long and slender, but Jason knew the strength that hid beneath the skin. All Peter would have to do was squeeze an edge over too much and he’d crush every bone in Jason’s hand. That Peter could touch and hold things like a soldering iron with such delicacy was a testament to his care and self-restraint. Artemis and Bizz might have had super-strength like Peter, but they didn’t have half the control. It wasn’t out of apathy or malice, but he’d always been nursing bruises around them.

Fuck, Jason missed those bruises. Just like he missed Kori’s scalding handprints.

(He tried not to think about how far he’d come that he could acknowledge that… he was ready for introspection, but not that much.)

“Damian invited me to the zoo.”

“What?” Jason blurted out. He glanced back at Damian and the teen glared defiantly back.

Ah.

He wanted to test Peter.

“We would require you or Pennyworth to drive us,” Damian sneered. Little shit.

“Obviously, you’re invited too,” Peter added. “No need to just play taxi.”

“Debatable,” Damian muttered. Peter’s lips twitched with amusement. It figured he’d find a kid like Damian charming.

“What day?” Already Jason was thinking of ways to pad it out with other, more polite, siblings. No way was he leaving Peter alone to the gremlin’s tender mercies.

“Next Saturday. Or is that not possible, Todd?”

“Saturday is… fine.”

He’d make it so.

“Saturday? What’s on Saturday?” It was Dick that had spoken. They’d come close enough to be in earshot of the others. The table was cleared, and Tim and Duke had turned up some time during their absence. Both were staring at Peter with poorly disguised fascination.

Jason skimmed his eyes over the two of them. Fortunately, it didn’t look like Duke had been injured on patrol. But he noted Duke’s faint frown that was quickly smoothed away. Damn. Just their luck Duke would notice something with those funny powers of his. He’d have to send a message, asking Duke to keep quiet about it for now. That sob story of Peter’s might actually work in their favour: just pull the ‘Peter’s terrified of being outed as a meta’ card, and Duke would stay quiet at least for a little while. His loyalty lay more with Gotham and its inhabitants than it did with the Bat.

“I am taking Parker to the zoo,” Damian said, stiffer now he had the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him.

“Ooh! We’ve not been there for a while!”

“And it will remain that way, Richard. You are not invit—”

“That’s fine, I’ll invite myself!”

“I’d like to go!” Steph crowed. Cass nodded in agreement.

“Tt.” Damian turned to Peter, who, if anything, just looked wildly amused by the railroading. “We can reschedule, if you wish. To a date unknown to these interlopers.”

Peter glanced at Jason in query, and he squeezed their joined hands in approval. Peter looked back at Damian. “I don’t mind.”

“Can I come?” asked Duke, the politest of the bunch. He kept staring at Jason and Peter’s joined hands like Jason had suddenly torn off his own face and called himself a Metropolis Meteors fan, but snapped out of it with Peter’s approval. He smiled benignly at Peter. “Hey, I’m Duke.”

“Peter. Hi. And sure?”

“I’m Tim!” Tim announced, not content with being ignored. He waved energetically. “Nice to meet you, Pete!”

Peter frowned, for just a second, and Jason held his breath. Did he—?

Then Peter’s expression smoothed out. Guess not. “Hi.”

Jason let out his breath. It was fine. Peter didn’t recognise Tim. Even if he was tentatively confident Peter had been involved in the vigilante-slash-heroing business in his own universe, that didn’t mean Jason was about to bring him into the field here. Certainly not while Peter still seemed to be holding on to reality by a thin and shaky thread.

That way tragedy lies.

They were about to join the others at the table when Alfred appeared and announced dinner.

“Dinner?” Peter glanced at the time on his phone. “But it’s just past five.”

“We eat early,” Dick explained as he stood and tucked in his chair like the golden boy he was.

Peter sneaked Jason a wry look. “Guess you don’t follow the tribe.”

“Oh, that’s definitely Jason,” Tim said. He seemed to be channelling Dick today with his ebullience. Jason wondered how many milligrams of caffeine were currently coursing through his system. Or maybe he was just delighted to see the ‘lone wolf’ of the family with an (apparent) vulnerability.

Jason tugged on Peter’s hand, about to lead him to the dining room, when Peter was accosted by Tim and Duke and was wrenched from his grip.

“Sorry, Todd,” Tim laughed. There was a familiar, manic gleam in his eye. The others had evidently filled the two in. “We’re stealing your man. We didn’t get to ask him the important questions.”

“Important like what?” Peter asked politely. He didn’t look the least concerned that he was being dragged away by two strangers. In fact, Jason was pretty sure it was glee he caught in his tone.

“Oh, you know, important stuff, like how the hell do you land yourself a job in computer repairs when you grew up with survivalists?” Duke scoffed, though he was skilled enough to make it come across as teasing.

Peter laughed. He twisted in their grip to shoot Jason a wink. He frowned back.

“Oh, that’s pretty simple, really. Dad might not have been an engineer, but he’d always been good with tech, even before they fell down the crazy slide. We were always having to make do. Fix things ourselves. The whole self-sufficiency thing, you know?”

“But aren’t they all like, anti-technology or something?”

“Nah. Or at least, they weren’t at the start….”

Jason watched Peter get dragged further and further away and was struck with a feeling of fond exasperation. Those three were going to be terrible together.

A small but strong hand on his forearm stopped him from following. Cass. He tilted his head in question while she shot a meaningful look at Steph, who nodded and tugged Dick away.

Suddenly, it was just Jason and Cass left in among the palms. With the others gone, all was quiet, the usual Gotham orchestra of horns and shouting and the odd percussive gunfire a far cry from the dignified serenity of Bristol.

Her returning stare was placid, but not necessarily friendly.

Jason and Cass… didn’t generally get along, what with the whole ‘artistic differences’ between them. So Jason wasn’t surprised by her cool reception, but he was surprised that she’d held him back.

He waited patiently. It was unlikely she was about to chew him out like Steph had attempted to. They’d duked it out before and neither Jason nor Cass were about to change their stances. The last couple of years, they’d come to a cold stalemate (mostly because Cass hadn’t actually seen Jason kill anyone during that time… He had to wonder what she’d thought of the whole Penguin incident, though). He was curious to see why she’d held him back.

It shouldn’t have, but her silence got to him. Fuck it. He was impatient and uninterested in showing any of the messy feelings her stare conjured up.

“Well?” Jason demanded, and inwardly winced at the hostility in his voice. He hadn’t meant to come across as argumentative, but he was wary about Cass, and even warier about Peter being left with Tim. Duke, at least, he could trust not to give Peter the run around. But Timmers didn’t always have the strongest grasp of ‘normal human interactions’.

Cass stared up at him, and as usual her gaze made him feel two feet tall and stripped of every defence he’d ever managed to build up.

He refused to let it get to him. He was here for Alfred. And a bit for Peter, who desperately needed friends and wasn’t about to find those at work. The last thing this evening needed was him and Cass throwing hands.

“He is afraid,” she said at last. Jason blinked in surprise.

“Yeah,” he said, almost against his will. Cass squeezed his arm.

“It’s false,” she carried on. “That story.”

He huffed a humourless laugh. Of course Cass saw right through them. He’d already counted on it. But much like Barbie, Jason was also counting on her to let the deception slide, provided it did no harm. “Peter wanted to play a joke on Dick.”

“Hmm.” Cass tilted her head in thought.

“Don’t spoil it for him?” he said lowly, aware they could still be overheard if any of their siblings chose to creep up on them. “Dick misinterpreted why he was around. Pete sees it as payback.”

Cass’ lips twitched. “Fine.”

The tension in his chest unwound. “Thanks.”

“He’s strong, but… hurting,” Cass said definitively. “He hides it behind humour… But you know that.”

“… Abundantly so.” Excruciatingly so. Peter’s strongest defence against difficult conversations was misdirection and humour (and gee, wasn’t that a foreign experience…). Jason had attempted to bring up the self-harm again earlier in the week, after he’d spotted another livid bruise on the thin skin of Peter’s inner bicep, and Peter had panicked and said he’d been practicing kissing…

Peter hadn’t emerged from his bedroom for the rest of the evening, despite numerous attempts to cajole him. Jason learnt his lesson.

(Ask him when there was no chance of escape.)

“You’re afraid, too,” Cass continued. He faintly bristled. Couldn’t even help it. “To trust him.”

Oh. He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“Hmm.” She didn’t appear convinced.

“Are we done here?” He wanted to join the others. Not because he was worried about Peter — Jason didn’t expect any hostility while he was gone — but because he wanted to get there before Alfred laid out their meal.

Cass didn’t respond. She was still studying him. He tugged his arm out of her grip and turned away.

“Jason.”

He paused and glanced back. Cass’ serious expression had eased into a wry smile.

“It’s a good joke.”

Laughter spilled out without permission. “Yeah. Fucking hilarious.”

Cass smirked. “You’ll be good for each other.”

And with that baffling and vaguely unnerving judgement, she stalked past him, out of the conservatory. Jason took a moment to collect himself, then with a heavy sigh, he followed.

A pecking order had already been established when they joined their siblings in the dining room, with Dick at the head, an empty seat for Jason to his right, Damian, Tim and Steph to his left. Peter, fortunately for Jason’s peace of mind, was seated opposite Tim. Duke was a much better choice to sit beside. The two were chatting about the quality of Gotham colleges when he sat down.

Cass passed around the table to plop down beside Steph — according to Dick, the two of them had been circling each other for months, but neither had made a move. Jason held back the obnoxious desire to wiggle his brows at the pair suggestively, but only because he didn’t want to risk Cass exposing his and Peter’s deception so early in the game.

“I’m telling you,” Duke was saying to Peter with his usual half-joking, half-serious tone, “you don’t want to go higher than a masters here. The PhD to villain pipeline is very real! ”

“That sounds like fake news,” Peter scoffed. “There’s got to be plenty of people with doctorates here who’ve never dipped their toes into villainy.”

Jason raised a brow at the archaic language and then summarily ignored them as Alfred promptly set out dishes, now they were all seated. There were temples of roast beef, boulders of crispy potatoes, glistening gems of honey-glazed carrots, charred wedges of roasted cabbage, butter and thyme sauteéd mushrooms, what looked like a goddamn butternut dauphinoise, a bouquet of those funny Yorkshire puddings (‘Because no roast is complete without them, Master Jason’, Alfred had informed a younger Jason and quick convert) and an enormous vegetable galette for Damian. Ships of gravy, horseradish cream and a zingy pesto sailed over white linen waters.

“Goddamn,” he said when Alfred finally finished (he had refused any of their help. Jason was pretty sure Peter was drooling at the sight, like the black hole he was). The sturdy mahogany table groaned beneath the collective weight of their feast. “You went all out.”

Alfred smiled, pleased. His gaze flicked to Peter than back to Jason. “I thought I would treat today as a special occasion.”

Ah.

Well. That made him feel like a bit of a mug.

“This looks amazing, Mr Pennyworth,” Peter breathed, unaware of Alfred’s implicature or Jason’s swirling guilt. His dark eyes were trained on the mountains of sliced beef and potatoes set before him, as though it might crumble to dust if he blinked. Jason tried not to think too deeply about that.

“Thank-you, Master Peter. But ‘Alfred’ is perfectly suitable.”

“Okay, Mister Alfred.”

Several at the table snorted. Steph actually honked with laughter.

“Oooh, he’s a jokester!” she crowed, her earlier antagonism gone. “Watch it, Dick. Looks like your spot as the funny one might be replaced!”

Peter smiled cautiously.

“We can fight for it,” Dick said sagely. “You, me, rap battle on the front lawn.”

“Bring it,” Peter said coolly. Jason sighed heavily.

“No rap battles,” he said firmly.

“Spoil sport—”

“Party pooper—”

“Yep. I don’t have an interest in watching either of you embarrass yourselves.”

“… An exchange of diss tracks?”

Jason didn’t know what a diss track was, but he could make a solid guess. “Peter, you are not making a diss track in our apartment.”

‘Our apartment’ he caught Tim mouthing — presumably to himself — and Jason also firmly ignored it.

Peter leaned over Jason to eye Dick. ‘Later’ he tried to say and Jason placed his hand over Peter’s mouth before he could promise anything worse.

“Behave,” he told Peter with mock sternness, and Peter fluttered his long lashes at him with innocent affectation.

The grin beneath his hand was infectious. Jason couldn’t help but return it and at least one of the people at the table cooed. He drew back his hand, clearing his throat while he hoped it could do the same to the heat of embarrassment on his cheeks. Though he was also slightly-red, Peter winked like the demon he was.

“And on that note of weird adorableness,” Tim drawled. “Can we eat?”

It’d be hyperbolic to claim they fell upon the meal like a pack of wolves, but it wasn’t too far off, in Jason’s honest opinion. Peter, Duke and Tim were the worst of them, piling their plates high as though they’d see a full meal again. Jason was happy he’d forewarned Alfred: he was certain the roast beef on their side was bigger than the one on Tim’s.

“So, Peter,” Tim asked once they’d filled their plates to their satisfaction and began to eat. “What do you like to do with yourself?”

“Uhm.” Peter paused with a forkful of gravy-drowned potato halfway to his mouth. “I like working with computers?”

“Boring and predictable,” Steph booed. “Anyone could guess that based on your job. What else do you like?”

To stall, Peter shoved the potato in his mouth. Jason could see him think carefully about his answer. Not like he was about to lie, but as if he actually couldn’t think of what to say. Something in Jason’s gut twisted unpleasantly at the thought.

“I… liked photography,” came Peter’s slow answer. Liked. Past tense.

What happened to you, Pete?

Tim’s eyes lit up and he straightened in his seat. “Photography? For real? What kind?”

Peter’s lips quirked but his stare was distant. “Sports. And landscape — well, street and architecture, really.”

“Do you have any photos?”

“I—” Peter’s expression shuttered closed. He ducked his chin to avoid the expectant gazes of everyone at the table. “No. They’re — ah — all gone.”

Jason almost frowned. Peter had come through that portal with his phone. No way there weren’t pictures on there. And Peter had sent him a few photos he’d snapped while here in Gotham. They were good, even to Jason’s uncultured eye.

But… there was probably a good reason why Peter was unwilling to share anything. Any discrepancies of landmarks would easily be picked up on, even by the least observant of the bats (not that Peter was aware, but he must have enough sense of self-preservation to keep them to himself anyway). It made sense to use his falsified backstory as an excuse.

Tim seemed genuinely sad that Peter didn’t have any photos left. Considering he used to be a stalking weirdo as a child (okay… ‘used to’ maybe didn’t apply, but Tim was probably allowed his eccentricities), Jason could understand why he might empathise with Peter.

Jason caught Tim’s eye. ‘Offer’ he mouthed. Tim’s eyes widened with surprise. No doubt he’d been expecting Jason to keep Peter away from the rest of them, but Jason wasn’t an idiot. There was only so much he could do for Peter by himself. He wasn’t pig-headed enough to sabotage someone else’s wellbeing because of his own hang-ups. Even if his time in Gotham was temporary, Peter needed more people in his life. Tim was a strong starting point.

And Duke… actually, Duke was probably better.

“That sucks, man,” Tim said. “If you wanted, we could hang out some time? Have a platonic camera date? There are some awesome spots around Gotham.”

Peter looked up in surprise. “Oh.” He glanced at Jason, who shrugged and smiled. “I… yeah. That would be nice.”

“Cool!” There was no artifice in Tim’s voice: he was genuinely excited by the prospect of a ‘platonic camera date’. Jason supposed he didn’t get a lot of opportunities these days to take his camera out in a non-work setting.

They exchanged details. Peter, the sweet fool, recited his phone number aloud for Tim, and Jason caught Dick, Steph and Cass not-so-surreptitiously adding his number to their contacts. He’d have to message them later about not overwhelming Peter with the crazy so early on.

Afterwards, the table fell into pockets of conversation and Peter was mercifully left alone. For the best: Jason was pretty sure Peter was close to getting overwhelmed by the attention. He doubted Peter would appreciate any legitimate vulnerabilities being noticed by his siblings. With the pressure of seven pairs of eyes off him, Peter seemed content with trying to look like he wasn’t eating enough for three people, using subtle misdirects and moments when their attention were on someone else to add more to his plate.

It would have gone entirely unnoticed, were they not at a table full of bats. It definitely was noticed, but Jason tried not to worry. It wasn’t the end of the world if they realised Peter was a meta. Not like every single one of them didn’t have meta friends, and then of course there was Duke and whatever it was he could do with light these days. Jason really needed to do another training sim with him. See how his abilities had evolved since he’d been here last.

Fortunately for Peter, most of the people at the table had tact and chose to do the reasonable thing and file the observation away for future stalking recon.

Unfortunately for Peter, most did not mean all. And unfortunately for Peter, the most tactless of them all had also noticed and was staring with narrowed green eyes. Looked like the testing might be imminent with that one. Jason shot them a warning glare but was ignored.

If Peter noticed (and Jason suspected he did), he didn’t televise it. He was talking to Duke again about Batburger, of all things.

“You’re saying Batman doesn’t get any royalties?”

“Not that we know of.”

“But! They’re profiting off his image!”

“Well, it’s not like he’s gonna claim that, is he?” Duke scoffed. “What’s he gonna do? Turn up and go ‘hey, that’s me you’ve slapped on a box of chicken nuggets, gimme my five percent’?”

“… Yes?”

“Sure, and I’m sure they’ll do that for him and the twenty other nutcases dressed in a batsuit who tried it before him.”

“Hmm.” Peter looked like he was thinking about trying that for himself. Now that was a sight Jason would pay to see.

“Apparently they donate it,” Tim piped up, having slotted himself into the conversation sometime around the mention of chicken nuggets, because he was actually a ten year old child with business acumen. “The percentage that would have gone to the bats in royalties go back into Gotham. Foodbanks and the like.”

“Huh,” Peter sat back in his chair, apparently mollified. “That’s… good, actually. This city needs all the help it can get.”

Jason knew it was coming. He knew it, and yet he was still unprepared for the balled-up Yorkshire pudding that whipped through the air straight for Peter’s head.

No time to think. Jason was fast, but Peter was faster. His hand shot up and the pudding slapped right into his palm like a baseball.

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then:

“Damian?!” Dick yelped in alarm.

“Master Damian!”

“What the shit?” Steph cried.

Peter barely blinked. He was frozen, hand still up in the air, long fingers curled around the pudding.

He’d not even been looking when he caught it.

Jason saw the realisation flicker across Peter’s face. Anger blossomed in his throat. 

“What the fuck,” he growled, turning on Damian to take the heat off Peter. Stupid. He should’ve known Damian wouldn’t wait for privacy to test his suspicions.

“I apologise,” Damian said without an ounce of sincerity. “I thought Parker still looked hungry.”

Peter flinched and his cheeks pinked immediately. He set down the pudding, laughing nervously. All his previous ease had disappeared and Jason’s scowl deepened further as Peter pushed his plate away.

“Not cool, man,” Duke scolded in Peter’s defence. “Who throws shit at guests!”

Damian didn’t bother responding. He stared at Peter with undisguised suspicion.

“Sorry.” Jason hated how softly Peter spoke. How wild-eyed he’d become, as if he’d revealed too much. “I—”

He saw the exact moment Peter’s flight response kicked in. “Pete—”

He was drowned out by the scrape of Peter’s chair. Then he was up and away on stiff marionette legs before anyone else could react. “Thank-you for the meal,” Peter bit out to a frowning Alfred as he fled the room.

Silence reigned. Not even Peter’s footsteps could be heard on the hardwood floors: he moved like a ghost when he wanted to.

Jason broke the quiet with the screech of his own chair, meal forgotten.

“I hope you’re fucking happy,” he hissed at Damian and contemplated hurling the offending pudding back. But it wouldn’t be satisfying. Damian was still just a child. Crap. And there he’d been, hoping Peter and Damian had bonded over the dogs. Trust Damian to find the worst possible way to test Peter. “He’s got enough issues without you bringing up his eating!”

Damian sucked his teeth and looked away. “He’s suspicious. And possibly a—”

“He’s traumatised, you little shit!”

“Jay!”

“Oh, piss off, Dick! You want me to play nice? You’d better expect the rest to do the same!” He flicked his eyes over the rest of the table, furious. “You breathe a word of this to him and I never come here again.”

“Jason,” Dick tried again, standing himself.

“Fuck you,” he snarled, then turned back on Damian. “Even if he was a meta, he wouldn’t deserve to be outed like that. I’d’ve thought you’d know better, Robin.”

Damian flushed and looked away and Jason had officially had enough.

He met Alfred’s eyes as he stalked out of the room.

“Shall I box up your dessert?” Alfred asked, resigned and disappointed. Jason hated to see it, but there was no way they were staying. He’d be lucky if Peter even stuck around for Jason.

“Sure.”

He hurried after Peter, moving mostly on instinct. It was a solid guess that Peter would’ve gone for Dog.

Relief gusted out of him when he burst through the conservatory doors to find Peter sat on the edge of the raised patio, Dog snuffling at him anxiously. His face had that awful blank expression Jason saw too often on him.

What did those dark eyes see? Because he certainly wasn’t looking at the hydrangeas.

Sitting down beside Peter only dragged him back a fraction. Still he stared at the dusky garden. Jason waited him out. Wherever Peter went, he never left for long. In the meantime, he used the quiet to reign back his anger. The last thing either of them needed was Jason taking that out on Peter.

Eventually, Peter shuddered and wrapped his arms around Dog, burying his face in her muscular neck.

“You back?”

“… Yeah.”

Jason hummed, lips tight with unhappiness, but didn’t speak further. Sometimes silence was the best way to draw someone out. Other times, it just gave people the opportunity to feel… quiet. He wasn’t sure which’d be the effect on Peter until his soft voice cut through the darkening peace.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“Nah.” Jason let the anger gust out of him and leaned back on his hands. “That’d be Damian’s fault, actually. I swear he knows better than to treat the table like a middle school cafeteria, and yet…”

Peter didn’t quite laugh, but Jason marked the puff of air from his nose as a success. He nudged Peter with his leg, and the younger man leaned into the touch.

“I revealed too much.”

“You were fine. Good reflexes are something anyone could have.”

Peter pulled his head from Dog’s neck to glare, like he knew Jason was lying. He turned to humour to deflect.

“Better you do it than me. If it wasn’t — that — trust me when I say it would’ve been me storming off for something else. And there’da been a fair bit more screaming and a hell of a lot more bloodshed. M’just sorry you had to bear the brunt.”

“I ate too much.”

“There was nothin’ wrong with how you were eating,” Jason said flatly. The last thing Peter needed was some new hang up about his eating habits. Not when they’d been working so hard to build up his weight. Peter had confessed a week ago to being unable to meet the needs of his metabolism for months and it explained the hunger ingrained in his mouth and the hollow cheeks.

Peter didn’t respond. Jason hunted for something else to drag him out of his funk.

“How’d you find ‘em?”

Peter snuck him a gimlet stare. “They were… fine.”

“Except for the obvious?”

“Except the obvious.”

“We can say no to the zoo. Or go another time, if you wanted.”

“I think that’ll depend on Damian.” Peter was frowning as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I thought… thought we were getting along.”

The what did I do? went unspoken, but not unheard.

“You were. The kid… doesn’t trust easily.” Not the only one. “He sees things that’re new as a threat. That ain’t on you.”

“But—”

“You don’t gotta prove yourself, Pete. Just… be yourself.” It’s done enough to prove yourself to me.

“Be myself,” Peter echoed, morose. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

“… Pete?”

But Peter didn’t repeat himself. Jason filed the comment away and let the moment slide. They sat in shared silence as daylight dwindled into the sickly, light-polluted dark that even Bristol couldn’t escape. The chilled air drew them closer, sides pressed together to ward off the fall.

Eventually, the doors to the conservatory reopened and tentative footsteps approached. Jason twisted to see, somewhat to his surprise, Steph and Damian join them. Their entrance turned back on the automated outdoor lighting, casting half their faces in gold. Steph’s expression was calm but determined, a stark contrast to Damian’s mulish pout. He was kept firmly in place with a hand gripped tight to his shoulder.

“Hey, Peter,” Steph said, and Peter stood to face them properly. Jason quietly ordered Dog to sit and held back while the others approached. “I just wanted to say, sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply that you didn’t know what you were doing… but it sounded like you’ve been through a lot and needed someone in your court.”

“I do have someone in my court,” Peter shot back.

Jason kept his expression carefully neutral. Peter hadn’t a lick of hesitation. Was Jason meant to feel relieved? Pleased that Peter saw him as on his side? Or was guilt the better choice? For all the things Jason was keeping from him? Or both at once?

“I appreciate the concern,” Peter continued, unaware of Jason’s turmoil. “I didn’t like that you implied Jason would take advantage… doesn’t seem to me like you know him very well.”

“Yeah,” Steph huffed, rueful. She glanced away from Peter to meet Jason’s eye. “Sorry, Todd. I guess I should know better by now.”

Jason shrugged. “It’s fine. I get it.” He did. Not like Jason had the best reputation or history, after all.

“So… are we cool?”

Peter looked over his shoulder at Jason for a moment, then turned back to Steph. “We’re cool.”

The stiffness in Steph’s shoulders disappeared. “Fuck. Thank God. Didn’t really wanna make an enemy of you.”

“Oh, come on.” Peter smirked. “It’s not like I’m scary.”

“Mm.” Steph was unconvinced. “Sometimes it’s the innocent ones that are the most dangerous.” Knowing Peter like he did, Steph was not wrong. For various reasons. “And so you’re aware, I will be capitalising on that face of yours. I bet you could get away with some epic pranks.”

Funnily enough, so did Jason…

“Noted,” Peter drawled, infinitely amused.

Steph turned serious, and she nudged Damian forward. The teen moved reluctantly, then squared his shoulders and glared up at Peter. “I… apologise. That was. Uncouth of me.”

Peter studied Damian carefully. But although his speech was halting, they could all hear the contrition in his voice, sparse though it was. Jason wondered if it’d been Dick or Alfred who’d given him a dressing down. Or Duke, maybe. The two of them apparently got on well.

“… Thank-you,” Peter said eventually. Like Steph, some of the strain in Damian’s posture was released. “Just… next time, maybe hand the food to me, ‘kay?”

Damian blinked. “Yes…” he said slowly. His eyes darted to the dark gardens, to Jason and Dog, then back to Peter. “Would you… still wish to go to the zoo?”

“Oh,” Peter laughed. “Yeah… Yeah, I would.”

“Very well.” And like that, the childish uncertainty was gone. “I shall send you the details.”

“Okay. Should I give you my—”

“No need,” Damian interrupted. “I already have your contact details.”

“Uhm—?”

“And for the record, you would do well to remember not to share them so carelessly in the future. No doubt Drake has already sent you several imbecilic images.”

Peter glanced at his phone and sure enough, even Jason could see that several messages had popped up while outside. “Huh.” Peter laughed and put his phone away. “Should I be concerned?”

“About Tim?” Steph smirked. “Yes.”

“As if you are any better, Brown! I am sick of the endless attempts to make me listen to that imbecile Astley^[2]!”

“Aww, I’m just trying to share good music with you.”

Knowing Steph, that was 100% a lie.

Peter nudged Jason while the two bickered. He nodded.

“We’re gonna go,” Jason announced, effectively breaking up the argument.

Steph pouted. “What about dessert?”

As if summoned (or more likely, watching from inside), Alfred materialised through the conservatory doors. He carried four tupperware containers that Jason was sure contained an unholy amount of sweet treats and leftovers from dinner packed carefully inside.

“Are you certain you cannot be tempted to stay?” Alfred asked even as he handed over the containers. There had to be a good four pounds worth of food in his hands.

Jason shook his head. “It’s been a long day. We gotta get home. Thanks for the meal, Alfie.”

“It was amazing,” Peter added, smiling shyly. “Really, thank-you.”

Alfred’s smile was warm and left Peter shifting uncertainly on his feet. Jason placed what he hoped was a grounding hand on his shoulder.

“Any time, my dear boy,” Alfred said kindly, and Jason knew he’d done the right thing introducing Peter, even if parts of the day had gone awry. “In fact, I insist you come back again. Next Sunday.”

“Oooh! Or we could come back after the zoo!” Steph gushed. Alfred looked like he was already planning a menu.

“We’ll see,” Jason hedged, unwilling to commit to anything while he didn’t know when Bruce would return. Sooner or later he’d need to speak to the man, but he’d rather that happened before Bruce met Peter. And a family dinner was the absolute worst time to do so.

“Very well,” Alfred said, nodding as if Jason had said yes. “I shall pencil you both in.”

Jason sighed heavily but attempted to stand firm. “I’ll let you know.”

Fighting Alfred’s politeness was a losing battle, but Jason at least had to try putting up some kind of resistance.

By the way the old man’s eyes gleamed, it seemed he already knew he’d won.

— + —

“Hey, Jason?”

“Mm?”

“Is that — is that a fucking cow?”

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

— + —

“So… Peter.”

Red Hood and Nightwing sat on the edge of a roof, sharing cold jokerised fries while they looked out at Crime Alley, appreciating the quiet night (for Gotham). Things had been quiet for a few weeks now, actually. A fortunate thing while Bruce was off with the Justice League. Jason hated it when the rogues popped out their ugly heads while the Bat wasn’t swinging around. Shit always hit the fan in the most spectacularly awful of ways.

He’d spent the night at the Iceberg, putting the fear of God into a few upstarts the Su sisters warned him had been sniffing around the casino, thinking it easy prey. In between hanging the idiots by the ankles, Jason had been mulling over ways to smuggle a Geiger counter into the apartment without Peter knowing (thank-you Duke for that new anxiety). All in all, an easy night. It was nearing three now and Gotham had hunkered down into her usual restless slumber.

Dick turned up all of five minutes ago. Jason was surprised he’d waited a day, instead of hunting him down last night after the disastrous family dinner. He’d at least come with food, courtesy of the 24hour BatBurger down in Burnley^[4].

Of course, everything had gone cold by the time he found Jason, but that was the usual way of things. Patrolling vigilantes rarely ate their meals hot. Jason was happy enough to have something to eat before he called it in and headed home. The night was a hell of a lot colder than the day might have suggested and he was already starting to plan the changes he’d make to his uniform to suit the upcoming Gotham winter.

He definitely wasn’t thinking about Peter’s smartass comment about branding.

Fifth-grader origami heart my ass.

Jason shoved a handful of fries in his mouth and tried to focus on the lime-tang rather than the mealy potatoes or the doubts Peter’s savage read had sprouted.

“Jay?”

“Mmph.” He swallowed and slapped away Dick’s hand that attempted to steal a fry straight out of Jason’s. “What about him?”

“He’s nice. I like him.”

“Yeah. He’s something else.”

“You two fit well together.”

Jason’s lips twitched. He let himself smile, even if Dick was wrong. They didn’t fit together, because there was nothing to fit. But there was no denying that he and Peter got along well. It was too soon to say they were friends, but they weren’t not friends, either.

(He’d hope so, considering he’d offered Peter his apartment to stay in until they found a way to send him back. If that was possible…. Speaking of, it was about time he sent another massage to Constantine.)

Dick misinterpreted Jason’s silence. “You’re not convinced?”

“That’s… not it,” Jason murmured, hesitant.

“Tell me about it?”

“It’s just… he worries me.” Jason grimaced even as he spoke. He didn’t mean to tell the truth, but there was something about Dick that just made you want to spill all. Like he could give you answers to questions you didn’t even know to ask.

Funny. Even Jason Todd wasn’t immune to the big brotherly charms of Dick Grayson.

“Why?”

Jason bit back a sigh. “Peter, he’s… seen shit. Been through things he won’t tell me about. There’s something… untouchable — unreachable — about him. Like he’s on one wall and I’m on another.”

“I heard from Robin that he wasn’t doing great a few nights back.”

“Nightmare,” Jason said grimly. “He didn’t react well when he woke up.”

“Therapy?”

He rolled his head to give Dick a gimlet stare. “Bit hypocritical to recommend that, don’t ya think?”

Dick managed to keep a straight face for all of three seconds before it creased into a self-deprecating grin. “Okay. Point taken. But he is a civvie… right? It’d be easier for him.”

Jason grunted rather than answer the probing question. Dick tilted his head, suspicions all but confirmed.

“Jay—”

“I dunno anything for sure,” Jason lied. “But there’s a reason he was targeted, don’t ya think?”

“It does make sense,” Dick hedged. Jason knew he was thinking about that uncanny catch Peter made. “… Is he a threat?”

Jason snorted. “The fuck do you think?”

“… Yeah. Fair enough. But you know I gotta ask.”

“Don’t… don’t go advertising it.” It was a gamble, confirming Peter’s meta status to Dick. Just as it had been with Babs. But he seemed to like Peter, and Dick was a bleeding heart for an underdog.

“Is that the right way to go about this? B might know—”

“The fuck he does! I’m not — I can’t have B chasing him out just ‘cause of something he can’t change about himself.”

“You know B wouldn’t do that.”

Jason let his silence speak for him. Dick sighed heavily. He took an enormous bite of his burger and Jason let him mull it over like he didn’t already know how Dick would respond.

He was right.

“Is he a mask?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’ve been surprised by a lot less.”

Jason chose to scarf down half his KGBLT rather than answer, and Dick filled the silence for him.

“I don’t like lying...”

He forced down the mouthful of burnt bacon and soggy tomato. “I ain’t asking you to. Just don’t say anything. The same goes for the rest of you. Keep it to yourself, unless he asks. Which he won’t.”

Even Jason knew that was a pipe dream at best. Peter would inevitably draw Bruce’s attention due to his proximity to Jason. Maybe, it’d be a passing interest. More than likely not, even if Jason could trust Babs and Dick to keep mum unless Peter really did become a problem. Not that Jason was especially concerned about that. The only way Peter could be a problem was if his presence here posed an existential-level threat. In which case, they’d have bigger issues than Bruce to worry about.

And if Bruce did learn Peter was a meta (of the non-world threatening variety), Jason was planning to negotiate an agreement like he had with the Outlaws, where Peter fell under his purview. In which case, Bruce wouldn’t be in much of a position to do anything else but whine and scowl. Peter’s willingness to stick around was tenuous at best… an overly nosy and invasive Bat might send him really running for the hills…

“Jay…” Dick’s tone, slow and cautious, had him looking up.

“Mm?”

“… When you said you ‘took care of things’…”

Jason knew his glare was somewhat mitigated by his domino mask, but he gave one all the same. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

“Yeah… Maybe not…”

Quiet between them. They finished off their cold fast food.

“Tell me he at least deserved it.”

“Dick.”

“Alright, alright.” Dick huffed and threw his head back to stare up at the unusually clear sky. The only star visible was Sirius. “But really, Jay. How do you feel about him? There’s dangers, shacking up with a civvie… possible meta or not.”

“Trust me, I know,” he growled with more anger than Dick deserved, but he couldn’t help but think of Isabel^[5] and the shit she’d been pulled into by association with Jason. He’d made that mistake once and he wouldn’t do it again. Never mind that that was exactly what the bats and other capes would think he was doing with Peter. Or that he suspected Peter was anything but a civvie. But that wasn’t his secret to share.

“Will things be okay? Will he be okay?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, thinking of Cass’ warning on Sunday. “Peter… he’s… someone used to running.”

Dick peered at him in the dark. “And you don’t think he’s done yet?”

“No.” Jason laughed mirthlessly. “Not even close. He’s my—”

Flight risk princess. He kept the ironic endearment to himself. It’d only be misinterpreted.

Dick remained quiet. Expectant.

He sighed. “Sometimes… I’ll look at him and he just seems… lost. Like he doesn’t know how he got here.” ‘Cause he fucking doesn’t. “Or I come home, and I wonder if he’ll still be there, or if he’s decided today’s the day he runs again.”

“Well… there’s an easy way to stop him from running, right?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Just… make it so he won’t leave?”

“Oh yeah, great advice, thanks dumbass. What shall I do. Tie him to a fucking chair?”

“I mean…”

“Maybe that works for you, Dickwing, but I like my partners free range.”

Dick shoved him and the remainders of Jason’s sandwich fell off the roof. He cursed but held back from punching Dick in retaliation.

“You know what I mean," Dick huffed. "It sounds like Peter’s got trust issues — no surprises there.  You have to show him you’re someone he can afford to place his trust in.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I think you do,” Dick spoke carefully. Annoyance flickered through Jason to see the man try to steer clear of his pressure points. “But it’s not a one-off thing, you know? He’s obviously good at masking his feelings, but Peter’s probably still in survival mode. You’re going to have to be there. Through thick and thin—”

“Christ, we’re living together, not married.”

“In our circles that’s the next best thing.” Dick frowned at him. “I just mean… he needs a safe space. And for whatever weird and uncomfy reason, you’ve somehow become that.”

“Gee willickers, Batman, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Piss off.” Dick shoved him again and simultaneously attempted to steal more of his fries. Jason wrenched them out of the fiend’s reach. “Do you know how traumatised I was, Jay? Steph’s right, you two are gross.”

“And you’re a fucking infant.”

“See if I bring you food again, you ungrateful wretch!”

Jason laughed at Dick’s theatrics. He couldn’t help it. They spent the rest of their semi-shared meal bickering, and when Jason finally headed back to the safehouse to wash the hairwax from his hair and the Gotham grime from his skin, he felt lighter and surer than before.

^[1] The All-Blades are magical swords Jason can only summon in the presence of ‘true evil’. He got them while training with the All-Caste (RHATO n52). They’re powered by his soul and blood.

^[2] IYKYK 😏

^{[3 - CLICK HERE TO RETURN]} Messages to SIGnature moves 10:14PM

9:58PM Red Hoodlum: Hey, what did your elf eyes see today?

10:01PM SIGnature moves: stop. You kno I hate it when you use memes. Its wrong. On so many levels

10:02PM Red Hoodlum: fuck you I’m only 5 years older

10:03PM SIGnature moves: sure in body

10:03PM SIGnature moves: but in soul? You’re a boomer

10:05PM Red Hoodlum: [middle finger emoji] what did you see?

10:06PM SIGnature moves: what’s in it for me

10:08PM Red Hoodlum: me not kicking my foot up your ass

10:09PM SIGnature moves: boring. Predictable. Try harder.

10:12PM Red Hoodlum: Fine. I’ll show you how to mod your bike without B knowing

10:13PM SIGnature moves: deal.

10:13PM SIGnature moves: Did you know P is mildly radioactive?

Red Hoodlum is calling

^[4] Bat Burger and jokerised fries are canon and I think that’s fucking hilarious. No one knows what the seasoning actually is, but in my heart of hearts I want it to be something like Tajin

Behold:

^[5] Isabel, FYI, is the start of my demisexual!Jason HC. She was an air hostess in RHATO 1 (n52) openly flirting with Jason, who Jason is then surprised to get a phone number from even though he was flirting back. After a ‘boring’ date in RHATO 2 (her words!), she’s dragged into an interstellar war for the freedom of Tamaran and later temporarily fridged by the Joker to frame Jason and drag him into the ‘Death of the Family’ arc. Later she reappears in RHO (rebirth), is possessed by Essence (another of Jason’s exes) and Jason gives her Dog… I’m ignoring this for obvious reasons

Chapter Text

“You are late,” were the first words out of Damian’s mouth when they met at the ticket booths.

“Jason’s fault,” Peter said blithely.

“That’s a fuckin’ lie,” Jason drawled, slinging an arm over Peter’s shoulder and drawing him close. Peter expected the move — his awareness of the web was growing every day — but the warmth of Jason was something he tried not to react to. “Petey still hasn’t clued into the Gotham weather.”

Peter scowled. “The forecast said seventy-two and clear!”

All six Waynes (and adjacent) looked pointedly at the parking lot beyond their shelter. Rain poured steadily. To the north, there was a patch of about ten car spaces that were being firmly avoided by visitors because they had flooded ankle deep. Peter’s scowl deepened when they returned their gazes to him: all shared identical looks of condescending pity. From a family of adoptees, the resemblance was uncanny.

“If there’s one thing you’ll need to learn, Pete,” Steph laughed, her smooth ponytail frizted with humidity, “it’s that the weatherman doesn’t know shit when it comes to Gotham.”

Cass nodded sagely to her left. “True.”

“Pretty sure they just guess,” Duke chuckled ruefully. “One too many ASOS^[1] stations destroyed. Or those weather balloons shot on sight. Now they just random number generate a prediction.”

“You must learn to be prepared for any eventuality,” Damian said, his expression sombre. “Gotham is an unpredictable place.”

“That’s what I said to him, boy scout, but did he wanna listen?” Jason said. Peter elbowed him when he attempted to ruffle his hair. “He wouldn’t change into something more appropriate until the rain was fallin’ sideways.”

“It might’ve cleared up!” Peter said mulishly.

Again: six pitying stares.

He rolled his eyes and threw out a leg to model the heavy-duty boots that had mysteriously appeared from God knows where — they certainly weren’t Jason’s and were far too new to be his hand-me-downs. “I’m ‘dressed appropriately’ now,” he huffed, mildly embarrassed.

The Waynes (and adjaced) dutifully ‘ooed’ in appreciation.

He should be grateful, he supposed, that Jason didn’t share the real reason why they got caught up in the traffic that had actually made them late. It was too mortifying to admit that Peter nearly had a meltdown over a pair of shoes that were definitely new and definitely bought by Jason even if he swore on his own grave (like a weirdo) that he never bought them. But who else would have^[2]?

Eventually, he’d given in and put them on, but only because it was pissing down with rain and he didn’t fancy a day of traipsing around in soaked sneakers.

He could at least admit to himself that the boots were doing a great job keeping his feet warm and dry. But he’d rather eat one than admit that to Jason.

“Okaayyy.” Dick clapped his hands. “We’re all here now. Shall we?”

They bought their tickets (Peter was proud he’d earned enough to pay for his own and Jason’s, and dutifully ignored the mocking ‘awws’ from Steph and Dick) and went in, armed with umbrellas and rain-resistant coats. Determined to match the miserable rain, the day was paired with a bitter cold that was already tingling across Peter’s hands. He’d need to buy himself some gloves soon if this was what winter promised.

Though Peter had rugged up with a thicker jacket and a scarf once he’d accepted that the weatherman was a liar, he still stuck close to Jason, who radiated heat like a furnace. Peter was endlessly jealous: what he wouldn’t give to have a body that could competently regulate body heat again!

As soon as they were through the gates, Damian took charge of the entire operation, whipping out the map he’d taken from the ticket booths. They huddled over the brochure with their umbrellas. Jason’s was enormous — the kind that could probably have fit a family of four if they were trying — and Peter capitalised on it to press himself close, arm tucked into his. Jason huffed with amusement but then switched the umbrella to his other hand and disentangled from Peter to throw his arm over his shoulder and tug him even closer.

Peter shoved down the guilt at the easy accommodation and the flush of pleasure that followed. It had been so long since he’d shared the simple delight of touch. This was just meant to be way to further their gay agenda, even if it was pushing at the boundaries of PDA that either were comfortable with.

Still… he made no attempt to extricate himself.

“We will sweep the zoo from the northwest corner then to the east and proceed in a zig-zag fashion back to the exit.” Damian demonstrated their ‘plan of attack’ with an imperious finger swept across the glossy paper. A few raindrops hand already slipped past the combined umbrella shelter, puckering the surface. “At noon, we’ll convene for lunch at the koi ponds before continuing. There is a raptor feeding show at fourteen hundred hours that I expect us to attend.”

Peter raised a brow at the teen’s militaristic language, but besides Duke (who was merely rolling his eyes with fond exasperation), the others didn’t react.

When none of them argued with Damian’s plan, he led them on the warpath, marching straight past exhibits to be ‘saved for later’. Peter took them in as best he could. Gotham, for all that it was a shitshow of a city, had a surprisingly well-furnished zoo. The greenery in particular was impressive: lush and verdant and practically seething with vitality. He barely had to even touch the web to sense the energy that burned like a low fire amongst it.

He noted their strangeness to Jason as they passed the gibbons enclosure. The apes sung like banshees, mournfully haunting their thick patch of artificial rainforest.

“Ah.” Jason shrugged. “That’ll be Ivy’s doing, I bet.”

“… Poison Ivy?”

“She’s mostly reformed these days. Or at least, there’s a truce in place. Every now and then she adopts some part of the city and works her magic.”

“And she’s picked the zoo?” Peter eyed the coconut palms that sprouted around the edges of ‘The Tropics’ enclosures. They had no business thriving so well in a city like Gotham. “I suppose it offers her a lot of biomes to play around with…”

“I think this time she actually worked with the zoo for the refurb. Usually, she just decides that patch of land is hers now.”

Peter shuddered to think of the power Ivy must have, to maintain so many plants that should have withered and rotted in Gotham’s unfriendly climate. Was it a conscious power? Was she actively keeping all of them alive, or was she simply the spark and the plants did the rest for themselves?

“I wouldn’t mind meeting her…” he mused aloud.

Jason nearly stumbled. “That’s… a bad idea.”

“What’s a bad idea?” Dick asked, continuing to demonstrate his lack of understanding for inconvenient things like ‘boundaries’ and ‘private conversations’. He was pointedly ignored.

“I just think she’d be a fascinating person to talk to!”

“Yeaaah. Not sure if Ivy’d agree with you there.”

“Poison Ivy?” Dick sounded both alarmed and delighted. “She’s… not particularly friendly. To men in particular.”

“Oh.” Peter was momentarily disappointed. “… What if I approached her with a research proposal?”

“Do you have one?” asked Jason.

“No. But I could make one.”

“You trying to dip your toes in a little villainy, Pete?” Dick laughed and sent Jason a look that went over Peter’s head. Literally and figuratively.

“I mean…” Peter hitched his voice like he was seriously considering it. “It must be a lucrative business, right? And who doesn’t want their own minions?”

“It’s very fashionable these days,” Jason agreed and Peter shot him an appreciative grin.

“See! Jace gets me. For that, you can be my left-hand man.”

“Oh? And who’d be your right?”

“Dog, obviously. Right after I install her as overlord.”

“Ah. We’re back on the dismantling capitalism thing, huh? Not sure how that makes her your right-hand man though. Seems like it should be the other way ‘round.”

“Weeell. She’s just a figurehead, ‘cause no one could actively dislike her! She’d be so popular no one would even know all the elections were rigged. I’d be working from the shadows. Naturally.”

Dick had a very strange look on his face when Peter realised he was still there, but was prevented from asking if he was okay by Damian’s announcement that they’d reached their destination: the Reptile House.

The Reptile House was a relatively nondescript warehouse painted sage green. The entrance was decorated with a collection of large, concrete lizards, tortoises and alligators that a pair of intrepid six-year-olds were attempting to jump along while their father watched beneath the hood of a heavy-duty raincoat. Damian led them inside and all were relieved to close their umbrellas and let the water drip onto the painted concrete floor.  Peter was reluctantly grateful for his new boots: he’d have fallen flat on his ass if he’d attempted to walk through that his sneakers.

Inside, the air was close and humid, with the faintest undercurrent of animal musk, swampy water and meat. Above them, rain thundered softly against the corrugated PVC roofing, mottled with age and lichen that let in only a pitiful amount of light. With the murals painted across the walls, it felt a lot like stepping into a rainforest.

There was another map on the wall, but the exhibit was a straightforward, closed circuit that rounded back to the entrance. Peter didn’t pay it much attention because Damian materialised before him.

“Parker. There is a particular exhibit that would interest you. Come.”

“Uhm…?”

“It’s easier just letting him,” Jason huffed, and nudged Peter with his shoulder. He shot Peter a wink when he glanced back. “I’ll hang back with the old man and the ladies.”

“Oi!” Dick squawked in outrage and Peter allowed himself to be dragged along by Damian.

“I think he’ll follow just fine without you haulin’ him along, Dames,” said Duke, who easily kept pace on his long legs. He had at least four inches on Peter — maybe more — a solid build and an efficiency of movement that spoke of someone used to testing their body. His oversized maroon jacket did nothing to hide that, and a glance at his hands showed the same scarring around the hands and calluses Peter noticed on the rest of the Wayne family (and adjacents), though they weren’t as extensive as some.

Damian dutifully let go of Peter’s sleeve but continued walking with all the assuredness of someone confident they’d be followed. Duke kept easy pace with Peter, looking curiously into the glass-walled enclosures. Damian allowed them to stop at a couple — Peter particularly liked the one with the panther chameleon, which flashed a vivid green and teal the moment they appeared outside its leafy enclosure. It’s cone-shaped eyes jumped between Peter and Duke warily and when he tapped into the web, he thought maybe he could feel a thrum of… something? He’d scarcely enough time to skim the brief description about chromatophores before Damian shoved them along.

“We’re almost there!”

“Where — oh. Wow,” Peter said without thought when they rounded the corner of the corridor.

The walls of reptile displays suddenly opened up into a viewing platform and Peter realised where the stink of stagnant water came from. The warehouse must have been much larger than he’d first thought, because the platform they stood on was raised above a sizeable pond, the waters greenish-brown and opaque, edged with tall reeds and palms. The insipid light working its way through the Gotham cloud cover and skylights was washed out by the huge bulbs that poured light and heat down on the crocodiles lying on the muddy shores like enormous scaly cats. Peter counted at least five of them. He pressed against the vine-covered railings to try and spot any more in the water.

“Cool, huh?” Duke agreed, joining Peter.

“I always liked crocodiles and alligators and stuff,” Peter admitted. “Apex predators, y’know? The whole ‘living fossil’ thing wigs me out.”

“Lemme guess: you were a dinosaur kid.”

Peter gave him a disbelieving stare. “And you weren’t?”

“Oh, sure, sure.”

Peter got the impression Duke was humouring him, but he didn’t care. He dropped into the web to see if he could suss out the crocs like he had the chameleon but was immediately grabbed by the vitality of the plants, just like before. The entire enclosure blazed with life, so thick with it Peter half-imagined he’d choke on it. The longer he stayed attuned, the greater the impression grew that it was watching him back.

Something brushed tentatively against his hand and Peter yelped with surprise and wrenched his hand off the rail.

“Pete?” Duke asked, mildly concerned.

“Just a bug!” Peter said and shook his hand for effect.

“Not a fan?”

“Of them crawling on me? Uh. No.”

“Bitch, same.” Duke grinned and turned back to watch the crocodiles.

Heart thundering, Peter looked down at the railings he’d been leaning against. Free Killer Croc! someone had jokingly (Peter assumed) scratched into the wood, but Peter was more interested in the vines curled lovingly over the beams. A lacework of aerial roots were etched into old paint. Or they should have, but as he watched with rising horror, the end of one spear-leaved vine dislodged itself again to attempt caress his other hand.

Peter abruptly stepped away and he could have sworn he felt disappointment resonate through the web.

He cut himself off from it entirely and turned to Damian.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” Peter asked, wincing at the strain in his voice. Fuck he hoped Damian and Duke hadn’t seen anything. Because whaaaat the fuck.

Damian, who had been glaring at the crocodiles with a look that bordered on resentment — weird — tore his eyes away from the reptiles to land his scornful gaze on Peter instead. He scoffed.

“That was simply a ruse, Parker. Keep up.”

Peter met Duke’s wry stare and Damian sucked his teeth.

“I simply wished to know. How. Are you?”

Peter smiled and hoped it came across as bemused rather than manic. “I’m fine. Damian, if this is about Sunday, it’s water under the bridge.”

Damian was quiet for a time and Peter bore his scrutiny with as much grace as he could manage. At his back, he felt one of the vines stroke insistently against his palm and hoped to hell that neither boy noticed.

Eventually, Damian nodded. “Very well.” His expression shifted and opened up. “Have you been maintaining Dog’s—” he grimaced at the name, “training regimen? How are you proceeding?”

Peter latched onto the opening with the enthusiasm of a drowning man. He grinned brightly to hide his internal freak out and fumbled for his phone, fingers a little clumsy with the residual cold and sentient vine-induced nerves. “I have! I even recorded us. Look!”

Damian watched the video Peter pulled up with an intense stare. He had Jenny record for him yesterday when she turned up at the park. Jenny wasn’t there all the time (fortunately, or he would have been concerned), but she’d taken to demanding Peter let her play with Dog. He suspected she missed dog-sitting and was more than happy to let the pair run around. While Jenny tired her and Dog out, Peter took the time to practice connecting and tracking the two through the web. He still hadn’t cracked how to differentiate between specific humans (beyond adult or child) but he thought he was getting close.

When the footage finished, Damian replayed it, studying the routine while Dog danced through the long grass.

“You’ve done well,” he said, short and clipped. Duke, who had rounded to watch over Damian’s shoulder, spluttered in surprise.

“Praise? From Damian?” he gasped theatrically. “Now that’s hard to come by!”

Damian twisted and glared up haughtily. “I acknowledge competence when it’s due.”

“Ohhhh. Wow. Could’ve fooled me?”

“The only one fooling themselves is you if you think yourself competent, Thomas.” The remark should have been cutting, but Damian delivered it with such a smug grin both of them knew it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. Then he rounded back to Peter. “The camera quality of your phone is very high. What model is it?”

“Ah.” Peter laughed nervously and slipped the incriminating device (dammit) back into his coat pocket. “I, uh, I made it?”

“Seriously?” Duke whistled, impressed. Damian appeared… less so. He was staring at Peter the same way he’d watched the video, like he was unpicking a tightly woven knot. “You gotta be pretty damn good at your job.”

“I’m not bad, yeah.” He tried to ignore Damian’s eyes drilling into his forehead.

“Have you thought of going to college?” Duke asked. “I bet you’d be able to do even more with something like an engineering degree.”

The ‘E’ word made Peter think of Mr Stark. What would he have thought, if that was something Peter pursued? Proud? Flattered? … Both?

Probably both.

Not that it mattered anymore, anyway. Mr Stark and anyone else who would have cared was dead. And those who weren’t, didn’t even know who he was anymore.

“Pete?”

He blinked. Oh. He’d zoned out again. Guiltily, he licked his lips and made himself answer. “I… never got to finish high school.”

Duke’s eyes widened with realisation. Peter figured the others had filled him in on the rest of his ‘sob story’ last week. “Oh. Yeah. Guess that’d make things hard.”

“But not impossible,” Damian piped up, frowning at Peter as though he was being stupid. It was hard to tell if that was intentional or just a Damian thing, though. The kid had sharp eyes. “You appear to have some capabilities.”

Appear to, Duke mouthed, rolling his eyes with amusement.

“I don’t see why you can’t take the GED. That is what Drake did and he had a far less sensible reason for making himself the shame of the family.”

Duke poorly held back a snicker and Damian appeared faintly pleased with himself. Was this normal for siblings? Peter felt his only childhood resonate strongly.

“I’ve… thought about it,” he confessed when both returned their attentions to him. “But I don’t know how—”

He cut himself off. He’d been about to say ‘how long I’ll be here for’. Not exactly the kind of thing you wanted to say to the people you wanted to trick into thinking you were dating their brother.

Duke misinterpreted his abrupt silence. “Tim did have to get his GEDs. And I could tutor you, if you think you need it? I just graduated.”

Peter blinked at the surprise offer. “I…” Shit, he was genuinely touched. His eyes suddenly burned with emotion. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m offering.” Duke shrugged. “College only just started; it’s not whooping my ass just yet. Hell,” he added with a grin. “I’ll even charge you.”

Laughter burst out of him, bright and unexpected. It drew the attention of Jason and Dick, who’d just joined them, though Cass and Steph were nowhere to be seen. Peter waved them off as the tightness in his chest abruptly eased.

“How much does Duke Thomas, experienced tutor, charge?”

“Hmm…” Duke tapped his foot on the ground as he thought. “How about twenty bucks an hour?”

“Twenty?” That didn’t seem like a lot, but he had to remind himself it was only 2016 here, and there’d been no Blip to throw currencies out of whack.

“Okay, I admit I was pushing it,” Duke laughed, misinterpreting his silence once again. “How about fifteen?”

Fifteen was even worse! Peter shook his head. “Twenty-five. And I’d only need it for social sciences. Maybe English.”

Science and math would be a breeze, but this world had a completely different modern history that was sure to skew things for the other two. Even though he wouldn’t be around long enough to even think about college applications, getting his GEDs was a point of pride that had burned back home. And sure, he could have fudged around with his school history, but Peter had been unwilling to compromise on what little of his identity he could hold onto.

“Tw-twenty-five?” Duke stared at him with horror. “No way man, that’s daylight robbery! Fifteen!”

“Twenty-five.”

Damian frowned. “Neither of you appear to understand how bartering works.”

“Fifteen, Peter! I’m offering as a friend — I’d have done it for free!”

“You’re being unreasonable! I’m good for the money! Value yourself more.”

“This is ridiculous,” Damian huffed. “Todd!”

“What?”

“You keep saying no and I’ll go higher! Twenty-eight!”

“Who are you? Bruce Wayne? Twelve bucks! For two hours!”

“Why are you arguing?” Jason materialised behind Peter and placed two hands on his shoulders. Where he’d previously been, Dick was on the phone and frowning.

Peter twisted around to glare desperately up at him. “Duke won’t let me pay him properly!”

“For… what?”

“I offered to tutor him!” Duke huffed. “Pete’s grasp of money seems shaky at best.”

“I understand money plenty fine!”

“Oookay,” Jason said. “Duke, how much?”

“Fifteen—

“He said twenty to start!”

Jason turned Peter around to frown down at him properly. “And you’re… mad about the discount?”

“Twenty-five should be his going rate,” Peter said seriously.

“Pete, no one’s paying twenty bucks an hour for a tutor,” Duke complained.

Peter rounded back on him. “They should!”

“Man, you don’t even know if I’m good!”

“He’s got a point,” Damian observed. “For all you know, Dog could do a better job.”

“Oi!”

Jason stared up at the splotchy plastic roofing above as though it might offer guidance. The rain appeared to have calmed down, though it was still grey and gloomy. He shook Peter a little. In a fond way. “Okay. Pete, you pay Duke the twenty. Duke, you take the money — you’re both being massive dumbasses and I’m embarrassed by both of you. Of the two of you, Petey’s the one with the job. He can afford it.” He frowned. Looked back at Peter. “You can afford it, right?”

Peter bristled. “Of course I can! But I still don’t think—”

“It’s called a compromise, Petey. I’m sure you’re aware of the concept.”

Peter pouted. Jason covered it up with an over-large hand over his face.

“None of that. I don’t need you bringing out the eyes.”

He huffed against the warm, callused palm. He didn’t really know what Jason meant by that. “Fine.”

Jason took his hand away and rounded on Duke. “Well?”

“Fine.” Duke glared at Peter. “I’m gonna tutor the hell out of you.”

“You’d better.”

They shook on it.

“Right,” Jason sighed. “Now that that ridiculous scene is outta the way, I suggest we move on. Dami, what’s next?”

“The Birds of the Tropics.”

“Cool. Let’s see some fancy fucking birds, yeah?”

They carried on; Peter’s hand was firmly wrapped in Jason’s like he was worried Peter might throw himself into another argument with a sibling. Duke kept pace beside him as they discussed the details about tutoring.

It was a foolish thing to agree to. Peter knew that. For all he knew, he could be gone by next week. But he couldn’t help himself. He… missed this kind of thing. Missed learning. Missed being a student. Feeling like there were people who felt the same as he did about academics. And Peter was… weak. He was so tired of being strong.

“I’d like you to know,” Damian said to them very seriously as they left the Reptile House (it had indeed stopped raining). “That I am wildly disappointed in both of you.”

Peter and Duke both burst into laughter.

— + —

“Where’ve they gone?”

“Where’ve who gone?” Jason tilted his head in question. Unbeknownst to him, a yellow and black butterfly had landed right on a curl of his white hair. Peter glanced down at his bingo card and crossed off eastern tiger swallowtail^[3].

“Five.”

“Shit.”

“Dick, Duke and Cass. I swear they were just with us!”

Jason looked around the butterfly house. It was a large greenhouse, teeming with the kinds of plants most would probably consider weeds (thistle, milkweed and clover were the only ones Peter could confidently identify), but were artfully arranged in sweeping beds of colour, positively teeming with butterflies and the odd bumblebee.

Fortunately for Peter’s sanity, none of the plants had attempted to say hello.

“Can’t see ‘em.” Jason shrugged, unconcerned, and was momentarily startled by the swallowtail that flew off him. “Maybe they went to the bathroom.”

“But!” Peter frowned. “They’re missing out.”

He tried to think of when he’d last seen them as he attempted to get an orange sulphur (already ticked off, dammit) to climb onto his finger from a thistle. It flew away instead: all of the butterflies had avoided him so far. Peter tried not to take it personally.

The others had definitely been with them when they left the Tropics, and Peter was pretty sure he’d seen Dick veer away from the golden orb vivarium? But after that… he was drawing a blank. He attempted to find them on the web, but it was a hopeless endeavour when he couldn’t differentiate people, and the zoo had only grown busier. It was late morning now and the web was alive with vibrations, too many for Peter to separate anything from a distance when he was still so new at it. Just connecting was giving him the beginnings of a headache.

“Pete?” Jason was frowning at him. It was a mild frown though. The one he had when he was concerned, not exasperated or angry. “You there?”

Ah. Oops. Jason only asked that when he spaced out. He smiled in reassurance. “Yeah.”

Jason, unfortunately, wasn’t reassured. “Do you need to—”

“Parker! How many have you got?”

Jason scowled at Steph’s interruption, but Peter latched gratefully onto the distraction. “Five!”

“Loser!” Steph sing-songed, ignoring the scandalised mother glaring at her. She waved her paper around like a flag. “I’ve got six!”

“Crap.”

Butterfly Bingo had quickly devolved into a fierce competition between them, even if Damian had technically won only five minutes into the house. He’d flung his crossed-out card at Jason before abandoning them to attempt to cover himself in as many butterflies as was humanly possible.

Peter said ‘attempted’ but considering there were about twenty crawling over Damian’s arms and head, he was actually succeeding. Unable to stop himself, Peter snapped a picture with his phone: the boy had the softest, most satisfied smile he’d ever seen.

He immediately sent the picture to Duke with a ‘????????????? Where ARE you????????’  tacked on for good measure. He was left unread.

“If it was just them going to the restroom,” he mused to Jason, “wouldn’t they be back by now?”

“Maybe.” Peter could hear the shrug in his voice. “Knowing Dick, he’s just got them distracted. You’ll see: they’ll turn up with something stupid like a turkey leg or a child-sized plushie or somethin’.” He snorted. “Or an actual child.”

Peter turned back to Jason, but the sass he’d been about to throw back froze in his throat. Two butterflies were clambering across Jason’s hand while he stared at them with a complicated expression. They looked out of place, powder-blue and an almost translucent yellow, terribly delicate against Jason’s scarred knuckles. When he slowly tilted his hand, they continued to climb upwards to sit upon the highest perch of his fingers.

In that moment, Peter though Jason looked shockingly, disarmingly young.

He checked his bingo card. Yes! He checked off the eastern tailed-blue and clouded sulphur. “Seven!”

“You bastard!” Steph cried. “Where?”

Jason looked up at Peter and grinned toothily. He gently flicked his hand and the butterflies launched into the air before Steph could crash into them.

“Sorry, they’re gone.” Jason was smirking as he crossed one of the butterflies off his card.

“Ahhh you tit! I bet you scared them away.” Steph slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder and Peter dutifully showed her his card. He was two away from Bingo. She sucked her teeth and pushed his hand away in disgust. “How’d the goblin manage to get them all so quickly? You think maybe he doused himself with butterfly pheromones or something?”

All three turned to observe Damian and his menagerie of fawning butterflies. He noticed them staring and gave them the middle finger. Coupled with the haughty stare, he looked like a fae king sneering down at his subjects.

In jeans.

Feeling daring, Peter snapped another picture.

The glare intensified. A second middle finger joined the first but further retribution did not come.

Peter took another picture.

“Ohhhh, you should send that to me,” Steph chuckled as she leaned against his shoulder. She was apparently the kind of person to use their whole body to do so. The average person would probably have stumbled beneath her, but Peter did not. “I gotta use that for future blackmail purposes.”

Obediently, Peter forwarded the picture to her (and another to Duke for good measure — still unread). Based on the punishing glare burning a hole in his forehead, Damian would be demanding he delete the pictures the moment he decided the butterflies weren’t worth it.

Peter sent him back a broad grin and took another photo for good measure.

“Menaces, the both of you,” Jason huffed.

“That may be,” Peter said, and put his phone away. “But I’m a menace who’s about to beat you.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason waved his card at Peter. There was only one butterfly left. “You sure about that, Petey?”

Both Peter and Steph gasped in scandal and broke apart. The game was on.

FANART FANART FANART PRAISE THESE AMAZING PEOPLE: 

^ Made by neogryffs (Tumblr)

^ Made by RedReality_R (AO3)

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

— + —

In the end, despite their best efforts, Jason won. Peter maintained he cheated and was supported by Steph. They both watched enviously while Jason approached the tired woman at the entrance to exchange his bingo card for a lollipop.

“Sorry, Pete. It sucks to suck,” he said upon return, and then, ironically, began to suck on his ill-gotten candy.

“Delete them,” Damian demanded, having abandoned his fawning butterfly followers to glare furiously at Peter and Steph. He poked Peter with a force that probably would have left bruises if Peter weren’t part-spider. “Delete them, delete them, delete them!”

“Sorry, Dalek, your orders have no hold over me.” Peter grinned. He danced out of Damian’s way when he attempted pickpocket Peter’s phone. “I’ve already saved them to the cloud and installed a dead-man switch! If you kill me, they’ll be sent to everyone in my contacts list!”

“You are as insufferable as your partner,” Damian growled. “I wish you years of misery together!”

“Aww.” Jason ruffled Damian’s hair — or attempted to. He was thwarted by a sharp smack of his hand. “You just say the darndest things.”

“I can send you the pictures, though?” Peter offered, figuring he could at least throw him a bone. “They’re pretty great, if you ask me.”

“Wha— Parker!” Steph cried. “We spoke about this! The opportunities for blackmail were endless!”

“I seek a life of peace and prosperity for all.”

“That’s the biggest crock of shit I ever heard in my life.”

Peter poked his tongue at Jason, who had started crunching on his lollipop like an absolute freak, then sent Damian the string of photos he’d taken. Damian looked them over with the same critical eye he’d used watching the video with Dog.

“These are… adequate,” he admitted. “Alfred would enjoy them, I suppose.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “If you say so.”

The four of them wandered back through the bugs exhibit (both Peter and Damian had Thoughts™ about the zoo using the ‘B’ word when they’d included displays of centipedes and spiders). Peter’s eyes got caught again on the golden orb weavers as they left. They’d set the lights in the huge vivarium just right to catch the delicate strands against the black wall behind.

His wrists itched.

Suddenly anxious, he followed the others out. The sky was heavy and black with the threat of rain, but the heavens had yet to re-open. They were greeted by the missing three who wore matching, grim expressions that slipped away when they saw Peter and the rest.

“Damian, my butterfly prince!” Dick cried and picked up the squawking teen to twirl him around. “You looked so handsome!”

“Grayson I will curse your bloodline! Put me down!” Damian hissed, and then did something to Dick’s hand that had him dropping the teen with a pained yelp.

“Where’d you go?” Peter asked Duke, who grimaced.

“Sorry, man. Bugs really aren’t my thing. I had to get out.”

“Oh…” He hadn’t thought before that Duke was freaked out by the exhibit, but maybe he was just really good at masking.

“I kept him company,” Dick added, slinging a consolatory arm around Duke, who rolled his eyes but didn’t shrug him off. “As his emotional support animal.”

“I… see.” Peter glanced at Cass.

She grinned. “I just like to see people in crisis.”

Peter blanched at the familiar words and Cass immediately frowned. Against his will, his thoughts turned to MJ. Guilt and grief washed over him, so hard it stole his breath right out of his throat.

What was she doing now?

Was she at college yet? Was she loving it? Peter could imagine MJ throwing herself into every activist role she could at MIT. His nose was suddenly full of her scent — citrus, bright and peppery with a hint of warmth beneath. In his hands, her frizzy hair. He loved carding his fingers through it, destroying and reshaping the waves of it. MJ would complain but let him do it anyway. He could have sat for hours with her head in his lap, some stupid show playing on the TV, just touching. And then they’d get up and Peter would laugh himself stupid at the bird’s nest he’d made of her hair, and she would punch him in the arm and call him an ass, and then she’d kiss him before she stumbled sleepily to the bathroom to ‘fix it’.

That hungry chasm in his chest ached.

Peter had promised her. He’d promised and he’d lied—

And then there were arms around him and it wasn’t MJ he was smelling anymore, it was trace scents of gunpowder and cigarettes and layered stronger over that it was leather and sandalwood and coffee and fake raspberry flavouring.

“Breathe, Peter,” Jason murmured, the vibrations of his voice passing right through Peter’s skull.

He drew in a shaky breath. Flushed out the memories. Struggled to ground himself in the present.

Absently, he felt himself being guided somewhere. He let Jason walk him backwards but kept his face buried in the man’s chest. The scent of coffee — MJ hated coffee — kept the thoughts of her at bay, but that chasm where his heart should have been writhed angrily.

Eventually, they stopped. He vaguely wondered where Jason had led him, but not enough to check and he didn’t have the fortitude to tap into the web. For a while, Peter let his only struggle be his attempt to match his breathing with Jason’s.

“Pete?”

“Sorry, I—”

“You don’t gotta apologise.”

“I ruined things again.”

“You really didn’t.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Do I sound like I’m lyin’?”

He paused to think about it. Shook his head.

“You had enough? Wanna go home?”

Peter shook his head against Jason’s warm chest. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

A hand paused above his head — he could sense its hesitancy — then it ran softly over the back of his hair. Peter let out a faint noise — he couldn’t help it even if he’d tried — and the hand passed gently through his curls again. And then again and again, more certain.

Fuck. When was the last time he’d been hugged? Not since the Erasure.

And the last time he’d had one that hadn’t smelled of blood?

His hands were pressed up against Jason’s chest. He pinched a wrist to drag himself back before he could think of the ruined lobby of a certain luxury apartment block.

Jason caught the movement. Rough hands wrapped around his wrist and tugged. “None of that.”

Peter thought of fighting him. But it wasn’t worth it. He’d already done what he needed anyway, and the itching of body parts that didn’t belong to him was replaced with a bitter throb of pain.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Again, he thought about it. Should have kept it to himself, but the truth was fighting its way to the surface, rising like a cyst to be lanced and purged.

He gave in. Just enough to satisfy the need. Peter was so tired of the lying and the silence.

“Home,” he confessed. “What’s gone. What I can’t get back.”

Jason stilled, just for the briefest of moments. “You’ll get back, Pete—”

Peter was shaking his head. “No,” he said firmly. “No. It’s — gone. There was nothing left. Not of me.”

The hand not curled around Peter’s wrists resumed its carding through Peter’s hair. Peter clutched Jason’s jacket like a lifeline. He was struck with the mad thought that if he let go, he’d be swept away by the bitter Gotham wind.

“Okay,” Jason said eventually. “Okay, Peter.”

They stood like that for a long time.

— + —

Peter found himself again.

He didn’t know how long they’d been there — tucked behind the bugs exhibit he belatedly realised — but his back was cold and a soft drizzle was falling. Sheltered beneath the warehouse awning, Jason and Peter remained dry; fortunate because Jason’s umbrella was nowhere to be found.

He was proud he’d not cried, though his eyes certainly felt that way — raw and burning when he closed them — so it was probably a moot point.

Pulling away was a struggle, but he managed. Jason slouched against the wall the moment he did, watching Peter warily.  “You sure you wanna stay? No shame in goin’ home.”

There was. But Peter kept that to himself. “I’m fine.” He forced on a smile. Jason’s expression drew on a sucked lemon look. “I’m starving. And you know what they say.”

“… What do they say?”

“You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

The sucked lemon look intensified. “Did you just quote a Snickers ad at me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I—” Jason gusted out a sigh. “You know what. I’m not even surprised anymore.”

“Oh good. I’ve beaten you into submission.”

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Sure you have.” His pale eyes skimmed over Peter, holding onto his wrist a second too long. Peter couldn’t help but tug on the edge of his coat, even though the fresh bruise wasn’t visible with his arms down.

“Let’s go?” he asked, tentative.

Jason pushed himself off the wall with his shoulders. “Better move quick: Dick’s got our umbrella and I don’t trust him not to hand it over to the first bedraggled brat that crosses his path.”

“Ah. So we’re against the dry-children agenda. I see how it is.”

Jason’s lips twigged upwards. “Fuck them kids.”

“You beast.”

“That’s me.”

Jason led Peter back around the building to join the others, huddled together from the drizzle beneath their umbrellas. He paused when the Waynes (and adjacent) looked up upon their approach, but forced himself to keep walking, maintaining a smooth, brave face. Fears of questions were swiftly resolved: it seemed even the Wayne family (and adjacent) had the tact to leave him be. The most acknowledgement he got was Cass, placing a rueful hand on his shoulder while Dick wordlessly handed over Jason’s umbrella.

Peter breathed in deeply. He knew his smile was a bit to fixed but there was no helping it. “Are we ready to eat?”

“Alfred packed us lunch,” Damian said and pointed at Dick who was carrying a backpack Peter didn’t remember seeing before. “Grayson fetched it for us.”

“In the cold and the rain, all by myself,” Dick lamented.

“Poor Dickie, I bet you were—” Whatever Jason was about to ask was cut off by the appearance of a gaggle of zookeepers in khaki shorts and long-sleeved green shirts. They were led by a harried woman that Peter thought he’d seen in the ocean mammals section.

“I don’t know what happened!” she said to the others in low, nervous tones. Peter doubted the Waynes (and adjacent) could hear her. “I just came back from lunch and they were gone!”

They rushed past and Peter, on instinct, glanced back at the Waynes (and adjacent). He was taken aback by Dick’s expression: grim and hard-eyed. Utterly alien on his usually genial, handsome face.

And then Peter blinked. And Dick was back, a soft smile smoothed over the hard edges that had surfaced, blue eyes glittering as he gazed back at Peter.

He had something to do with that. The thought came to him, bright and clear and backed by hardened instinct.

Peter kept the realisation clear from his face, hiding it with a smile of his own, shaky and unpracticed as it was. “Shall we go find somewhere to eat?” he asked, and Dick’s gaze sharpened with acknowledgement.

“Sounds like a great idea, Pete. I bet there’s covered tables at the food court.”

He knows you know.

Peter shoved the certainty aside. Whatever was going on with the Waynes (and adjacent) wasn’t a mystery for Peter Parker to solve…

… But it might be a mystery for Spider-Man.

^[1] The Automated Surface Observing System (ASOS) program is a joint effort between the National Weather Service, the Federal Aviation Administration, and the Department of Defense. ASOS serves as the U.S.'s primary surface weather observing network and supports forecast activities, aviation operations, and the needs of the meteorological, hydrological, and climatological research communities.

^[2] It was Tim. Tim would.

^[3]Butterflies listed respectively: eastern tiger swallowtail; Orange sulfur; eastern tailed-blue; clouded sulphur

All are native to New Jersey and I definitely didn't spend half an hour researching this. No sir.

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]} Message to Dickhead. Time reads 11:45AM

J 11:26AM: can you seriously not shut off even for a day? TF did yall go. P’s wondering where you went.

Dickhead 11:36AM: sry! Had to investigate smth. Ivy called, noticed a disturbance in the force

J 11:37AM: I hate when you try to use pop culture references.

Dickhead 11:37AM: OK Boomer

Dickhead 11:38AM: were coming back now. Meet out?

J 11:41AM: [middle finger emoji]  [middle finger emoji]  [middle finger emoji]

Chapter Text

“So, the fuck was the deal that disappearing act today?” Jason asked around a mouthful of burrito of dubious origins. He and Dick were gathered in the same spot as last week. Though Dick spent most of his time in Blüdhaven, he said he’d rather spend the night in Gotham to be there for Sunday dinner, rather than make two separate trips. Jason suspected he just wanted another opportunity to gossip. “Pete noticed you missing. You gotta be careful: he’s observant. And suspicious.”

“Oh! So a great combination to have living with you, then,” said Dick. He’d already ploughed through his burrito and moved onto the churros that were ostensibly for both of them, but Jason had already written off as a casualty of brotherhood. Cinnamon sugar sprayed across the blue insignia on Dick’s chest as he ate. Jason suspected he’d missed dinner.

He shrugged. “I like to live on the wild side.”

“Don’t we all,” Dick laughed. “Ivy messaged me.”

“You mentioned.”

“Said she’d noticed something strange through her plants. We were already on the lookout, so it raised alarms and O followed up. Tim thinks Pyg might be on the move after his breakout last month.”

The breakout was just before Jason’s return to Gotham, but it was good practice to keep track of shit like that. Pyg was one of the worst in Jason’s books. He didn’t just fuck with the Bats, he stole people. And Crime Alley was still a hot spot for trafficking, despite Jason’s best efforts. The end results for those unfortunate enough to have a brush with Pyg were horrific and rarely reversible.

Yet another of Batman’s irredeemable bastards that should have seen the end of a lethal injection or the electric chair but got away with literal murder on trumped up insanity pleas.

“So?”  Jason pushed.

Dick sighed and scrubbed his hair. It just made him look more handsomely windswept, the bastard. “O pinged an associate of Pyg’s on CCTV. She asked us to track him.”

“And?”

“And… we ended up at the marine animals again. The seals… there were two missing by the time we got there. The keepers brought them out for the morning show, but they’re kept in a backstage pool in between… we realised they were gone just before the zoo keepers discovered it for themselves when they went to give them their midday feed.”

“How the fuck do you disappear a pair of six-hundred-plus pound animals?”

“We… don’t know,” Dick admitted, scowling.

“Inside job?”

 Dick huffed and shoved another churro in his mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed before speaking: “Could be. O already flagged some suspicious activity a couple of days back. The usual: dark van, driving slow. Not around the zoo specifically, but with Pyg on the loose we figured it’d be a good idea to check things out while we were there.”

“And? Where’d he bring you?”

The silence was telling. Guess they were long gone by the time Dick and the others turned up.

Jason clapped Dick on the shoulder. “Well, we all have our bad days.”

“Shut up.”

“No need to get touchie, Dickhead.”

“I just…” Dick growled and buried his head in his bent knees. “It’s just… Halloween’s coming up and just once, I’d like us to be ahead of whatever messed up shit they’ve got planned, y’know?”

Jason did know. It was years since he’d been around for Halloween, but he remembered clearly the holiday horrors from his time as Robin. Sometimes, the ‘holiday’ was a one and done thing: nab the villain, throw him in prison, help with clean-up, job done. Those were the good ones. The bad ones? The ugly ones? They left their mark on the city for months afterwards. They were ugly and brutal and left the bitter taste of despair in your mouth. Left you wondering why you even bothered fighting when the monsters in the city were so determined to fight back.

“Ugh!” Dick grimaced with frustration. “I hate to say it, but the sooner B comes back, the better.”

Jason let out a theatrical shudder. “Fuck me, don’t even joke with that, asshole!”

“You know what I mean. Things still suck when he’s around, but somehow it feels easier.”

Jason didn’t bother responding and focused on finishing off his burrito. He didn’t want to admit that Dick was right. Sure, when things blew up, they blew up bad and it was never any easier when Bruce was around. But… mixed up feeling for the man or not, Jason couldn’t deny that sometimes he still fell into the trap of turning to Bruce for guidance.

He screwed up the foil wrapper and stared morosely out at his sleeping city.

Even a beating couldn’t stop Jason looking to Bruce for answers, just as a lost child might do to a father.

— + —

Peter sat at his desk, all lights off but his lamp (another of his dumpster finds… Jason had taken to calling him a raccoon the last couple of days. Peter kept it to himself that he’d actually met a talking raccoon. It seemed a little far-fetched, even for a ‘time traveller’).  The room was dim but warmly lit. A little chilly: it was too early in the year to justify the heating, even though Jason did say Peter could do what he wanted with the thermostat. Jason himself had left for work thirty minutes ago.

A few blocks away, the odd crack of fireworks or gunshots popped off. His body twitched towards the sounds instinctively. But despite his thoughts at the zoo, he couldn’t help but feel like now wasn’t the time. And maybe it was just an excuse, but Peter didn’t think he was ready just yet to venture out into Gotham as Spider-Man. Not to mention he needed to make himself a mask… though he thought he could admit to himself that was mostly just an excuse.

Whenever he did go out, Peter thought it would be soon. He could feel it in his bones.

Forcibly, Peter shoved the rising guilt into the pit with the rest of his regrets and returned his attentions to his arms. Or more specifically, his wrists.

Or more specific than that, the spots on his wrist he’d firmly avoided touching, looking or even thinking about for the last three weeks.

His gut churned at the realisation. Three weeks. Three weeks in Gotham…

Rent was due last week.

No doubt his landlord would have been hunting for him the last couple of days. Maybe he’d have a couple more before Mr Demille decided that Peter had dipped, and then he’d be helping himself into Peter’s shitty apartment to sell or throw out what little he had, ready to rent to the next desperate sucker. Knowing Mr Demille, he wouldn’t even file a missing person’s report.

And just like that, there’d be no one left to wonder where Peter Parker had gone…

The air seemed to thin. His pulse began to thunder.

Desperately, Peter crossed his arms and tapped his fingers against his collarbones. He couldn’t afford to have a panic attack. Think it through, Parker.

So what if there was no one coming for him? No one left to care about his disappearance…. All that meant was that getting back would be down to him on this side. Peter already knew that.

Losing his apartment would suck. Losing his belongings would be worse. But at least there was minimal risk of being found out as Spider-Man by Mr Demille’s inevitable pillaging of his belongings. The remnants of Mr Stark’s suits — what was left after Peter stripped them for parts — were hidden in the ceiling. Considering the hatch had previously been painted right over, there wasn’t much risk of his landlord checking it out.

Of course, all those thoughts were based on the underlying assumption that time passed the same here as it did back home. Nevermind that he somehow travelled nine years into the past and a different universe. It could well be, when Peter did find a way back, he’d return to the exact moment he’d tripped fallen through that weird portal. Like those kids from Narnia. A whole lifetime erased from his body in the blink of an eye. 

The hope was enough — pitiful as it was — to calm him down, though he felt ragged and raw around the edges as he resettled. Eventually, Peter let his hands slide down to rest on the desk. The lamp threw long shadows across the scuffed wood. He twisted his left arm in the light, watching the muscles move beneath his skin, tendons pulled taut as he flexed his fingers.

Two finger-widths down from the spot where palm turned to wrist, adjacent to the faintest trace of a bruise he couldn’t remember getting, was a small crease in the skin. The casual eye would have missed it. The more observant might have categorised it as a scar. But Peter knew better.

Discomfort made him heavy with reluctance. But he’d have to come to terms with the changes eventually. Who knew how long it could take before Jason finally got in contact with his ‘guy’… Peter had eventually done his own research last week: there were a few magic folk around who could maybe help (at least, according to their Wikipedia pages), but he was sure the only way they’d do so was if he came to them as Spider-Man. And even then, he thought he’d be pushing it. ‘Just some guy’ didn’t exactly fall under the Justice League’s purview… but one displaced superhero might.

Call it paranoia or instinct, but Peter knew that the time for putting on the mask was growing ever closer. Some way or another, Spider-Man was going to be dragged back into existence.

And his suspicions warned him his debut would start with the Wayne family.

He didn’t know what was going on with the Waynes (and adjacent). He didn’t know if Jason was involved (though he did own a lot of guns… and he knew Red Hood). But people didn’t just get scars like theirs from working out. They didn’t just wear expressions like Dick’s when they were ‘normal’.

And sure, all the Waynes (and adjacent) he’d met were nice enough (ignoring what Damian pulled at the dinner last week). By all accounts, the family had a glowing reputation: the apple of Gotham’s eye. Bruce Wayne was renowned for his philanthropy while Wayne Enterprises had a reputation to rival post-Iron Man Stark Industries. The Waynes did good. The kind of good that built up a community… but so had Al Capone.

He remembered jokingly asking Jason if he was part of a gang… now he wasn’t so sure it was a joke after all.

Peter didn’t know what to do about his suspicions. Was Jason in over his head? It seemed unlikely… he’d only known Jason three weeks and he already understood that though the man was occasionally prone to impulse, he was not impulsive. He was clever. Cautious. Deliberate. Whatever he did, he did with eyes wide open (which was more than what Peter could say about himself). The chances of him getting embroiled in gang activity by accident were low. And if that was the case…

For now, Peter filed them away to be dealt with later. Later, when he knew more. There was no use throwing himself in half-cocked. That’s how people died. That’s how he got people killed—

So…

Learn what changed (again). Understand his body (again). That was his priority.

Peter forced himself to touch the spinneret. It was a small lump beneath the skin, highly sensitive, molars withdrawing into his jaw with discomfort. Weird. Peter traced his thumb downwards. Felt the muscle and something else…

Spiders store silk proteins in glands.

He chewed on his lip. Without something like a CT or MRI machine, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could feel two shapes beneath his skin and subcutaneous fat but above the muscle. A brief investigation found the same on his right arm. They were long, spanning the entire length of his forearm, and slid away from his investigatory thumb when he pressed down. It didn’t hurt to do so, but it was uncomfortable.

Still, it didn’t seem like it could possibly enough for anything practical. Peter Two used his webs to carry himself around. They had a projectile quality to them that bordered on the fantastical. Peter couldn’t imagine his little spinnerets ever being able to do the same. But Peter didn’t have a need for webs to carry him around: the synthetic silk he’d formulated worked great (and, he thought rather competitively, they were superior since they decomposed in a few hours upon contact with oxygen. ‘Leave no trace’ and all that).

Then again… many spiders were capable of producing different types of silk for different purposes. Could he do the same? That might be of better use to him that using biological webs for transport…

Thinking about it that way helped. Though he couldn’t shake the churning discomfort — like poking at a half-healed wound — Peter was pleased to find he could approach this from a scientific angle after all. He pressed his thumb against the spinneret again and this time when he drew back, a strand of silk came with it, fixed to the whorls of his thumbprint.

The sensation was wildly foreign. Painless, but there was still a localised feeling of pulling something from his wrist. Like one of those extreme ingrown hair videos people liked to post.

Gross. Peter resolved to never think of his webs like that ever again.

Worried he’d break the thread, he moved slowly. The silk strand caught in the lamplight.

Gold.

His lips twitched in thought. Well. Maybe he knew what one of his arachnid progenitors were. Golden orb weavers had some of the strongest webs around. What kind of tensile strength could he expect from the Parker Special? Peter remembered reading something about fishermen making nets from golden orb web, and there’d long been talk about the possibility of making spider-silk bulletproof clothing… if they could find a workaround for the fact that spiders were impossible to domesticate. He’d read things about altering the genes of silkworms, or something to do with goats^[1]…

Good thing Peter was fully domesticated (though Jason might have something to say about that).

The silk strand was thin. Not as thin as a spider’s, but definitely nowhere close enough to offer any kind of protection. Already Peter was thinking of ways he could incorporate a fabric woven like kevlar into his suits for additional armour (Peter was built durable, but he was vulnerable to pointy things). He’d have to learn how to spin them into threads that could then be woven into something more functional. Would it be more flexible than kevlar? Would the flexibility impact its efficacy? Just because spider silk was stronger than steel or kevlar didn’t mean it could be used in the same way after all…

He’d have to test it. Maybe he could steal one of Jason’s guns…

…

… Maybe not.

Just because he suspected Jason was involved in something dodgy didn’t mean Peter was about to disregard his ground rules. Not when he’d shown Peter such kindness. Not when it could mean Jason threw him out.

Besides. He was in Gotham. Crime capital of North America. How hard could be to find himself a gun?

— + —

Jason cleaned his guns as he waited for the call to connect. He’d finished up for the night, having dealt with a small pocket of False Facers attempting to make a comeback in the Narrows. One of his informants had warned of a meeting at the last minute and Jason made sure he was there early to give the wannabe BDSM groupies the greeting they deserved. None dead — he didn’t know enough about them to decide that — but definitely a few with some nice, long-lasting injuries to keep them out of business.

One of the fuckers had got a lucky shot in. The scratch had scabbed over but twinged unpleasantly as he worked and residual anger at the audacity of those bastards seethed in his chest — they just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they? Sionas was a beast, scarcely human even before he’d melted his own brain with that techno-organic virus^[2]. ‘Gotham’s suitors have lacked sincerity,’ Sionas tried to preach to Jason, as if he wasn’t intent on draining her dry for his own gains. Fucking hypocrite.

That some men wanted a man like that back in control made his blood boil.

But he kept the rage at bay. The methodical process of disassembling and cleaning was as close as he got to self-soothing these days. If he kept his thoughts on other things he knew he’d be able to fold the anger down small, compress it into a singularity to feed until he could finally unleash it on the right people.

There was a click as his call was picked up.

“Simon,” he greeted warmly. “Morning.”

There was a pause over the line. “Jason, hi! Give me a — give me a moment, would you?” A clatter and the rustle of fabric as Jason waited. He checked the time: it was just after eight in the morning in England. Either Simon was at work or getting ready.

Eventually, things fell quiet and he heard Simon huff as he drew the phone close to his ear again. “Okay, I’m secure.”

Unseen, Jason nodded. “I wanted to know if you’d found anything in that sample Oracle sent you. It was about three weeks ago.”

“Oh! Yes, I completed the sequencing of it last week. Fascinating stuff!”

Jason frowned. His silence was carried through the line easily enough.

“I… should have contacted you earlier.”

“That would have been helpful, yeah.”

“Ah.” Simon had the grace at least to sound sheepish. “I confess, I didn’t think it was a priority and we’ve just started looking into blending jellyfish cells with—”

“Simon.”

He cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes. Apologies.”

“It wasn’t an urgent request,” Jason reassured him, before steering the conversation back on track, “but I do want to know what you found.”

“Yes! Well, I must say, I would be very interested in meeting this individual. The transgenic combinations within his genomes are beautiful! Would they be amenable to—”

“No.” Jason winced a little at his harsh tone. But if there were two things sure to send Peter running for the hills, it was unabashedly invasive Batman or an obsessive scientist desperate to learn more about his DNA. And that wasn’t even taking into account the fact that Peter didn’t know Jason had taken a sample of his blood for testing. Peter obviously tried hard to keep his cards close: who knew what he’d do if he learnt Jason had stolen one from right under his nose (or rather, his scalp). But Simon didn’t know that — he didn’t even know where the sample came from.

Jason worked to gentle his tone when he carried on. Despite his history of revenge and violence, Simon was a sensitive man. “There’s no chance of you meeting him, sorry.”

“Ah. A shame. I would have liked to have learnt about the splicing process. He’s a meta of the sort you don’t see often. Man-made, rather than born or manifest. I can’t help but feel some kind of connection.”

Considering Simon had spliced his own body with alien DNA, that wasn’t a surprising confession.

“You said you’d finished the sequencing. What’d you find?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a mish-mash, but it’s predominantly spider.”

Jason blinked, barrel frozen mid-way into the slide. “A what.”

“A spider! Or rather, several spiders.”

“How… many, exactly?” the question came out slightly strangled.

“Oh, it’s too difficult to tell. There’s plenty of spiders out there, and most have never had their genomes sequenced. But I’d be confident in saying at least three.”

“Three.”

Jason thought of Peter’s first appearance. He’d used something to grab and yank the gun right out of Jason’s hand, and with considerable speed and force. Definitely superhuman. Were those… webs? Jason had thought he’d seen Peter use some kind of device — he often wore wrist cuffs — but could he be misremembering?

No. He was certain those webs hadn’t come from Peter.

But what did that DNA give him, then? Superstrength, definitely. Speed, too, though nowhere close to a Supe or speedster. He wasn’t invulnerable though: Jason had stolen his DNA right from a cut on his head, courtesy of his face meeting a brick wall. So, no exoskeleton. Venom?

Shit. Did Peter have fangs?

That’s sick, an errant thought passed through his head. In both senses of the word. Jason suddenly remembered that he’d thought Peter had been about to bite him while stuck in a nightmare.

Fuck. He’d have to pay attention to Peter’s mouth at dinner tomorrow.

“What are they doing?” he asked eventually, voice even enough to conceal his minor freakout. “Can you tell what the spliced DNA is doing?”

“Without having the spider genomes themselves in front of me? Not really. I’m afraid that’s a little above your paygrade.”

Jason frowned. “I could pay you more.”

“Ah. Let me clarify. What I mean is: my real work is at a critical junction and I am trying to create a stable work-life balance.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. He didn’t mind that Simon wasn’t interested in researching Peter’s DNA more. If he got really desperate, he could just ask Peter. But there was something Simon wasn’t saying….

Ah.

He chuckled. “Did you get yourself a girlfriend?”

Silence over the line. Then a heavy sigh. “I really can’t keep anything from you, can I?”

“It’s what I’m best at.” It was what all the Bats were best at. “Things going well?”

“They’re excellent — she’s excellent.” There was a distinct note of pride in Simon’s voice.

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” He genuinely was. Simon might have had a rough patch (okay. A long and violently obsessive rough patch), but Jason was pleased to see him rehabilitated and learning to move on with his life. “Is she a scientist too?”

“Yes. We met at a conference. She is a remarkable woman — I feel sometimes like she can run rings around me. We’ve been taking things… slow. But! Things have been getting more serious—”

“And you’d like to spend more time with her,” Jason cut in. “I get it.”

“So, you can see why I’d be reluctant to take on work of such a nature,” Simon explained. “Not to say I wouldn’t be willing to help if it’s an urgent matter, of course! But if it’s not…”

“I’ll look elsewhere if I have to. Thanks for letting me know. And for looking it over.”

They said their goodbyes and Simon hung up. Jason set down his reassembled weapons and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. So Simon had a girlfriend and Peter was part spider(s). What a night of revelations.

He’d have to talk to Peter about it. It wasn’t just curiosity: for both Peter’s safety and those around them, it was best Jason knew what he was dealing with. For all that he’d talked Peter down from his guilt-ridden desire to run (yet again), the reality was that Peter was dangerous. Consciously? Not a chance. But what might happen if he got triggered? If he couldn’t be snapped out of another nightmare?

Jason was raised by the Bat. Contingencies for contingencies were his bread and butter. But he couldn’t paint himself a full picture without Peter’s cooperation.

He snorted.

Cooperation was going to be difficult.

— + —

Jason returned home to an empty apartment.

Well. That was a lie. Dog was there. But Peter? Peter was nowhere to be fucking found.

Jason stood on the threshold of Peter’s bedroom — the door had been left open, so it wasn’t him being nosy — and tried not to panic. Had Pete somehow sensed that Jason was intending to ask him some probing questions?

No. That was ludicrous. Don’t panic. Think. Look.

He ventured a step inside and flicked on the light: still a pigsty. Peter was a messy creature. The bedding had been stripped; the blankets were gone. But a cursory look through his wardrobe showed that his clothes were still there, though Peter’s heaviest coat — a recently purchases puffy monstrosity that made him look like a burnt marshmallow^[3] — was not. His phone was gone, but the charger was still plugged in.

The anxiety loosened in Jason’s chest when he saw Peter’s backpack still stashed beneath his desk. It was unlikely he’d run off again if that was still here.

Not that it explained where he’d gone, however.

Jason pulled out his phone and opened the tracking app. Peter’s trackers — embedded in all his shoes and coats (look: Jason was a thorough guy, and the way he saw it, it was for Peter’s own good) — showed the expected cluster in the apartment, and another two… still in the building.

He frowned. Peter made polite conversation with the family across the hall on occasion, and often helped carry groceries for Mrs Peng who lived in the apartment below, but it was unlikely he’d gone to make a blanket fort with the Hudsons at three-thirty in the morning—

Ohhh.

The roof.

Not where Jason would have expected Peter to go. It wasn’t exactly a balmy night (then again, with the exception of June to August, no night was ‘balmy’ in Gotham) and Peter ran cold.

He shot Peter a text, then thought better of it. Who knew how long that lunatic had been on the roof and Jason wasn’t enthused by the idea of dealing with a hypothermic flatmate. Better just to go and find him, rather than wait around for him to maybe notice that Jason had texted.

He wasn’t entirely sure how Peter had got onto the roof — his keys were still hanging by the door, and the window in Jason’s room was still locked. A question to ask him later — or better yet, to scan through his security cams for. Jason gave Dog — sleeping on his bed — a pat before sliding out his window onto the fire escape. He climbed the rattling horror-show up to the roof (the thing was actually structurally sound. Jason made sure of that as soon as he’d moved in, but it still sounded like it could collapse under his weight at any moment). The moment his head cleared the ledge he spotted a tell-tale mound of blankets bundled up a few yards from the edge.

“Pete?”

The mound didn’t move. It was too dark to see if Peter was breathing.

Unease stirred again. Not promising.

He hauled himself up over the ledge and took pains to not land soundlessly like his instincts would’ve preferred. No use triggering another attack from Peter if he was sleeping.

And he looked like he was sleeping. Buried in his coat and blankets, the only part of Peter that was visible was a narrow rectangle of skin: eyes and nose. Definitely could have been asleep, but… now that Jason was closer, he could see the soft up and down of his chest, too deep and slow to be sleeping.

He tried again. “Pete? You good?”

Peter’s body flinched. He could hear his breathing pick up, before steadying. “Jason.”

“Whatcha doing? Fucking shit place for a nap.”

“Wasn’t napping,” Peter said softly. He blinked up at Jason sluggisly. “Time is it?”

“Nearly four.”

“Oh...”

“How long you been out here, Pete?”

“Hmm.” Peter moved sluggishly, like he wasn’t working on all cylinders. Jason’s concern ratcheted another notch. “A coupla hours?”

“A couple — Jesus, Pete!” He crouched down and tentatively brushed his knuckles across Peter’s cheek. It was icy cold. “You tryna kill yourself?”

“… No?” Peter struggled to sit up, hampered by the blankets and Jason wrestled him into a seated position. The younger man hissed as cool air invaded his nest and immediately latched onto Jason, arms snaking around his waist and burrowing the icy wedge that should’ve been his nose into Jason’s neck.

“Christ, Pete, you’re a damn icicle!” he yelped, shivers radiating from that singular point of skin-on-skin contact.

“Mnn. Didn’t notice ‘til now.” The slurred words gusted cold over Jason’s collarbones.

He huffed, rolling his eyes. How had this guy survived to adulthood? It was as though he was determined to sabotage himself.

And okay. Maybe that was a bit rich coming from a guy like Jason, but he liked to think himself a little better adjusted these days. Certainly not ready to drive himself into the ground on some kind of suicide mission like he was five years ago. These days, he’d prefer keeping himself out of the grave as long as he could manage.

Peter sniffed. “Smell like blood.”

Jason kept his posture loose as he formulated a lie. He’d hoped Peter would never even notice the scrape. “Got cut by some glass at work. Nothin’ serious. Don’t even need stitches.”

Peter hummed neutrally and pressed his icy nose harder into Jason’s neck. He grit his teeth to hold back a curse.

Wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulder and hauling the blankets over both of them was impossibly easy. Peter took the move as blanket permission to treat Jason like his personal space heater. He should’ve been offended by the carte blanche treatment — Peter practically climbed into his lap for fuck’s sake — but there was something unconscious about the move… like Peter wasn’t fully there. Like he was little more than a benign heat-seeking missile. It settled the indignation that crept up. And the rest of Peter was only marginally warmer than his face. Jason figured he needed it.

Besides… the contact was… nice. Shockingly, Jason didn’t exactly share a lot of touches with people that weren’t steeped in violence. It felt nice to be needed, so he slung an arm around Peter’s waist and propped them up with the other.

I should ask him now.

Jason looked back at Peter. All he could see of him was a whorl of brown hair and sliver of ear. The rest of his face was buried in Jason’s neck. There was an air of contentedness about him. It seemed a crime to destroy that. He knew the moment he asked Peter about his abilities, the soft moment would wither away.

He swallowed, mouth dry.

Later, he told himself. He’d ask Peter later.

“You’re warm,” Peter hummed sometime later, pleased. He sounded a little more alert. Enough for Jason to ask him something else.

“Why’re you up here?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“So you thought you'd have a sleepover on the roof?”

“… It seemed a good idea at the time?”

“You're the king of good ideas, aren't ya?’

“Shaddup.”

“But really, Pete. Why’re you up here? What were you doing up here?”

“Listening.”

“Listening?”

“Mhmm. Gotham’s a noisy city.”

Jason chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s not the same though.” Peter sighed heavily. “I… was hoping it’d be like mine but it’s too different.”

“Oh.” Jason swallowed back useless platitudes, but Peter sounded so sad it was hard to resist. “Different, how?”

“Too many gunshots.”

Peter’s wry tone shocked a laugh from him. “Yeah. That’s… not surprising.”

“More shouting, too.”

“Also not a shock.”

“She’s… an angry city.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. A lot of anger. And hurt. And — horror.”

Jason sighed at the assessment. Peter wasn’t wrong, but it was still his city. He had to defend her. It was a contractual obligation. Probably had something to do with all the dirt not-quite-a-zombie Jason must’ve eaten while digging his way out of his own grave. “She’s not that bad.”

“No. It’s… there’s laughter here, too.”

The defensive edge settled.

“The people here… they’re fighting. For happiness. Contentment. They’ll fight tooth and nail for’t.”

“They will. They have.”

“I think that’s beautiful.”

Jason pulled back so Peter did too, offering Jason a sleepy smile before looking out at the city. The night hugged the slowly refilling contours of his cheeks and his long, thick lashes. The expression in his dark eyes was unreadable, but Jason’s gut swooped at the sight.

Beautiful, a traitorous voice offered.

He looked away and focused on Peter’s slowly warming weight in his lap.

“There’s a lot of happy people here,” Peter murmured, like a confession. “More than the angry or the cruel.”

“How can you be sure?” Jason couldn’t help but ask, even as he recalled the similarities to his own speech to Biz[4]. As the Red Hood, he saw more of Gotham’s ugly side than average. But intellectually he knew the city wasn’t irredeemable. He wouldn’t fight for her if it was. He wasn’t Batman, chasing after an impossible dream. An impossible mission.

“I can feel it.”

Unseen by Peter, Jason frowned. An odd choice of language, there. “You got some kinda telepathic skill I don’t know about, Pete?”

“… No?”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“No.” Surer this time. Jason snickered. Peter frowned at him, then his expression turned distant as he looked for the words. “It’s like… a million bright lights, burning all at once. Most of them are dreaming, though.”

“Well, it is almost four.”

“Boo.”

“That'll be you today, you realise. Don't you have work today?”

“… Shit.”

He snorted. “You think maybe you should go to bed?”

“… Maybe.”

Bold words from the man who made no move to get up. Jason laughed again. “Am I gonna have to do the hard work here, princess?”

The silence turned disgruntled, then eased off as Peter snickered. “Well, you are the one with the muscles…”

“You're literally super powered.”

“And yet! You’re the musclebound monstrosity.”

For that, Jason shoved Peter off his lap, laughing cruelly as he did so. Peter sprawled backwards with an ungainly squawk. He tore the blankets away in retaliation and Jason was engulfed in icy air.

“You spiteful shit.”

“Yep.” Peter took care to pop the p obnoxiously. Jason jumped up into a crouch and Peter grinned up at him, all teeth, eyes glittering. Jason matched him tooth for tooth, and Peter’s expression turned wary. “Hey now,” he tried, then yelped as Jason hauled Peter up, blankets and all and threw him over his shoulder like a potato sack, ignoring the twinge of his scrapes. “Wha - this is dehumanising!”

“You're dehumanising.”

“That doesn't make any sense!”

“You don't make any sense.”

“Now you're just being petty!”

“Well, I learnt from the best.” Jason hiked Peter higher up his shoulder and Peter yelped again. For such a slight thing, he weighed a not-insignificant amount. The average guy would never have managed it. “Consider it payback.”

“I feel like that’s a pointed comment towards me and I don’t appreciate it.”

“What’s wrong, Petey? Can talk the talk but can’t walk the walk?”

“I mean! Right now I can’t!”

“Mm. True.”

“And I — shit!” Jason had jumped off the roof to the fire escape to land soundly on the metal grating. It rattled in protest but didn’t give. Good job Past Jason.

Peter, to his credit, didn’t struggle as Jason took them down the rickety stairs to his apartment below. He’d never tell, but he did contemplate tossing Peter, blankets and all, through the window, just to be an ass. But with heroic effort he resisted (mostly, Jason didn't want to wake up Mrs Peng downstairs) and instead gently set Peter down on fire escape. He looked absurd, bundled up in blankets like the world's most depressing burrito. Jason had left the lights on in his bedroom, and it spilled out to highlight Peter's cold-reddened nose and ear-tips poking through his shaggy hair.

“Could've come down myself,” Peter grumped. Jason pet him on the head, taking care to saturate the motion with as much condescension as he could.

“Sure ya could, champ.”

Peter’s expression looked constipated. It took all of Jason’s self-control not to burst into laughter.

“Just you wait,” Peter threatened as he crawled through the window. “I’m gonna come up with the most embarrassing stories about you and tell them to your family.”

“I’m quaking in my boots.” Jason passed through the window with considerably more grace than Peter, likely owing to the fact that he wasn’t half-frozen and carrying all his bedding in with him. “Next time you wanna listen to the city, why not try opening a damn window. Or do us both a favour and do it during the day.”

“It’s too loud,” Peter said sourly, then let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “I can’t extend myself far enough.”

Just how far could he extend his hearing? Was he at Superman levels? No… probably not… and he’d said ‘feel’, not just hear. Jason wasn't sure what exactly Peter meant, but he suspected it was more than something as simple as enhanced hearing (if you could ever call enhanced hearing ‘simple’).

“Maybe get yourself some ear defenders?”

“Silly Jason.” Peter smirked lazily. “That's not how it works.”

Didn’t think so.

“Then how does it work?”

Peter’s smirk turned secretive. “That’s for me to know and you to not.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“Oh dear. So it’s not.”

He could have pushed it further. Demanded clarification. But instinct told him to stop. Right now, the quips passing between them were little more than teasing banter. If Jason started to ask more pointed questions, they’d cut through Peter's exhausted haze and get his hackles up. He was smart enough to know when he was being interrogated, and Jason had been working hard (before Dickhead’s suggestion, thank-you) to build up a level of trust between the two of them (or as much as Jason could afford to give).

So instead of pushing, Jason wrapped Peter up tight in his blankets, keeping his expression light and a little exasperated. “Go to bed, dumbass,” he said as he turned Peter around and steered him out of his bedroom by the shoulders.

“Aw. You say the sweetest things.”

“I’m every boy and girl's dream man, I know.”

Peter twisted to straight up leer at him. “Yeah you are.”

Not to be outdone, Jason leered back. Not that there was much to leer at when Peter was all bundled up. There was nothing seductive about him except his big doe eyes, hooded and sleepy.

“Bed,” Jason ordered. And for once Peter actually listened.

“Night,” he mumbled, shuffling out of the room. “Night, Dog, my most favourite person in the world.”

Dog acknowledged his existence from Jason’s bed with a singular twitch of an ear. She was a professional sleeper. Apparently the only one among the three of them.

“Heart. Broken,” Peter mourned. 

“As are we all. Now get out.”

Peter's laughter followed his exit, soft and throaty and full of the promise of future mischief and headaches.

Trouble, Jason thought as he shut the door on him. But he couldn't bring himself to resent that. And when he finally fell into bed, it was Peter's warm, dark eyes he thought of, and how different they were to Artemis’.

^[1] From The Guardian: 

“[Freckles] is all goat, but she has something extra in every one of her cells: Freckles is also part spider….

"We're interested in dragline silk – the silk that spiders catch themselves with when they fall," [Randy Lewis, a professor of genetics at Utah State University] tells me in his midwest lilt. "It's stronger than Kevlar. It really has some amazing properties for any kind of a fibre."

In a sense, spider-goats are an extension of the farming we've been doing for 10,000 years. All livestock and arable has been carefully bred, each cross being a genetic experiment of its own. "The trouble is, you can't farm spiders," Randy says with an almost comic deadpan face. "They're very cannibalistic." He and his team took the gene that encodes dragline silk from an orb-weaver spider and placed it among the DNA that prompts milk production in the udders. This genetic circuit was then inserted in an egg and implanted into a mother goat. Now, when Freckles lactates, her milk is full of spider-silk protein.”

^[2] In RHATO (rebirth) vol 1, Black Mask uses a techo-organic virus to first control the city mayor (this is disrupted by Jason at the very start of the volum) and later, the Bizarro clone. However he miscalutes and the virus fries the connection between his brain and his body, leaving him practically a vegetable. Jason refuses to give him what remains of the cure (cooked up for him by Dr Simon Amal) and lets the virus run his course.

^[3] ARE YOU FROM NEW YORK, EVEN?

[4] From RHATO (Rebirth) Volume 1: 

Chapter Text

“You were right, this place is crazy photogenic,” Peter admitted from behind the viewfinder of Tim’s DSLR.

They were downtown in Old Gotham for the day. In-between delivering a surprisingly knowledgeable tour of the city, Tim had shown off some of his favourite spots for photography. Peter had been sceptical about the library, but in hindsight, should have trusted the local. The library wore all the classical old-world glamour he could hope for: neo-classical, tall white pillars (only a little stained with Gotham grime), an overabundance of stairs and a collection of mildly grumpy-looking statues.  The mammoth building caught the slanting light just right in the late afternoon, casting sharp lines of shadow: perfect for black and white.

“When I’m right, I’m right,” Tim replied, but he was distracted. He was trying to get the ‘perfect picture’ of the Gotham pigeons. Apparently, they had the kind of gumption (who even said that anymore?) that made them perfect to capture on film.

Real film, because Tim was loaded (‘On both sides of the family,’ he’d said like that was a perfectly normal thing to say. ‘It’s a curse.’) and could afford things like two cameras and the extortionate costs of buying the real deal. Peter couldn’t complain, though. He was content with the loaned DSLR (honestly, he’d just been planning on using his phone) and on any given day would much prefer playing around with a different mix of chemicals, anyway.

Mostly, Tim’s technique seemed to involve chucking seed at the birds with one hand and taking pictures with the other. Mystifying in action but very entertaining to watch, as was proven by the small crowd of nonplussed Gothamites that had gathered at a safe distance from both the birds and birdseed. Eventually Peter turned back to his own model — the big old library — before the brief window of sunlight closed for good.

“What got you into photography?” Tim asked when they reconvened, each of them pleased with their respective collections.

“My uncle showed me the ropes. He had a Minolta 7000^[1]. Real solid thing. The moment it was in my hands, it felt like it belonged there.” Peter smiled, the memory bittersweet. When he and his aunt were dusted, the camera disappeared. “I loved that thing.”

“A Minolta? Aren’t they like, a piece of history?” Tim paused to snap a woman that strolled past with a pug in a stroller. “One of the first with auto-focus, right?”

“The first,” Peter corrected. “More or less.”

“Sick.”

“He won it off a friend.” Peter grinned. As a child he’d always found it funny. As an adult, he couldn’t help but support the idea of the underdog. “Pretty sure he scammed it off them, though? My aunt said Ben was a total hustler at pool. His friend didn’t know what hit him.”

Tim cackled. “Cass is like that. Her smiles are full of lies. If she ever asks you to play poker? Run.”

“Noted.” Peter didn’t remark that he suspected the entire Wayne family (and adjacent) were hustlers and wouldn’t be at all surprised if he learnt every one of them knew how to count cards at the very least. They just gave the vibe.

As if they needed more money.

“Was he a prepper, too?”

Peter thought he controlled his momentary confusion well, masking it with the smoothed over, half-healed grief he always felt at the thought of Uncle Ben. “He — died. My aunt, too. Before we moved away from New York.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s fine.” He would’ve said he was over it, but that would have been a lie too large to stomach. Instead, he shifted the conversation back to Tim. “How about you? How’d you get into it?”

Tim’s answering grin was secretive. Peter instantly knew there was an inside joke he wasn’t privy to. “I was self-taught. One day I got it in my head I wanted to catch on film all the Gotham wildlife I could.”

Well. Peter guessed it explained the pigeons.

“Hey,” Peter asked before Tim could ask any more probing, personal questions. He eyed Tim’s skateboard with naked speculation. “How good are you with that?”

“How good do you think I am?” Peter stared flatly and Tim swiftly gave in. “Okay. I’d like to say I’m pretty good? Steph might say otherwise but she’s a troll who should not be trusted.”

“Yeah… I think I got that impression.”

“Why? You got an idea?”

Peter grinned. Wiggled his brows. Nodded pointedly at the steps, and more notably, the railings. “You game?”

The challenge was as clear in his voice as the delight was in Tim’s bright blue eyes.

“Oh Pete,” he said, practically bouncing on his feet as he hurriedly shoved his camera into his backpack. “You have no idea how game I am.”

— + —

Peter had a good old time using Tim as he pleased, making a nuisance of themselves just as a pair of young adults should. He was pleased with the pictures he got. As promised, Tim was up for absolutely any suggestion, had zero fear or preservation instinct, and used the skateboard like an extension of himself. Delighted, Peter snapped shot after shot, each one better than the last. When he finally called it quits, Tim was red-faced and sweaty with exertion, dark hair plastered to his sticky forehead.

“That was brilliant!” he crowed as he skimmed through Peter’s photos. “These — Pete, these are fantastic!”

Peter’s grin was equally ecstatic. “It took a bit to get used to the settings, but I’m really pleased with the last ones. But seriously, where did you learn to skate like that?”

“Oh, here and there,” Tim said dismissively, but he was beaming. “You want to try the park? When the sun passes through the trees on the western side of the Reservoir, it’s — mwah!” He gave a chef’s kiss and Peter nodded eagerly.

The park near Jason’s was the closest to green space he’d got in Gotham. Though he was a little wary, too: he’d heard too that Ivy had played around with Robinson Park in the last year or so. Fears of the plants reacting to his presence like those vines at the zoo made him nervous. The last thing Peter needed was Tim wondering why the plants were trailing after him like imprinted ducklings.

Before he could respond though, he felt a plink across the web, moments before someone called out, “Tim?”

They both turned towards the voice. A woman with bright red hair was coming down the ramp from the library. She moved quickly on a pair of crutches.

“Babs!” Tim cried, if possible, brightening even further. “What’re you doing here?”

They waited at the bottom of the access ramp. Up close, Peter thought she was somewhere in her late twenties. In loose jeans, a button-down blouse and thin glasses, she had an air of seriousness about her that was tempered by the subtle lines of strength in her shoulders and forearms. Despite her crutches, there was a smooth economy of movement to her walk that struck Peter.

Instinct had him glancing down. Sure enough, there was familiar scarring patched across her knuckles.

He forced his eyes up before either could notice.

“Peter,” said Tim, “this is Barbara. She and her father are old friends of the Wayne’s. Babs, this is Peter.”

“Hi, Peter,” she said warmly. Peter shook her offered hand. Her grip was strong, but not in a way that was intended to intimidate. When he let go, she turned back to Tim to answer his earlier question. “I was making the most of old faithful and getting some research done. You know how hard it is to study at home.”

“Eh,” Tim shrugged. “Can’t relate.”

“Of course,” she teased. “Little obsessive neurotic that you are.”

“Oi!”

Peter inserted himself into the conversation before it could devolve into an argument. “Are you a student?”

He had been eyeing the satchel Babs was carrying. The end of a laptop charger poked out the bulging zip, and he’d already spotted traces of black ink up the side of her hand.

Babara nodded. “I am! And I’m so close to finishing my masters I can taste it!”

“What are you studying?”

“Forensic psychology.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Hey, that’s not a Gotham accent, is it?”

“New York, originally.” Peter found himself smiling self-consciously — moreso when he saw realisation cross her face.

“Ohhh! You’re Jason’s Peter, aren’t you?”

Peter shot Tim a wry look. “Your family are shameless gossips.”

“Oh yeah,” Barbara snorted. “I hate to say it, but if you were hoping to avoid everyone being up in your business, you’ve shacked up with the wrong guy.”

“It’s true,” Tim laughed and slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder. “I found the best way to deal with it is to get up in everyone else’s business. Payback and all that.”

“And that’s definitely not the exact same policy everyone else has taken either,” Peter drawled. “Everybody wins.”

“Well, except Jason,” Tim admitted. “That’s why we got so excited about you.”

Given what Peter knew about Jason’s general feelings towards his family, Peter wasn’t sure how reassuring that was meant to be. He kinda got the impression that for all Jason enjoyed pulling one over their heads, he would also have rather not be subject to their scrutiny in the first place.

Not for the first time, Peter felt a sharp pang of guilt at the thought. Had Peter not been around, or never led Dick to misinterpret his place, Jason could have continued functioning on the peripherals of his family.

… Would he have been happier that way?

Barbara forced the conversation along before Peter could get morose. “What have you boys been doing? Taking pictures?”

“Oh yeah! Babs, you should see the stuff Pete took, they’re sick!”

“They’re not—”

“Don’t be modest!” Tim commanded, though he was grinning. “Show her.”

Peter relented — it was largely a token protest anyway. He stepped up beside her to show off his best pictures. Barbara was suitably impressed. “You’ve got real talent, Peter.”

“Ah, it’s nothing—”

“No, really. I love this one in particular—” she took the camera off him to go back a few. In it, Tim was silhouetted against the towering backdrop of the library columns. It was one of Peter’s favourites, too. He was quietly pleased that she agreed.

 “There’s a photography competition coming up at Burnside College,” Barbara murmured. “That’s where I’m studying. It’s open to anyone over eighteen. You should enter.”

“I don’t know…” Who even knew if Peter would be around to enter? Not that there would be much chance of him winning anyways, but Peter didn’t like the idea of entering something he couldn’t fully commit to.

Barbara and Tim, however, were unaware of this. They pushed the matter.

“There’s no harm in entering,” Barbara urged. “Entry isn’t free, but it’s also not much. It was ten dollars last year.”

“I’ll enter if you do,” Tim goaded.

“I’ll think about it,” Peter hedged, holding back a grimace. He fully intended to do no such thing. Short of them entering him themselves, he was reasonably confident that would be the end of it. And predictably, they eased off with his ‘capitulation’. He breathed a little easier as their attentions fell off him and he listened absently as Barbara and Tim gossiped about her father and his ongoing struggle to maintain a healthy diet.

Peter could relate. He could already feel his stomach complaining.

Eventually, Barbara announced she had to go and left with a hug for Tim and a surprise one for Peter that he absolutely did not freeze up in. She smelled faintly of orange blossoms and sandalwood, and her perfume momentarily threw Peter, reminding him so strongly of his aunt that he almost lost time again. Only sheer force of will and a judicious pinch of the tender skin in his elbow kept him present enough to say goodbye.

As soon as she was gone, Peter rounded on Tim and hoped he didn’t look as manic as he felt. “Are you hungry?”

Tim’s brows twitched in a micro-expression Peter wasn’t astute enough to interpret. But when he spoke his face was smooth and unbothered. “Are you?”

Not a real answer, but if Tim was putting the ball in Peter’s court, like hell if he wasn’t going to run with it. “I missed lunch,” he lied. “Kinda starving.”

 “There’s a Batburger on the way, if that’s your kind of speed?”

Despite learning of its existence at family dinner nearly two weeks ago, Peter still hadn’t had the opportunity to try them. “Are they actually any good?”

Tim shrugged. “They’re passable. Mostly it depends on where you go. Jokerised fries are a love it or hate it kind of deal. Mostly I go there because you can buy yourself a cup of Zesti as big as your head.”

Peter almost asked what Zesti was, but fortunately realised that was probably something anyone who grew up in North America would have known and nodded dumbly instead. He was getting good at this lying thing. Maybe?

They chatted as they walked — the Batburger was right on the edge of the park, still a good two minutes away. But the further they walked, the more Peter noticed the strange looks Tim kept throwing at him. Like he was worried about something.

Peter bit back a sigh. Maybe he hadn’t hid his slip-up as well as he thought. But he waited until they had ordered food (Peter got himself a serve of Jokerised fries and plain, just to try them out. No Zesti: a surreptitious Google revealed it had enough caffeine in it to make an elephant think it could fly) and were seated, to bring it up.

“Alright. Spit it out. You keep looking at me like I’m about to walk into oncoming traffic. What gives?”

Tim levelled him with an unimpressed look, and then countered with his own question. “Peter, are you… happy?”

“Happy?” Peter echoed. The question surprised him, but perhaps it shouldn’t have. The Waynes (and adjacent) had proven themselves ten times over to be a nosy bunch. He mustered up a smile in an attempt to reassure. “I’m as happy as I can be.”

Understanding flashed. Peter imagined his breakdown at the zoo had been passed on. Again. The Waynes were massive gossips. He shoved down the rising resentment, but Tim at least had the tact not to question him about it. Instead, he asked about Jason.

Peter frowned but again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. “What about Jason?”

“Well… does he make you happy? Isn’t he like, super grumpy? All the time?”

“Uhhh. No?”

Tim paused, burger halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

“Yeah?” Peter frowned harder. “Jason is like, hilarious? And super fun to fuck with.”

Tim greened. “Please tell me you mean that in the figurative sense.”

Peter just smiled and ate his fries. He’d decided that the Jokerised version were superior, if in ironically bad taste.

“Pete? Pete, please tell me you’re speaking figuratively! Don’t traumatise me, Peter! I’m trying to eat!”

This is fun. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re definitely an only child. No one wants to think of their brother doing the nasty!”

Peter rolled his eyes but moved on. “Look, I don’t really know what’s gone down between your family and Jace, but it sounds to me like that history’s… I dunno, tainted things between you? But me and Jason? We’re a clean slate. There’s no pressure to be anything more or less than we really are, no history necessary.” And thank God for that, because both of them were cagey about it. “Jason is… well. He’s funny and he’s charming and he’s so kind — though I think he’d hate for me to say that – he’s still an ornery bastard – but I know that he cares a hell of a lot more than he’d like most to know.”

Tim suddenly looked impossibly sad.

Peter offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you don’t get to see that part of him anymore.”

“I… never did,” Tim confessed. “By the time I joined the family, that Jason was already gone.”

“… How old was he when he had his falling out?”

Falling out, Tim mouthed. But he quickly masked it with a mirthless smile. “Fifteen.”

“Oh.”

Oh indeed. Fifteen was too young to be estranged from your family. An ironic thought, Peter knew, to come from someone who at fifteen was desperate to join the Avengers and nearly got himself killed in the process, all the while keeping that a secret from his one surviving family member.

He moved onto his burger. It was… okay. Not even remotely close to the one from that diner in New York, but passable. The cheese was the right amount of melty, but the patties were a bit tasteless and it could have done with some more pickles (then again, everything could do with more pickles).

Tim blinked dumbly. “Is that it? You’re not going to ask for more intel?”

“From you? No. That’s Jason’s story.” He slurped at his soda and Tim winced at the noise. Peter slurped again, just ‘cause. “I owe it to Jace to learn it from him. Not some third party. No offence.”

“Ugh,” Tim groaned and collapsed back in his seat. “It’s like, the more I get to know you, the more determined to are to be an upstanding person. You’re too wholesome! Definitely too wholesome for Jason or the rest of Gotham.”

Peter was pulling a face. He knew he was. There was no helping it when all he could think of was That Day. When he lost everything and what he didn’t lose, he gave up. Sure, it was better to erase himself than squander his humanity, but he’d not been prepared for how similar those two end results really were.

“I’m not, really,” he said eventually, and forced on a grin to distract. “It’s just that you’re all terrible people.”

“Ohhh,” Tim smirked. “Them’s fighting words, Peter.”

“A face-off of goodness. How exciting. Shall we see who can donate the most to an orphanage?”

Tim threw a fry at Peter. He caught it easily, shoving it in his mouth with a grin. “If we did, I know who’d win.”

“Yeah, mister ‘son of a billionaire’. I bet you’ve been real hard done by. Ever get yourself a small loan of a million dollars?”

“Eh?”

Peter held back a heavy sigh. Alternate universe. Right. God. What was the point in living if he couldn’t even communicate with others through the same memes?

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

— + —

Click ^[HERE] for text only

— + —

There was a man at Jason’s door and Peter didn’t know who he was.

Middle-aged, tall, handsome in a ‘call me daddy’ kind of way… he was an imposing figure set off by the neat, tailored suit and the mild smile he gave Peter when he opened the door.

“Hello,” the man said.

“Hello,” said Peter without thought, before he caught himself and registered what was happening. “Are you… here to talk about Jesus?”

“I’m… not.” The man raised a brow. “Should I be?”

“… You’re in Gotham,” Peter said dryly. “The whole city needs Jesus. Or at the least, a messianic intervention.”

The stranger grinned. “Alas. I am not. I’m Bruce Wayne? Jason’s father.”

Peter faltered. “Umm…. Could you, hold that thought?”

“May I come in?”

“No.” The answer was immediate and instinctual. Equally, he couldn’t stop the ‘sorry’ that immediately followed. “It’s just — Gotham, you know? I don’t know you and you’re asking to come in? Big yikes.”

Yikes, maybe-Bruce Wayne mouthed, but said aloud: “I suppose it’s smart to be wary. You could message Jason?”

Peter, taking that as all the permission he needed, whipped out his phone, snapped a picture of maybe-Bruce Wayne, said “Please hold”, and then shut the door in his face. Heart racing, he forwarded the picture to Jason with the caption is this your father.

There was a nerve-wracking minute of waiting, then Peter’s phone range. He picked up on the first vibrate.

“For fuck’s sake,” were Jason’s immediate words. “Did you let him in?”

“No. Should I? I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’d let any old guy claiming to be Bruce Wayne into your place? He’s still outside.”

Jason laughed. “Did you shut the door on him?”

“Well, I thought it was rude to talk in front of him!”

Jason laughed harder. “God, you are one of a kind, Petey. Hang on.”

There was a clattering and the sound of heavy machinery at work. Jason had taken his motorcycle to a mechanic friend for the day. So of course his foster father would decide to turn up unannounced while it was just Peter and Dog manning the fort.

The clanging and banging abruptly cut off. Peter imagined Jason had stepped into an office. It was quiet enough now that Peter picked up Jason’s muttered, “No goddamned chill. Back one fucking day and he pulls this shit.”

“So… is that really Bruce Wayne?”

“Why do you not know what Bruce Wayne looks like, Pete.”

“… Is that a trick question or…?”

A heavy, put upon sigh. “Just — yes. That’s Bruce. In all his boundary-ignoring glory. Let him in and make him some coffee. The shitty kind.”

“And the uninvited guest crackers?”

“Oh yeah, baby. Bring ‘em out.”

“Okay.” Panic began to set in as he realised what Jason wanted him to do. “For the record, are you asking me to entertain your father? Me, Jason.”

“Yes, I’m aware that’s crazy talk. But that’s what Bruce gets for turning up without an invite. Just be your usual, charming self—”

“Me, Jason!”

“And Bruce can suffer the consequences. I’ll be back in thirty. Gotta reassemble the bike first.”

He hung up before Peter could offer any counter arguments, such as just leaving his father out in the corridor until Jason arrived. Peter cursed loudly, then put the phone in his pocket and reluctantly opened the door again.

Actually-Bruce Wayne was still waiting. In fact, it looked like he hadn’t even moved, though a charming smile was pulled up the moment the door swung open. Had he been invited, it probably would have worked on Peter.

“Everything okay?” Bruce asked. He had a very nice voice. Deep and soothing, with an accent that was leagues away from the roughened drawl of Jason’s Crime Alley pedigree. He could have been a news presenter.

“Yep! Everything is A-okay! Yessir, all good here! Sorry about that.”

Bruce Wayne did not offer an apology for coming over unannounced.  “Not at all. As you said, it’s important to be careful here in Gotham. I take it you’re Peter?”

Peter’s shoulders slumped with exasperation. Maybe, one day, he’d no longer be surprised by the information network that ran through the Waynes (and adjacent). But it would be nice to introduce himself to someone of his own volition.

But he collected himself and put on a pleasant smile. “Yep! Yes, that’s me. Peter Parker, hi.” He held out his hand and Bruce shook it firmly. “I’m sorry Jason isn’t home yet. He took his bike out for a service or upgrade or something.”

Bruce’s expression fell marginally and Peter rushed to reassure him. “He said he’d be back in about half an hour? Would you like to come in?”

As he spoke, he stepped back and Bruce passed across the threshold happily, the man’s phone pinging furiously as he did so. The onslaught of notifications went ignored as Bruce studied the apartment with naked curiosity. Peter was abruptly reminded that the man lived in a fucking mansion. His own bedroom probably had the same floor print as Jason’s entire apartment.

Dog, who Peter had ordered to sit and stay before he’d even opened the door, wagged her tail at the man’s entrance. Bruce regarded her carefully.

“She’s friendly,” Peter offered. “Would you like — uh…”

Bruce had already approached her, hand outstretched for a sniff. Her tail wagged harder, and Peter rolled his eyes as he locked the door. “At ease, girl.”

Dog yipped and spun around Bruce, sniffing at his pants and shoes. Bruce allowed it to happen, stealing for himself a few scratches of her sizeable head, before resuming his survey of the apartment. It must have been the first time he’d been there. Bold move, that. Turning up uninvited to a place you’d never been before.

“This is a nice place,” Bruce said when he realised Peter was watching him. He had turned his attention to the bookshelves, mouth curling up fondly. They were crammed now, sometimes double-stacked. Peter didn’t know where they kept coming from; it seemed like every few days he’d wake up in the morning to find a few more books had manifested themselves onto the shelves.

“Curious,” Bruce murmured.

“What is?”

“Oh, it’s just… I would have expected more pictures of the two of you.”

Peter grimaced. Crap. That probably was something they’d need to fix… “We’re… not one for photos.”

“Oh…” Bruce was frowning in confusion. “But I heard from Tim that you’re quite the photographer?”

“We don’t like having our pictures taken,” Peter said flatly. Sure, Peter was guessing for Jason, but he thought it was probably correct. Though he imagined it was for a significantly different reason. He forced back on his smile. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?”

“Coffee, please.”

Peter retreated to the kitchen and busied himself with the coffee machine, just to give himself something to do. God, it smelled so good! Maybe he could have a little? Just a sip?

That’s the devil talking, Peter.

Right. Jittering around like a cokehead was not the kind of impression you wanted to make on your fake-boyfriend’s father.

Mournfully, Peter took a LaCroix from the fridge for himself. Jason complained they were gross and bougie as hell — and Peter didn’t disagree with him — but hyper-sweet sodas didn’t sit well with Peter anymore and sometimes he wanted something with bubbles. Anyway: Peter figured that if Jason could afford that many weapons, he could afford to split the bill on some semi-fancy sodas.

He saw that Bruce was still standing and invited him to sit, though Peter remained in the kitchen, using the coffee as an excuse. The man’s presence had him on the verge of hysteria. Hanging out with Tim or Duke or any other of Jason’s siblings was one thing: he could see them becoming good friends if he allowed it. But this was Jason’s father. His semi-estranged father (from what Peter had gathered), but his father nonetheless. There was certainly no pressure from Jason’s side to make a good impression, but Peter was alone with the man (had he mentioned he was Jason’s father?) and something about Bruce’s presence reawakened the people pleaser in him.

Besides: before Bruce came knocking at the door, Peter had just settled in for a good time with his soldering iron and some scrounged fabric for a new Spider-Man mask. He wasn’t prepared to make a nuisance of himself when something so incriminating still sat in plain view in his bedroom. At least the bedroom door was closed.

Despite the minor relief, when Bruce chose to sit on the couch, Peter’s soul shrivelled up a little. It left him with either the uncomfortably lumpy armchair or joining Bruce on the couch, which was a big hell no.

“So, Peter,” Bruce said as he crossed his legs in that way businessmen did. He’d even popped open the button on his blazer as he sat down. Peter thought they only did that in movies or TV shows. “You’re not a native, are you. How have you found Gotham so far?”

Peter snorted and leaned against the counter, praying the coffee never finished brewing. “It’s been one hell of a change. Has its charm, though.”

“Charms such as my son?”

His cheeks flushed hot. Jesus, the man really went for the throat, didn’t he? “I suppose so. But we didn’t meet in Gotham… so also, not?”

“Oh?”

Maybe Jason’s siblings hadn’t spilled all. Their esteem rose a little in Peter’s eyes. Telling Bruce wouldn’t be a problem, right? Peter contemplated the consequences but couldn’t think of anything truly bad except egg on Jason’s face when the truth inevitably came out and Peter was safe from their judgement, back in his own universe…

Screw it, Peter thought, then gave Bruce the sparksnotes version of his ‘family history’ and his fated meeting with Jason. Just enough detail to suggest it was an unhappy story, without giving too much to make it sound like an over-compensated lie. As he spoke, he made up Bruce’s coffee (black, one sugar) and dished the crackers lazily onto a plate. The actions helped hide his facial expressions.

To his credit, Bruce appeared appropriately concerned and not at all sceptical of Peter’s absurd story. By the time Peter was seated opposite in the lumpy armchair, soda in one hand, sad, stale cracker in the other (he’d taken one mostly in an attempt to prompt Bruce into doing the same, but maybe the man was wilier than he looked because he politely refused), he felt wildly out of his element and desperately hoped Jason would turn up soon.

“It seems like my son helped you a great deal,” Bruce said at the end, smiling a warm smile that Peter wasn’t entirely trusting of. Rich people, Mr Stark once told him, always have an agenda — even me, Pete — and plenty of them see those with less money as having proportionately less humanity. Bruce Wayne might have had a reputation for being a ditzy but well-meaning man who’d sunk a hell of a lot of money into Gotham, but he was still the figurehead of a multi-billion-dollar company, and as a billionaire in his own rights. People didn’t get that kind of money by being dumb. And they definitely didn’t manage it by being kind. Tony hadn’t, for all that he’d tried to be better after Afghanistan. Bruce wouldn’t have, either.

“Yes,” Peter said, sincere despite his reservations. “Jason’s been nothing but kind to me. I’m grateful to have stumbled into him.”

And he was. Falling into Jason’s living room was a stroke of luck Peter wasn’t much used to experiencing anymore.

Bruce’s smile softened, pleased with Peter’s assessment. “What are you planning on doing here, Peter?”

Ugh. Why did so many people feel like they had to ask Peter that question? He was beginning to hate it. How was he meant to answer? Oh, right now just existing at all feels like a burden, how could I possibly do more? Or even better: oh, well what I’d really like to do is find a way to tear a hole in time and space and return to my own universe where no one even acknowledges my own existence because I erased it! Or how about: I’d love to go back and get my GED because I couldn’t finish high school, or maybe I could return to a time when my existence hadn’t killed the people I loved or endangered the lives of my only friends. Ha ha!

Yeah, that’d go down a real treat.

Instead of any that, Peter settled for a level, “Right now, I’m just happy working. Tech repair.”

“You’re good with computers?” Bruce asked, gaze intent on Peter in a way that felt familiar. Was it a dad thing? Or just a billionaire thing? It had been too long for Peter to tell. “You know, Wayne Industries offers degree apprenticeships. It’s a paid for course: you work part time at WI and college. You’d graduate debt free, with experience and a degree under your belt.”

That… sounded pretty damn good, actually. But… “Thanks, but something tells me you don’t want some guy who never even finished high school.”

Bruce winced at the gaffe but wasn’t discouraged. “Well, a GED isn’t too difficult to complete these days.”

“Yeah. Duke offered to tutor me. For social sciences and English.”

“He’s a good boy,” Bruce said, proud. “Smart, too. He’ll do an excellent job; you can trust him there.”

“Yeah, your family has been very…” nosy, “accommodating.”

“Let me know when you’re ready.” Bruce seemed to be intent on carrying on the tradition. He spoke with all the confidence of someone who assumed Peter’s application was a done thing. “I’ll pass on the information to Jason for you.”

“… Thank-you.” Peter glanced at his phone. Only twenty minutes had passed. Another little piece of his soul expired as he searched for more to say. “So, um, Jason said you’d been on business trip?”

“Yes. Mexico, though it was Metropolis before that.”

“What were you doing?”

Bruce launched into a vaguely interesting monologue about Wayne Industries’ venture into Mexico. Peter paid attention, mostly because he was interested in comparing Wayne Industries to Stark Industries. He asked questions every now and then, but Bruce was happy to fill the air with WI’s latest pet project.

Figurehead, my ass. You didn’t learn that much about the intricacies of asset management just by being a pretty face.

And then, as Bruce was telling him all the goss about his interpreter, Ines (apparently, she was an accountant who’d been fired and blacklisted from her old job for noticing their cooked books), Peter’s web pinged and seconds later there was the thump of heavy footsteps before the door burst open and Jason was there, glaring up a storm while Bruce smiled benignly from the couch.

“Jace!” Peter was off the armchair and crossing the room, buoyant with relief. He threw his arms around Jason, holding on a little tighter than he probably should have as he kissed Jason’s scruffy cheek. Jason’s arm curled around his waist to keep him steady. “You owe me!” Peter hissed in the man’s ear, before he pulled back slightly to give a friendlier, “Welcome back.”

Then the smell hit him, and his nose wrinkled unconsciously. “You stink.” Cigarettes and motor-oil and something vaguely sulphurous. The scent wouldn’t be especially strong to the average person, but Peter didn’t have the average person’s nose.

“Sorry, princess,” Jason said in that way he often did when making fun of Peter for having standards. There was a fondness to it that didn’t match the fact that all of Jason’s attention — intensity amped up to eleven — was directed towards Bruce. “I didn’t have the time to get rid of the smell. My guy likes to smoke. Bruce? A word.”

Bruce was already standing but he didn’t seem remotely concerned, even though the air in the room had thickened to the consistency of bitter molasses and Jason was taut like a frayed bow string on the verge of snapping. Peter meekly stepped away while Jason gestured for Bruce to join him outside the apartment.

Sit, Jason mouthed at Peter as he followed Bruce out. Peter returned to the lumpy armchair and Dog quickly sat on his feet. He gave her an absent head scratch but most of his attention was extended to the men outside. There was only a little guilt associated with his eavesdropping, but if they didn’t want to be overheard, they shouldn’t be so close to the door. So really it was their fault if it happened…

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Bruce? Barging in when you knew I was out.” Jason spoke with a venom Peter had never heard before. He squirmed in his seat, guilty. Maybe Peter should have just pretended he wasn’t home.

“I didn’t barge in, Jason. I was invited in, with your permission—”

“You know that’s no excuse! I told Peter to let you in because rejecting you would’ve given him a conniption!”

Rude. But also? True. Despite the clear proof that Jason had Problems™ with his father, that was still Jason’s father. Peter couldn’t just tell him ‘go away’. He would barely have managed if Bruce really had been there to talk about Jesus.

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps I just wanted to meet the young man you’re seeing? I was the last in the family to even learn of his existence, Jay.”

“Hardly my fault you were away. If that really was the case, you should’ve just asked like a normal person!”

“Would you have answered if I did so?”

Silence. Peter could barely imagine Jason’s expression. His tone was so angry; completely foreign to all the interactions he’d ever had with the man. Indignant? Sure. Exasperated? Absolutely. But this… resentful? Never.

What happened?

“You like to keep yourself separate, Jason,” Bruce continued, filling in the heavy silence. “And I… understand. Why you do so—”

“Do you?”

“Jason—”

Bruce,” Jason echoed, furiously mocking. “Do you remember what happened the last time we were both in Gotham? Because I sure as hell do. How could I not, when my own—”

Jason cut himself off, sharp and bitter.

When your own father did WHAT?

Guilt flooded in. Peter should have just refused Mr Wayne, never mind what Jason said. If this was what their relationship was really like, and that was the kind of emotions it dredged up in Jason, Peter would take the conniption.

Next time, I’ll kick him to the curb, he thought meanly.

“Jay, lad, I—”

“Forget it, Bruce. What’s done is done. I won’t play happy family with you.”

“I… Okay.”

Peter quelled the sympathetic response dredged up by the raw sadness in Mr Wayne’s voice. If Jason wanted ties cut with his father, then cut ties he would get. The least Peter could offer him was his solidarity.

“Don’t come back here. Sure, as fuck don’t come back here without an invite.”

“Very well.” Mr Wayne didn’t apologise. Did he just not care enough? Or had he apologised before, and Jason had refused to forgive?

Instead of an apology, it was Jason that sighed and softened his tone. “There was another reason you’re here, right? What is it.”

“Nothing that can’t wait. I really did just want to visit and meet Peter.”

“Sure you did, B.”

“Jason… I know there’s a lot of old wounds between us. But I do love you, lad. I’m happy for you — I am. Happy you’re connecting to people. I’d be… happy. If this was you back for good, this time.”

There was a protracted silence. Then Jason laughed cynically. “Wow.” The bravado and bluster was laid on thick. Peter could only guess at what Jason was thinking. “That must have hurt to say.”

“Jay, please. I mean it. I really do.”

“Fine,” Jason bit the word out. “Go home, Bruce. I’m sure Alfie and the boys have been waiting eagerly for your return. They need you more than me.”

“Alright… but, there was something else.”

A puff of humourless air. “Of course there was.”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. But the holidays are coming sooner than you think—”

“… I ain’t doing Thanksgiving, Bruce. You know how I feel about that bullshit.”

Mr Wayne chuckled. “Yes, I know. But the doors are open to you. Both of you. And it would be nice to have you there for Christmas. I know Alfred would appreciate it.”

Silence from Jason. Peter thought the mention of Alfred was a bit underhanded: even Peter knew how Jason felt about Alfred.

Mr Wayne sighed. “Just… think about it? I’ll take my leave. Tell Peter I appreciated the coffee.”

“Bruce,” Jason spoke lowly and Mr Wayne’s departing footsteps paused.

“Jay?”

“The cup, Bruce. Give it back.”

Cup…? What—

Peter gaped.

His glass! He’d left it on the coffee table when he’d finished his soda, and it was gone!

Stunned, Peter stared at the closed door. Why would Mr Wayne steal it? Was this a problem? Like an—an addiction?

Oh God, had Mr Wayne stolen from Jason in the past? Was that part of why Jason wanted to cut ties with him?

But… Mr Wayne was a billionaire!

Peter heard a heavy sigh and Mr Wayne’s, “I can’t slip past you,” but he was reeling. He’d not even noticed, focused as he was on Jason at the time.

… Where had he even hidden the glass?

And somewhere in Peter’s mini freakout, Mr Wayne must have left for good, because Jason was coming back inside, raking a hand through his hair and setting the glass down on the kitchen counter with a disgruntled sigh.

“I’m sorry!” Peter blurted out. “I didn’t know your dad was a kleptomaniac!”

“Huh?” Jason stared at Peter like he’d said he’d consumed his twin in utero. “What?”

“The… cup?”

Jason’s face pulled something complicated Peter wasn’t capable of reading, and suddenly he was laughing. Loud and hard, a full-bodied, breathless laugh that both confused Peter and warmed him to his toes.

“I… is he not?”

Jason was breathless with laughter. Peter found himself smiling helplessly in return.

“I — oh shit, fuck,” Jason wheezed. Peter waited patiently for him to gather himself. Eventually Jason calmed enough to talk about, though he had to prop himself up against the counter as if it was the only thing holding him aloft and still broke into bursts of odd giggles. “Oh Petey, I’ve not laughed so hard in years. Bruce is — he likes to collect things — heheh — sometimes, small stuff. Sometimes — hahahah! — sometimes big. He’s a wi-wily one too, so — hahahah! — so watch out, ‘kay? Keep — heeeh — keep an eye on those ha-hands of his.”

“Kay…” Peter said, still mystified. “Jason, Mr Wayne is… a super weird guy, isn’t he?”

This time, Jason really did collapse onto the floor with laughter.

— + —

Click [HERE] for text only

^[1] For anyone interested, I thought this blog gave an interesting account of the Minolta 7000 https://kosmofoto.com/2021/05/minolta-maxxum-7000-review/

^{[CLICK HERE TO RETURN]} Messages with Barbie. Time reads 4:55PM, Thursday 20th October

Barbie: FINALLY met Peter, no thanks 2 u. Its a sad day when I have to coordinate with T to meet the love of your life

Jason: are u going senile in your old age? We’re not?

Barbie: well maybe u should. BTW have you ever seen any of his photog’s? He’s genuinely good

Barbie: do you think its a spider thing lol

Jason: Oh yeah. Cause spiders are well known for their photography skills.

Barbie: ughhhhhh I forgot how obnoxious you are. I take it back. Petey deserves better.

Jason: I know

Barbie: :((((((

^{[CLICK HERE TO RETURN]} Messages with Timberly. Time reads 7:15PM, Thursday 20th October

Timberly: ok so don’t be mad

Jason: you know I can never promise YOU that

Timberly: first off, we had a good day.

Timberly: Second, Peter wasn’t lying. Bros got some sicc skills (did u no about his aunt + uncle????)

Jason: I know there’s about to be a third, less fun point

Timberly: well I’m p sure Peter almost had a dissociative episode when Babs hugged him

Jason: Oh. Shit.

Timberly: hes really not doing well is he

Jason: not that its really any of your business…

Timberly: also, ar u aware hes selfharming? Check the inside of his elbow when he gets home

Jason Todd is calling

[CLICK HERE TO RETURN] Messages with Barbie. Time reads 2:35PM, Saturday October 22nd 

Jason: FYI, Pete thinks Bruce is a klepto. Please encourage

Barbie: thumbs up x3

Barbie: JASON I CAN’T BREATHE WHAAATTTTTT

Chapter Text

Peter was frowning.

He knew he was frowning.

He knew he needed to stop frowning.

…

He continued to frown.

Peter couldn’t help it. There was something… unsettling about the PC Sandra asked him to repair. A job she would usually entrust to Conrado, but today had passed onto Peter because he was ‘much faster’. It was an observation that might have been fine — if undiplomatic — had it not been made directly in front of Conrado.

The man in question — only a few years older than Peter, with a fantastic head of thick, dark hair but slightly overweight and obviously carrying a complex about it — had been glaring daggers into the side of Peter’s head ever since. It grated on Peter, but he could weather a little animosity. After the Erasure he’d experienced his fair share of toxic workplaces (turned out some people who hired legal non-entities did so with poor intentions. Who knew!). Peter could even handle working with some mildly dodgy dealings. Sure, he was Spider-Man but he’d come to realise some time after Mr Toomes that the law may be black and white, but reality was not.

Long and short of it: he could handle a lot of things. But what Peter couldn’t handle was being complicit with something actively dodgy… dodgy like the ‘diagnostic program’ Sandra had him run on the laptop before starting on the repairs. It should not be pulling so much memory from the processor.

(Had Peter ever mentioned he'd shut down some of his past workplaces? Because he had. And he hoped hoped hoped this wasn't going to be another notch in that belt. Not when Jason had so kindly secured him the job in the first place.)

“What’s wrong, Parker?” Conrado jeered. He’d been relegated to repairing a bunch of phones with broken screens or dead batteries or whatever and had taken it as the insult Peter suspected Sandra meant it to be. “Too slow for you?”

“I’m just doing my job,” Peter said calmly. He was the picture of composure, though he’d only just managed to hold back the retort ‘Are you?’

Conrado’s upper lip curled up in a sneer but turned back to his work. Peter held in a sigh. This was not how he wanted his day to go. He liked working at NRE. Yesterday, Justin had even recommended Peter start consulting directly with customers. Peter was proud of that. He liked that he’d proven himself capable within his first month of working there.

(And wow but wasn’t it amazing he’d managed to keep his job for so long? It definitely had nothing to do with him not patrolling as Spider-Man yet. Nope. That definitely wasn’t the reason…)

But… Sandra and Conrado were really beginning to grate.

Peter didn’t quite understand what happened. At the start, Conrado had been fine. A bit standoffish, but helpful. Sandra had always been friendly — too friendly — even if sometimes, she’d get this… look. But it was fine. None of that mattered when he could just get down to work, and on occasion take home the appliances Justin deemed unsellable.

In the past week or so however, Conrado had turned increasingly hostile. Peter didn’t think it was anything he’d done. It was just his general existence that appeared to grate on Conrado’s nerves. And Sandra’s fawning had not helped.

Determined to ignore Conrado’s attempts to set Peter’s head on fire with the power of his stare, Peter returned his attention to his air-gapped laptop. The diagnostics…

He shot a glance at Sandra, but she was still happily flicking through something on her phone, doing a fat load of nothing. And Conrado was at the wrong angle to see his screen. It was the same for the security cameras in the corners of the room: neither were placed to be able to catch anything Peter looked at on the laptop. 

Heart thundering at what had to be an incriminating volume, Peter made himself a backdoor into the program and began to hunt…

He was not happy with what he found.

— + —

Lunchtime.

A glorious time for Peter, who made use of the half-hour to scarper off to the convenience store and buy himself both lunch and a flash drive. He walked and ate, rather than return to eat in the kitchenette with Sandra and Conrado. They said nothing of his swift departure: this was Peter’s usual habit.

The day was one of those miserable days Gotham had mastered, with light misting drizzle and slate grey skies. The city felt closed in and cornered. Really, it wasn’t that dissimilar to spring in New York, but there was something about Gotham… a sentience that seeped out of the cracks in the pavement and saturated the rain-soaked air. It both unnerved and thrilled Peter, and he’d started spending his nights listening to the city (in bed — he’d learnt his lesson, thank-you Jason), searching for a pulse he knew wasn’t there but sought out anyway until he fell asleep… only to wake with the taste of blood and exhaust fumes on his tongue.

When he returned to work, Sandra and Conrado were laughing over her phone. Sandra beamed at Peter’s re-entrance and Conrado sobered, but he didn’t scowl. Peter counted that as a win.

“Pete! I was just showing Connie my bridesmaid dress. Have a look!”

She thrust the phone towards him and Peter crossed the room reluctantly to obey. On screen was a photo of Sandra in a pale green dress. It was tight around the chest but flared out from the waist. She was smiling in the way a lot of women (and men) did on their Tinder profiles.

“Um… you look nice?”

“Do I?” He held back a wince. Wrong answer. “I thought it was an awful choice, but my sister’s been insisting on mint green!”

Peter didn’t know what she wanted him to say. “Maybe the colour’s a little pale?”

“It makes me look like an anaemic frog! Don’t you think I should have something darker?”

“… Like a… dark green?”

“Green? Petey, it’s a good thing you’re pretty—” Peter bit back a grimace, “because fashion is clearly not a strong suit. I’ve been trying to get Irene to go for jewel tones — like sapphire or garnet — but she says it wouldn’t suit the spring wedding. But really, look at the difference!” She flicked through her album, landing on another picture; same face, different dress, this one a deep blue with spaghetti straps and a lower neckline. “The difference is night and day!”

Honestly, the only thing Peter could think about the dress was that she’d be cold if it was a spring wedding in Gotham. He said as much, and Sandra laughed him off with a pat on his shoulder. He took a small step back, but she followed, showing him another photo. “Don’t I look so much better in this one?”

‘This one’ was a strapless number in a burnt orange, even tighter than the green. The heightened angle showed off far more cleavage than he was comfortable seeing from his boss. Peter barely looked at it.

“Sure,” he said weakly. Sandra stared, expectant. She wants more. Peter struggled to find anything to say; he just wanted to get back to his job. “It’s… I think the blue was nicer?”

“I suppose,” she sighed, disappointed that he wasn’t playing along. Sandra moved back to Conrado, who evidently was far more capable of giving praise.

Peter retreated to his workstation wearily. There was a new ache in the tender flesh behind his temple that promised to bloom into a splitting migraine. His skin felt like it had been stretched taut across a frame of blunt razors. He just wanted to focus on his work and get home so he could bury himself in his dark room until the feeling of too-muchness faded.

But first…

Peter glanced back at Sandra and Conrado. They showed no signs of ending their lunch break any time soon. Sandra had moved on to retelling the tale of her most recent date — apparently a minor disaster — while Conrado listened with a faint smirk but a commiserating tone.

With a pulse that suddenly rocketed and well aware of the cameras dotted around the room, Peter slipped out his new flash drive and inserted it into the air-gapped laptop.

Laughter nearly made him jump but he strangled the reaction. Wondering if it would help, Peter tapped into the web: the connection was easy these days, though it was still a conscious action unless there was a direct threat to alert him.

The moment he connected, he could feel them. A pair of bright, fizzing lights; they reminded Peter a little of the sparks from Stephen’s portals. Two conflagrations of life just to the right of him. At first glance, they would have been blinding but Peter had been learning how to dim them so he could make out the delicate threads connecting them to him. At present, they were cold and dormant.

Experimentally, he coughed — loud and obtrusively — but kept his left hand over the flash drive. There! He felt the connective thread activate — a shivering buzz of awareness now between them as Sandra and Conrado turned their attentions on him.

Peter tried to gauge what the differences in the buzzing threads meant but couldn’t discern their meaning. There had to be some way of differentiating though, else how was he picking up on threats?

“Are you okay, Peter?” Sandra asked, voice sickly sweet in a way Peter had become familiar with. Caring, but… not caring at all; not towards Peter but the performance of concern itself. He hated it. No one spoke to him like that anymore. Not since he was a kid. Not since his parents — and later, Ben — died.

But he forced on a smile and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just a tickle in my throat. Sorry.”

“I hope you’re not coming down with something! Let me know if you want anything. Maybe a lemon and honey tea?”

“Sure. I’m fine for now, though. Got a La Croix at lunch.”

She smiled and turned back to Conrado. The web connection fizzled back into dormancy.

There was a smile threatening to break out, despite his growing headache. That was something he could work with. Imagine how useful it would be when trying to sneak around… if Peter could actively sense when someone was looking at him…

On second thought… maybe that was a bit of a daunting idea. Useful? Sure. But it would take some getting used to if he didn’t want to turn into a paranoid mess.

Well… it was a Future Peter Problem.

For Present Peter, his main concern was hoping the software he was after could be copied to his flash drive.

He had to work quickly, clicking through, and — yes! He could copy, it was a fine, thank Thor that even 2016 Earth G had enough development to have decent storage capacity. And they hadn’t even copy protected it! Was it a matter of apathy, incompetence or arrogance?

Peter maximised the original program while it slowly copied over and returned to his work, all the while feeling his throat tighten with nerves and guilt. But aside from a few passing glances, he was ignored. Evidently, Sandra had found Conrado to be more receptive to her attentions, despite her snide comment about him that morning.

And then, just as it finished, the connection went live again and Sandra came to join him. She peered over his shoulder, too close for comfort. Peter swung around in his seat to look up at her, hoping it would be enough to keep her eyes off his screen.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m really fine.” Peter eyed Conrado as he brushed passed them, but he was in a better mood than this morning. Peter didn’t dare say anything about his brewing headache. Let that out and he’d never hear the end of it. “It’s just the Gotham air, you know? Still acclimatising.”

Sandra giggled and pet his shoulder in what was probably meant to be a comforting way, but his skin crawled, radiating from that single point of contact. As subtly as he could, Peter moved in his seat, which tugged his shoulder away from her touch.

“You’ll grow immune to it soon enough,” she promised. “That fresh Gotham air grows boys big and strong. Like that housemate of yours. Now he’s something to look a!.”

Don’t scowl, don’t scowl, don’t scowl—

He forced on a polite smile. Sandra had seen Jason maybe a handful of times, on the odd occasion he chose to pick Peter up from work. Usually on the days they had to do their groceries. “He’s, um. Definitely tall?”

“He more than just tall, Pete. God, his biceps are like melons! Is he single? Does he want a sugar mama?”

“No.” Peter firmly tamped down on his indignance on Jason’s behalf. “He’s not single.”

Nevermind that he technically was and that his non-single status was entirely fabricated with Peter. But it worked great in this instance, as Sandra huffed a heavy sigh and left Peter be with a grumble about ‘all the good ones’ being taken.

Don’t think about it.

He resettled in his seat, only to catch Conrado’s speculative stare. Peter tilted his head in question.

“Just housemates,” Conrado said. It could have just been an observation, but his tone had Peter’s cheeks heating up. Conrado’s lips quirked into a smirk but without another comment, he turned back to the screen repair he’d been halfway through before lunch.

It’s fine. People were meant to think they were dating. No need to feel embarrassed.

… Peter couldn’t shake the blush.

With a bitten-off sigh, he swung back to his desk. He checked the web, but neither were paying him any attention now. With as much care as he’d taken inserting the drive, Peter removed it, still wary of the cameras.

The flash drive burned a hole in his pocket, smouldering with the same level of discomfort as the guilt Peter felt as he continued to actually do his job.

He wasn’t 100% sure he knew what it was that ‘diagnostic’ software did, but he had a strong suspicion he wasn’t going to like the outcome when he looked it over tonight.

— + —

The end of the workday brought Peter no relief. His migraine had progressed to the point of being close to debilitating and Peter still had to get home. The thought filled him with despair, but he bravely slipped on sunglasses anyway, even though the sky was still grey and moody, and walked slowly to not jar his head too much. Hoping it would help, he’d cut himself off from the web entirely about an hour ago, but the migraine continued to progress at a familiar pace. Every footstep sloshed the painful goo inside his skull and left him faintly dizzy.

Had Jason not warned him about the cabs — especially the ones in Park Row — Peter would have bit the bullet and hailed one, to hell with the money. As it was, he was tempted to do it anyway but couldn’t bear the thought of having to fight his way out if he ended up choosing the wrong one.

At about the halfway point, Peter thought he might not make it. His head felt like someone had squirted expanding foam through his ears and into his brain. Even with his headphones on, the city sounds were excruciating daggers of noise and Peter walked practically blind, eyes slitted to limit the light as much as possible. It was only spite and sheer force of will that kept him going: Peter wasn’t going to let Gotham take him out from a damn migraine.

It was a miracle no one attempted to mug him while he stumbled along like a drunkard. But maybe he emitted strong enough ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibes that nobody wanted to try their luck.

Whatever it was that kept the opportunists away, Peter was grateful… until he realised just how many fucking stairs he’d have to climb once he reached Jason’s apartment block.

He could have wept. Stumbling around was bad enough… having to lift his leg more than an inch? Surely it was impossible. For a while, Peter stood in the entryway and contemplated giving in. He could just call it a night in the foyer, right? There were enough people by now that recognised him: they wouldn’t just think he was some poor homeless person who’d hoped to shelter the night there…

Then a car honked loud from the street and the drill it pierced through his brain chased Peter up the stairs. By the time he finally reached the sixth floor his head was spinning, he was out of breath, and he all but fell through the door, nauseous with relief.

Jason, lounging on the couch with a book, sat up in alarm as Peter kicked off his shoes. “Pete?”

“Migraine,” he grit out and stumbled over to the windows to close the blinds and turn the apartment dim and cave-like. “Don’t get up.” He waved off Jason’s aborted attempt to stand and conducted a semi-successful controlled collapse into the couch beside him.

“Painkillers?” Jason, bless him, kept his voice quiet and low. It was a soothing baritone against the too-muchness of the city.

“Useless,” Peter sighed. He tried to sink deep into the cushions, but Jason’s couch was only so plush. “Burn through ‘em too fast.”

“… This happen often?”

Peter frowned. It was difficult to syphon through his crumbling thoughts. “Maybe… once a month?”

He thought, maybe, they’d been less frequent before the Erasure. But maybe he and his aunt had just managed them better? Or maybe he’d just had access to better painkillers. But that time was hazy now with grief. A different eon, lost to Peter’s mistakes and the accommodations of a man who never should have made them.

“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve picked you up.”

“I… huh.”

A gusting sigh from Jason. “Didn’t even occur to you, did it?”

“Not at all.”

“You know, you can ask for help.”

“…”

Another heavy sigh. “What do you need?”

“Nothing.” Peter conducted another controlled demolition sideways, seeking out Jason’s warmth until his aching head fell into Jason’s lap.

The man huffed. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Peter lied. “You keep doing your nerd thing.”

“What, reading?”

“Yeah, nerd.”

“At least I’m the classy nerd of the two of us.”

“Star Wars is totally classy.”

“Episodes I to III would suggest otherwise.”

“Boring. Did you get your hot take from Cinema Sins?”

“Watch it, Petey. Your ear’s miiiighty close to pinching distance.”

“Ugh. You do that and I might just vomit on those nice sweats of yours.”

As though in apology, Jason laid his hand over the top of Peter’s head, cradling his tender skull, thumb rubbing softly along his hairline. The other rested gently on his shoulder, holding up his book. Peter couldn’t see the title, but his tired eyes caught on the line Why should I? I've done nothing to be ashamed of. I am not ashamed — I am only beaten^[1].

He wished he could relate.

He closed his eyes.

“How was work?”

Guess Jason wasn’t going to continue reading, then.

“Not great,” Peter admitted.

“Because of the migraine? Seriously, next time, message me. If I can’t pick you up, I’ll find someone who can.”

“S’nothin’.”

“It’s obviously not.”

“S’fine,” he said again, but his migraine seemed to have knocked something loose inside his mouth, because he let slip: “M’boss gives me the ick.”

Even though he’d not been doing anything, Peter still noticed the way Jason locked up. “… Justin?”

“Sandra.”

“… I see.”  As out of it as Peter was, he still picked up on Jason’s quiet, “The ick?”

“She’s touchy,” Peter grimaced, already regretting the admittance. “It’s not really an issue.”

“Kinda seems like it is.”

“S’only ‘cause of the migraine. M’fine.”

Jason wasn’t convinced. He didn’t say anything but Peter didn’t have to look at him to tell he wasn’t.

“It’s fine,” he repeated. He took care this time to enunciate clearly. “It isn’t a problem. Just don’t want to be touched.”

Jason froze up again. Peter rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it. “You’re fine. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jason echoed, voice soft and faintly absent, but he didn’t remove his hands so Peter counted it as a win.

“I chose this,” Peter murmured.

Jason’s hand on his head settled, weaving into his hair. “I see.”

Peter breathed in slowly. Jason was wearing freshly laundered sweatpants. They still smelled faintly of detergent, but it was an inoffensive scent. Citrus. The kind of flowery smell his aunt called a ‘white floral’. The heat of him seeped through the soft fabric and warmed Peter’s cheek.

There was a light tap on his nose. “Lift your head a little.”

Peter complied reluctantly, and Jason gently pried off the sunglasses he hadn’t even realised he still wore. They were tossed who knew where. Not Peter.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Peter inhaled and exhaled, unconsciously matching Jason’s breathing. He narrowed in on the hand passing gently through his hair and the man’s slow, calm heartbeat. The world turned quiet, reduced to a handful of apartment walls and Jason and Dog.

He fell asleep.

— + —

It was late in the night when the Red Hood oozed inside. The studio apartment was dark and quiet in the way that only apartments at three in the morning can be. All that could be heard was the soft breath of its single occupant and the even softer crsp of boots landing gently on threadbare carpet.

And then the world went bright and loud.

The flick of a switch. A circuit completed. A barked, “Sandra Cowell, wake up!”

A shriek.

The woman who had once been sleeping flew out of her warm bed — too big for a single person alone, too big by half — and launched herself across the room, away from the flicked switch, away from the hulking threat that exuded shadows and menace even in a harshly lit room (her ex took the light shades with him. She never got around to replacing them).

When she realised who was there, she froze.

“Oh my God? R-Red Hood? I—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

She didn’t make him hear it. Sandra Cowell remained quiet (a rarity). It was the right call. What the Red Hood wanted, the Red Hood got.

Or at least, that was the story she’d heard around Gotham. Sandra had no intention of testing what happened if he didn’t get his way. That sword hung pride of place behind his left shoulder and that crowbar behind the other and those guns were in easy reach of enormous arms that could kill her without ever touching an instrument of violence at all.

Yes, she’d heard plenty of stories about the Red Hood’s propensity for violence. About his brutal deployment of punishment (or justice, depending on the soul who told it). It occurred to her now, what those tales never mentioned, was how inexpressive a creature like the Red Hood was. No eyes no mouth but it must scream.

The Red Hood took her silence as permission to do as he pleased, and what pleased him was to slouch — there was no better way to put it — across her studio apartment and drop into her armchair, ankle crossed at the knee. A demon of leisure.

(Later, she would wonder how he managed to still look so insouciant in her armchair with those weapons strapped to his back. But in the moment, all she was was suitably intimidated.)

“Do you know why I’m here, Sandra?”

She swallowed, mouth foul-tasting and bone dry. “Is it — is it because of my ex-husband?”

The Red Hood was ominously silent.

“I’ve not spoken to Karol in — in months!”

The Red Hood uncrossed his legs. Leaned forwards, elbows to knees, just as a father might to their son in an earnest conversation about life.

The effect was very different here.

“It-it’s only been a few times!” she spilled, desperate and terrified of the man who sat in her home as though he owned the place. “Just a few stolen goods here and there, I swear!”

Perhaps someone less experienced may have taken Sandra Cowell at her word. But the Red Hood — as with all unfortunate members of the Bat-clan — learnt long ago that silence could be an excellent catalyst for truth-telling. Of course, the intended motivator was very different when used by the Red Hood rather than a Robin. But it worked nonetheless.

“Laptops, phones, a-a phone system, once! I knew he wanted me to fence them, but I needed the money!”

“How many times, Sandra?”

His voice was as unnerving as his silence. Sandra didn’t know which she preferred less.

“Just — maybe — a-a dozen?”

“A dozen is not a few, Sandra.”

She hated the way he said her name. The undercurrent of danger and contempt layered into it.

“I didn’t keep track! Didn’t want to think about it.”

“Give me his number.”

She did so without hesitation, scrambling back to her bed and nearly sobbing when she realised she’d knocked her cell under the bed during the terror of her awakening. With a tremulous voice, she recited her no-good ex-husband’s number — no honour among thieves, indeed — and when the final number died on her tongue, she dared to look up.

The Red Hood still was sitting, still was sitting, on that ragged shitty armchair just beside her bathroom door.

At first, her voice failed to escape in anything but a rangy croak. She swallowed her fear and tried again.

“Is there… is there anything else?”

“For now…”

Oh God.  “‘For now’ what?”

The Red Hood laughed and — oh. Nevermind. That was the sound she preferred the least. Like… glass. Like shrapnel. Like bloody hands searching in the dark for a hope that would never come.

She flinched when the Red Hood stood but he made no move towards her. Instead, he reached for the light switch by her front door.

“I’ll be in touch,” he promised. Her chest convulsed with despair. Was this how those who made deals with the devil felt when they realised all bargains came with a cost? It was not a feeling she enjoyed.

Then the devil tilted his head.

“I’ll be watching,” he said, as if she wasn’t already expecting it. “Keep those wandering hands to yourself, Sandra Cowell. This will be my only warning.”

Then the Red Hood flicked off the flight and her apartment was submerged in a darkness so complete she wasn’t even certain which aspect of her life he was warning her of.

^[1] From the novel The Chrysalids by John Wyndham. It’s a sci-fi novel about children with mind-reading abilities.

Chapter Text

One month on Earth G and Peter felt like he’d lost all confidence in the suit.

He was perched on the precipice of the apartment rooftop, shifting on his heels, nervous but toasty warm in his still functioning heating system (thank God). His stomach was an uncharacteristic mess of knots as he stared down at the sparse traffic and people below.

Was it the change in abilities? The scenery? Had time out of the suit seriously fooled him into feeling like his first jump would result in a Peter Pancake?

What it was, was stupid. Peter’s instincts were impeccable, thank-you very much. His conscious choices…  less so. But he was self-aware enough to acknowledge that Spider-Man’s proficiency came almost exclusively from those instincts… and a few calculated risks and buckets of stubbornness thrown in for good measure. With only an incredibly sparse training history under his belt — barely enough to even make a teen movie montage — Peter’s continued survival was almost completely down to blind faith in his ill-gotten talents, not any learnt skills he’d gained from what little time he’d had with Mr Stark and Happy.

And yet… despite that faith, Peter’s stupid brain left him hesitating.

He’d forgotten the feeling over the years, but Peter imagined the churning sensation in his guts was what he’d felt the first time he’d tested his web-shooters. Anxious. Unsure. Unconvinced it was the right decision.

It had been.

The right decision, that was. For all the tragedy that had struck, Peter didn’t regret being Spider-Man. Maybe he’d not made the world better, but he knew he’d made a material improvement on some people, and that was enough. It was what kept him going. After Ben. After Mr Toomes and Beck. After his aunt… After the Erasure…

The belief was a necessity. After all, what would be the point of all that loss if Spider-Man wasn’t worth it?

“You’re being dumb,” Peter told himself as a car honked below. “Stupid.”

So what if this was the Red Hood’s territory? So what if he (reportedly) didn’t like people encroaching on his turf? Peter literally had the ability to sense when people were watching him! And sure, there were still cameras to content with, but he was reasonably certain he could steer clear of them now.

That morning, after waking late but blessedly migraine-free, Peter had been startled to realise that the faint tingle he sensed when he got too close to his window was actually him sensing the presence of cameras. They were all directed outside, thankfully, but Jason must be… abnormally concerned with security, even for a Gotham security guard (presuming it was Jason who’d set them up). It was not helping Peter’s mobster theory. For a time, Peter had been confused about the discovery: cameras were inanimate and shouldn’t have triggered the Web. Then he’d realised that it wasn’t their attention he noticed but the presence of electricity^[1].

It was an exciting revelation. One Peter unfortunately had little time to explore: after a brisk jog with Dog, he’d rushed off to work, where he was pleasantly surprised to see that Sandra had taken a day off (with Sandra out of the picture Conrado was blessedly more tolerable, too).

Undeveloped or not, what it all meant was Peter could — in theory — pop in and out of NRE with the Red Hood none-the-wiser. Case in point: Peter knew there were a few cameras on his rooftop, and he was pretty sure he was standing in their blind spots.

Plus, Peter figured he was simply doing the Red Hood a solid. What better way to endear himself to the territorial vigilante than to introduce himself with intel about a company that was not only fencing stolen electronics (he strongly suspected), but was — more importantly — stealing data from every single device that was sent in for repairs or sale?

Because that’s what Peter had discovered while studying their ‘diagnostic program’. Sure, it was running a diagnostic, but as he’d suspected, it was simultaneously breaking through encryptions and downloading reams of personal data, all the while leaving some super fun spyware on the device for future access. For 2016 Earth G, it was surprisingly sophisticated stuff.

And Peter could take a solid punt at why they were collecting that kind of data: fraud and identity theft being the chief reasons. Bread and butter to organised crime in the modern world. The question that Peter needed answers to — the question that had him finally putting back on the suit after hours at his computer — was this: was NRE a straight up front for the mob? Or had some enterprising employee/s decided they could make themselves a special commission?

If it was the former, Peter’s follow up question was: how many other repair shops in Gotham did the same? If the latter (his preferred outcome), how high up was the guilty party, and could Peter take them out of the equation without toppling NRE in the process? He didn’t want to lose his job, but he especially didn’t want people like Kyla getting thrown out in the cold. The Red Hood had a bloody reputation, but by all accounts, he cared about Park Row and the neighbouring districts.

And if he didn’t help? Then Peter was determined to find some other way…

Peter shook himself, resolved. The heating elements fused to his suit — carefully designed and adapted to account for damages — kept his core at a comfortable temperature but traces of the cold still seeped in at the places where the suit overlapped: waist, ankles, wrists, neck. He needed to start moving if he wanted to remain stable in the chilly night.

“Showtime,” he whispered, struck by the feeling this was the start of something momentous. “Gotham, say hello to Spider-Man.”

As if in answer, a gunshot rang out to the east.

Peter laughed. The feeling eased away. “Okay, fair enough.”

He jumped.

The exhilaration was immediate, blood suddenly a flashflood of adrenaline as he dropped through the humid air. Before he could ruin the momentum of the swing, he shot out a web and couldn’t resist the exhilarated whoop! as he was hauled out of freefall and all his former nerves fell away like leaves on the wind.

Fuck, he’d missed this.

— + —

For all their security, Peter was pretty sure breaking into NRE was going to be a cinch. Sure, there were a boatload of cameras, and whoever set them up was competent, but they had not accounted for someone who could stick to walls and hang from the ceiling. With that in mind, he’d found a blindspot that would be perfect for infiltration behind the air-conditioning units stuck to the back of the building. They shielded a single window from view: the bathroom window, small and awkward enough that they probably hadn’t thought it worth anyone’s time.

If Peter could jimmy it open and crawl through—

Behind! To your right!

Peter froze where he clung to the wall. His connection was pinging relentlessly with low-level alarm. No harm imminent, but whoever had their eyes on him certainly had the capacity to create it.

With a sense of impending doom, Peter turned his head towards his watcher—

And saw the Red Hood, squatting on the flat roofing of the building opposite. When he saw that he’d caught Peter’s attention, he lifted red gloved hand and beckoned.

“Ahhh crap,” Peter groaned.

All hopes of finding the Red Hood after he’d confirmed his suspicions with concrete evidence slipped away. Now it probably just looked like he was a wannabe burglar in a fancy suit.

He could run… but fleeing the scene would look even worse. Not to mention it would put Red Hood on alert and then goodbye neutrality! Getting shot on sight by the part crimelord, part vigilante wasn’t what Peter hoped for when he’d made his Gotham debut. 

Resigned, Peter climbed back up to the rooftop, then made the easy jump across the street — with a web. He didn’t want to clue the Red Hood into the full extent of his strength just yet.

At Peter’s entrance, the Red Hood hopped off his ledge and straightened up. He oozed menace, strength imbued into every square inch of his presence. And there was a hell of a lot of square inches to the man.

But Peter wasn’t intimidated. He bet his left buttcheek he was still stronger…

… Okay.

Maybe he was a little intimidated.

Those dull red eyes seemed a lot worse alone on a rooftop than they did at street level with the skittles Robin watching over him. Peter held himself a little taller and tried to quell the churning discomfort of his senses. Red Hood was holding a gun. Even if it was currently pointed at the ground and his finger was off the trigger — Happy would have commended his gun etiquette — Peter doubted he could run faster than Hood could shoot.

“You’re a new face,” the Red Hood rumbled. Tonight, his modulated felt very gravel-forward, the sound scraping across Peter’s back like road rash.

He breathed in deep to compose himself and wash the feeling away.

“Sup!” he chirped, then winced. “Uh. I mean, hey, I’ve got a pressing question: is it the Red Hood, or just Red Hood? ‘Cause no one can agree and it’s been bugging me.”

Whatever Red Hood expression was, was obscured by his muzzled and domino. The weight of his stare was oppressive. “Lemme ask you a question first.” he said eventually. “You friend or foe?”

“Friend! Definitely, definitely friend!” Peter was still eyeing that gun. He did not enjoy getting shot…

On a scale of one to ten, how mad would the Red Hood be if Peter webbed it out of his hand?

At least a thirteen.

“Friend, huh. Don’t know a lotta friends who’d try to breakin’ into the only electronic store in Park Row.”

Peter held back another wince. “I’m… on recon.”

“Oh? And what kinda recon does a little spider need to do?”

“… It’s Spider-Man.”

“That’s what I said.”

Peter grimaced beneath his mask and the Red Hood radiated amusement.

This was not going the way Peter had hoped.

“What’re you doin’ in Gotham, little spider? This city ain’t kind to outsiders.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” Peter shrugged and the Red Hood titled his head in question. “If it’s any consolation, it should only be temporary.”

“Yeah? You a mercenary? Here to make a quick buck?”

“Oh hell.” Peter laughed despite the danger still thrumming under his skin. “I wish I got paid for this stuff.” He tapped his foot on the roof to try and dispel some of that nervous energy. “All you need to know is that my help is available for a limited time only.”

Probably. Hopefully.

“Your help,” the Red Hood repeated, entirely unimpressed. “The fuck makes you think I need your help?”

“We—ell,” he trailed off. Was he worried Red Hood would shoot him, or that he just wouldn’t believe Peter? “I — uh — I’ve got a — friend. They tipped me off — whistleblower style, y’know? — that there’s something dodgy going down there.”

Somehow, Red Hood grew even taller. Did he have hidden lifts in his boots? “Dodgy, how?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. He knew if he played all his cards at once, Red Hood would simply chase him off. He’d be all, ‘thanks for the intel, now buzz off bug boy, let the pros handle this’. It was exactly what Mr Stark attempted to do and look how badly that turned out. And call it curiosity or professional pride or whatever, but Peter didn’t want to just wash his hands of NRE. Not to mention, he’d hate to be blindsided by his job suddenly falling apart due to events no longer in his control.

“I’d… rather not say until I’ve confirmed,” he hedged.

Red Hood’s laughter was ugly and unnerving. “The only thing you’da confirmed tonight is that they’ve a working alarm.”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

Shiiiiiit. He was an idiot!

Of course NRE would have an alarm!

This was what he got for never watching any of those spy movies his aunt liked so much. Spider-Man was more a stop-a-mugging or carry-a-tired-mom’s-groceries kind of hero. Maybe the odd dip into organised crime. But the events surrounding the Erasure sent Peter directly back to friendly neighbourhood territory. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not think about the body you left behind in ruins of an apartment lobby.

Of course he’d think about the cameras and forget the rest of the security system! Idiot!

This is why you stick to the friendly neighbourhood stuff.

Though Peter doubted he’d projected his realisation, the Red Hood laughed that grating laugh again. “What?” he mocked. “Is this baby’s first break in?”

“It’s not!”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I can smell the green comin’ off ya.”

“I’ve definitely, totally broken into places before!” Peter winced as he remembered who-slash-what he was talking to. “In like, a crime-fighting way.”

“Oh, so you’re a crime-fighter, little spider? Then I’ll ask you again, and this time, you better answer me, or I’ll start shooting, in a crime-fighter sorta way. What’s ‘dodgy’ about the only electronics store in my territory?”

Peter was losing control of the situation. “I’ll tell you. But only if you promise to keep me in the loop.”

The Red Hood finally raised his pistol and danger thrummed like a soft purr across his skin. “I don’t make promises. Especially not to greenies.”

“I am not green!”

“That really the part you wanna focus on right now, spiderling?”

Peter wanted to defend himself: he’d been Spider-Man since he was fourteen. He’d battled the Mad Titan — in space. He’d been an Avenger. He’d fought with the rest of them when he blipped back. Was there to hear Mr Stark’s pulse stutter and fall quiet. Forced to listen to the same thing with—

He breathed in slowly. Clenched his fists to keep the tremble at bay. The Red Hood did have a bit of a point.

And a gun. 

You are not allowed to break it. You’re trying to make yourself an ally.

“Okay,” he said eventually, and was grateful it came out smooth and even. “So. First off… pretty sure this place has been selling stolen goods—”

“Wow,” the Red Hood drawled, unimpressed. “Colour me surprised.”

Crime lord. He’s a crime lord, Peter reminded himself. Dumbass. Of course he wouldn’t care about that. In fact, it might even be him who was profiting off the sales… though most accounts of the Red Hood were convinced he was investing back in the wellbeing of the people in his territory. There were whole forums dedicated to tracing the money.

Still… there went one of his bargaining chips. Peter really wasn’t used to working with people like this.

“And?” Red Hood prompted. “You said ‘first off’. What’s the second off?”

Peter sighed. “Okay. So, the fencing’s not a surprise. But did you know they’ve been collecting data from every device that passes through their doors?”

The gun lowered slightly. “What kind of data?”

“The sensitive kind.” Peter rattled of the Cliff Notes version of what he’d found from his successful snooping. The gun returned to its previous position.

“You here to help yourself to that shit, then? Not very crime-fighterly of you.”

“No!” Peter cried, outraged. “I promise you!”

Hood laughed. “If I had a nickel for every asshole who tried to promise me something, I’d have a bonanza at the Dollar Tree.”

“Look, I know you’ll have never heard of me, but where I’m from? I’m a pretty big name.” Unfortunately. “Spider-Man is a good guy!” Not that the Bugle would ever admit it. “I’m not here to steal that data for myself. I’m here to investigate.”

And then use his findings to attempt to bribe his way into the Red Hood’s good graces. Which was going swimmingly.

“That’s swell,” the Red Hood drawled. “Just grand. But now you’ve passed the message on, you can let the professionals take it from—”

“No.”

“No?” Red Hood repeated, as though he’d never been refused anything in his life.

Peter set his jaw, pulse thrumming with anxiety and defiance. “No. My whilstlebower, they’re — uh — worried about their job. They don’t know if this is just a bad actor or a system-wide issue. They’re trusting me to deal with this in a sensitive manner.”

“Yeah, ‘cause nothing says sensitive like a screaming alarm at two in the morning.”

He winced. Yeah… Peter deserved that.

“So I’m new to espionage,” he admitted. “But I made a promise, so here I am. And I won’t let you run me off.”

The Red Hood’s silence was telling. Peter soldiered on.

“I have to find out who installed the mining program and where they’re storing the stolen data.”

“And the stolen tech?”

“I’m guessing there’s a second book of accounts, or a file keeping track of shipments. My contact says things are pretty orderly. The owner runs a tight ship.”

“Not tight enough, obviously.”

“In theory, no…” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “So, are you up for a team up or not?”

The Red Hood was silent for a long time and Peter fought hard not to fidget nervously as he awaited judgement. An age passed before the Red Hood laughed suddenly and the pistol dropped down. He shook his head in what Peter thought was exasperation.

“Jesus, you’re gonna be a stubborn one, aren’t ya?”

Peter grinned with relief. “Mama said it’s my best quality.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Hood whipped something small through the air and Peter caught it effortlessly.

“What’s this?” He turned the thing over in his hand. It was a disk, roughly palm-sized and vaguely flexible.

“Disruptor. Slap it on a camera and it’ll break into the security system and cut off any alarms until its removed.”

That was… pretty damn cool, actually. Peter itched to pry apart the layers and see how it worked, but he doubted the Red Hood would appreciate it. Maybe he could steal it after?

No… that probably wouldn’t go down well. You’re trying to win him over, Parker. Don’t be an idiot.

Maybe he could work out how to replicate it for himself…. Such a device would undoubtedly be useful.

Peter slipped the device into the hidden pocket on his chest. “Be back in a mo!” he chirped, then shot a web across the chasm between buildings and leapt back, landing light-footed on the rooftop to NRE.

Conscious of his audience now, Peter slunk down the wall to reach the camera he’d already pinged as suitable. The device momentarily threw him — how did it stick? — but he quickly realised there was a protective layer of plastic on one side to cover an adhesive. Discovery made, it was a breeze to connect it to the camera and crawl back up.

And if he showed off a little by letting go of the wall to do so? Well, that was between him and whatever constituted for a god in this hellscape of a city.

By the time he reached the ledge, the Red Hood was landing just as softly as Peter had onto the roof. Peter watched him, hanging half off the brickwork, as the other man retracted a goddamn grappling hook and set it back into his belt.

Guess that explained how the Bats got around town.

“You good?” Red Hood said when Peter made no move to join him.

“Uh. Yup.” With a little thrust of his feet against the wall, Peter flipped through the air to land in a squat on the ledge.

The theatrics had him grinning. He had missed this. Peter wasn’t made for an existence where his feet were trapped firm on the ground.

He wasn’t even disappointed when the Red Hood remained unimpressed.

(Okay, maybe he was a little.)

“Those webs natural?” the vigilante asked instead.

Peter straightened out of his crouch and hopped down onto the rubber roofing. “Sure,” he lied. Showing off or not, he wasn’t about to hand over all his secrets. “Doesn’t even come outta my ass, how about that?”

“A mercy for all of us,” Hood drawled. He spun on the heel of his boot and stalked across the rooftop. There was a single entry point via a locked trapdoor that Peter had originally avoided because of the cameras. He hung back but must have made some kind of noise when the Red Hood began picking the lock.

“What?” Hood growled (was he even capable of anything else with that modulator? Actually, that was a good point… was his modulator adaptive? If Peter built up enough of a rapport with Hood, would he let Peter reverse engineer one to incorporate something similar into the Spider-suit? Peter was beginning to feel FOMO, stuck with only the rudimentary mask he’d whipped up for the night).

Hood was staring at him. Why way he—?

Oh. Yeah.

Peter shrugged. “I just thought lock-picking was a bit more subtle than your usual MO.”

“Oh yeah?” Red Hood turned back to the door. “And what’s my MO?”

“Well, according to the forums, there’s usually a whole lot more shooting and explosions.”

“I do like a good explosion,” Hood acknowledged, tone oddly conversational. “But it pays to be a man who can be both.”

Between one breath and the next, Hood had unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal a set of collapsible stairs. From where Peter stood, he could see boxes piled high in the dark room. The stink of dust and stale air wafted up to them.

Peter was impressed. While Peter could pick locks (MJ had taught him one lazy Sunday afternoon), he struggled to maintain the focus required for anything more complicated than a padlock. For all his agility and stickiness — abilities that lent themselves to stealth — Peter was well aware that he tended to wield Spider-Man like a blunt instrument. If he was to ever grow as a hero, keep more people safe, he badly needed to learn some finesse of his own.

Maybe he should make himself a list?

Red Hood shoved the stairs and they opened out. He turned to Peter. “Babies first.”

“First off, rude,” Peter said, but wove around Hood to peer curiously into the musty dark. He’d known there was an attic above the workshop but hadn’t had the opportunity to explore.  All in all, it was pretty disappointing: just a bunch of boxes and broken furniture. There went his hopes that their ne’er-do-weller was working up here. “Secondly, who’s saying I’m a baby? For all you know, I could be in my forties and living out my mid-life-crisis by swinging through the streets like a hoodlum after a recent brush with a radioactive spider.”

“Please,” Red Hood scoffed, but there was a momentary hitch in his voice that had Peter glancing back curiously. No use trying to read him though: the muzzle and mask combo did too good a job. “If you’re in your forties I’ll eat my favourite gun.”

“Well, I’d hate to give you indigestion…” Peter trailed off suggestively, but left it there, turning back. He avoided the stairs to instead crawl in via the ceiling. Once he was clear of the stepladder he flipped and landed silently the right side up.

“Yeah,” he caught Hood muttering. “That’s not fucking weird at all.”

“Say,” Peter said as the Red Hood entered the more conventional route, closing the trapdoor on the way. “I’ve a question.”

“I might have an answer.”

Did the Red Hood sound wary? He totally did. Peter found a secret delight in the realisation.

“Is it, like, the Red Hood, emphasis on the ‘the’, or just Red Hood, ‘the’ is optional? It’s been killing me for weeks now.”

“… Yes.”

“Yes, what? Is it The Red Hood, or just Red Hood?”

“Yes.”

Peter had the distinct impression he was being made fun of. “Fine. But full disclosure, you’ve now been downgraded to ‘Hood’ in my internal monologue.”

“Ooo heavens! How shall I cope?” Hood said dryly. It was… really something, coming through that modulator.

Hood swept through the storage room, but Peter was unconcerned. Tapping into the web revealed only the two of them and a mildly concerning number of rats and roaches in the building. Thanks to Sandra’s chattiness, he knew NRE employed a security guard that would intermittently check in throughout the night, but Peter was equally sure he’d be able to sense their approach and get him and Hood out of there before the guard even pulled out his keys.

“So, how you planning on finding this data?” Hood asked once satisfied they were in fact alone. He had immediately kneeled to pick the door out of the storage room.

“Start with the boss’ office. Upstairs, repairs have a couple of laptops — at least one of them has the mining software on it, so I want to see if I can find out who uploaded it. If that’s not fruitful, then the upstairs manager’s computer and desk merits an investigation, too.”

“Why?” Hood had finished picking the lock and the door swung inwards with a loud creak. The stairwell was dimly lit in eerie green by the emergency exit signs.

Peter thought of Sandra’s attempts to reassure him that NRE didn’t sell any stolen property. She’d been suspiciously defensive. “Bad vibes,” he said at length. “At least, according to my contact.”

“… I see.” Hood gestured for Peter to go down first again and he did so without complaint, though he balanced on the balustrades rather than the steps. A garbled snort was the only acknowledgement he got for the action.

“We should do the boss’ office first,” Peter recommended. “If the security guard turns up, I’d rather be interrupted there.”

“How good are you with computers?”

“Fantastic,” Peter said without hesitation. No point in false modesty here. He didn’t want to be here any longer than needed. To prove his point, he pulled out a flash drive from the pocket hidden on his chest, then tucked it back inside. “I wrote a program to do most of the job for me. It’ll break their encryptions — though my contact passed on the manager’s password already — and then it’ll do its own data mining.”

No need to tell Hood he’d lifted parts of Karen’s code to do so. What Peter managed to preserve of her was barely a shadow of what she once was, but her neural networks were still useable. 

“And you say you weren’t collecting data…”

That was… probably meant to be phrased as a question. But the doubt in Hood’s voice made it more like a statement.

“I’ve no interest in any of the personal stuff. If I could do it without raising suspicions, I’d delete it all. But the goober will insert an additional line of code on the metadata of anything sensitive. Kinda like making them an NFT.”

“NFT?”

Peter winced. 2016. Right. NFTs weren’t a thing yet. “Not important,” he said evasively. “What matters is the unique digital identifiers will mean that any sold or copied personal data could be traced.”

Hood paused on the stairs. “Clever.”

Peter laughed nervously. His stomach had done a funny little twist at the compliment and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. “Please. With things like that disruptor, you must have tons of stuff like mine at your disposal.”

“I might.” Hood jumped the final three steps to the ground floor and started on the new locked door. “But I’m assuming you’re working by yourself.”

“Oh no,” Peter said mildly. “I’ve got a whole army at my disposal. Granted, they’re only two inches tall, but it’s amazing what you can get done with eight legs.”

Red Hood was silent for a long, weighted minute. Then: “You’re aware if that’s not a joke I’ll hunt down your crew and introduce them to the fun end of a flame-thrower.”

“Please,” Peter scoffed. “As if you could catch them.”

“I can see why you don’t have a team.”

“Rude.”

They slipped into the sales floor. Inside wasn’t completely dark: dim light seeped in from the street through heavy duty shutters and the emergency lighting lined the rest with sickly green. The misshapen figures of shelves and locked cabinets loomed around them and the silence had a distinctly ominous feeling. Peter figured he was just projecting his anxieties. After all, he was doing something that could get him arrested (or worse, fired).

Hood pulled out a small flashlight and Peter led him to O’Brien’s office and the fourth locked door of the evening. This one was the fastest of the lot, which probably wasn’t promising.

The office was a windowless room — practically just a converted storage room — so Hood flipped a switch as soon as Peter shut the door. Watery yellow light flooded the space, which was as neat and clean as usual, with a large bookshelf, a wall of filing cabinets and a desk equipped with a fairly upmarket PC. For all his nervous temperament, O’Brien was an exacting man. Apparently, he had a business partner who was less so, but Peter was yet to meet them. Sandra had mentioned he had his fingers in a lot of businesses through north Gotham.

“You take the computers, I’ll look analog,” Hood ordered. Peter tipped him a mocking salute. He dropped into the desk chair — it was exceedingly comfortable. Maybe Peter could petition for something like that upstairs? Theirs were awful, with razor thin padding and joints that squeaked with every movement.

Whatever. Peter pulled out the goober, plugged it in and booted up the PC. He glanced over at Hood while he waited for the goober to do its thing. Hood was studying the bookshelves carefully, and Peter realised there was an opportunity for information here. He wasn’t going to squander it.

“Say…”

“Say what.” And. Yep. Hood was definitely sounding exasperated now.

Peter grinned in celebration. Guess he’d found his mojo again. He swung left to right in the office chair. “You know the Waynes, right?”

Hood tilted his head towards Peter. His red eyes were narrowed. “They’re the Kardashians of Gotham, of course I know them.”

“No no. I mean, like, in a personal capacity.”

“Why the fuck would I know a Kardashian?”

Peter frowned and wished he’d had the time to modulate the eyes on his mask like he had with his old one. Soon. He’d get around to it soon. “No… don’t you think they’re kinda suss?”

“Suss.”

“Like, dodgy.”

“They’re rich as hell. Of course they’re kinda dodgy.”

“Yeah, but… are they part of the mob or something?”

“The mob?” Hood echoed, incredulous. “Shit, I thought you were just thinking about ‘em being tax dodgers or somethin’. No, they ain't in the fucking mob.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pal, I’m the fucking mob. I’m sure.” Hood snorted. “Fuck me, trying to imagine Brucie Wayne going toe to toe against the likes of Black Mask or the Falcones… You gotta be kidding me.”

Peter thought of the Bruce Wayne he’d met and his extensive knowledge of the ins and outs of his company, himbo reputation notwithstanding. He thought of Mr Wayne’s troubled relationship with Jason and whatever had gone down between them that led to Jason unwilling to mend those bridges.

He wasn’t convinced, but whatever he might have said was derailed by the goober breaking in. Peter went hunting once he’d started it on the next task, though things went slowly: the capacity of Earth-G CPUs weren’t leagues away from what Peter remembered was available in 2016, but they were enough that the wait was annoying.

“Gotcha,” Hood suddenly crowed, and Peter paused mid-way through his investigation of Justin O’Brien’s browser history (it was so far, very mundane). Hood was holding aloft a small ledger, the drawer of one of the filing cabinets hauled out. “Secret compartment in the drawer above,” Hood explained, and flicked through.

“Is it—?”

“An account of the last three months of stolen goods they’ve received? Yup.” Hood placed the ledger on the desk and took photos of every page. Peter’s attention was caught on the writing.

“Can I?” He held out his hand and Hood took note of the page before passing it over. Peter frowned. He glanced at the post-it stuck to the monitor. Holding the ledger against it, he could quickly spot the difference. “This isn’t O’Brien’s handwriting. The Bs and H’s are wrong.”

“It’s in his office.”

“He’s got a business partner — I don’t know their name. I bet they have access, too.” Peter handed the book back and Hood finished documenting the pages for future reference. He studied the Red Hood carefully. “If I give you my number, will you share those with me?”

“… I s’pose it depends.”

“On?”

“On what else you’re good for.”

Peter probably should have been offended, but that kind of mercenary attitude was what he’d expected from the vigilante anyway. If Hood was hoping to insult — and by the challenging drawl, he had — he was going to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, Peter smirked, though it went unseen beneath his mask. “Let’s not forget, I’m the one with access to the stolen data, here. Seems both of us have something the other person wants.”

“Oh yeah?” Hood took a threatening step towards Peter, impossibly tall with Peter still seated. “And what’s stopping me from simply stealing that off you?”

Peter laughed. He couldn’t stop himself, humourless as the sound was. “You can try. I doubt it’d end well, though.”

Even trapped in the mundanity of O’Brien’s insipidly lit office, the Red Hood seemed like something out of an 80s horror movie. Peter met masked stare for masked stare. He wouldn’t allow himself to be intimidated by someone he could literally throw through a wall (even if he’d never actually do that! That was how you killed people).

Eventually, Red Hood huffed and backed off. Feeling smug, Peter returned his attentions to the PC but so far, the goober hadn’t picked up anything. He wasn’t too surprised: if they were keeping their accounts of received stolen goods separate, it stood to reason they’d do the same with the mined data. And it didn’t make much sense having it stored on the boss’ PC when it was the air-gapped laptops upstairs that ran the program in the first place.

He wrapped things up but left a backdoor hidden for himself on the PC, just in case. Hood let him leave first, but left the door unlocked before they headed upstairs.

A fifth lock picked and then they were in the workshop. This time, they didn’t risk turning the lights on: the windows had security screens but they weren’t the blackout kind installed below. It didn’t matter: Peter’s excellent spacial awareness and familiarity with NRE (he’d worked there for four weeks, he was startled to realise) meant he moved through the dark with ease. The air-gapped laptops were kept in a locked cupboard, but Peter had already stolen the spare key from O’Brien’s desk drawer. O’Brien had fetched it for Peter and Conrado just that morning when Sandra called in sick.

“You seem to know your way around here,” Hood noted. Peter forced himself not to pause as he unlocked the cupboard.

“My contact gave very clear instructions,” he lied.

Hood hummed: a neutral sound Peter couldn’t pin down. Acknowledgement?  Or doubt? Checking on the web was equally opaque: all he could sense was Hood’s attention. It seemed that moment at the zoo, where he thought he could differentiate feelings, had been a fluke.

Wary but determined to finish the job, Peter took out the laptops and set them on Sandra’s desk. He plugged the goober into one — should’ve made two, damn — and turned both on. While the goober did its thing on the first laptop, Peter typed Sandra’s password into the second. She’d been careless enough to use it in front of him weeks ago, though at the time Peter had memorised it for purely innocent reasons, not because of any suspicions he had about her or the business.

Hood loomed behind him, watching as Peter worked. He blazed with heat and Peter was reminded abruptly of Jason. Guilt abruptly washed over him as he remembered he was doing all of this behind the back of the man generous enough to secure Peter a job in the first place. And then just as abruptly, Peter remembered that Jason knew the Red Hood. Technically, Jason worked for him.

He huffed a laugh.

“What?”

Peter shook his head. “Nothing. Just. Remembered how small the world can be, sometimes.” 

The Red Hood rumbled an affirmation and the sound travelled deep through Peter. He shook off the shivers and got to work, pulling up the program’s code and trawled through. He didn’t know if it would be possible, but he was hoping he might be able to find the IP address of whoever originally wrote the program and trace them from there. If this was some home-grown conspiracy, chances were Peter could track down the connection between the writer and their contact in NRE.

It was beyond much of what Peter had been doing the last six months, but his blood fizzed with excitement at the thought of breaking down a new puzzle.

Hood left him to his work and poked around the workshop, on the lookout for anywhere they might have stored the stolen data once it had been copied. Peter was giving him pointers on where to search when he found what he’d been looking for. He couldn’t stop the victorious cackle that erupted.

“You good?” Hood asked, mildly alarmed.

“I’m just great,” Peter crowed. He switched to the goobered laptop and made sure it was picking up the same IP; it did. So they had probably been uploaded at the same time.

The goober had finished adding Peter’s own code to the data mining program, so he switched laptops, then joined Hood in their search for the missing piece of the puzzle. But it was fruitless: whoever was lifting the stolen data from the laptops obviously had the sense not to leave a smoking gun lying around, and it wasn’t as if they were just going to stumble across a server farm at NRE. Peter suspected they could search for hours to no avail and neither were interested in sticking around any longer than they had to. At least Peter had the new sub-routine added to the data miners and re-written the stolen data that had been copied over the last few days. The next time someone collected the personal information and put it up for sale, he’d have a decent chance at tracking it.

It was just as well they called it quits when they did: just as Peter was putting the cabinet keys back where they’d come from, laptops safely returned upstairs, he heard a car slow down on the street.

“Security’s here,” he announced. Hood hustled him out (as if Peter had any interest in getting caught) and locked the doors along the way. They were up and back out on the roof before the guard even reached the back entry. Peter peered over the ledge to see them go inside, then crept down and stripped the disruptor off the camera.

To his dismay, Hood was holding his hand out expectantly when he came back up.

“Can’t I keep it?” he tried.

“No.”

“Not even like, on loan?”

“No.”

Peter huffed but handed it over. “You’re no fun.”

“I am not,” Hood agreed as he slipped it back into a pocket inside his hood. Then he pulled out his phone and the expectant air returned. Peter rattled off the number of the burner phone he’d purchased just that morning on his walk with Dog.

“I’ll be in touch,” Hood promised. Or at least Peter interpreted it as a promise. His comment didn’t seem like it was just a dismissal, at any rate.

“Vigilante business hours only,” Peter said. The idea of being called in the middle of the day had him cringing.

“I’ll call you when I call you.”

Now Peter took that as a dismissal. He hopped onto the ledge. “It’s been swell—”

“Spider-Man.” Peter was stopped by a heavy hand on his forearm and was abruptly hit by the vague scent of fragrant wood, gunpowder and beneath it all, something ambiguously floral. It twigged something, but the recognition was a fuzzy and indistinct thing he couldn’t pin down.

“Red Hood?” he replied, storing the memory away for later.

“Don’t make this a habit. I don’t wanna see you ‘round here again. You’re needed for intel only.”

“Mm. No.”

“No?”

Funny. Hood’s voice rumbled with danger, but Peter’s senses didn’t so much as stir.

He shrugged. “Seems to me this city needs another friendly face swinging around, don’t you think?”

“Whatever you’re used to ain’t Gotham, pal. She’ll swallow you for breakfast.”

“There was an old lady who swallowed a spider…” Peter murmured absently. He was still twigging out on that scent! 

“Huh?”

Peter shook off the strange sensation, dislodging Hood’s grip in the process. “I just mean… whatever Gotham throws at me? I can weather it. I’ll catch you around, Hood.”

And with that, Peter shot out a web and threw himself into the angry Gotham air.

— + —

READ TEXT ONLY ^[HERE]

— + —

To Peter’s surprise, when he stumbled out of his room the next morning, Jason was already up. That was not to say that Jason looked like he was awake; if anything, he looked five blinks away from falling back to sleep — a look that was only compounded by Dog’s juxtaposing enthusiasm. But he was, technically, up.

“Morning,” Peter said in between a cracking yawn, scratching Dog’s head in greeting when she bounded over. He’d become used to six to seven hours of sleep a night. It was surprising just how tired he felt after the four hours he eventually got. His blood throbbed audibly, and his eyes burned with fatigue. It was, quite frankly, embarrassing.

“Mmph,” Jason grunted. He stood, zombie-like, staring at the coffee machine as it cheerfully gurgled away, blissfully unaware of the two men watching it with a mix of bewilderment and envy.

Peter, who despite the fatigue, was at least used to waking up while the morning hours were still in single digits, took pity on the other man and ushered him over to one of the stools neatly tucked into the breakfast bar.

“It hurts to look at you,” he said when Jason attempted to resist. “Sit. I’ll make you coffee.”

Even the word itself appeared to rouse zombie-Jason. He blinked in surprise.

“When’d you get here?” he half-spoke, half-mumbled.

“Literally hours ago,” Peter lied with a grin that had Jason sucking his teeth in disgust. He tugged Jason’s chair out with his foot and forced him to sit. “Why the hell are you up, anyway?”

Jason grimaced and shut his eyes. Peter was abruptly reminded that he was only a handful of years older than him. Absent of its usual wax, Jason’s hair flopped in loose, messy curls over his forehead. There was something painfully vulnerable about the downwards trajectory of his mouth.

Peter stepped away, hands falling from Jason’s broad shoulders. It didn’t take much to guess what had chased him out of bed and into the warm domesticity of the kitchen.

Concerned now, he busied himself with a mug for Jason. For himself, he poured one of the premade protein shakes he’d recently discovered. They were an unholy blend of pulverised cardboard, sugar and cocoa, but they were a simple way of hitting his caloric intake if paired with a real meal. And if Peter was going to be going out as Spider-Man on the regular again, it was in his best interests to ensure he wasn’t working on a calorie deficit. Call him vain, but he liked not being able to see his ribs.

Jason practically fell upon the coffee Peter set down before him. However, Peter didn’t miss the faint tremble in Jason’s hands before he picked up the mug. The realisation that Jason might have demons of his own was discomfiting. For all they’d spoken of triggers after Peter’s nightmare (fortunately, he’d not had another one so violent since then), Peter hadn’t really thought of them as anything more than an abstract concept. Jason just seemed to have his shit together; strained family relations or not.

He was ashamed. It felt a bit like that time he’d seen his third-grade teacher Ms Fairbridge at the bodega buying herself a frozen pizza, chocolate and cigarettes, and an eight-year-old Peter suddenly realised that his teacher did in fact have a life that existed outside the confines of elementary school.

Crap. Had he really had his head so far up his ass he’d not even seen Jason as a real person?

It was a mortifying revelation.

In the hopes of escaping the swelling guilt, Peter focused on whipping up a quick breakfast for the pair of them: scrambled eggs on toast — a deviation from his usual sunnysides. By the time he was setting out the plates on the counter, Jason was a great deal more coherent and he’d drained his coffee. With only a small amount of resentment (he’d reached the ‘acceptance’ stage of his coffee grief about a week ago), Peter poured him another cup. This time, it summoned a smile from Jason.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” Peter said, but frowned when Jason’s smile turned strained. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Peter was inclined to disagree: Jason’s breathing had hitched at Peter’s joke (if it could even be called that). But it would be pretty hypocritical of him to call Jason out for lying. If Jason didn’t want to share, Peter was in no position to push.

He slid the plate of eggs on toast over, along with cutlery and hot sauce. With movements that bordered on mechanical, Jason cut into the toast and began eating.

Not content with being left out, Dog whined and pawed at Peter’s leg. His own breakfast in one hand, Peter fed her with the other: he’d become adept at the task thanks to his ill-placed laziness (though sticky fingers certainly helped). Why waste time on two jobs when he could multi-task?

Once Dog was happily inhaling her food, Peter stood at the counter and focused on eating, scarfing down his eggs and toast with his hands; it felt pointless to bother dirtying cutlery, even if Jason preferred them. By the time Peter finished and was rinsing out the dogfood tin and his plate, Jason had only just finished his first slice of toast but was looking far more present.

He was studying Peter, head tilted in a way that had Peter’s subconscious pinging. “What?” he asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing,” Jason said, turning back to his breakfast. “I just thought… you look tired.”

Peter quirked a brow and stared pointedly back. Jason rolled his eyes.

“I’m not the one willingly conscious at a ‘normal hour’.”

“Willingly, he says.” Peter grinned. “You might have a rich has hell daddy, but surely you know that this is like, a late morning for most.”

“Ugh.” Jason shuddered. “Say the D word again and I’m evicting you.”

“Liar. Who’d walk Dog without me around?”

“Pete, how do you think we were doing things before you turned up?”

“I think you were attempting to recruit a pre-teen into starting a dog-sitting business.”

Jason chuckled. “Touché.”

“You know child labour is illegal, right?”

“Only if you get caught.”

Jason’s crooked smile was infectious. Peter grinned back without thought. “The children: they yearn for the mines.”

Jason barked with startled laughter and Peter suddenly became aware that the meme hadn’t even come into existence here. He was caught on that thought as Jason, still chuckling, stood and brushed past Peter to drop his plate into sink and—

Oh.

Peter finally recognised that scent.

^[1] There is some evidence that spiders can detect weak electric fields. From a 2018 study by the University of Bristol:
“Arachnids have mechanosensory hairs known as trichobothria… Much is known about their mechanical and neural response to medium flows (air and water); they are exquisitely sensitive, detecting air motion close to thermal noise, they detect sound, and they are omnidirectional. Early studies using electrostatic actuation as a tool to investigate trichobothria mechanics indicate that they may also be sensitive to e-fields…. Notably, the different types of mechanical response generated by air movement and e-fields suggest that wind and electric field detection can be differentiated despite sharing a common peripheral receptor.” Source: cell.com 

^{[CLICK HERE TO RETURN]}

Messages with Rude-Robin. Time reads 3:27AM, Thursday October 27th

2:12AM Rude Robin: Hey, B wants 2 talk. Swing by the cave when ur done

3:03AM Red Hoodlum: can he not just send an email. Kinda busy.

3:04AM Rude Robin: fungi

3:04AM Rude Robin: its about Hatter

3:23AM Red Hoodlum: UGHHHHHHHHHHHH

3:24AM Red Hoodlum: If there’s not concrete info, hands will be thrown. And they won’t be mine

3:26AM Rude Robin: …

3:26AM Rude Robin: I’d bettr get sum hands ready than

Chapter Text

In Peter’s defence, who would have thought the very person whose living room he was tossed into was also a vigilante?

And not just any vigilante! A vigilante with a history of savage violence and bloodshed!

And okay! So, maybe the armoury of weapons Jason barely bothered to hide in the crawlspace should have been a giveaway. Especially for someone living in an inner-city apartment. At the very least, it should have been a red flag. But Peter had trusted his Tingle and simply chalked it up to a Gotham Thing (with a healthy dose of eccentricity thrown in for good measure). Peter was new. What did he know about the average Gothamite’s feelings towards guns?

Not fucking much, as it turned out.

By no small miracle, Peter kept his sudden and earth-shattering realisation under wraps all through the rest of his breakfast and carried the unwelcome burden of knowledge out the door with Dog at his heels for her usual morning walk. He couldn’t help but feel like he was chased out of the apartment by the weight of Jason’s attention. But it was all in his head. Jason was absolutely, positively, none-the-wiser.

Probably.

Definitely probably none-the-wiser.

They made it to the park without incident, though Peter chalked that up to Dog and muscle memory because he was 100% moving on autopilot. No thoughts. Just Dog and the quiet hangover of Gotham mornings and definitely no thinking about the mortifying fact that Jason definitely knew exactly who Spider-Man was.

Ohhhhh God. Red Hood had been such and asshole and wow did his behaviour the first time Peter met him as Hood make so much more sense in hindsight.

Peter unclipped Dog’s leash and tossed her ball — too hard, still caught in his own head, but Dog raced after it anyway. He watched numbly as she nosed through the grass on the other side of the park, having lost sight of the ball with the distance.

So.

Jason was the Red Hood.

Or. It was the logical assumption. Of course, maybe there was some other reason why they smelled the same. Maybe… maybe Jason was fucking the Red Hood?

No. That was stupid. And surely if they were two separate people and were sleeping together, a shower would have erased the connection.

So. Jason was the Red Hood.

That was… well. Certain something. But the more Peter thought about it, the more sense it made. They had the same build — maybe Red Hood was taller, but that could be explained by lifts (the thought made Peter fizz with glee) — they both had black hair, though the styles were different, and Jason’s familiar streak of white was absent in Red Hood’s. Both had a preference for guns. In Peter’s not-so-extensive experience, that was sometimes all it took to explain a connection.

And… it probably wasn’t the worst thing to happen to Peter? Sure, Hood had a bad reputation — especially in his early days — but most accounts on the Bat forums said he’d chilled out a lot in the last two or three years, most of which he’d been entirely absent from Gotham for. And it certainly explained how he could ‘know a guy’ who could help Peter’s universe hopping problem. The Bats and most capes here had strong connections to the Justice League and affiliate groups like the Titans. If Jason was the Red Hood, it would make way more sense that he’d know someone, rather than him just having ‘a lot of connections’ or whatever. After all, even the Red Hood was known to team up with others.

But…

But Peter couldn’t shake the resentment that crept in with the revelation.

Because here was the thing: of course Jason would want to keep his identity a secret. Peter would — did — the same!

But—

But. Jason knew Peter was enhanced. He knew Peter was a time traveller (though not that he was a time traveller and universe hopper).

And after last night? He sure as hell knew who Spider-Man was. Peter’s recollection of that first day was glazed hazy by the trauma of his fall, but he hadn’t forgotten that he’d used his web-shooters and pretzelled one of Jason’s guns.

So, Jason knew. He was smart. He’d have put two and two together as soon as Peter slung himself across that street.

And yet the whole evening, Jason hadn’t said a thing!

Dog finally discovered her ball (that or it was some other poor dog’s abandoned ball) and bounded back to Peter. She dropped it, slobbered and slippery, at his feet and Peter took more care this time to toss it only far enough that she could still track it.

He was being stupid.

It wasn’t like Peter wouldn’t have done the exact same thing in Jason’s shoes. Because it didn’t take much to unravel that thread to its inevitable conclusion: rather than Peter’s assumption that the Waynes (and adjacent) were the mob or involved in some kind of Rich Person Fight Club, chances were, at least some of them were vigilantes themselves.

And by all accounts, there was only one vigilante family operating in Gotham.

The Bats.

And only now was Peter putting two and two together. Because he’d recognised Tim. Sure, their voices were different, but fuck, a single domino mask and a different hairstyle could only do so much.

Skittles Robin.

And from there, it was a simple task to chase the logic down the rabbit hole. There was no way Tim’s family wouldn’t have noticed — Robin had been operating for years — and still approve of his nighttime activities, unless they also had their fingers in the same crime-riddled, bloodied pie.

Accounts were inconsistent and there were practically zero photos out there, but Peter was willing to bet he could pin down several vigilante personas on the Waynes (and adjacents) based on those two data-points.

So, yeah. Little wonder Jason never said anything last night. Or this morning.

But… Peter still couldn’t shake off the feeling of betrayal. Somehow, in the month he’d been here, Peter had tricked himself into thinking he and Jason were partners in crime (in the figurative sense only). It smarted, to know that he’d been had.

There was a good reason why. Peter couldn’t afford to think otherwise. If it was Peter? No hesitation, he’d have stayed quiet.

Hell, he’d done it anyway, and the only person’s life in danger of a reveal post-Erasure was his own.

“You’re being selfish,” he told himself as he threw Dog’s ball again. She rollicked through the grass, tongue lolling without a care and Peter couldn’t help but smile fondly despite it all. “You don’t have a leg to stand on.”

Okay. So, Jason was the Red Hood.

The same Red Hood that Spider-Man had very recently formed what one could have said was a working relationship (if you squinted just right). He’d even given Hood his (burner) number.

A giggle burst out of him at the realisation. Oh God. Peter as Spider-Man had given Jason as Red Hood his number. And like that, the residual feelings of anger and betrayal fizzled out. Because this?

This had so many opportunities for chaos. In fact, it was the perfect payback for that ‘your man’ comment in front of Skittles Robin. Jason really thought he was playing 4-D chess there, hadn’t he?

So, fine.

If Jason wanted to play vigilante chicken?

Fine.

Peter was game.

— + —

THIS GORGEOUS FANART COMES COURTESY OF THE FABULOUS SUPINE-LY (Tumblr - Original Post)

— + —

Peter arrived at work in a chipper mood. Jason had returned to bed by the time Peter and Dog returned, so he got dressed for the day as quiet as he could and slipped out with a salute to an already napping Dog.

Kyla mimed gagging when she saw him. “Literally nauseating,” she groaned. “Why can’t you just be miserable like a normal person.”

“Way to conform to Gotham norms,” Peter hit back, though in all fairness, he had jumped through the door. “Why can’t you smile like an outsider?”

She flipped him the bird. “Maybe ‘cause there’s so many men who think they’re entitled to my smile. I live to displease.”

“Okay, you got me there,” Peter admitted with a grimace. “Keep fighting the patriarchy?”

“Your support is noted and appreciated,” Kyla said, notably without a trace of appreciation in her voice. It reminded Peter so strongly of MJ that the ache in his chest stole his breath. “Speaking of fights against entrenched systems of power: Sandra is on one today. Just an FYI.”

Peter frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, she looks like her day off yesterday has done her in. She looks like she’s three Parker Salutations away from handing in her letter of resignation. She looks like my aunt that one time she came back from that ayahuasca retreat in Mexico. She looks like—”

“Okay, okay!” Peter held up his hands, smiling helplessly despite Kyla’s dig at him. “I get it. She’s not doing well.”

“Not doing well?” Kyla scoffed. “Pete, the witch fucking screeched and jumped three feet in the air when I said good morning to her. Fuck knows how she’ll handle you. I dunno what’s happened, but she’s fallen straight into unhinged territory. I know she’s soft on you—” Peter grimaced again at the observation, “but I bet even you’ll fall victim if you rub her the wrong way today. So watch yourself.”

“Thanks…” 

A customer came in behind Peter and Kyla dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Peter left her to it and took the stairs two at a time. He could sense on the web that there were two people upstairs and sure enough, when he swung open the door, Conrado and Sandra were already at their desks.

Conrado nodded at him but didn’t offer any further acknowledgement. He was removing the casing of a laptop and giving off such strong ‘speak to me on pain of death’ vibes that Peter decided it was best not to disrupt him. Sandra on the other hand, jumped out of her seat at his appearance.

“Peter! Good morning!” she cried. Her usual enthusiasm was marred by an uncomfortably high note of nervousness and Peter immediately understood what Kyla meant. Sandra’s smile was fixed and manic, and her formerly polished appearance was downright slovenly. In a rumpled shirt and stained jeans, she’d left her usually straightened hair caught somewhere between ‘gentle waves’ and ‘bird’s nest’. There were smudges around her eyes that made Peter wonder if she’d put her mascara on in the dark.

It was… bizarre.

“Are you okay?” he asked cautiously, already forgetting Kyla’s warning to let sleeping dogs lie. He covered himself quickly: “You were sick yesterday. Are you sure you didn’t need a couple more days?”

“Don’t be silly! I’m fine now. Can’t take the whole week off because of a silly cold!” Sandra laughed stiffly as she eyed the barred windows. In a momentary blast of irrational paranoia, Peter wondered if she could tell that less than twelve hours ago he’d been about to break in through one of those very windows. She… probably didn’t? Sandra didn’t give Peter the impression she was suspicious of him. More like… she was expecting something unwelcome to pop up.

Weird. And not a little concerning.

“Alright,” Peter said, at a loss of anything else to say. He edged towards his desk. “Let me know if you need anything?”

God. He hoped she didn’t need anything.

“Sure, sure.” Sandra nodded so hard more of her hair slipped into the ‘bird’s nest’ phase. She waved vaguely at the display board drilled into the cabinet by the door. “Those are your jobs for today.”

Then she sat down at her desk and got to work. Peter blinked at the abrupt dismissal: usually Sandra would carry on talking for the next twenty minutes, usually about meaningless stuff Peter only half understood or cared about. Whatever was going on must really have wigged her out.

Fortunately for his plans, he’d been put on ‘unwitting data scraping’ duty.

Peter got to work, reflecting on the change in Sandra. Something had to have happened: she was grating and lazy, but good at keeping up appearances. The timing wasn’t promising, either. Had Red Hood’s — Jason, fuck it was going to take a lot to get used to that! — blocker not done as good a job as promised? But if that was the case, wouldn’t Justin be in and sniffing around? They found the second ledger in his office. There was no way he wasn’t complicit in whatever scheme they were trying to run here.

But…

Peter’s gaze flicked between Conrado and Sandra, both working with their heads down, with varying states of contentment.

Surely one of them knew what that software was doing. Sandra was his first choice: she was the most senior and practically their manager, though according to Kyla that didn’t actually mean much in the real hierarchy of NRE. But Sandra had unfettered access to everything on this floor, and if Peter hadn’t been suspicious that she knew they were fencing stolen goods, he certainly was now that he and Hood had found that second ledger. It stood to reason she knew about the data theft too. Not to mention someone needed access to the air-gapped laptops to copy and clear out the packets of stolen data.

But if that was the case, Peter would have thought a paranoid Sandra would have hogged the job to herself rather than run the risk of Peter or Conrado learning something they shouldn’t.

He set up his desk at he mulled it over. His desk faced Sandra’s, Conrado’s to his left. With that in mind, he set his crate in front of the laptop, meaning the ports would be out of Sandra’s line of sight when seated.

Peter didn’t dare glancing at Conrado, in case it made him look suspicious. Instead, he tapped into the web and kept track of even the faintest weight of their attention directed towards him. Moving as casually as he could, Peter inserted the new goober — hurriedly put together last night after he’d slunk home— and let it do its thing.

The virus he’d made was simple in concept: it would attach itself to the data collected on the laptop and travel over when their guilty party downloaded the data. The next time it connected to a computer, it would worm itself into their system and notify Peter of their location. Easy enough to code thanks to diet-Karen, but he’d spent longer than he would have liked (he was missing his sleep, dammit) making sure the virus wouldn’t be picked up by 2016-equivalent antivirus software. Peter was confident it would work, even with the code he’d installed last night, and hoped it would mean he could learn even faster who was responsible for selling the data.

The transfer finished quickly, and Peter palmed the goober and tucked it back in his pocket. Not once had Conrado or Sandra paid him any mind, even though he was sure his pulse must have telegraphed his nefarious intentions.

Pleased with himself, Peter completed his work within a few hours, unencumbered by an overly chatty Sandra for once (though Conrado was still a bit of a dick). He even offered to take on some of Sandra’s work since whatever was up with her seemed to have tanked her productivity (lower than it usually was).

And if Sandra whipped her hand away when their hands accidentally brushed… well it wasn’t like Peter was going to complain about that.

— + —

CLICK ^[HERE] FOR TEXT ONLY

— + —

Jason was in a surly mood when Peter returned that evening and Peter, ever the petty one, upped his cheer levels to match.

“What’s wrong, honeybunch?” he asked in a saccharine voice that had Jason turning faintly green over their dinner. “You’ve barely touched your jell-o salad!”

“First off,” Jason growled, pointing rudely at Peter with his fork. They were seated at their new table — a tiny thing purchased last week because Jason was ‘sick of sitting at the breakfast bar for dinner like a heathen’. “Call me ‘honeybunch’ again and I’ll be taking that mattress of yours back to the manor and you can go back to sleeping on the couch.” Peter grimaced. That mattress was to die for. “Second, if you ever imply my cooking is remotely close to a jell-o salad, I’ll fucking make you one.”

Peter grinned. “With the mayo and tuna?”

Jason’s eyes closed as though he were in genuine pain. But when he opened his eyes, he was smiling with far too many teeth. “Don’t forget the celery and sweetcorn.”

It was Peter’s turn to shudder. Even before the random food intolerances Earth-G threw at him, he couldn’t abide by celery. “Your threat has been heard and acknowledged.” He turned serious. “But really, what’s got you mad?”

“Not mad,” Jason said warily, and glanced down at his half-eaten plate. He’d made chicken casserole and salad for dinner. It was by his own admission a lazy affair, but Peter thought it still tasted pretty damn good. “Just… concerned. Halloween’s in a few days—”

“Ooh! Are you worried about what to wear? Or are you working? Worried about the drunks?” Peter’s grin died down at Jason’s grim expression. “Jace?”

Jason’s pale eyes jumped between Peter and his plate. He pushed around a floret of broccoli, before pinning Peter in place with his unreadable stare. “Halloween and Gotham don’t mix, Pete. Pretty sure the rogues here treat it like a tombola. Last year, Firefly burned out a bunch of apartments. Twenty people died. He went for the stairs first.”

Peter’s good mood died an abrupt and brutal death. Right. Gotham. City full of crazies. “That’s… wow.”

“Yeah. We don’t so much ‘celebrate’ Halloween here, as we do ‘brace for incoming’. And people still always get hurt.”

The fork in Peter’s hand moved funny. When he looked down, he realised he’d squished it without meaning to. A glance at Jason showed he’d already caught it and Peter smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You want a new one?”

“No, no, hang on—” Peter massaged the metal with both hands and it returned to a rough approximation of its original shape. “All good.”

“Sure. Guess we’re lucky they’re second-hand.”

That he was. Had Peter done that with those fancy silver forks at the manor? Pretty sure he would have melted through the floor with embarrassment.

“So… are you working on Halloween, then?”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I will. Probably be gone most, if not all the night to be on mop-up duty. Even if there’s no rogue attack, there’ll be plenty of mess to clean up.”

So, Halloween was an ‘all hands on deck’ scenario. That was good to know. Peter resolved to make sure he was ready.

“Who do you think it’ll be this time?” he asked, cautious not to sound like he was fishing for information.

Jason shrugged. “It’s anyone’s guess, really. But I think it’s a safe bet it won’t be Scarecrow or—” he scowled darkly, the vitriol in his voice surprising to Peter— “Joker. They’re the worst of the worst. Widespread carnage when they’re involved. But they’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance, just in case. If they make a break for it, we— we’ll all hear about it.”

Peter wondered if Jason’s stutter was a slip-up. He could imagine the Bats would be watching the rogues with laser focus the next few days. “Any suspicious activity? You know, besides those seals stolen from the zoo?”

“A few missing people around Park Row and the Narrows.” Jason scrubbed his face tiredly. “But I don’t think there’s any clear evidence they’re connected to Halloween. Could be a trafficking case: we’ve got enough of ‘em comin’ out the wazoo. Gotham’s finest are on the case.”

‘Gotham’s finest’… he had to mean the Bats, right? Jason hadn’t made it any secret exactly what he thought of the GCPD, and though his tone was still riddled with irony, he’d spoken far too positively for it to be the cops.

They ate the rest of their meal in a sobered silence, and Peter couldn’t find the same enjoyment as he’d done before. The awareness that some kind of disaster might swiftly be approaching had his skin tingling with unsubstantiated dread. No wonder Jason looked stressed.

“I’m heading into work early,” Jason said once he finished, getting up. “Make sure you don’t leave the apartment.”

Peter smiled benignly and made no such promise. “Stay safe, Jason.”

Jason stood before Peter, and his towering stature might have been intimidating were Peter not certain he was the stronger of the two. “I mean it, Pete. This week especially ain’t the place for people new to Gotham.”

“I understand,” Peter said, still smiling, though he feared it had sharpened. “Have a safe night, Jason”

Jason sighed. “So long as you understand, I guess,” he huffed, then lumbered off to get dressed for his ‘night job’. Peter remained at the table, still picking at his meal, and waved goodbye to the man as he left.

The moment Jason’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs, Peter was up out of his seat, dumping their plates in the sink and rushing to his bedroom.

He had preparations of his own to make, and fast.

^{[CLICK HERE TO RETURN]}

Messages with BastardMan. Time reads 11:12AM, Thursday October 27th

11:00AM BastardMan: come to the cave when you wake. We must discuss Halloween preparations.

11:02AM BastardMan: please…

11:10AM BastardMan: O also thinks there may be a new player in the city. Allegiances unknown…

Chapter Text

Establishing himself as a friendly presence in Gotham was proving harder than Peter originally anticipated.

He had figured that the average Gothamite would be wary of a masked newcomer; Crime Alley and surrounds even moreso. But so far, the few appearances he’d made that evening had mostly resulted in screams, people running away or throwing stuff at him.

No one had resorted to shooting at him just yet, but Peter wasn’t holding his breath.

Still, he refused to be disheartened. So what if Gotham was a hard egg to crack? Half of New York was convinced Spider-Man had killed the ‘great hero’ Mysterio, and Peter still managed to get work done there. Sure, there were times when the person he’d saved or offered to help turned around and spat in his face (literally and metaphorically), but Peter thought the tides had been turning back in his favour by the time he’d fallen into Gotham.

A fact he was definitely absolutely not bitter about.

What it meant was, Peter wasn’t afraid of working against public opinion. He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. 

He took his time tonight, trawling through Burnley and Park Row. The night’s intent was to familiarise himself with the streets from on high, and he swung leisurely between buildings or jumped with light feet across the chasms of streets. This time around, he only made half an effort to avoid cameras.

Peter wasn’t dumb (though last night could have proven otherwise): he knew the Bats probably had some Guy in the Chair monitoring the city and coordinating missions or jobs or busts or whatever they chose to call it in their neck of the woods. You don’t earn a reputation of omnipotence (or was it omniscience? Peter got them mixed up sometimes) like the Bats had without having intimate knowledge of the comings and goings of Gotham. And unless they just… didn’t do literally anything else (which Peter doubted since the Waynes were well known for their public work in Gotham), that had to mean they had someone coordinating their moves.

Reasonably, then, Peter knew that sooner or later his presence would pop up on the Bats’ radar. He’d just prefer it happened closer to the later part of that equation, but also? He wasn’t too worried if it was the sooner, since he’d already screwed up his first meeting with Hood. Hence the half-assed avoiding of the cameras.

 It was early enough that Peter figured he’d be able to avoid most Bats and Red Hoo—Jason. That was going to take some getting used to, wow. Sure, Peter had reasoned away his resentment, but he wasn’t ready to spend a night on patrol pretending he didn’t know exactly who was hiding under that mask and muzzle. Maybe tomorrow… Maybe never?

Okay. Maybe Peter hadn’t reasoned out all the resentment like he’d thought.

He’d deal with that later. For now, what mattered was that he steered clear of Red Hood. Even if just for the simple reason that Peter didn’t trust himself to not immediately give the game away.

In the meantime, he passed through the island city’s northern districts in a grid-pattern to take stock of the streets. What alleys were likely to contain what activity. Which half-empty parking lots had the highest likelihood of hosting an exchange of illegal goods. When was the worst time for shift workers to be heading home. Etcetera, etcetera.

They were the kind of things Peter knew about Queens. The kind of things Karen used to support him with whenever he ventured out of his turf, back before Mysterio. She would have been helpful now — if anything just to be someone to record his observations of the city. But Peter’s memory, while not eidetic, could do a lot of heavy lifting, and what he didn’t manage, he wrote down for later in a little notebook he’d put in his chest pocket just for that evening.

All the while, Peter maintained a steady connection to the web. It thrummed with life around him, and as he ran and jumped and flipped and flew, he thought it almost felt as though he were travelling along a wire, brilliant with the energy of millions surrounding him. The chaos of lives lived sung through him: furiously, joyously, desperately, dreadfully. The music of it filled Peter with something that went beyond bliss. He couldn’t really describe it, just that the feeling that seeped into him was unlike anything he’d felt before and Peter was alive with it.

He could have run forever, he thought, and never tire of that feeling.

But Peter wasn’t casing out Gotham just for the high. He wanted to know the city. Understand how one little spider could fit itself into her craggly pieces, for however long that little spider was there to stay. So he forced himself to stop each time he reached the water, passing from east to west and back again. Crouched on the highest point along the waterfront — half the time, that ended up being a busted streetlamp — Peter took notes on what he’d found. 

The job was necessary, but it certainly wasn’t the most pleasant: the cold air condensed the thick humidity into a dampening smog that left everything vaguely sticky. Even with his warmed suit, the chill seeped in through his lungs and into his bones.

The things Peter did out of love. 

That wasn’t all he did, of course. Entrenched in the web, though still unable to pick out the fine minutiae of human emotion, Peter discovered he could sense the spikes of alarm created by Gothamites in danger. Job or not, Peter answered their calls as he came across them along his route.

One time, it was an attempted carjacking. That one Peter chased off with some precise throwing of stones while hidden in the shadows, using the reputation of the bats to his favour. Another time, it was a pair of women hurrying home, who’d been accosted by a drunkard with a knife. Peter incapacitated the man with a set of nerve strikes (one of the few things Happy had taught him, bless that man), only to have the women run away from him. The next was a couple having a brutal domestic that had devolved into blows. Peter’s appearance in their window might have prevented one of the men from beating his boyfriend, but it didn’t stop either from throwing the nearest objects at Peter. He’d tossed himself out of the way with a shouted threat that he’d call the cops.

(He took note of the address. Better to come back later and see if the boyfriend needed a way out.)

So… yeah. Tough nut to crack, was Gotham.

But if the Erasure had done anything at all, it made Peter stubborn. He was tired of sitting back and twiddling his thumbs, and was determined to stick this out, for however long Gotham kept him in her ragged clutches.

This time, as Peter was flying through his sixth cross of the city, the web drew him to a child. Peter clung to the brickwork of a condemned tenement, its windows blocked, though he could feel that there was a group of people still stubbornly living inside. He watched the child, safe from observation on his perch on the top floor. She was maybe seven or eight, a little chubby, with dark skin and braids someone had taken the time to weave bright plastic beads into. She was crying as she huddled against the wall, but Peter couldn’t see any injuries on her.

“Hey,” he called out from above. “You okay?”

The girl let out a surprised yelp, then covered her mouth. She looked around wildly, but didn’t think to look up until Peter told her to. She squinted up at the shadowed building in a way that made him wonder if she usually wore glasses. Peter was at least relieved to confirm that she wasn’t hurt. Just scared.

“R-Robin?” she answered tentatively, and Peter winced with sympathy. Turning up as an unknown mask wouldn’t do much to assuage her fears; at least a familiar brand like the Robins might have made her feel a little safer.

“Sorry kiddo, not a Robin. I’m a friend, though.”

Rather than scare her more with his wall crawling, Peter affixed a web to the wall and abseiled down enough that she could see him properly, but not close enough to alarm her. Not that his intentions mattered much: the moment she could pick him out from the shadows, Peter heard her wet breathing hitch and the alarm on the web spiked again.

Helplessly, he waved at her, still a good twelve feet above her. “Sup.”

“Who’re you?” To her credit, though her voice wavered, the girl didn’t scream at his appearance. Peter was relieved: he’d always designed his costume with ideas like ‘coolness’ in mind and wasn’t interested in using fear to maintain order.

“Just your… friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.”

The girl took a wary step backwards. She was carrying a little backpack, stuffed full of who knew what, but it was pink and glittery and entirely out of place in this grimmer than usual pocket of Park Row.

“I-I never heard a’ you.”

“We~ell I’ve just moved in. Would you believe me if I confessed this was my first night shift here? Kudos to you locals, this is a bi~ig city.”

Peter’s sing-songed words cut through her guardedness, just as he’d hoped. The girl glanced around then back up at Peter. “Mama says it’s dang’rous to be out by m’self.”

“Your mama’s right about that. So, why’re you doing it anyway?”

Her face crumpled before she hid in her hands and Peter’s heart clenched. He would’ve liked to come down and comfort her, but he didn’t want to make her run off. Peter was fast, but no one could match the speed of a child under ten.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said instead from on high. “Whatever’s happened can be fixed, y’know?”

“I was bad!” the girl cried out from between her hands, with all the conviction of a child certain the world was about to end.

“Come on,” he tried. “No one with a My Little Pony backpack can be that bad. Who’s that on the top? Twilight Sprinkles?”

“Twilight Sparkles!” the ‘you uncultured buffoon’ was implied in every syllable of her speech, but at least her outrage had snapped her out of her doom spiral.

“Right, right. Twilight Sprinkles, that’s what I said.”

The hands fell away so she could level him with the most severe glare Peter had ever seen in an under ten. He was probably lucky the mask hid his grin, or she might have been the third person that night to throw something at him.

“I’m sure Twilight Sparkles wouldn’t think you did something bad. You wanna lay it on your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?”

Peter could tell she was weighing up her options, glancing between him, the street and the boarded-up building. Eventually, she came to a decision and nodded decisively. “I ran away.”

Okay. A runaway. Peter could deal with that. “May I ask why?” The crumpled face again. He panicked a little. “Or not! Why don’t we start properly with introductions? Twilight Sparkle lover, meet Spider-Man. Spider-Man, meet…?” 

“Naomi,” Naomi answered his pointed question.

“Naomi, that’s an awesome name. Do you know what it means?”

“No.”

“Cool. Neither do I.” Naomi’s lips twitched despite everything. “You wanna know what Spider-Man means?”

She nodded mutely.

“It means ‘helper of lost children’ in Spiderese. That’s the language of my people.”

Naomi’s eyes widened. “You mean you’re really a spider?”

“Oh sure,” Peter said with far more ease than he could have managed even a week ago. “Where do you think this web stuff I’m hanging from comes from?”

Naomi appeared to realise that whatever he was holding wasn’t actually rope and she gaped with surprise. Then her eyes narrowed with suspicion again. “Spiders have eight legs. And Papi told me their web comes from their bums.”

No one was ever gonna let that part go, were they?

“Well, firstly, I do have eight legs. The other four are just invisible, okay? You know how it goes: you accidentally call a sorcerer a wizard and bam! Half your identity disappears and then he goes and puts your spinnerets in your wrists of all places. ‘Cause y’know, that makes sense. But sorcerers, am I right?”

The nonsensical rant worked as intended. She took a tentative step closer and Peter tried not to feel like a real spider summoning her into his web. He wasn’t trying to eat her, just get her home. Don’t make it weird, Parker.

“Can I come down?” he asked. “I’d rather speak to you human to spider, yannow?”

Naomi nodded. Peter rappelled down and dropped the last few feet, so he was standing on solid ground again. After hours of running and flipping and swinging, he felt a bit like he’d caught sea legs. Like he’d fallen still while the world continued to race away around him.

Now that he was up close, Naomi looked him over curiously. Peter bore the child’s attention patiently, though he was waiting for her to drop something suitably savage about his choice of attire: he knew if he’d met Jenny dressed as he was, his ego would never recover.

Fortunately for Peter, Naomi was a much sweeter child. “I like your spider,” she said eventually, with all the seriousness of an art critic. “It’s cool.”

“Thank-you,” Peter said gallantly and not at all smugly. “I like your backpack. It’s got the perfect amount of glitter, don’t you think?”

She brightened. “Yeah! Papi bought it for me, before—” her face fell, “before Rori was born.”

Peter looked at the straps. They were cleaner than an eight-year-old’s bag had any right to be. “Was that long ago?”

Naomi shook her head. “He was born in summer. But he’s sick and he cries all the time and Mama and Papi are always with him and—” she broke off, voice turned wavering and watery. Peter understood.

“You’re lonely, huh?”

She nodded and rubbed at her eyes. Peter resolved to find a way to pack some tissues in his suit. Surely he could manage without ruining the aesthetic with — he shuddered — a utility belt. “I know Rori’s sick! But he’s all they ever talk about and they’re always busy and, and I jus’ wanted—”

“To know they cared?” Peter offered when Naomi couldn’t finish her confession. She nodded furiously from behind her hands.

He was relieved: if this had been a case of abuse, he’d have had to involve himself with the police sooner than anticipated. And from the stories he’d heard from Jason — and his own research — Peter didn’t exactly trust the capabilities of CPS in Gotham. Just that morning, he’d read a deep dive article from the Gotham Gazette about a not-so-healthy handful of children in foster care that had disappeared over a two-month period, all from distraught foster parents with spotless histories. There was speculation that someone from CPS or GCPD was connected, though the paper took care to ensure there were no pointed fingers.

It wasn’t like that was the first time something like that had happened, either. Peter imagined there was a good reason pre-teen Jason chose the streets rather than foster or a group home.

“When did you run away, Naomi?” Peter asked. He’d crouched to be level with her now.

“A-after dinner! I tried to show them my homework, but Mama said she didn’t have time and I couldn’t take it anymore! But I was walking for ages and they still didn’t come and then I didn’t know where I was and I know they’re gonna be mad and they’re gonna sent me to Tito’s but his place smells like wet dog and—!”

“Hey now, it’ll be okay,” Peter promised, interrupting her rising hysteria. Naomi continued to cry without a single tissue in sight. Damn him and his obsession with aesthetics! That was definitely Mr Stark’s fault.

Okay. ‘After dinner’ was an unspecific time, but Peter could guess they ate early-ish. Five or six? Meaning Naomi had been out for maybe three to five hours? That was a long time for a kid under ten. Even with her parents worried about their son, they would have noticed Naomi’s disappearance.

“Do you know where you live? If you’re lost, we can work out how to get back.”

To Peter’s alarm, the crying returned in earnest. “I’m an idiot!” Naomi wailed, and Peter hushed her, glancing with alarm at the condemned tenements. He didn’t know if whoever was inside was friend, foe or neither, but he wasn’t interested in learning, either.

“Mama put our home in my bag!” Naomi sniffled, and wrenched off her backpack, tearing it open to reveal an address written with permanent marker on the inside. “I’m so dumb!”

“Not dumb,” Peter said gently, even as he was sighing with relief. “Just scared. We all forget things when we’re scared. Like, what’s the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer, you know?”

13A Seargent Street, Burnley, the address read in bleeding block print on the lilac polyester.

He hadn’t expected to be quizzed on his memory so soon, but there he was. If Peter’s recollection was right, that was probably a fifty-minute walk away.

Fortunately, there was a faster way to solve the issue at hand.

“Naomi, do your parents have a car?”

Naomi shook her head. “But Papi sometimes borrows Mr Cáceres’ car when they have to take Rori to the hospital in a hurry.”

Peter nodded. On the web, he was tracking two people making their way towards them, but the heightened awareness he’d enjoyed from the rooftops was gone. He had no way of discerning their intentions. “Say, why don’t we head down the street?” He pointed the way he assumed Naomi had come from. “This spot is a bit of a dead zone, but I should be able to call your parents from over there.”

He held out his hand and Naomi inspected the web design curiously before she took it. Her eyes widened with surprise. “Your hand’s really warm!”

“Oh yeah.” Peter took extra care holding her hand. “Did you know spiders are cold-blooded? My suit’s extra special to keep me warm.”

“Oh.” She frowned thoughtfully as they walked, then looked up at him determinedly. “Do you want my gloves?”

He couldn’t resist grinning. Naomi’s hand was easily half the size of his. “That’s kind, but I’m okay. That’s why my gloves are extra warm!”

They rounded the corner and the wall they’d been following fell away, revealing another condemned apartment block. Only half the windows were boarded, but the telltale stains of black soot streaking out from them suggested this one was in a far more precarious state. Although Peter could sense plenty of small animals within its walls — rats and birds, mostly — there were no humans. Naomi really had managed to end up far from home. It was a miracle she’d not been accosted along the way.

He pulled out his burner and dialled the number written in Naomi’s backpack. The phone picked up after the third ring.

“Hello?” And yep, that was one frantic mother on the phone. Her voice was layered over several others. 

“Uh. Hi, is this—” he looked down at Naomi questioningly, then remembered he was masked. “Is this Naomi’s mum?”

“Oh my God!” the exclamation sat somewhere between relief and terror. The voices on the other side fell silent. “God, yes, this is Tara. Are you — do you—”

“I found your daughter. She’s safe—” Peter interrupted and then was interrupted himself by Tara’s wretched sobbing, then there was an exchange of words the phone couldn’t quite discern, and a new speaker was on the phone.

“Who is this? You have my daughter?”

“Just a friend,” Peter said, evasive. “I found her by the old apartments on Evans Close.”

“Evans Close,” Naomi’s father echoed. His voice was taut and wary, laced with disbelief. “The ones hit by Firefly last year? That far?”

Peter glanced back at the burnt-out husk of a building. That could certainly have been an arson job. Fancy stumbling across them so soon after Jason mentioned them. “Yeah, those. How long do you think you’ll be?”

“We’re leaving now. Should be ten minutes. Can I speak to Naomi?”

“Sure.” Peter handed the phone to Naomi. “It’s your dad, kiddo.”

Naomi scrambled to take it. “Papi? Papi, ‘m sorry!”

Peter tried not to listen in on their tearful reunion (and there was a lot of crying on Naomi’s part). He was happy to have easily resolved things, but now he’d found a solution, his thoughts couldn’t help turning to the ruins of his own family. Peter had done something similar, not long after his parents died. He couldn’t remember much of it, just the overwhelming desire to go back home, even though he understood that house wasn’t his anymore. Uncle Ben found him thirty minutes in, and Peter had cried until he could barely breathe anymore, so struck with the horror of it all he’d triggered an asthma attack.

His aunt had been in a frenzy when they got home. She’d swaddled him up tight and cuddled with him on the couch until Peter fell asleep.

Above! Behind. Watching. The flash of awareness cut through the wave of fresh grief. There was no sense of threat from the newcomer, but Peter looked up cautiously.

There! Perched on the burnt husk of the apartments — which could not be safe — was a single, slim figure. They were too willowy to be Red Hood, and though Peter’s sharp eyes could make out the silhouette of points, like horns — or ears — he doubted he was unlucky enough to stumble into the Batman’s way on his first real night on patrol.

So, which of the Bats could it be?

The figure, aware they had Peter’s attention, waved once, then beckoned before they shot off a line and jumped back into the night. Peter could only trace them to their second jump before the smog swallowed them.

Okay. So someone wanted to chat. He held back a groan. Threat or not, he’d been hoping to finish up his sweep tonight. Now he might have to put it on the backburner for later.

He waited with Naomi, still talking to her father, until he heard a car draw closer. Peter turned and deftly jumped up onto the fencing surrounding the Firefly casualty. Naomi startled. “What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.

“I’m heading out,” Peter said. “I know your dad’s just around the corner.”

“What about your phone?”

“It’s cool.” Peter shrugged. It was only a burner anyway. “You keep it.”

“But—”

“Stay brave, Naomi. If you see me around, say hi.”

She settled her shoulders. “Fine,” she said, then winced. Peter laughed softly. “I mean. Bye. Thank-you.”

“It’s what I do.” Peter watched as a beat-up SUV rounded the corner. “That look like your ride?”

Naomi squinted at the glare of lights then brightened. “It’s—” she put the phone back to her ear. “Papi I can see you!”

The car honked twice in answer and Peter took that as his cue to leave, making the most of the distraction to shoot out a web and jump for the roof of the tenement. He clung to the wall, hidden by shadows to watch as a man threw himself out of the car before it had even stopped and ran for Naomi, falling to his knees and wrapping her in his arms.

Peter’s chest ached. His eyes burned.

He wanted it to stop.

Swallowing thickly, Peter climbed up the decaying building and ran light-footed across the perimeter. The air still faintly stank of smoke. He wondered how many people had been displaced by the fire. Arson was a cruel way to make a statement.

It was something to research tomorrow. In the meantime, Peter had a watcher to follow.

— + —

The Bat wasn’t far. Only a block to the north, though they made him follow another two, back into Burnley before they stopped and waited for Peter to join.

He watched them from their last jump, cautious, but across the web he couldn’t sense anyone else on the rooftop of the arcade. The street itself was still relatively busy for nearly ten at night, with cars travelling north and south and a few pedestrians on the sidewalk, but no one paid the rooftops any mind. Considering how the Bats liked to call that ground their own, Peter found it surprising.

Though he was enveloped in shadow, the Bat knew where he was. They waved again, then mimed an old-fashioned film camera, followed up by an X with their arms. He laughed softly and made the jump.

“Are we playing charades, then?” he asked the moment he landed, but the Bat didn’t respond. It was a woman, slender and shorter than Peter, cloaked in lightweight black body armour and a full-face black mask — similar to his own, he noted with approval. The yellow detailing and the bat-symbol on her chest confirmed her alignment, as did the full-length cape that rippled in the light wind. What was it with the heroes here and capes? Had they never seen The Incredibles?

Oh God. Did The Incredibles even exist here?

Either unaware or uncaring of his sudden horror, the woman — Peter suspected she was one of the many iterations of Batgirl — began to circle him, and Peter couldn’t help but mimic her, unwilling to give the Bat his back. The web thrummed faintly but not enough to alarm him, though he kept an eye out for each exit as they turned.

Was she a Wayne or adjacent? He thought maybe Cass could fit the bill: they had similar builds, and he’d felt a similar cautiousness while around her that first meeting.

Eventually the Bat stopped.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

The question, half-strangled by her modulator, had Peter stiffening with offence before he reminded himself that it was the exact sort of thing he might have asked a newbie in his territory, had that ever happened. He forcibly relaxed.

“I do,” he said calmly. “I’ve been at this gig for years.”

“But not in Gotham.”

“No. Not in Gotham. I’m…” he struggled to find a polite way to say ‘I know this city is batshit crazy’… “aware it’s not a job for the faint-hearted. I wanted to take things slow.” Ish. He changed tack. “Are you a Batgirl?”

“These days I am,” she agreed. Her modulator left her voice in an even worse shape than the Red Hood’s. Husky with the promise of violence if challenged. Peter was entirely uninterested in doing so.

He was an idiot, but he wasn’t dumb. That was an important distinction, in his mind.

“Who do you call yourself?”

He waved at the insignia on his own costume. “Spider-Man.”

“You’re a meta?”

“That’s a bit rude,” he deflected. “Take me out to dinner first. Wine me and dine me, and then we can gossip about where we got our genes from.”

Batgirl’s shoulders jumped with amusement. “Funny. Why are you out tonight?”

He shrugged. “Why are you?”

“I asked first.”

Eh. Worth a try. He aimed for the truth: things would probably get dicey out here if he ended up on the bad side of the Bats. “It’s my duty, you know? To care. To help. I’ve put things off long enough. Figured it was time to do my part.”

Batgirl nodded. “And tonight: the girl. That was your help? Your duty?”

“Why, is it not yours?”

“It is. But it’s… reactionary.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not the type to work a case. I’m not a detective.” Even if last night would beg to differ. Then again, Peter was pretty sure last night was proof positive he wasn’t cut out to be a detective. “I go where I’m needed, usually.”

“And Gotham needs you?”

He shrugged. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was the answer to Gotham’s prayers. Still… “Pretty sure this city could take all the help it could get and still be wanting. But I’m here, so I’ll help.”

“Hmm…” Batgirl stepped closer and Peter locked his feet in place to stop himself from backing away. The weight of her attention was heavy across the web. “You speak like you think you won’t be here long.”

Peter shrugged again. If Batgirl really was Cass, he didn’t want to risk her knowing her brother’s fake boyfriend wasn’t long for this world. Good thing he was in the habit of manually altering his voice. “I don’t know. Does it matter? I want to help.”

Her shoulders twitched again with amusement. “You’ll do it with or without our approval, won’t you?”

Peter’s silence was probably telling. He didn’t care.

He heard a whisper of sound from Batgirl’s earpiece. She hummed again. “I have to go,” she told him.

“Sure.”

“Next time I find you, give me your new number. I won’t share.”

He laughed. Of course she saw him leaving Naomi with the phone. “Roger that.”

Batgirl nodded sharply. She took a step back, then paused as if a thought occurred to her. “We’ll be coming for you. Tonight, you made yourself known with that girl. The Batman will want to know you.”

“Eh,” Peter said. “I’ll keep a welcome mat at the ready.”

Batgirl actually chuckled aloud at that. “Bye, Spider-Man.”

“Batgirl.”

The conversation over, Batgirl took off with a run and jumped off the roof, hauled off into the smog by her grappling hook.

So cool, Peter thought. Then:

“Goddammit! That was the number I gave to Red Hood!”

— + —

CLICK ^[HERE] FOR TEXT ONLY

^[1]

BatChat Young Adult Edition, T ime reads 12:35AM

11:22PM Orphan Annie: New species of spider discovered

11:40PM SIGnature moves: if you send me some BS like a jumpscare gif again I’m hunting you down. I don’t care that you’re the scariest. I’ll do it.

11:55PM Orphan Annie: <3

11:55PM Orphan Annie: its man-sized

12:11AM I’ll Spoil YOU: did u mean bird-sized

12:15AM Orphan Annie: no (✿◡‿◡) 

12:33AM Rude-Robin: Every day I remain here I find another reason not to stay alive

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t see Peter at all that night.

He was surprised by this. Despite his warning before he left, Jason had fully resigned himself to having a rogue Spider-Man on his hands. Peter took to shows of authority about as well as any vigilante did (Jason included) … which was to say, not well at all. So Jason settled for a thinly-veiled warning about the anticipated — but as yet unknown — disaster that Halloween would inevitably be, in the hopes that Peter would be a bit more cautious. It might’ve been a vain hope, but Jason also knew that now Peter had put on the mask, there was little he could do to stop him.

Rather than immediately going on patrol, Jason made the rounds: checking in on his various fronts, and the girls on the streets. There weren’t many around. The build up to Halloween meant only the most desperate were willing to work, and Jason wanted to ensure there was no one dumb enough to prey upon that sentiment and do something that would land them with a knife in the dick.

He did keep his eyes out for Peter. About forty minutes after he’d left, he’d had a notification that Peter had exited the apartment (and then the building) — fully dressed. Perhaps he had some sense, not drawing attention to their apartment by making it a place that Spider-Man frequented. But from that point, he disappeared. Jason had a few cameras planted around the building, since it was inherently endangered by his presence (even if he took as many precautions as he could to cut off any associations with Red Hood), but beyond that he was blind unless he got to a computer. Or asked Barbara for help.

He did contemplate doing so. But decided against it in the end, largely because he wasn’t interested in explaining that Peter had an alter-ego to match with the rest of them. Too much effort for not enough gain and he had shit to do. Peter might be inexperienced, but Jason got the impression he was capable; despite the growing danger, he didn’t think Peter was in danger. Not if he had worked as Spider-Man for four years already and made a name for himself, as he’d claimed.

So Jason kept his eyes peeled, but he didn’t go looking for Spider-Man. Perhaps naively, he thought they’d coincidentally stumble across each other, as they had last night.

He thought wrong. Not hide nor hair was seen of Spider-Man as Jason did his rounds. That wasn’t to say that Spider-Man wasn’t seen. Jason was informed by more than a few concerned girls and gang members that they’d caught sight of someone encroaching on his territory. But the ‘someone’ was swinging by too fast for any to catch in a picture, and it was too dark to discern more.

“If it weren’t for Fran, I’da though they were flying,” Chel, one of the girls that worked on Westminster Street told him sardonically. “I gotta get my eyes checked, eh, Red?”

Said eyes were dilated and jittery with the tell-tale signs of substance abuse. Cocaine, probably.

As said: it was the extra desperate ones that stuck to the streets so close to Halloween.

“You should,” Jason agreed. “You still going to the Safehouse^[1] on Promont?”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “When I can.”

“Go tonight when you’re done,” he told her. “They’ll set you up with a check-in at the Clinic.”

Chel rolled her eyes. “Sure, sure.” A beat-up sedan rolled past but pulled off as the driver noticed Jason. Chel scowled. “Off you pop. Yer scarin’ off my rides.”

Jason shook his head at the bad joke but left her to it.

It wasn’t the only conversation he had about someone passing through Park Row, but somehow Jason missed Peter on every occasion…. He wasn’t prepared to chalk that up to coincidence or purposeful avoidance just yet. But he did feel oddly annoyed. Hadn’t Peter wanted to work with him? Why not seek Jason out now that they’d broken into NRE together?

Whatever. If Peter at least had a brain in that pretty head of his, he’d try not to draw attention to himself with the other Bats and stick to Park Row. Jason was already anticipating Bruce being a pain in the ass over the ‘new player’ in Gotham, and Batman’s reputation as a territorial asshole was bound to have crossed Peter’s radar. He seemed pretty knowledgeable of Gotham’s nightlife, which in Jason’s books, was a point in his favour.

Despite the mild affront, once Jason did his rounds he returned to his den: the one above the abandoned post office across from Ivan Park (although ‘park’ was something of a misnomer. Ivan Park was little more than a half-block of overgrown grass and concrete, the playground he remembered from his childhood long since stolen for scrap). He intended to go through NRE’s ledger of stolen goods.

The records were written with a casual hand, and deliberately vague. Date, seller (nothing more than initials), number of items, catalogued types under a loose code, and the exchanged price. The log went back three months, with at least two sales a week — sometimes more. Most showed an exchange for money, but things changed in the middle of August. Suddenly the exchange of goods wasn’t entirely money. Every couple of weeks, the price was marked by a simple D before the estimated value, and each time, it was to the same seller’s initials: LC.

It was no high-level conspiracy.

Conveniently, it looked like the last exchange with LC had been about twelve days ago. Meaning there was likely to be another meeting in the next few days.

He’d stick a camera around the back tonight. Chances were this ‘LC’ would push forward the exchange in anticipation for the disruption of Halloween.

This was good: it gave Peter something to chew on that didn’t involve whichever rogue reared their ugly head, and offered easy justification for keeping him on a low risk stake out at NRE.

 Jason called Peter’s burner and picked up the coffee he’d made before working on the ledger. The cell almost rang out before it was picked up.

He didn’t bother waiting for Peter to say something snarky. “I’ve been looking through that book. Are you free? I want to go through what I found.”

There was a long pause, and Jason took the opportunity to sip at his neglected coffee. Cold. Gross.

He took another sip anyway. 

Then a child said quietly, “Hi, who’s this?”

Jason promptly choked. “Uh,” he said intelligently, once he gathered his wits and his breath back. “Who’s this?”

“This is Na—” the child cut off abruptly before restarting. “Actually, I dunno if I should say? Were you trying to call Spider-Man?”

“Is he around?” Jason straightened, suddenly concerned. What could have happened that it was now a child answering his burner? What kind of trouble had Peter gotten himself into already? “Is he okay?”

“Probably?” the child — Jason thought it might be a girl — said. “He gave me his phone.”

Are you fucking kidding me.

One day. Peter lasted one day with the burner and he was already handing it out like fucking candy. Jason fervently hoped this wasn’t Peter’s M.O.; the guy would bankrupt himself by the end of the month. NRE paid Peter well, but not that well.

Jason glanced at the time on the microwave. It was 12:43. “When was this?”

“Mm,” the kid hummed. “I dunno. A few hours, maybe?”

A few hours. Plenty of time for Peter to have got himself into trouble without a point of contact.

He couldn’t have contacted you anyway. You never gave him your number, he reminded himself. But it felt different knowing Peter was out there without a way for Jason to contact him.

“Why’d he give you his phone?” Jason asked warily. The kid wasn’t exactly a wealth of information, but they were more than nothing.

“Oh! I needed to speak with Papi.”

Cool. So that was entirely unhelpful. He sighed heavily and scrubbed at his face. As always, the delicate skin along the bridge of his nose was especially irritated by the domino. “Okay. Then, nevermind.”

“I can tell him you called? If I see him again?”

“No need,” Jason said. Considering I live with the idiot. “Go to bed, kid.”

“I was,” the child said defensively, like they’d been caught out doing something they shouldn’t. Jason grinned despite himself. 

“Put the video game away and get some sleep. It’s a school night.”

“I was reading! It was a good part!”

Peter knew how to pick ‘em.

“What book?” Jason asked, unable to help himself. He was suddenly thrown back to being ten years old, hiding under the covers with a flashlight as he consumed anything he could get a hold of from the library. He couldn’t remember any of those books, but he could remember the terrified hope that his dad wouldn’t wake up and notice his illicit activities.

“Mm. Deltora Quest^[2].”

Jason blinked. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t recall anything about it. “Which one?” he somehow knew to ask.

“The fourth one,” came the kid’s smug reply.

“Cool.” Jason shook off the nostalgia. Responsible adult. Play the responsible adult. “Y’know, the good part’ll still be there when you wake up.”

“Sure,” said the kid, with all the sincerity of a gossiper promising to keep a secret to themselves.

“Or be too tired for school,” Jason huffed, laughing despite himself. “See if I care, kid.”

“Sure,” the kid said again. “I’m putting my book away riiight now.”

“You do that. Great chat, kid.”

“Sure,” came the sly reply. “Y’know, it’s bedtime for grown-ups, too.”

He grinned. “It is. And that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.” In about three hours. “Sleep well, kid.”

“Bye! Oh! If you see Spider-Man, tell him I said thanks.”

“Sure,” Jason echoed. “Now go to bed.”

He hung up. Though he’d not been able to speak to Peter, he felt a little lighter. Sometimes, Jason thought he forgot who he worked for.

As he skulled the rest of his cold coffee, Jason belatedly realised that in his haste to speak to Peter (and get him out of harm’s way), he’d neglected to activate the voice modulator on his cell.

Crap. Maybe it was for the best that it wasn’t Peter that answered. It’d be embarrassing as hell to out himself as Red Hood so soon after he’d met Spider-Man.

— + —

CLICK ^[HERE] FOR TEXT ONLY

— + —

Jason was woken by the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He groaned in despair: there was no need to look at the clock, he could tell from the heaviness in his bones he must’ve only have had about three hours’ sleep.

The ringing carried on without mercy, apathetic to his pains.

Spitefully, he considered ignoring it. Or breaking the phone. But that ringtone only popped up when Babs was calling about something important.

Not emergency level important. But important enough that she’d make his life hell if he let her go unanswered.

He fumbled blindly, still unwilling to open his eyes and admit defeat — Jason knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep any time soon — and swiped equally blindly at where he assumed the answer function was. It took a few tries until he finally managed and the bedroom fell blessedly quiet once more.

“Fucking what,” he snarled none-too-kindly.

There was an infuriating laugh from the other side. “Good morning to you too, Prince Charming.”

“Piss off. The only good morning is one that’s over.”

“Amen,” Barbara said sagely. “How goes domestic bliss?”

“Just swell. At least Pete lets me sleep in.”

“It’s half-past nine.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Don’t be a baby. You had to get up this time last week, for an outing which I wasn’t invited to, I might add.”

“Sure,” Jason grunted, ignoring her jab. “But I was prepared for it. Just ‘cause you’re a professional insomniac doesn’t mean all of us are.”

“Poor Jay,” Barbara cooed with empty sympathy. “Up an at ‘em. We need to talk.”

Okay, so it wasn’t something like the world-ending, then. Jason sighed. “Can it wait? Give me another five hours.”

“Nope. Your roomie has gone out for the morning with that dog I’ve still not met — which is a crime by the way—”

“You don’t even like dogs.”

“That’s untrue. I love other people’s dogs just fine. Even Bruce has met her! I’m feeling left out.”

Jason sighed. He supposed Peter’s absence explained the early morning phone call. “Then come for dinner sometime. Now what do you want.”

“We’re putting a pin in that dinner invite, but in the meantime let me paint you a story, Jason.” Babs’ light tone instantly put Jason on edge and he forced his eyes open. Sure enough, the digital clock by his bedside declared he’d managed the princely sum of three hours and forty-two minutes’ worth of sleep. Fuck’s sake. “There I was last night, merrily minding the business of every soul in Gotham, when something strange pops up.”

Jason sat up, blankets pooling at his waist. He could see where this was going.

“And then it pops up again and again and again! Zipping from east to west, not fast enough to be a speedster that doesn’t know any better, but certainly not slow enough to be a regular human. Concerning, I think. It seems almost like they’re casing the joint. In fact, I catch them on camera actually writing in a notebook. They were taking notes, Jason!”

He swallowed, uncharacteristically nervous because yep, he knew exactly where this was going.

Maybe he should’ve alerted Babs last night after all.

“And then, when I review the footage, I see that this masked maniac seems to be swinging around on a web! How curious! How concerning! Because it looks like we’ve got ourselves a new meta in the city. One preparing to make a name for themselves and I’ve no idea if he’s meant to be friend or foe or something in between!”

“Babs—”

“Let me finish,” she hissed, snakeline through the connection. Jason closed his mouth, but only because he knew exactly what she was about to hold over his head. “See, then I realise there’s something about the symbol on their chest. It’s a spider, see.” Jason winced. “Such a curious choice, don’t you think? Vaguely sinister, too. So, I send Cass to investigate—”

Cass? That was… better than Jason could have hoped for, actually. Of course Babs and Cass would put two and two together (for different reasons), but at least they both had some sense of discretion (again, for different reasons).

“— And she comes back to tell me some veeerry interesting things, Jason. The kinds of things I’m sure you can work out for yourself, considering I’m calling you.”

“Does Bruce know?”

“You keep this big a secret from me, and that’s what you ask me?”

“In all fairness Babs, I only knew the night before last.”

The confession only appeared to temporarily pause Barbara’s wrath. “I refuse to believe you didn’t have suspicions before then!”

“We~ell…”

“You knew he was a meta! Part spider, Jason! You are fucking insufferable! Jason Peter Todd, I’ll be making the most of that dinner invite to throttle you! Right in front of your spidery fake-boyfriend!”

“Kinky.”

Barbara let out an inarticulate growl of rage. Jason probably shouldn’t be grinning, but hey, he was safe from her view in his bedroom. “You promised me he wouldn’t be a threat!”

“And he isn’t. You’ve met him, Babs. Look at the guy and tell me you think he’s villain material.”

“That’s beside the point!”

“And you already knew he was a meta. I told you about the spider thing as a professional courtesy. So I didn’t tell you I had suspicions he might’ve been involved in the masked work—”

“So you admit it!”

“Sure.” He shrugged, unseen. “He thinks like a cape. Got all the usual, self-sacrificing, noble-minded bullshit. But he’d clearly been through the wringer. I wasn’t going to bring him into the fold until he was ready. Never, if that’s what was needed.”

“And I suppose you think last night’s the proof he’s ready,” Babs scoffed.

I don’t know about that, Jason thought darkly but kept to himself. “Better he eases himself into things.”

“You should have said something!”

“Look, Babs,” Jason sighed. He scrubbed his face tiredly. “I know Pete the best. Bringing him in too early wouldn’t end well. For reasons even I don’t know, he’s a lone wolf. Self-inflicted, I’m pretty sure. He might be living with me, but that guy keeps shit to himself. A few weeks with a housemate weren’t gonna change that.”

“Gee, that sounds familiar.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy, thank-you,” he grumped. “I’m just saying, I didn’t think it was in anyone’s best interests to say anything. And don’t tell me you lot could have watched him from afar: Peter’s clocked on immediately to being followed. Every time. What do you think a rootless guy’s gonna do if he thinks there’s too many eyes on them?”

 “They’d run.” A sigh gusted over the phone. “Fine! I understand, but I maintain the right to be pissed. I ran that bloodwork for you, Jay! Where is he even from? I’ve gone looking for anyone with a similar rap sheet, but I’m drawing blanks.”

Jason kept his mouth shut. Most of Barbara’s frustration, he knew, stemmed from the fact that she was a control freak who liked to know everything… a running theme through the Bats. But Peter’s status as a trans-universal traveller felt like something he wanted to keep to himself… and the message bank of John Constantine.

Babs did not take his silence well. “You can’t tell me you don’t have any suspicions! Someone like Peter doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere, Jason!”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Barbara’s inarticulate growl through the phone had him grinning. “You are such an ass!”

“I do have a great ass, thank-you.”

The inarticulate growl turned into gagging.

Jason sobered. “Does Bruce know?” he asked again.

Babs sighed. “That this new guy on the streets is Peter? Not yet.” Both knew it wouldn’t be long. Jason hoped to extend that time as long as possible. “Had you bothered speaking to Bruce when he asked, you’d know he’d noticed something on the streets Thursday night, but there was nothing clear. Not like last night. The cat’s out of the bag now he’s decided to show his face — or his mask, I guess — out in public.”

It was very much out of the bag. Jason was both concerned about Peter’s decision, and pleased he was the first to come across Peter as Spider-Man (which had to prove that Peter knew the source of his powers. No way that name was a coincidence. But whether Peter’s flippant line about a brush with a radioactive spider was true was another thing entirely… although it might explain the mild radioactivity Duke had assured Jason wasn’t about to give anyone around Peter super cancer or something equally horrific).

 He’d already begun tossing up whether to reveal his hand to Peter…

After all: it was easy enough to hide a vigilante identity when there was only one person in the game; a hell of a lot harder to manage when you both were going out at night. It was only a matter of time before Peter used his considerable intellect and put two and two together…

… If he hadn’t already…

But things would get a hell of a lot worse if the Bats knew the identity of Spider-Man. There’d be no keeping them away in that case. And that wasn’t even considering what Bruce might do…

“Are you intending to say anything?”

“About Spider-Man’s identity? For now, no. Nor does Cass. She said he was going to make a difference.” Jason sagged with relief. That was high praise from the stoic Cass. “But he got a runaway back to her family last night and shit like that doesn’t go unnoticed by Gotham.”

“He saved a kid?” Jason asked, laughing in disbelief. Well, that explained how the kid got Peter’s phone. Dumbass. “Fuck, and here you are actin’ like he’s the next big rogue? Are you serious?”

“Sometimes the Bat-classic paranoia comes in handy!”

“Sure, sure.”  He collapsed back onto his bed. Maybe if he wrapped this conversation up soon, he could get a few more hours of sleep? Then he could deal with the Peter Parker Problem… “Are we done here?”

“No.”

Jason groaned.

“Besides ripping you a new one about Peter, I wanted to know if you’d heard of any disappearances in Park Row the past few weeks.”

“… Pyg?”

“It is his M.O.”

“None more than the usual,” Jason admitted. “I’ve had people on the lookout, but I’ve not been back long enough to rebuild an extensive informant network. The eyes I’ve got are firmly planted on the Alley. Any news on those missing seals?”

“No,” Babs sighed. “Nothing. God, I hate Pyg!”

“Preaching to the choir, sister.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

Jason grinned.

“Bats wants a meeting tonight. He’ll be expecting you there.”

“We’ll see,” Jason said, fully intending to blow him off.

As though sensing his decision, Barbara sighed again. “You’re going to be hunting for our new spider, aren’t you.”

“Sure am. Fill me in on what’s discussed?”

“So annoying,” she repeated. Jason chuckled. “Though I guess it’s not the worst thing. Cass mentioned that he seemed a bit green. Could use some training.”

“Ah yes, and I of course am the perfect candidate for that.”

“Didn’t you play nanny-slash-teacher for those kids of Luthor’s?”

Jason winced. Guess the news had spread around. “If you recall, I palmed ‘em off to Ma Gunn^[4] as soon as I was able.”

“Hmm,” Babs hummed, unconvinced. “Well, he needs someone to bring him up to Gotham’s speed and keep B off his back. And since you’re not attending the meeting…”

“Fuck you,” Jason groaned, as if he hadn’t already intended on doing exactly what Babs was insinuating. He just didn’t want her to think it was her idea. He was petty like that. Always had been. It was probably the street rat in him… Probably. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Good luck with that,” she chuckled, then hung up without so much as a ‘see ya’. Damn Bats.

Jason dropped his phone beside him and closed his eyes, determined to go back to sleep. But Oracle lived up to her name and sleep proved itself to be impossible.

This was all Peter’s fault.

^[1] Jason is referring to a supervised injection site and I’ve 100% ripped the ‘safehouse’ name from the real nonprofit that operates in Philadelphia under the same name (safehousephilly.org/). There is a good amount of evidence to suggest SIS’s reduce harm for users, and drug-related crimes in the surrounding areas (American Family Physician Foundation). As his own mother died of an overdose,  I 100% believe this is something Jason would have had set up in hotspots throughout Park Row (as its 2016 and SIS’s were only ruled legal in 2019, I don’t think the Martha Foundation or WI would have been able to legally fund such establishments).

^[2] IDK if Emily Rodda’s ‘Deltora Quest’ saw any child outside of Australia (apparently an anime was made of it though?), but they were an iconic book of my childhood and the perfect book for a child Naomi’s age. I couldn’t resist. 

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]}

Batfam Young Adult Edition, Time reads 2:06AM

2:02AM I’ll Spoil YOU: (image of Spider-Man swinging between highrise buildings)

2:03AM I’ll Spoil YOU: babe when you said new spider discovered I thought u ment literally.

2:04AM I’ll Spoil YOU: This is why ur the worst robin

2:06AM Orphan Annie: :(

^[4] Faye ‘Ma’ Gunn used to run a boarding school that turned out to be a front and taught its students how to be criminals… Canonically this is where Batman sent Jason before he was adopted by Bruce Wayne, who only did so after Jason exposed Ma’s activities to Batman. She reappeared as a recurring character in RHATO (Rebirth) as a maternal figure to Jason (she had reformed herself once she was released from prison), and for a time the Outlaws actually lived with her in the former school. There are some half-finished/developed story threads in this run, including the implication that she is actually Jason’s paternal grandmother. After Jason finished ‘teaching’ the child villains that Lex Luthor was training for some reason ( ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ) , he left them with Ma for further rehabilitation / education.

Chapter Text

CLICK ^[HERE] FOR TEXT ONLY

— + —

Peter was perched on the roof of NRE, watching the figures huddled in the alley behind the shop.

Figuring he wasn’t too keen on meeting with any of the other Bats so soon after his debut and deal with their interference — thanks Batgirl for the warning — Peter had made the executive decision to remain in Red Hood’s territory that evening. In an unusual stroke of fortune, that choice led to Peter catching the deal below. He’d only noticed because he’d spread himself so far on the web and caught the presence of someone in the shop. As he settled down to spy, he all but vibrated with satisfaction. He might be able to resolve this quickly! Though it was a little disappointing to think the coding work he’d done on the goober might go unutilised.

But hey, maybe this would mean he wouldn’t need to confess to the Red Hood/Jason (Peter seriously needed to work out how to label him!) that he’d already lost his burner phone. Sure, he had reluctantly bought a new one while out with Dog that morning, but really, handing over his burner to any old Gothamite that needed his help wasn’t a sustainable option. Peter wasn’t made of money! And who knew what’d happen once he resolved the issue at NRE… there might not even be an NRE at the end, though Peter sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be the case…

Maybe he’d have to do as the Romans do and make himself a utility belt (gross) with some kind of gadget for people. Something he could make on the cheap….

As though summoned by Peter’s thoughts, he felt the pressure of someone’s attention off to the east of him. He didn’t move, unwilling to show his observer that they’d been had.

The sksh of metal on brick. The rustle of fabric and kevlar. The tpp of rubber-soled boots as their owner landed on Peter’s rooftop.

“Sup, Hood?” Peter asked as he heard the intake of breath, the preparation to speak.

Hell. He hoped it was Hood: Peter still hadn’t worked out how to identify adults through the web. Only enough to recognise it as adult and male, but he thought that alone was pretty impressive.

A huff. “Spider,” Hood said, growly through the modulator.

Phew. Misidentifying his watcher would have been embarrassing.

Peter didn’t bother looking over. Now he knew who Hood was, he wasn’t sure how to act, and he didn’t want it to show through his body language (thank God his face was hidden). “You’ve got good timing, my dude.”

He winced internally. Too familiar. Then again, maybe it was just the right amount? He’d already made himself known as obnoxious.

“Whatcha got?” Hood approached him cautiously, and Peter finally glanced up. Yup. Just as tall and faintly intimidating as last time, though was it Peter or did he seem to be in a better mood?

“See for yourself.” He gestured downwards, voice pitched low. They weren’t that high up. Peter didn’t want to spook the dealers below.

Hood crouched beside him, maybe a little closer than Peter expected. It spoke of a familiarity that shouldn’t have existed after one night working together, and Peter’s heartrate picked up in response. He forced himself to focus, listening carefully to the man and woman conversing below:

“… First rate goods this time,” the man said quietly as he looked over the two plastic crates of tech. He was tall and thin. His face was obscured by a black hoodie with holes cut into the cuffs for his thumbs. His nails were painted a chipped white. The woman stood to the side while he continued to inspect the crates, lifting the odd piece of tech to turn it over in his hands. “Tell your boss he’s outdone himself.”

“Sure,” the woman drawled. She had a frame that equalled her counterpart’s, and though Peter couldn’t see her face, he could hear a wet crackle as she chewed gum with her mouth open. She held out a gloved hand and the man slapped an envelope and hard drive into it, which were promptly secreted away inside her coat.

The man hauled up one of the crates and disappeared through NRE’s backdoor.

“What you thinkin’ of, then?” Hood murmured from Peter’s side. He shot the man a look, but who knew what Jason was thinking behind that mask. Peter got the impression Jason was humouring him.

“Well, I was planning on following the SUV,” Peter said, just as soft. “But I reckon you might not keep up.”

Hood’s chuckle was definitely laced with a threat, no humour to be found. “Think you can outrun me, Itsy Bitsy?”

Having long since resigned himself to no further growth spurts, Peter shrugged, unaffected by the dig at his height. He grinned as he stood, ready to follow the woman once she slipped into her battered SUV. No suss vans here; Peter couldn’t decide if that was a smart move or not. But it certainly suggested they were unconcerned with getting caught. Judging by that hidden ledger, Peter imagined they’d been running this gig for some time.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Peter said carefully even as he trotted along the rooftop. “It’s just that it’s hard to match up with me.”

“I’m sure I can find a way to compensate,” Hood rumbled.

Peter was poised to run just as the SUV’s engine sputtered into life when he heard a soft crack, like an extremely muted gunshot. He spun around to see Hood put away what looked like a small, modified pistol. There was an air of smugness about him that had Peter narrowing his eyes.

“What was that?”

“Tracker,” Hood bragged, and nodded down at the SUV. “You gonna follow that? I think I’ll keep up just fine.”

“A bike?” Peter asked, curious.

Hood straightened back to all his six-foot-something glory. Peter was absolutely certain he was wearing lifts: Jason definitely wasn’t that tall, even if Peter was practically in bare feet with his thin boots. “Work smarter, not harder, right?”

“Right,” Peter said distantly.

“They’re getting away?” Hood jeered.

Peter blinked and glanced down: sure enough the SUV had just rolled onto the street.

He cursed, but froze on the precipice of a jump, balanced neatly on one foot as he pivoted back to Hood. “By the way, I don’t have that number anymore.”

“Why should that not surprise me?” Hood sighed, guttural through his muzzle. Peter thought maybe he was amused, though. It was a very Jason reaction.

“It was unavoidable,” he said, then threw Jason/Hood a salute. “Catch you at the end, eh Hood?”

With that, Peter twisted back and jumped out into the air, a web already thrown out to catch him.

— + —

Left alone on the rooftop, Jason let out a low whistle.

Peter in the air was a thing of beauty. Raw, acrobatic talent. The kind of person he wouldn’t mind pitching against Dick. The guy could use a little humbling.

And he was fast. Already Peter had disappeared, adeptly using those webs to slingshot himself around the corner of a building.

Jason couldn’t have stopped his grin even if he’d tried. Looked like the chase was on.

— + —

As promised, Hood did manage to keep up with Peter. They’d followed the SUV to the north of Park Row, where the lines blurred between Crime Alley and the Narrows. Unaware of its pursuers, the SUV turned into an auto-shop and the woman jumped out, still chewing gum as she unlocked the door around the side of the shop.

Pater observed from the shelter of a roof across the street. There were a number of cars parked out the front of the mechanic’s, all in varying states of disrepair. Did they mix up deliveries with different vehicles? It was a smart move if they did. Or at least it seemed that way, in Peter’s admittedly uneducated opinion. He hung around a little while longer, just to see if the woman was going to leave again, but a touch against the web telegraphed the presence of five other people inside, so he doubted they’d disappear in the next ten minutes.

Confident in his judgement, Peter jumped across three rooftops just in time to see Jason pull into the small parking bay of a corner store. He tucked his motorcycle up against a wall, to be swallowed by the shadows cast by streetlamps breaking against the corner of the building. Out of professional courtesy, Peter sprayed a thin layer of web over the security cameras, then joined Jason by the bike.

“It’s an auto shop,” he explained as Jason took off his helmet. Peter watched, curious, as Jason pressed a latch beneath his jaw and the lower half of the helmet broke open: he was still wearing the muzzle. Replacing the helmet when damaged had to be a pain in the ass. Not only was it a custom build, but it couldn’t exactly be easy to explain the necessity of its design.

Maybe Peter understood why most of the other bats — at least according to the stories — only wore dominoes.

“I know,” Jason/Hood said. He nodded at the webbed cameras. “You planning on cleaning that up after?”

“It’ll do that on its own.”

“Hmm.”

“I’d bore you with the details, but I like to play coy. Keep a few secrets.”

“Coy,” Hood echoed.

Peter grinned and gestured at his body. “Why else would I be dressed like this from head to toe? I’m shy.”

“Shy my ass,” Hood growled.

Peter laughed softly, then got to business.

“I was thinking, since you’re intent on being in on this,” Peter said as he investigated Hood’s bike. Not that he really knew what he was looking at, but it probably helped to look like he did. The bike was nice though. Sleek like Skittle Robin’s, but in a red so dark it looked black until the light shone on it. It was heftier, too, probably to match its master. Brute force to obscure the intelligence beneath. “You could be my distraction?”

Red Hood was silent. Peter took it as a sign he was amenable to the idea.

“The stolen goods should be dealt with, but the data is the more insidious threat,” he carried on. “It’s not enough to just catch them out today. In an ideal world, I find all the stolen data ‘cause they haven’t sold it on, then we can alert the authorities and all that.” He frowned, thinking of SHIELDRA. “Or just delete it. Might be safer.”

Hood grunted in acknowledgement. Possibly agreement. “Gotham isn’t much for ideals.”

Peter laughed hollowly. “Yeah, I got that impression. If that’s the case, then it’s back to the original idea, and track the data they’ve just collected.”

“So, what? You want me to play instigator while you creep in and see if they’ve sold the stuff?”

Peter shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“And you’re not worried about them getting spooked? The Red Hood ain’t exactly a small name, Bitsy.”

Bitsy… was it a downgrade or an upgrade?

He dragged himself back on track. The thought had occurred to him on the sedate chase here. “Could you plausibly stage it as a surprise visit? Like, you just stumbled across it?”

“… You know how many are inside?”

Well. That wasn’t a no. “Six.”

“Six? You’re that confident?”

Peter wasn’t offended by the naked doubt. He wasn’t. “I’m not just guesstimating, dude.”

“You can, what? Hear ‘em? You got super-hearing?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed, evasive. He wasn’t a huge fan of the invasive questioning, even if logically he knew it was Jason who was asking. Or that Peter would have been equally doubtful if in the same position. It didn’t change the fact that Peter didn’t enjoy the mistrust.

“Alright,” Hood sighed. He rolled his shoulders like they were stiff. Peter wondered if he ever used a masseuse. Happy had once mentioned they had a whole team on the payroll for the Avengers. They’d had their work cut out for them. “I could probably pass it off. ‘Specially if I’m goin’ in alone and you don’t get caught.”

“Then, go with that.”

“And after?”

“After?”

“Well, the Red Hood ain’t gonna just come in and leave them to it after. I’ll be taking any of their stolen gear for myself.”

“I — oh.”

“You gonna be cool with that?”

Peter… wasn’t really. But… stolen tech was replaceable. And chances were, whoever had lost it, had lost it weeks ago. It was shitty for the victims but didn’t run the risk of ruining them like their stolen identities and personal data could.

“What are you going to do with them?” Peter asked warily.

“That would be none of your business, Bitsy.”

Peter shifted on his feet, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Right…”

Hood tilted his head, then sighed heavily. It was a death-rattle through his muzzle. “I’ll call my guys to clean up after I’m done with ‘em. You can deal with the data — we won’t touch that shit. Pretend we missed it or whatever. You booby trap the files for whoever comes back to collect it after me and mine are done… You still got that virus thing?”

By virtue of Peter’s sheer laziness, he did. It was still in his chest pocket with the notepad. He nodded.  

“Cool. So, you do your thing, I do mine, and we call it a night when I call my guys.”

Peter nodded silently. His stomach was still twisting itself up with guilt — he really didn’t like the idea of any stolen tech not being returned to their rightful owners… but he already knew that Gotham was a different beast from New York. And who knew? Maybe there’d be nothing there, anyway. Maybe they cleaned themselves out with every delivery and that new hard drive was everything they had.

The two of them quickly worked out the rest of the plan and parted ways: Peter for the rooftops once more, since he’d be coming in from above (he suspected a lot of the incriminating material he was after was on the second floor of the auto shop), Jason back on his bike.

Peter crept across the rooftop of the auto shop, confident in his silence. Not that there was anyone upstairs to notice, but he didn’t exactly want to throw the whole mission on its head because he couldn’t play his stealth card right.

He found the perfect spot — a window on the south side of the building that had been left just slightly ajar. The faintest trace of cigarette smoke lingered around it and there was an unhealthy collection of cigarette butts littered on the yard below, but there was no one inside the room. Peter waited, perched just above, for Hood to saunter in — and there really was no better way to put it. He walked up the drive, sans bike, with the exact same murderous swagger that Peter had seen in all that shaky footage of the Winter Soldier, pre-return to the light side.

It was… a vibe. Yep. That was what it was. Peter only found himself admiring the man’s movement because of how similar it was and how convincing was the miasma of menace that hung around him like thick smog. That was all.

Had those unsteady clips been the start of his bisexual awakening? No sir. Nope. Not. At. All. Not even a bit.

Peter forcibly returned his attention to the web. The people inside were clustered in a back room, all of them awake despite the late hour. That in and of itself should have been suspicious enough: the only people awake in Gotham this time of night were night-workers, vigilantes and people up to no good. And Peter doubted there was anyone working a legal shift at MT Son’s Garage at one in the morning.

Concealed in the shadows of the roof’s awning, Peter watched as Hood tried the back door. Both laughed softly when they realised the door had been left unlocked, and Hood looked up, the faint gleam of red eyes latching onto Peter’s hidden form. At least, he’d thought himself hidden.

He shouldn’t be surprised: there were more than enough theories running around on the forums to suggest a link between the elusive Red Hood and the Bat menagerie. And all sorts of legends about their uncanny powers of observation.

Had Hood not been trying for stealth, Peter suspected he might have said something. Instead, Hood simply opened the door and strolled right on in.

Peter listened to Hood’s near-silent footsteps, then the creaking on an un-oiled door. Then he stopped and said: “Oh, hey guys. Y’all havin’ a party?”

Peter bit back a laugh at the drawled greeting. Jason really was so funny when he wanted to be. Seemed like he was only a stick-in-the-mud when it came to Red Hood and Spider-Man.

The muted talking of the people inside fell quiet. Just for a second. Then all hell broke loose and there was a bunch of shouting and cursing and crashing — like that of bodies being thrown around.

Peter left Hood to it, figuring he’d made enough of a reputation to be able to handle things well enough. He wrenched open the window, confident the screech would be covered by the fighting downstairs and crawled inside. The room stank of layer upon layer of air-freshener and cigarette smoke: a lasagna of awful scents. It was a small and poky space, little more than a large storage room, and the walls lined were with shelves of old cardboard boxes, torn and scuffed with age and use. A peek inside some of them showed a mix of car parts (don’t ask Peter what kind, he’d been too much of a surly pre-teen before Ben died to want to learn how to fix a car he’d never own) and clearly stolen devices. Phones and tablets mostly, piled on top of each other like discarded children’s toys, many sporting shattered screens and a variety of cases.

Huh. Well, consider that a tick on the suspicions that NRE’s stolen goods supplier might be working with other businesses. Why else keep so many on property when they’d just made an exchange?

Then again, they could just be drip-feeding them to NRE. It would be the smart way to maintain a stable income.

Get on with it, Parker. The crashing and yelling and odd strangled scream were still going on downstairs, but Peter thought it was less frenzied. Six really wasn’t that many people if they were caught unawares and the plus one had significantly better training than the rest.

Then again… all it takes is one gun…

Peter ignored the twinge of anxiety and wrenched open the door — it had been locked from the outside, but one piddly lock was no match for Peter. He came out onto a landing, the stairs just off to his right and the fighting was much louder from where he stood. There were a few other doors down the hallway, a couple of them open. Still connected to the web — everyone was accounted for downstairs — Peter peeked into each room, breaking the locks on those he couldn’t open. No need for stealth when staging a clear-out. Bedroom (it stank of stale air and unwashed sheets, gross), poky kitchen and then, an office.

That one had been locked. When Peter stepped inside, he smelled the faint traces of spearmint gum.

Jackpot.

He zeroed in on the computers — there were two of them, which wasn’t suspect at all for a garage. A quick search of the desk, drawers and shelves didn’t pull up the hard-drive from the exchange — perhaps the woman still had it on her? No matter. He’d have to tell Jason to pretend to miss it.

Goober One in hand, Peter booted up both computers and let the encryption-breaker do its thing on each. Once in, he went on the hunt. The smaller of the two desktops (though it had the larger of the two screens) was fruitless: it was mostly dedicated to the running of the garage and the worst he found was some lesbian porn.

Just as Peter turned his attention to the second desktop, he realised the fighting had stopped and there was someone coming up the stairs. He was on the ceiling and ready to attack from the corner in a fraction of a second and listened to the careful tread across the stained carpet. He didn’t let down his guard until a familiar red hood and muzzle caught the light off the screen.

Hood didn’t appear to be harmed — guess those bare arms were good for something — and carried a crowbar in his right hand. He stank of adrenaline sweat and blood.

(Peter didn’t know how he knew it was adrenaline sweat... just that it was. The certainty of the observation was as unnerving as it was fascinating.)

Their masked eyes caught as Hood looked up and saw Peter crouched in the corner of the ceiling.

“That’s never going to not be weird,” Hood rasped.

Peter threw him the peace sign. “Did you have fun, dear?” he asked in a simpering voice.

Hood’s shoulders twitched and Peter imagined he was grinning beneath the muzzle. “Terribly,” he shot back, in a voice even fancier than Peter’s. “You give me the most darling of things.”

by the talented supine-ly! (Tumblr)

by the talented onyxmistkes (Tumblr)

Peter did laugh then. He flipped out of his corner to land on his feet. “I was about to start a hunt of my own,” he said, fingers flying across the keyboard as soon as the goober broke in. They’d at least had the sense not to use the same password as the work computer. Peter offered the crook who set all this up a lick of respect.

“I’ve called in a few people.” Hood loomed behind Peter’s hunched figure, watching him work. The awareness of his presence sent shivers up and down Peter’s spine, but he kept his attention firmly on the screen. “They’ll be here in twenty. You think you can be done by then, or am I gonna need to tell ‘em to steer clear of this room?”

“Hmmm…” Peter had pulled up the torrenting software he suspected they’d used to share the stolen data. It looked like it had been operating for some time. At least twelve months. “I want to see if I can trace each of these destinations, but I think I’ll be done by then. Oh, also, don’t search the woman for that hard drive. It’s already full of the tagged data I set up the other night.”

“You want her to conveniently escape?” Hood asked.

Peter thought about, but it didn’t take much thinking. “Yeah, sure.”

“Suit yourself,” Hood said, and left him to it.      

It made a lot more sense why the Red Hood would trust Spider-Man so quickly, Peter reflected, once he’d realised Jason knew exactly who Spider-Man was. It also made working with him a lot easier, even if Peter kept wondering if Jason knew that Peter knew who he was too.

As predicted, Peter had wrapped things up on his end before Hood’s ‘men’ arrived. It wasn’t promising: there were months’ worth of file sharing on the desktop, to various buyers, too. And Peter doubted they were in Gotham, otherwise why bother when you could just give them a flash drive and call it a day? He installed a backdoor for himself to enter remotely — provided of course, whoever was organising this decided to return for the computer.

Satisfied, Peter shut everything down and withdrew, crossing the landing and jumping down the stairs. They came down to a storage-slash-break room at the back of the garage, but the six who’d been inside were out in the garage itself. Peter slipped out of the room to join Hood as he watched over the six.

The stink of blood was stronger here, but it hung low beneath the sharper scents of motor oil and gasoline. The concrete flooring was littered with debris from the fight: splinters of one of those rolling creepers that went under cars, bolts and nuts and a wall of tires had collapsed — presumably when one of the men had been thrown into them.

Peter hesitated to come closer. Hood had trussed the six — four men, two women, including the one they’d stalked here — up against a shelf. He’d taped their hands and feet together and blind-folded them. Judging by their slumped postures, the first of the women and two of the men were unconscious, but the other three were whey-faced and thin-lipped with pain. One of the men was shifting and groaning softly.

Jason had broken his leg. Badly.

On another, Jason had neatly wrapped a bandage around their bicep, but blood had already stained their denim jacket, cut off at the shoulder to allow for the first aid.

Peter was pretty sure the third had a handful of broken fingers, judging by their unnatural angles.

He rounded on Red Hood, but found he couldn’t speak a word. Hood stared back; body language entirely unrepentant.

Anything Peter might have said was swallowed by the approaching rumble of an engine. He huffed and threw a web to jump onto the ceiling, then crawled into a corner more shadowed than the rest by a set of shelves. Soon enough, two men and a woman strolled in through the same back door Jason had entered from.

“Hola, Hood,” one of the men called out, far too chipper for half past one in the morning. He was maybe Peter’s height, but stocky, with a rich tan and long brown hair pulled back from his face in a low pony. Late twenties, maybe early-thirties. In his right hand, he carried a chunky red vape.

“Toni,” Hood returned. “Nidi, Cisco.”

The other two nodded at Hood with more appropriate levels of energy for the time. Peter realised as he studied them that they were siblings: both had similar noses and eyes, with equally serious expressions that Peter suspected wasn’t because of their personality so much as the build of their face.

Toni sidled up beside Hood and peered down at the six from the garage and took a long puff from his vape. Hood sighed as Toni let out a stream of strawberry flavoured smoke.

“That shit’s still gonna give you cancer, dumbass.”

“There ain’t no proof, and that’s all I need,” Toni shot back cheerily. He took another pull and puffed out an equally obnoxious cloud at the garage six. “What’s this, eh?”

“A few fencers. A birdie told me her ex’d been sellin’ stolen tech to her work. Figured I’d come check it out, and lo and behold, I find these idiots.”

Peter blinked. As excuses went, he supposed it worked.

“Are we takin’ over?”

“Nah. Just clear out and take ‘em,” Hood nodded at the six, “to Carm’s. He can decide what to do with ‘em.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Toni’s ‘boss’ was delivered without an ounce of reverence, but Hood didn’t appear to care.

Toni took one last pull of his vape then shoved it in the inside pocket of his jacket. The four worked quickly and efficiently, stripping the garage and upstairs of anything they suspected was stolen (despite his elevated status, Hood was perfectly willing to pitch in), but as promised, left the office alone.

By the time they we finished, Peter could sense that the woman — the one he’d followed here in the first place — had come to her senses, though she pretended to play dead while Hood and Nidi put her in the back of their van. An actual van, of the dodgy sort without windows that Peter had expected any self-respecting career criminal to use.

Peter waited until they had left — Toni with a middle-fingered salute to Hood; Nidi and Cisco with a much more respectful ‘Goodnight’ — before he jumped down from his corner and onto the floor.

Something was stewing under Peter’s skin. It wasn’t until his feet touched the concrete that he realised it was anger.

There was a pool of half-dried blood left where the man who’d been stabbed once sat.

“Hood.”

“Spider,” Hood echoed. He was messaging someone on his phone and didn’t bother looking up. 

Peter chewed on his inner cheek. Angry or not, he understood that he wasn’t the local here. And Hood was still Jason. He didn’t want to tear Jason a new one for breaking a man’s tibia with a crowbar. Not because it was undeserved, but because it was Jason.

The double standard filled him with shameful guilt. He breathed in slowly to settle himself before he spoke, but failed to keep the bite out of his voice all the same: “Not to like, yuck your yum, but don’t you think that was massively ineffective?”

Red Hood turned on him slowly, red eyes narrowed.

Okay. Maybe that still wasn’t very diplomatic.

“The fuck you mean?”

Peter licked his lips nervously. He knew with almost 100% certainty that was Jason under the mask. He didn’t like seeing this meaner, angrier version of his housemate-slash-literal-if-temporary-partner-in-crime. Not when he knew Jason.

Jason, who liked to slouch around the apartment in tracksuits and thrifted cardigans and loved boring classical literature and poetry. Who just three days ago Peter had caught snoring on the couch with Dog sprawled on top of him like a drooly weighted blanket, the book he’d been reading face down on the rug.

by the fantastic onyxmistkes (tumblr) 😵😭😭😭 

Would Jason be like this if he knew that Peter knew who he was? Did it matter even if he did? Was the sudden hostility a front, or genuine?

Who had the real persona? Jason? …. Or Red Hood?

You were talking. Peter lightly shook himself and returned to his tentative point that he was fairly sure he wouldn’t get shot for. “I just mean… you know poverty is like, the strongest indicator of crime, right?”

“Of fucking course I do,” Hood/Jason growled. “I fucking grew up in this shithole district!”

Right. Of course he did. Jason had told Peter he’d been living on the streets before Bruce adopted him. But still… “Then… what do you think is gonna happen to those men whose bones you just broke?”

Hood/Jason remained silent. Peter tentatively took it as the permission he needed to go on.

“You break their leg or their hand or whatever…  and what happens next? Do they lose their jobs? Their real jobs, I mean. Or do they go into debt to pay off the hospital? How long until they can work again?”

“You think they were innocent, Spider?” Anger radiated from Hood, scalding hot and vicious. “One tried to shoot me, no hesitation! I broke his fucking hand. His buddy tried to jump me with this—” Hood pulled a knife out of his belt. The blade was ragged and still stained with viscera. “So I stabbed him instead. Turnaround’s fair play.” He threw the knife into the air, light catching on the black metal before the hand slapped back into his palm. “The others, I warned. They didn’t listen. I did what I had to do.”

“You could’ve—”

“What? Called the fucking cops?” Hood cut in before Peter could finish (a relief: Peter wasn’t even sure he knew what the hell he was talking about). “Or what? Act the cop? The fuck you think a brush with the pigs woulda done to ‘em?” Red Hood took an intimidating step closer, looming over Peter. But this his senses barely tingled, it didn’t make Jason’s contempt sting any less. “Half the force are as violent as them. Half of what’s left are worse, and what’s left after that are complicit and covering their asses. Frankly, those dipshits were lucky it was me. If I was a cop, I’da shot first, ask questions never.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” Peter acknowledged. Between the two of them, Hood was the Gotham veteran. He knew the GCPD better than Peter, who so far had only ever seen them in passing. “But… If all you do is escalate the violence, Hood, how are you any better than the cops?”

Red Hood flipped the knife again, and this time’ Peter’s senses flared as it smacked into the meaty flesh of his palm. Danger. “You don’t know shit! Gotham ain’t a funfair, Spider. You’d better get off that soapbox before she drags you off.”

Peter’s gut churned with something sad and ugly. Turned out vigilante chicken wasn’t anywhere close to fun when you found yourself on opposite sides of an ideological divide.

He didn’t let it show. Shrugged instead.

“I guess I just want to know,” Peter said eventually, “what it is you do this for? Is it punishment? Retribution?  Rehabilitation? Because from where I stand — and I get that I’m an outsider, I really do, but this is what I see — what you did wasn’t the latter. And that won’t make this city better. If anything, you’re making things worse. Putting more people in hospital… potentially crippling them… what’s that going to achieve except more pain and suffering?”

“And what the fuck’s your alternative, Spider-Man?” Peter blinked. It was the first time Hood had called him by his name that evening. “I let ‘em go? Free to steal another day? What about their victims? They’ve been stealing for months. Do you know how many people they’ve hurt along the way? You saying they don’t deserve justice?”

“I’m not saying that, no,” Peter said slowly. He was walking a fine line here; he knew it. “But how did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“How did you know they deserved that? Did you do your research?”

“Funnily enough,” Hood sneered. “I fucking have. More than I can say about you, eh?”

That stopped Peter in his tracks. “What?”

“Oh, you think we came across each other Wednesday night by coincidence?” Hood’s laughter was mean. “I’ve been onto ‘em for ages. All over the city. You just accelerated my timeline for dealing with ‘em.”

“… Oh.”

Oh? Was that the best Peter could manage? He learnt Jason had known there was something dodgy going on at NRE while Peter was working there, and ‘oh’ was all he could say?

Suddenly mortified, Peter took a step back. Then another. The antsy feeling under his skin told him he needed to leave. Lick the wounds to his pride somewhere in private.

As though sensing Peter’s withdrawal, Hood repeated his name: “Spider-Man.” The aggression had seeped out of his tone, but there was still an undercurrent of angry steel. “Let me give you some advice: Gotham’s a mean bitch. She’s chewed up and spat out better people than you who’ve tried to ‘fix’ her, and she’ll keep doing so into eternity. They only thing that gives you any chance of keeping your head above water is making damn sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I don’t think I can ‘fix’ Gotham!” Peter retorted, defensive and irritated now. “Besides, why does it have to be a single person?” For all that Peter had joked to Bruce Fucking Wayne that the city needed a messianic intervention, he wasn’t naive nor arrogant enough to believe that one single person could improve the city. “Why can’t I just try to help where I can?”

“Then lemme ask you the same question: what is it you do this for?”

Redemption, was the word that came to mind, but the syllables caught in Peter’s throat.

Hood took his silence as an answer. “People without conviction die here, Spider-Man… Sometimes, it even happens when they do.”

“I have conviction,” Peter said, quiet.

“What you say?”

“I have conviction!” he snarled the words, suddenly furious to even be questioned for it. Peter lost everything to Spider-Man and he still put on the fucking suit. Ending up in this hellscape of a city wasn’t going to change a single thing. “I’m here because I care! And I’ve the power to help, so I have the responsibility to do so!”

Red Hood straightened up. Squared his shoulders. Peter readied himself for something equally cutting, but, “Okay,” was all Hood said.

For the second time that night, Peter felt like the rug had been ripped out from under him. “Huh?”

“Okay,” Hood said again. “I believe you.”

Nothing but empty air escaped Peter’s mouth.

Had… had this all just been some kind of fucked up casting call? A pep talk with bonus threat of violence?

No… right? Peter was the one to pick the fight, not Hood.

What the fuck just happened?

“What,” Peter said, feeling hollow.

“Meet me above Sheldon Park Subway, tomorrow night. Ten-thirty. You’ll be working with me until I’m sure you won’t die at the first rogue.”

“… Uhm?”

“You wanna help, Spider-Man? It’s this, or the Bats run you out of town.” He clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Say ‘thank-you’.”

“… Thank-you?”

“You’re welcome. Now go home. I’m sure it’s your bedtime.”

“Uhh?”

The Red Hood steered Peter out of the garage with his massive hands on Peter’s shoulder’s. “Off you go!” he said with dangerously bright cheer. “Take your sanctimonious attitude with you and make sure it stays at home tomorrow!”

Okay. So maybe Peter had offended him after all.

Peter tried to turn and look but Hood continued to push him outside. “Can’t I just—?”

“Nope!” Hood overrode him, still deceptively bright. “Home time for the little spider!”

“But—!”

“Bye-bye! Next time, don’t pick a fight you can’t win!”

Meekly, Peter threw himself at the neighbouring building instead of replying.

^{[CLICK TO RETURN]}

Chat with Orphan Annie. Time reads 12:34PM

Orphan Annie: (image of Spider-Man swinging between high-rise buildings)

Orphan Annie: Peter!

Red Hoodlum: … it’s an evolving situation

Orphan Annie: kind of like ur man (devil, spider and web emojis)

Red Hoodlum: (middle finger emoji)

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Jason could say about Peter, it was that he might be an absolute mess, but he was also fucking resilient.

After Red Hood and Spider-Man’s argument last night, Jason had expected Peter to be in a mood for the rest of the day — hell, the rest of the week. If Jason — well versed in spectacular blow-ups — thought things turned ugly, then he could only guess at how Peter was feeling. It was the biggest disagreement they’d ever had and frankly, he’d been a little worried that Peter would have washed his hands of Jason and left afterwards.

Enough to apologise when he returned home? Hell no. Jason wouldn’t apologise for actions he saw as justified, and he wouldn’t compromise on his beliefs.

Despite his convictions, sleep was a struggle. Their argument bounced around in Jason’s head despite his exhaustion and he found himself futilely straining to hear Peter’s breathing, even though there was a whole bathroom between them. When he woke, resentment still seethed under his skin. Peter’s accusation that he was no better than the cops fucking stung.

So if Jason was annoyed, he expected Peter to be the same — at the least, he expected the silent treatment — but when Jason finally emerged from his bedroom at around lunchtime, summoned by the smell of coffee, Peter was his usual bright and witty self.

“Hey,” Peter chirped as Jason emerged. He hung upside-down off the couch, head hanging over the edge, feet curled above the headrest. Dog was sprawled across the rest of the couch but hopped up to greet Jason. A re-run of Trading Spaces was playing on the TV, volume turned low.

The urge to flick the arch of Peter’s socked foot was strong. Jason valiantly resisted.

“… Hey,” Jason echoed instead. He leaned over the back of the sofa and studied Peter carefully as he scratched Dog’s big head, but Peter’s expression was mild and placid. He turned his attention to the TV. “Anything good on?”

“If there was, I wouldn’t be watching trashy home improvements,” Peter said. Jason hunted through his tone, but there was no sign of the expected discontent, only a wry irritation at the unexciting midday offerings.

Mildly perturbed, Jason retreated to the kitchen. There was already a pot of coffee made for him, left to keep warm on the machine.

“Sleep well?” Peter asked as Jason made himself a coffee. 

“… Fine.” Jason skulled half the mug black, then refilled it, this time using the last of the half-and-half to soften the bitterness. Knowing both would forget otherwise, he rinsed out the carton for recycling before remembering his manners. “You?”

“Oh, I didn’t get much sleep,” Peter said, blasé. “Late night.”

Jason’s hand on the tap paused, before he shut it off. There was enough subtext in those simple sentences to put Jason’s hackles up, but Peter wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were firmly trained on the TV, where a couple were trying to pass their beige monstrosity of a renovation as an ‘inspired interior’.

Fucking suspicious.

“Did I wake you up when I got home?” he fished.

“Nah.” Peter slid him an inscrutable look before turning back to the TV. “I just got into a really heated argument with some guy online.”

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Oh, Peter definitely fucking knew.

For a second, Jason wondered why he’d not just straight up confronted him about the Red Hood… and then he remembered exactly how petty Peter could be. This was the same guy who had, on two separate occasions, deliberately put an empty milk carton back in the fridge because Jason had drunk the last of his stupid bougie seltzers. In the second instance, he’d done it in open view of Jason, holding eye-contact the entire time.

Hinting that he knew who Red Hood was without outright saying so, was absolutely something Peter would do.

Perhaps Jason should have been disappointed or discouraged or something to know that Peter knew who he moonlighted as. Bats were known for their secrecy, after all. But if anything, it came as a relief.

Frankly, Jason had resigned himself to the exposure almost as soon as he saw Peter out in that blue and red suit. They were living together and Peter wasn’t stupid. Far from it. If a twelve-year-old Jason Todd could put two-and-two together, then an eighteen-year-old Peter Parker sure as fuck could.

In a way, it felt a bit like a step towards something vaguely equal between them: fuck knew Jason held a hell of a lot of information over Peter. Turnabout seemed like fair play.

So… the question then became… did Peter know that Jason knew he was Spider-Man?

… Who was he kidding? Of course he fucking did. The guy was smart. Genius-level smart. Even with half the picture, Jason had seen Peter make intuitive leaps of logic to rival any Bat, even if some of his conclusions were fucking unhinged.

So, Peter knew Jason was Red Hood, and he had to know that Jason knew Peter was Spider-Man.

That Peter wasn’t saying anything about it probably meant Peter was preparing to sow a little chaos.

It also, Jason reflected, likely meant Peter was actually holding a grudge after last night.

Well. That was fine. Never let it be said that Jason was one to be the bigger man. With the exception of Dick, Jason was easily the pettiest of the Bats.

“An argument, huh?” Jason mused as he picked up his coffee. “Did you start it? You seem like the type to start shit.”

Peter shot him a glare. “I only start fights I know I can win.”

Jason nearly laughed out loud. That was the biggest pile of horseshit he’d heard since Bruce came over. Peter was as much a martyr as any other cape he knew. It was safe to say that Peter had absolutely thrown himself into fights he didn’t know he’d win.

Some of Jason’s derision had to have seeped through, because Peter scowled deeper and turned back to the TV, but there were only ads playing.

“Aw,” Jason cooed. “Did you poke the bear and got bit?”

“I think I brought up some very valid arguments, actually,” Peter said with a dignity undeserving of someone still hanging off the couch like a five-year-old.

“Yeah?” Jason smirked. “You wanna share with the class?”

In one smooth move that bordered on the inhuman, Peter righted himself and muted the TV. Jason straightened in response; Peter wasn’t necessarily glaring, but there was a gravity to his gaze that made Jason feel he had to step up in turn.

“What do you think Gotham needs?” The words were blurted out and Peter looked momentarily surprised by his own question, before he doubled down and repeated it.

“Why… are you asking me?” Jason asked, feeling a little dazed.

“You were born here. You grew up here. Lived on its streets, even.” Jason blinked. Maybe Peter… wasn’t angry? If anything, it sounded like he’d done some reflecting. “You know more about the needs of the people here than I do. So tell me: what do you think this city needs?”

For once, Jason was at a loss for words. When was the last time anyone had asked him something like that?

Shit… Had anyone ever bothered to ask him?

For his honest opinion? As if acknowledging that yes, Jason did have a stake in the matter and yes, Jason fucking cared about this dump of a city.

Certainly not Bruce or his batlings. Because sure, none of them could ever hope to fit into the man’s impossible, exacting standards, but they also didn’t actively challenge Bruce’s self-appointed stranglehold over Gotham and morality, either.

Jason was ashamed at how he struggled to find the words for something he felt so strongly about. But he managed to muster his old argument after a fortifying sip of strong coffee. “Gotham is… rich and poor in all the wrong places. Violent and sick with tyrants^[1]. Throwing billions at it won’t do shit when she’s still trapped under the thumbs of madmen and despots. You could sink all the money in the world into this city and all you’d ever achieve is lining the pockets of the vermin that hold her to ransom.”

“So,” Peter said slowly, a challenge in his stare, “does that mean the city needs — what? — pest control? Someone to eradicate the ‘vermin’?”

Jason’s mouth twitched at the undiplomatic phrasing. He spoke again with considerably more care, “I think that’s a damn good place to start.”

“Isn’t that just a continuation of their violence? Replacing one monster with a bigger, stronger one?”

“If someone murders a household — man, woman and child — do they deserve the death penalty?”

“I don’t agree with the death penalty,” came Peter’s swift reply.

Right. Well, that threw a cog in Jason’s argument, but he soldiered on. “But I bet you’ve wished someone dead because of what they’ve done, right?”

Peter’s jaw clenched, expression flashing through anger into grief into shame. Jason wondered what (or who) he was thinking about.

He softened his voice. “It’s simple, Pete. There are creatures in this world who cannot coexist with us. Take away the ‘deserves’ — fine. The ones I’m talking about? They’re incompatible with life. Fact is, Gotham’d be a hell of a lot safer if we had a few less monsters and locking them away has proven itself to be as effective as a bikini in a snowstorm.”

Peter’s lips twitched at the absurd simile, but he sobered quickly. “They’re still people, Jason.”