Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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“You better go and say your goodbyes. You don’t have long.” Strange’s voice was gravelly, reluctant in a way Peter couldn’t quite place.

Peter’s throat tightened with emotion, his words thick with gratitude. “Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Stephen.” The weight of the moment wasn’t lost on either of them.

Peter swallowed hard, steadying his voice. “Thank you, Stephen.”

A chuckle, laced with sorrow, escaped Strange as he allowed a small smile. “Yeah... still feels weird.”

Peter mirrored the expression, a bittersweet grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll see you around.” With that, he turned and swung away.

Stephen watched him go, his hands clenching into fists as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “So long, kid,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. And then, softer, almost to himself, “I’m sorry.”
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Peter woke up with a scream on his lips, his body seizing in pain. His back burned like it had been branded, his limbs ached from an impact he couldn’t remember, and a deep, sharp pang pulsed through his skull; as if something had been forcibly ripped away from him. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his fingers twitching against damp concrete.
He could feel the familiar burning itch of some of his lesser wounds stitching themselves back together once more.

Something was wrong.

The world around him felt foreign, the air thick with a quiet that gnawed at him. His spider-sense thrummed faintly beneath his skin, not a blaring alarm but a nagging discomfort, an itch that wouldn’t go away. There was no immediate danger. Still, the sensation of wrongness wouldn’t fade.

Careful-Beware-Danger

Peter forced himself upright, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He braced a hand against the rough brick wall, breathing through clenched teeth. The roof around him was cold and unfamiliar, the air heavy with the stench of rain and something metallic. He blinked through the ache, his vision swimming before settling into focus—a cityscape, but not one he recognized. Not Queens. Not Manhattan. Buildings loomed taller and darker, their architecture unfamiliar. The skyline felt oppressive, its shadows longer, deeper.

He could hear glass shattering and yells from far off, the wind carrying the distant sounds to his ears like a whisper, a prayer begging for help.

The last thing he recalls before awaking on this cement roof, within a crater of his making, was his and Dr. Strange’s agreement, the goodbyes still ringing in his ears, fresh, raw. Then—nothing. A void in his memory, a black hole where certainty should be. Like a dream at the tips of your fingers, words on the edge of your tongue, a bird you can’t quite catch.

The thought that they would never remember him wounded him like a knife to the ribs. But, a thread of pitiful, bittersweet hope hung in his mind that maybe one day they’ll see his face in passing and be hit with a sense of familiarity, a teasing thought in their mind that no matter how much they grasp, they will never be able to put a name to his face but at least they will have the barest hint of remembrance.

Peter had agreed to be erased from existence, from their lives. He had come to terms with it, even though the thought of being forgotten by those he loved felt like a gaping wound tearing open in his chest. It bled grief and hopelessness, pouring out like an unrelenting river, washing away all that was left of him. The wound, an aching scar, was crudely stitched together—as if some dying soldier, with his last ounce of strength, had hastily tried to mend it; he was left to run back into the fray of a battlefield utterly alone. He had no team to back him up, no friends waiting in the wings.

He shook the thought away and forced himself upright, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest. He needed to move. He needed to figure out where he was.

Despite the pain ravaging his body, Peter knew he had to get down off of the roof. Thankfully, there was a fire escape, which he used to slowly descend the building. Peter winced as he landed hard. For a moment, the world spun, his knees buckling under the weight of pain. He took a steadying breath, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright. The ache of his wounds reminded him too much of his last fight, the battle that had torn him apart. But, he couldn’t afford to stop and reminisce. Not now.

He checked himself once the pain died down to a dull, throbbing ache. His black hoodie was stiff against the cold, his jeans worn but functional. A crumpled twenty in his pocket. Some lint. A couple of coins that barely added up to thirty cents. Not much to work with.

He pulled his hood up and limped out of the alley. The city breathed differently than New York. People moved with a quiet wariness, shoulders hunched against the weight of something unseen. There was an unnatural stiffness to their movements, a quiet sort of resignation in their expressions. The air smelled damp, heavy with exhaust and an undercurrent of danger.

He stopped hobbling once he came in front of a newspaper that had been left on the ground. He shuffled toward it, hoping to find some clue about where he was. The papers were faded, and only a few headlines were still readable.

GOTHAM GAZETTE
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THE RIDDLER’S REIGN OF TERROR: WHEN WILL HE STRIKE AFTER HIS ESCAPE?

Peter stared. Gotham? That didn’t make sense. He had never heard of a city called Gotham—no news reports, no maps, nothing. The name meant absolutely nothing to him, and that alone was strange.

A crack of thunder split the sky, lightning flashing gold against the skyline. The first drops of rain were cold against his skin, soaking into his hoodie. The neon signs flickered, some buzzing weakly, others half-dead, their glow distorted in puddles on the pavement.

Peter glanced around, trying to find shelter from the storm. A building caught his eye—a small, slightly cleaner structure amidst the decay. He read the sign above the door: Gotham Public Library.

Peter paused. He was a nerd, always had been, and the idea of being surrounded by books; well Peter stood there as Eve stood in front of the glistening apple, temptation whispering in his ear, and who was Peter to refuse shelter from the storm brewing outside.

However, the building felt dim and hollow, its silence thick like a suffocating fog. He stepped quietly inside, the sharp sound of a woman’s voice cut through the stillness, her tone stern. There is the sound of the rapid clicking of a keyboard paired with the mystery woman, sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat in a lifeless place; if Peter hadn’t had enhanced hearing he doesn’t think he would have heard it.

But, May and Ben had taught him better than to judge a place by its looks. And god, his name still left a gaping hole in his chest, raw, jagged, and aching. But that pain was faint compared to the searing ache of her absence; her loss clung to him like a shadow, ingrained behind his eyelids. Her last breath still haunts him, reverberating in his ears like an unholy whisper, a reminder of who he couldn’t save.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on a sign that pointed him toward the computers. A jolt of excitement shot through him, quick and electric, as if his body couldn’t help but react to the possibility of something that might finally move him forward. He nearly broke into a run, only to stop abruptly when his gaze fell upon the tech—ancient, clunky machines that looked as if they’d been relics of another era. The thought crossed his mind that they might not even work, so worn down and forgotten they seemed.

With a resigned sigh, he slowly made his way over to the nearest desk, sitting down in the creaky chair, its worn cushions giving under his weight. He deliberately ignored the stale scent of dust and mildew that clung to the room, the air thick and suffocating. Reaching forward, he powered the machine on, only to be met with a cold, unyielding sign-in screen. His stomach twisted in frustration. If he didn’t know how to hack, he’d be stuck—forced to drag the mystery woman away from whatever she was doing in her office. And from the sharp edge in her voice, whatever she was working on, it was important, demanding her full attention.

Peter knew how to get past the barriers of signing in to something he definitely shouldn’t have access to, Ned would have laughed at him right now. It took barely two minutes before he was in. Once the screen opened, he clicked on a web browser he didn’t recognize and did what he did best: research.

He started with Gotham. From the first few results, it was clear the city was a disaster. Criminals, villains—this place seemed to be full of them, and the people living here seemed to be at the mercy of the chaos. He searched for heroes but found nothing that matched what he knew. No Avengers. No SHIELD.

A cold dread settled in his gut. His fingers moved faster now as he typed in names he knew. Nothing. No Iron Man. No Captain America. No Spider-Man.

Panic curled itself into a tight ball in his chest, a heaviness that pressed down on his lungs. Fear began to creep in, dulling his focus. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the world he knew.

He quickly erased his history and shut off the computer, but the weight of what he’d just discovered felt suffocating. He wanted to move, to get out, but his body felt frozen. It was as though the blood within his veins had turned to stone, and he couldn’t escape.

Behind-worried-safe?

Peter spun around, instincts kicking in, his body tensing despite his spider-sense giving off only a mild warning. This woman wasn’t dangerous. He recognized her heartbeat as matching the one of the woman giving orders earlier. Her head was tilted, brows furrowed, a clear look of concern on her face as she scanned him.

“You look like you’re searching for something impossible.” The voice was smooth and casual, but there was an edge to it—a quiet kind of awareness.

Peter turned slowly. A woman sat before him in a wheelchair, expression sharp and assessing. A different form of shock flew through him; how hadn’t he heard her come over here?

“Uh, no,” Peter said quickly. “Just catching up on the news.”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You don’t look like the type to be interested in local crime reports.”

Peter shrugged. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“Clearly.” Her eyes flicked toward him before glancing at the screen in front of him. “Name?”

There was a beat of hesitation before Peter answered, “Parker.”

Her gaze lingered. “Rough night?”

Peter stiffened. “Something like that.”

Barbara hummed, then leaned back slightly. “Well, Parker, if you ever need a quiet place, the library’s open late. No questions asked.”

He nodded, taking this chance to mumble a thanks and make his exit.

As soon as he was gone, Barbara pulled out her phone.

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🦇 Batchat 🦇
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Babs [13:06]: Met a kid today. Something’s off. Looked completely lost.

Duke [13:07]: Gotham ‘off’ or actual off?

Babs [13:08]: Definitely not local. NY accent. Said his name's Parker. Seemed like he had no idea where he was.

Steph [13:09]: Like, ‘I took the wrong train’ lost or ‘I don’t know where I am’ lost?

Damian [13:10]: Suspicious. Should I follow?

Tim [13:11]: Let’s not stalk the kid (yet). What else?

Babs [13:14]: Just a feeling. He seemed... disconnected. And you should have seen the bruise on his face, someone large had to have done it.

Duke [13:15]: Noted. I’ll keep an eye out.

Cass [13:16]: [👍]

Dick [13:17]: Think he’s dangerous?

Babs [13:18]: Not sure. Just stay alert.

Tim [13:19]: We always do.

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Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t let up. It clung to Peter’s skin like a second layer, soaking through his hoodie and seeping into his bones, an unshakable chill that no movement could shake. It was the kind of cold that didn’t just sit on the surface—it burrowed, settling deep beneath the skin, curling around his ribs like a vice. The city around him felt wrong, like a puzzle where none of the pieces quite fit. 

The air here was heavier, saturated with something unspoken, thick with a tension that pressed into his skull like the dull throb of an oncoming migraine. It wasn’t just the weight of pollution or the scent of damp asphalt. It was an expectation—as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.

The library’s musty air had offered a temporary reprieve, a break from the suffocating reality he’d been thrown into, but stepping back into the open made it all feel worse.

His fingers twitched. An instinct. He wanted—needed—to feel the wind rush past his skin, to throw himself into the air, to move the way he always had. But even if his muscles weren’t screaming in exhaustion, even if he had the energy to web-sling through this unfamiliar place, where would he even go?

His limbs felt leaden as he moved through the streets, each step slow and deliberate. His body ached—deep, throbbing pain that settled into his bones, the aftermaths of a battle still rippling through his being. He didn’t know how he got here. He didn’t know where ‘here’ even was. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop, not yet. Not when every fiber of his being screamed at him that he wasn’t supposed to be here.

His mind churned, trying to piece things together. Strange’s spell, the goodbye, the void that swallowed him whole. And now this—a city that shouldn’t exist. A city that shouldn’t exist. A world where Peter Parker was nothing more than a name whispered to no one. Where Spider-Man had never spun a single web.

He had no home here. No safety net. No one was waiting for him.

His limbs felt heavy as he walked, his steps slow and deliberate. Each footfall echoed through the empty streets, swallowed up by Gotham’s endless sprawl. The pain in his body was no longer sharp—it had settled into a dull, persistent ache, buried deep in his bones like an old injury that would never quite heal. He didn’t know how he got here. 

He kept to the shadows, hood low over his face, eyes scanning his surroundings. Gotham revealed itself in layers—towering buildings with glass windows streaked in grime, neon signs flickering like dying stars, and streetlights that buzzed and hummed like insects waiting to burn out. A siren wailed somewhere far off, sharp and distant, cutting through the rain-drenched silence.

This city wasn’t alive the way New York was. It wasn’t just dangerous—it was dying. Rotting from the inside out.

His spider-sense wasn’t screaming, but it never quite settled, either. It lurked at the base of his skull, a slow, crawling unease that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. The city breathed differently. People moved differently—shoulders hunched, gazes darting, steps quick and measured like they were waiting for the ground to fall out from under them.

Even in the quiet, he felt watched. Not by cameras, not by patrol drones, not by anything tangible. But by something.

He shivered. Pulled his hoodie tighter.

He needed shelter. Somewhere to rest, to think. To process the unbearable weight pressing into his chest.

Most buildings were locked up tight, their doors bolted shut as if trying to keep out the very city itself. But then, a sliver of opportunity—an old apartment complex, windows shattered, door hanging loose on a broken hinge.

He hesitated, glancing around. No security cameras. No movement inside. No obvious signs of squatters.

It would do.

He slipped inside, his footsteps careful against the cracked tile. The air was thick with dust, the scent of mildew clogging his lungs. Exposed pipes groaned within the walls, the wind whispering through shattered glass above.

The place was abandoned. Forgotten.

Just like him.

Carefully, he made his way up the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked too loudly. Most of the doors were either broken open or locked tight, but on the third floor, he found what he was looking for—an apartment with an open door, its interior mostly intact.

Inside, the room was stripped bare. No furniture except for an old mattress shoved into the corner, and no signs that anyone had been here recently. It wasn’t much, but it was dry, and more importantly, it was his for now. 

Sighing, Peter shut the door behind him and leaned against it. His body screamed in protest, the exhaustion settling in deep. For the first time since waking up in this city, he let himself breathe.

The silence pressed against him. He was used to silence—he’d lived in an apartment where the only thing that broke it was the hum of a refrigerator or the murmur of television filling the gaps. But this? This was different. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet of home, of familiarity. This was empty. Hollow. 

He moved on autopilot, collapsing onto the mattress, ignoring the way the fabric smelled faintly of dust and mildew. His body ached. His mind reeled. But beneath all of that, beneath the exhaustion and the confusion, there was something worse.

He’d told himself he could handle this. That it was worth it. That as long as the people he loved were safe—happy—then he could live with being forgotten.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just that they didn’t remember him. It was that now, he would never see them again. Never have the small comfort of standing at a distance, watching them laugh. Never visit May’s grave. Never leave flowers for Uncle Ben. Never stand before Tony’s memorial and know that people still cared.

A choked breath escaped him. His chest felt tight, his throat raw. His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. 

They were gone. Completely, irrevocably gone. 

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. He didn’t deserve to cry. This was the choice he had made. He had let them forget him. He had chosen to let the world move on.

But God, it hurt. 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts away. He was too tired for this. Too drained. Too beaten down. He needed to sleep. He needed to think clearly, to figure out his next move. 

But the grief refused to let him go.

So he lay there, staring at the ceiling’s cracked, water-stained surface, and let the weight of his loneliness suffocate him.

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The rain had dulled into a faint drizzle, tapping against the broken window like ghostly fingers. His limbs were stiff, the mattress beneath him doing little to ease the aches in his body.

He exhaled slowly, sitting up. His body protested the movement, his muscles stiff from the cold, the exhaustion of the past day still heavy in his bones. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the soreness as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. A few hours, maybe. It was still dark from what Peter could see from the window within his new home.

Peter ran a hand through his tangled curls, his fingers catching on the knots. With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up from the mattress. His stomach twisted—not from hunger, not really, but from the uncomfortable awareness that at some point, he would need to eat. He couldn’t survive on willpower alone.

His fingers twitched toward his pocket, instinctively reaching for something that wasn’t there. His phone.

Right.

He didn’t have a phone. No contacts. No messages waiting. No lifeline. His number didn’t exist. His entire digital footprint had been wiped away along with his name.

For all intents and purposes, Peter Parker had never been.

He let his hand drop back to his side.

It was stupid. He knew this was what he had chosen. He had accepted it. But knowing it and feeling it were two very different things.

The apartment around him was still and lifeless, empty in a way that reminded him too much of himself. He needed to move. Needed to do something other than sit here, alone, drowning in his thoughts. 

With careful steps, he moved toward the broken window, peering out at the city below.

The streets were wet with rain, reflecting the sickly glow of the neon signs that flickered in the distance. Even at this hour, Gotham wasn’t entirely still—shadowed figures moved beneath the streetlights, and an occasional car drifted lazily through the roads, their headlights cutting through the fog.

It wasn’t enough. The apartment around him felt even smaller now. Like the walls had crept closer, squeezing the air from the room.

He needed to breathe.

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling.

The roof.

The decision was made before he even realized he was moving. He slipped out of the apartment, stepping lightly over groaning floorboards. The stairwell door resisted when he pushed, metal rusted from years of neglect, but it gave way with a groan, revealing the narrow climb to the top.

Cold air slithered through the cracks, carrying the scent of wet concrete.

Peter ascended in silence.

The final door stood ajar. A sliver of night bled through. He nudged it open, stepping onto the rooftop.

Gotham stretched before him—dark, jagged, endless. Thick clouds swallowed the stars whole, and neon signs flickered in the distance like dying embers. The city pulsed below, its heartbeat slow and feverish, waiting for the next wound to open.

From here, he could see more of Gotham—its towering buildings, the labyrinth of alleys and streets twisting below. It was a city that never seemed to end, stretching into the darkness, swallowing everything in its path.

It wasn’t home.

New York had its shadows, its grime, and danger, but there was still life beneath it all. The city thrived, pulsed with energy, with hope.

Gotham… Gotham was something else entirely.

It was like the city itself was waiting for something to go wrong as if disaster wasn’t an if, but a when.

Peter stepped forward, his fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to swing—to throw himself into the air, to move like he always had, to feel something familiar—but the thought of being spotted, of drawing attention to himself, kept him still.

He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

So instead, he just stood there.

Let the wind push against him. Let the city breathe around him.

He closed his eyes, listening to the distant hum of Gotham at night. The muffled sounds of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter, or drunken shouts from below. Somewhere far off, a siren howled, cutting through the quiet.

His chest ached.

He had felt small before. But never like this.

Even when the weight of the world had been on his shoulders, even when he had stood alone against impossible odds, there had always been something—someone—tethering him to the ground.

Now?

Now he was just a ghost in a city that didn’t know him.

A shadow in the dark.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling into fists. He wanted to do something. To find a purpose, a reason to keep moving. But all he could do was stand there, letting the rain drip from his curls, staring out at a city that would never call his name.

Chapter Text

The rain had eased into a misty drizzle, clinging to Peter’s skin like the ghost of a storm. Gotham stretched endlessly before him, a sea of concrete and neon drowning in shadows. It should’ve felt freeing—being this high up, above the weight of the streets below—but it didn’t. The city pressed in from all sides, vast and unknowable, like a beast waiting for him to slip.

It loomed, a thing with too many eyes and not enough warmth.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as his fingers twitched at his sides. His body ached from… everything. His muscles were heavy, his thoughts heavier.

The crawling unease at the back of his skull was familiar—his spider sense whispering, nudging, urging him to pay attention.

Watching-Hello?-Concerned

He wasn’t alone.

Peter barely had time to react before the quiet scuff of boots landed behind him.

He turned sharply, every muscle tensed, eyes locking onto a figure standing a few feet away. The guy was tall, but broad-shouldered, built like someone who knew how to break things—bones, walls, people. His armor was dark, outlined with red, the color stark against the rain-slick black. But the helmet… the helmet was what sent a jolt of unease through Peter’s gut. Smooth, solid crimson, like a bloodstain that refused to wash away.

The stranger didn’t move. Not yet. He just stood there, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly. Watching. Assessing. Peter felt dissected in a way that made his nerves spark like the guy was peeling back layers he hadn’t meant to show.

“You’re pretty young to be up here.” The voice was distorted through the helmet, low and even, but there was something beneath it—curiosity, maybe. A thread of something else Peter couldn’t place.

Peter forced his shoulders to relax. “Yeah, well. It’s a free rooftop.”

The man tilted his head slightly. “That so?”

Peter shrugged, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Just getting some air. City’s a little… much.”

The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably long.

Peter could feel the way he was being studied—every shift in posture, every microexpression. He knew the feeling too well. The way certain people could just see through him as though he were made of glass.

Then came the verdict.

“You’re a terrible liar, kid.”

Peter huffed. “Yeah, well, maybe you should mind your own business.”

The man let out a quiet scoff—like a laugh, but without any real humor behind it. “Trust me, I’d love to. But I make it my business when I see a kid standing too close to the edge, looking like they just lost everything.”

Peter stiffened. The words cut too deep, hit too close.

“I wasn’t—I’m not—”

A hand raised, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not here to drag your life story out of you.” A beat. Then, softer, “Just making sure you’re not planning on doing something you can’t take back.”

Peter swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. He looked away. “I wasn’t.”

The man was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he reached into one of his pouches and tossed something at Peter.

On instinct, Peter caught it.

A protein bar.

He blinked down at it, then up at the man. “Uh—?”

“You look like hell,” the man said flatly. “And I’m betting you haven’t eaten in a while.”

Peter curled his fingers around the wrapper, the gesture throwing him off more than it should have.

Gripping the protein bar a little tighter, a scowl painted his face, “Wow. Thanks.”

The man ignored the sarcasm. “You got somewhere to go?”

Peter forced a laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you really jump to conclusions, huh? What if I just like high places.”

The silence that followed stretched longer than before.

“…Right,” the man said eventually. “I’ll play along. Your ‘somewhere to go’—does it have four walls? A roof? A door that locks?”

Peter kept his eyes on the skyline. “I’ve got a place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The guy let out a quiet huff. “Terrible liar.”

Peter scowled. “Well, it matches your criteria. Besides, you don’t even know me.”

“Didn’t need to. It’s written all over you.”

He turned slightly, looking toward the fire escape. He didn’t move yet, but something in Peter’s chest tightened anyway.

“If you’re smart, you’ll get off this roof before someone worse than me finds you.”

Peter hesitated. His fingers curled tighter around the protein bar.

“…Why do you care?”

The man paused but didn’t look back. For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain tapping against the concrete.

“Dunno,” he said finally. “Guess I’ve got a soft spot for kids who think they’re alone. Go home, kid.”

He dropped onto the fire escape without another word, vanishing into the shadows as easily as he had appeared.

Peter stood there for a while, staring at the space where the man had been. The protein bar felt heavier in his grip than it should have.

He exhaled, slipping it into his pocket. Saving it for later.

Then, slowly, he turned back toward the city, the wind pressing against his back.

Still alone.

But maybe, just for a moment, it hadn’t felt that way.

The city stretched before him, but Peter didn’t move.

Not yet.

The protein bar in his pocket felt heavier than it should, like the weight of someone else’s concern pressed into his palm. He hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t expected it. And yet, for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

Instead, he curled his fingers around the edge of his hoodie and exhaled, breath fogging faintly in the cool night air. His spider sense had quieted, but his nerves hadn’t. The guy—whoever he was—had disappeared as fast as he arrived, swallowed by the city like he had never been there at all.

But Peter could still feel the space he’d occupied. The way his presence had lingered.

A soft gust of wind pushed against his back, urging him away from the ledge.

He let it.

With a small shake of his head, Peter stepped away from the edge and made his way toward the fire escape on the opposite side of the building. The metal was cold beneath his fingers as he climbed down, slow and methodical, keeping his breathing steady. His limbs still ached, exhaustion deep in his bones, but he pushed through it. He always did.

The city didn’t sleep, and neither did he.

His feet hit the pavement, the damp air pressing in closer now that he was back on solid ground. The streets weren’t busy—not in this part of town—but there were still a few late-night wanderers, their faces obscured by rain-slick hoods or the glow of their phones. Gotham was different from New York, but the rhythm of the streets was familiar.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders as he walked. He didn’t have a destination—he never did—but he couldn’t just stand still.

Standing still meant thinking.

Thinking meant remembering.

So he kept moving.

His stomach twisted, hollow and aching, but he ignored it. The protein bar in his pocket was a reminder that he could eat if he wanted to, but the thought of food sat heavy in his chest. Saved for later, when he needed it most.

For now, he just needed to exist.

His senses stretched outward, mapping the city as he walked. The low hum of neon signs, the distant wail of a siren, the quiet shuffle of someone shifting in an alleyway. A stray cat darted across the sidewalk ahead of him, its fur slicked dark from the rain.

The streets blurred together as he walked, his mind caught in the undertow of exhaustion and grief. He didn’t have a destination, not really. Just away. Away from the rooftop, from the weight of a stranger’s words that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow did.

The mugger came out of nowhere.

A rough hand grabbed his hoodie and yanked him back, slamming him against the damp brick of an alleyway. Peter’s instincts screamed at him to react, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t—he couldn’t.

“Well, what do we have here?” The man sneered, his breath reeking of cigarettes and something sour. Two others loomed behind him, shadows shifting in the dim streetlight.

Peter exhaled slowly. He could handle this. Should handle this.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said, voice even. “I’m kind of in between jobs.”

The leader’s grin twisted. “Funny guy.”

A hand rifled through his pockets, shoving roughly against his ribs. His fingers twitched, muscle memory begging him to react.

But the static in his skull surged—spider-sense flaring, not just at the muggers but at something else.

WATCHING-Danger!-NotSafe

Someone was watching.

It was a cold weight at the base of his spine, crawling up, tightening around his throat.

His hesitation cost him.

The leader clicked his tongue in annoyance, yanking Peter forward before shoving him back—hard. His shoulder hit brick first, pain blooming down his arm.

“He’s got nothing,” one of the others grumbled.

The leader scoffed. “Then he’s wasting our time.”

Within seconds Peter was on the ground. The first kick landed square in his side, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Peter curled inward on instinct, protecting his ribs as a second blow followed. Then another. Each one rattled through him, sharp and punishing. He could stop this. Could end it in seconds. But the eyes—whoever, wherever they were—burned into him, an unseen force pinning him in place.

He couldn’t afford to be found out.

Not like this.

Not again.

A final kick landed, sharp against his ribs, before the leader spat onto the pavement.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

Then they were gone, fading into the night like they had never been there at all.

Peter stayed where he was, forehead resting against the cold, wet pavement. He focused on breathing—on the sharp ache in his ribs, on the way the air burned going down. His body would heal. It always did.

The presence lingered. Watching. Waiting.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Not because he’d fought back. Not because he’d done anything to make it worth staying.

Whoever it was… they’d lost interest. Like Peter’s failure wasn’t even worth their attention.

Peter forced himself up with a quiet groan, pressing a hand to his ribs. The city stretched out around him, indifferent. The rain kept falling. The world kept moving.

And somewhere out there, someone had been watching. Expecting. Waiting for something he didn’t give them.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He exhaled shakily, wrapping an arm around his ribs as he started walking. The apartment wasn’t far. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter. A place to disappear.

Still, the feeling of unseen eyes lingered, crawling under his skin.

Whoever they were, they weren’t impressed.

And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter Text

The city didn’t just turn dark at night; it sank into darkness like the light had packed up and left without saying goodbye. Gotham didn’t do twilight. It did decay. The kind that clings to your skin, seeps into your bones, wraps around your organs until it becomes part of you. Streetlights lined the cracked sidewalks like broken teeth, coated in grime and gasping their last breath of flickering yellow haze. Every alley was a throat ready to swallow you whole, shadows stretching long and low like claws reaching for anything warm, anything still breathing.

Gotham didn’t have night. It was night. Like the sun had looked at this place and decided it wasn’t worth rising over anymore. There was something in the air here, something thick and heavy that wasn’t just the usual city stench of garbage and exhaust fumes. It felt like despair, like the entire place had been abandoned by hope. You could smell it, taste it. It lingered in the damp concrete, in the stale air seeping through cracks in the crumbling buildings, and in the deep shadows that never seemed to let go.

He hadn’t realized how bad it was until he tried to breathe deeper, and the air refused to fill his chest properly. Blood had dried stiff at his hairline, tugging painfully at his scalp with each movement. The cold sliced through the rips in his hoodie, curling around his spine like a warning. Even the air here felt heavier, as if it had weight and judgment, and Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that every step he took was one closer to some kind of reckoning.

Everything ached. Not the kind of ache that screams for attention; this one whispered, constant and low, like a reminder that he was still breathing, still bleeding, still here. His body was sore, but it was more than that. He felt tired in a way that was deeper than muscle fatigue, like the exhaustion had worked its way into his soul.

He still didn’t know where "here" really was. Just the name, Gotham. A few scattered facts stolen from the century-old computer in the corner of that library: Batman, Robin, Arkham Asylum. Big names, with no real meaning to him. Like learning about a thunderstorm by watching a single lightning flash.

His fingers brushed against something in his pocket. The protein bar. He’d forgotten about it. That guy in the helmet had tossed it like it didn’t mean anything like Peter himself didn’t mean anything, just a kid in the wrong place with the wrong face. Not dangerous. Not trustworthy. Just… strange.

Peter was used to that look. He’d seen it a hundred times since Ben had died. A handful more after he lost everything.

Up ahead, the apartment building sagged like a wounded animal.  Its windows were shattered, glass-like teeth in broken gums, and the front door still hung limp on its hinge. No lights. No sound. No people. And that was the closest thing to safety he could hope for.

He stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him even though it wouldn't close all the way. The hallway smelled of mildew and time, thick and wet like something rotting in the walls. His footsteps echoed off the cracked tile and peeling paint. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe groaned like it was in pain.

Third floor. End of the hall. He’d found it earlier while looking for somewhere to disappear. The door was still half-open, just as he’d left it. He slipped inside, quietly.

Nothing had changed.

The apartment was barely that; a cracked shell of what once might’ve been a life. A stained mattress slumped in the corner like it had given up years ago.  Paint peeled from the walls in brittle flakes, and the ceiling bore water damage shaped like a slow, creeping bruise. Dust hung in the air like old ghosts, thick and heavy. But it was dry. It was quiet. It was his, for now.

Peter lowered himself onto the mattress with a hiss. It crinkled beneath him, releasing a faint smell of mold and something metallic. He tugged off his jacket with slow, aching movements. His T-shirt stuck to his side, crusted with blood and sweat, peeling away like a scab. Beneath it, his ribs were a mess of blotches of purple and green, shadows of fists and concrete. A jagged scrape ran down his side like a signature from the beating that had brought him here in this state. The bleeding had stopped. The pain hadn’t.

He sat for a while, bent forward, breathing shallowly. Not thinking. Just existing. Each inhale burned, reminding him of the bruises pressing against his lungs. He didn’t try to push the thoughts away. There was no point. 

Eventually, he pulled out the protein bar. The wrapper was warm from being in his pocket, smoothed by the press of his hand. He stared at it for a moment, like it might vanish if he blinked. He didn’t even like this kind, chalky oats and a sad excuse for peanut butter, but hunger didn’t care about taste. It just growled and gnawed and waited.

He bit into it. It was stale. He chewed anyway, swallowing the dry chunks as if they could fill the void, if only for a moment. 

As he ate, he leaned against the wall, his body trembling with the exhaustion that always followed adrenaline. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was tight, like the building itself was listening. Every creak sounded like footsteps. Every gust of wind through a broken window felt like breath on his neck. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows your name.

Peter exhaled through his nose, trying to push the tension from his shoulders, but it didn’t work. His mind refused to settle.

This wasn’t some origin story. No magical mentor was about to step out of the shadows. No inspirational training montage was queued up. There were no neat narrative arcs or speeches about power and responsibility. Not anymore. This wasn’t a second chance.

This was survival.

He’d made a choice, to save his world, to protect the people he loved. He knew the cost. He knew that asking Strange to cast that spell meant giving up everything: Ned, MJ, his apartment, his past. And he’d done it anyway.

No backup. No Avengers. No gadgets. Just a nearly-empty web cartridge and the clothes on his back. He’d told himself that was heroic. Noble, even.

But sitting here in the ruins of a stranger’s life, with mold in the mattress and blood on his shirt, it just felt lonely.

He hadn’t known the spell would drop him here, to a world that didn’t need him, didn’t want him. He had no plan, no purpose in this place, only the gnawing awareness that the life he knew, the one he fought for, was gone.

He swallowed the last of the bar and let the wrapper fall from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dead leaf. Then he lay back, groaning as the mattress dipped beneath him. It smelled like damp rust and regret. He curled onto his side, slow and careful, the bruises on his ribs protesting every movement.

Tomorrow, he’d find food. Maybe steal from a corner store, just enough to get by. He still had twenty bucks hidden in his shoe, but that wouldn’t stretch far. No phone. No ID. No friends. No name anyone here would recognize.

Except maybe that guy in the red helmet.

But even he didn’t know Peter Parker. Nobody did anymore.

The mattress creaked again as he shifted. He stared at the cracked ceiling until the lines blurred and his eyes burned. It was cold. It was still.

But he was still breathing.

Still here.

Still Peter Parker.

And even if no one else knew what that meant, he did.

Chapter Text

Morning in Gotham didn’t come with birdsong or sunshine; it limped in, liminal and gray, like the sky had tired of trying. Peter woke with his face pressed into a mattress that smelled like mildew and copper. His ribs screamed the second he moved, and for a split moment, he forgot where he was.

Then it hit him. The silence. The ache. The weight of being utterly, invisibly alone.

He sat up slowly, every motion a negotiation. His hoodie, still damp with yesterday's cold, clung to him like regret. The blood had dried into brittle flakes against his skin, and when he scratched at it absentmindedly, it felt like rust.

Food. That was today’s goal. Not comfort, not answers, just something to eat that didn’t taste like chalk and cardboard guilt.

He made his way back down the apartment's stairwell, footsteps featherlight, ears tuned for trouble. The city greeted him like an open wound: raw, loud, and unforgiving. Somewhere, a car backfired; somewhere else, someone screamed. Nobody looked twice at a skinny teen in a ripped hoodie and scuffed shoes. In Gotham, invisibility wasn’t a power. It was a symptom.

A bodega stood on the corner, barred windows and neon signs buzzing weakly against the morning gloom. Peter stood across the street, watching. There were no armed guards or cameras that he could see, but his heart still thundered, his mind already three steps ahead, planning escape routes.

He didn’t want to do this. He had to.

He ducked into the store, head down, shoulders slouched. The clerk barely glanced at him. Peter slipped through the narrow aisles, moving fast. Two granola bars. A bottle of water. A can of something with the label scratched off, probably beans or maybe expired hope. He shoved them under his hoodie, hand on the door.

Then the clerk shouted. Something sharp in a language Peter didn’t understand, but the tone was clear enough. Peter ran.

He didn’t remember choosing a direction. He just sprinted, lungs on fire, the stolen food thumping painfully against his ribs. A woman yelled as he darted past, her umbrella slapping the air behind him. He turned down an alley that smelled like rot and wet cardboard, and he collapsed behind a rusted-out fire escape.

His breathing came in shallow gasps. He was trembling. Not from the run, but from shame.

“Great job, Parker,” he muttered. “Spider-Man: Protector of the Innocent, Grand Theft Granola Bars.”

He didn’t cry. Not really. But he stayed crouched there for a long time, forehead pressed to his knees, the cold metal of the can digging into his bruised ribs as if punishing him.

Then, somewhere in the dark hollow of his memory, he heard her voice.

“You’re not a bad person, Peter. You just… care too much. And that hurts sometimes.”

Aunt May. Soft smile. Tired eyes. The way her hugs wrapped around you like they were trying to put you back together.

She was gone. Just like Uncle Ben. Just like MJ and Ned, unreachable. Unremembering. He had made the choice. Chosen their safety over his belonging. And he’d do it again.

But that didn’t make it hurt less.

Eventually, hunger pulled him upright. Not the kind that could be ignored, the kind that hollowed. That made the city’s grime smell like dinner and guilt taste like survival.

The granola bar crumbled slightly as he opened it, the foil catching a stray glint of morning light like a joke. He ate slowly, as if chewing faster would acknowledge how desperate he was. It tasted like preservatives and the kind of shame that stuck to your ribs longer than any calories.

He didn’t touch the can. Something about it, the unknown contents, maybe, or the way it had hit his bruised side when he crumpled to the ground, felt like a boundary. One more thing to break.

The alley coughed up a breeze, carrying with it the scent of wet concrete, motor oil, and the faintest trace of something sweeter, coffee, maybe. A reminder that somewhere nearby, people were living ordinary mornings. People with homes and keys and breakfast tables. People who weren’t underweight and talking to ghosts.

Peter glanced down at his reflection in a puddle. His face wasn’t different; no sudden change, no distortion, just worn. Exhaustion clung to him, hollowing him out. He wasn’t just tired, he felt stripped. Like the city had sanded him down to something raw and unrecognizable.

He remembered the first time he put the suit on. The way it felt to defy gravity, to matter. A kid who used to swing between skyscrapers. Who used to feel the wind in his teeth and laugh. A kid who’d once believed “With great power…” meant something clear. Something righteous.

Somewhere deeper in the city, a siren wailed. He didn’t flinch. Gotham’s lullabies were all in minor key.

The siren faded into the distance. Peter didn’t follow it with his ears, didn’t lean into the noise like he might’ve back home, like it was a call to arms. This wasn’t home. He didn’t even know what the sirens meant here. Police? Fire? Some caped lunatic in black sweeping through with fists like trauma and a scowl carved from bedrock?

He didn’t know. And he wasn’t in a rush to find out.

The city was too much. Too much steel, too much smoke, too many faces behind too many windows. Gotham didn’t wear its corruption like New York had: loud, proud, polished into a corporate grin. Gotham let its sickness rot in the open. Even the sky looked guilty.

Peter eventually stood. The damp had crept into his jeans, and his back was beginning to lock up from the cold. He adjusted the hoodie, pulling it tighter, careful not to jostle the can tucked inside. One more granola bar. One dented tin of god-knows-what. A bottle of water he was rationing like it contained liquid gold instead of tap-filtered mystery.

He wasn’t going to waste it. Not yet. You didn’t blow your supplies on day one. Not when you had no map, no allies, and no plan. Just bruises and a long history of doing exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right time.

The cold stuck to him like a second skin. He wandered, half-limping, through alleyways stitched together by shadows. Trash skittered underfoot. Someone was yelling two streets over, the kind of fight where nobody won, just took turns losing louder.

Peter didn’t look.

He passed a church with its windows boarded up, “HOLY” graffitied out to read just “HO.” A flock of pigeons exploded off the roof as he moved past, and for a moment, the world was feathers and wings and noise. Then it went still once more.

The city sprawled before him, filthy and loud, but Peter just kept walking, trying to ignore the weight of it all.

He turned a corner, finding himself in another alley, the familiar smell of mildew and wet concrete heavy in the air. He didn’t even stop to look around, just kept moving, feet clacking against the cracked pavement. Gotham had a way of making you feel small, insignificant, like everyone had already given up before you even showed up.

He walked deeper into the alley, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the thick, oppressive silence that hung in the air. He didn’t need the quiet, didn’t need the time to think. But his legs carried him anyway.

Up ahead, a building rose like a jagged tooth, its brick walls rough and scarred. Peter didn’t hesitate. His hands slid out of his pockets, eyes narrowing slightly as he approached. With a fluid motion, he shot up the wall, his fingers digging into the brick like they’d been designed for it. His feet found purchase as he scaled the surface with ease, the concrete and metal underfoot like old friends.

It was second nature; climb, cling, ascend. He made quick work of it, pulling himself up until he reached the roof. He paused for a moment, his chest heaving with the effort, before sliding his leg over the edge and dropping onto the flat surface with a soft thud.

The rooftop stretched out before him, a sea of grey with dark, jagged edges, just like the rest of Gotham. He let out a slow breath, one that didn’t feel like it cleared much. The wind caught the hem of his hoodie, but it didn’t bring the kind of relief he was looking for. It was just the same: cold, biting, indifferent.

He walked toward the edge of the roof, glancing down for a moment before sitting on the ledge, his legs hanging over the side. He didn’t feel the need to keep moving anymore. Here, on top of the city, it was quiet, the noise of Gotham muted by the height. But the quiet didn’t comfort him, it felt just as hollow as everything else.

The wind tugged at his hoodie, pushing him a little further into the emptiness of the city. He didn’t think of home. He didn’t think of his loved ones, of MJ or Aunt May or anyone he could’ve reached out to. They didn’t exist here, and he couldn’t make them.

Get through today. Tomorrow will figure itself out, he reminded himself.

But even the thought of tomorrow felt hollow. Gotham wasn’t a place where you waited for things to change. It changed you.

He didn’t need to keep moving anymore. The wind cut across the roof, tugging at his hoodie, but the chill didn’t offer solace. It was just another reminder that there was no real escape, not even in the silence of this rooftop.

The city opened in front of him like a cracked rib cage, showing off its butterflies and rotten roots. He could see the faint outline of other rooftops in the distance. Gotham wasn’t home, not to him. It was a city full of ghosts, people with shattered dreams, all just trying to survive.

Here, he was just a kid sitting on a roof, with nothing but the echoes of who he used to be and the cold that always reminded him he was alone.

He dragged his hand across his face, the weight of it all sinking in, the city starting to buzz with life below him, life he wasn’t a part of. The hollow ache in his chest made it hard to breathe.

He didn’t look for a sense of belonging anymore. Gotham wasn’t going to give him that. It wasn’t going to give him answers, or anyone who could fix what was broken. The place didn’t offer peace. It just swallowed you whole.

Peter stayed there for a while, feeling like the city was slowly folding him into itself. It was easier than facing the reality that it was all different now. Everything he’d known was gone.

Then, something down below caught his attention.

On a nearby fire escape, two children sat on the metal stairs. One of them had a deck of cards spread out, the edges curling from use. The other held a lollipop, swinging his legs, his voice loud enough to carry up to Peter’s perch.

"I'm telling you, bro, my cousin saw Batman last week. Swear to God. Said he just appeared behind this mugger, like, poof! Like magic or smoke or... vampire vibes.”

"No way, man. Batman’s not real. That’s just what cops say when they rough someone up too hard. ‘Oh no, wasn’t us, it was the Bat!’ Pfft."

"Then who’s that guy who throws car batteries at criminals?"

"That’s just Gotham."

Peter blinked, staring down at the kids. He wasn’t sure what hit harder, the absurdity of their conversation or the sudden pang of something like homesickness. Kids being kids, talking about vigilantes like they were urban myths and lunch-table gossip. The kind of things he used to be part of. The kind of thing that made him Spider-Man in his own world.

He missed that. He missed being the headline rumor, the mystery. The kid who showed up at school with a bandage on his face because he'd been fighting bad guys, not because he'd taken a punch from life itself.

He leaned forward a little, his elbows on his knees, listening a little longer, half out of loneliness, half because it felt like spying on a life he couldn’t have anymore.

Eventually, the kids got up to leave, one of them dropping a candy wrapper onto the fire escape. The other smacked him, giving him a mock scowl, then made him pick it up. The brief moment of sibling bickering felt oddly... normal.

Peter felt something tighten in his chest. It was sharp and quick, but then it loosened. Good kids.

Peter watched the whole exchange from his rooftop perch, crouched low with his hood pulled forward like it could shield him from the world. It couldn’t, but habits didn’t care about facts.

He didn’t feel better. Nothing about this place made him feel better. But something about the kids, loud and messy and so certain of their made-up truths, itched at the edge of memory. Like looking at a photo of a home that didn’t exist anymore.

Eventually, he stood and pulled his hood tighter, like that might hold him together. Then he turned away from the edge and disappeared back into Gotham’s fractured skyline.

Chapter Text

Night fell unnoticed.

Darkness crept through the broken window, casting jagged shadows on the peeling walls. The sky outside was a deep, overcast gray, the kind that soaked light rather than offering any. A cold wind pushed through the shattered glass like an intruder, stirring dust motes that hung heavy in the stale air. The apartment groaned around him, pipes shuddering in the walls, floorboards whining beneath phantom weight.

Peter stirred. Not all at once, just a shift of shoulder, a wince at the cold that had settled in his spine overnight. The mildew-stained fabric crinkling beneath him. His hoodie was more threadbare than warm, and did little against the chill. Every movement hurt, a slow, dull ache in his joints that reminded him he wasn’t healing like he used to. Not here. Not now.

No suit. No mask. No web-shooters or familiar weight at his wrists. Just him. Just Peter. And this forgotten place with its water-stained ceiling and blistered wallpaper curling like old leaves. The smell of mildew had become part of him, woven into his clothes and hair. He didn’t care anymore. It didn’t smell like Queens. Didn’t smell like anything familiar. That helped in some twisted way.

He rose with effort and moved to the window. The city below shimmered under flickering lights and distant thunder. Gotham looked like it had been bruised long ago and never fully healed. The wind howled low through the broken panes, tugging at his sleeves like a child needing attention. He ignored it.

Outside, the hallway yawned empty. The door creaked as he nudged it mostly shut behind him. His steps echoed against cracked tile, the walls weeping flaked paint. The stairwell door protested like before, metal grinding like old bones, but it gave, letting him step into the dark, narrow climb to the rooftop. The apartment’s voice, familiar now. He listened to it.

The stairwell smelled like rust and rot and old rain. His footsteps echoed in the concrete well like they didn’t belong to him. The wind hit him full-on as he pushed the door open. The night air bit against his face, but he welcomed it. The rooftop was empty except for the detritus of time with rusted vents, broken bricks, weeds curling out of fissures. A few shards of glass glinted along the edge like forgotten stars.

Peter settled near the ledge, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He watched the world without really seeing it.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew he needed to be away from walls. From memories.

He let the cold settle into his bones. Thought about how far he’d come. How far he’d fallen.

May’s voice echoed in his mind; not in words, just warmth. The clink of mugs on the kitchen table. The smell of over-brewed coffee. A hand brushing his hair back. Tony’s smirk followed, full of unspoken grief and pride. He could still see the last look on his face.

He remembered all of them.

Too many funerals. Too many goodbyes. Too many last looks.

Peter drew in a shaky breath. There weren't any tears left. Just the empty space they used to occupy.

He didn’t know who he was here. He wasn’t Spider-Man. He was a boy in someone else’s nightmare, playing ghost in a city full of them.

And yet, he was still alive.

Minutes passed. Or hours. Time blurred like everything else.

He didn’t notice the presence at first. Just a change in the air, like the night tensing its shoulders. His spider sense whispered in the recesses of his skull, the feeling growing more familiar as the days passed. Like a half-remembered song in another room.

Watching-Hello?-Curious

"You always brood this loud?"

Peter stiffened but didn’t move. The voice wasn’t gravel and threat like Batman’s. It had a lilt. Amused, maybe.

He turned his head, slowly.

A man stood a few feet away, the skyline silhouetting black and blue. A sleek domino mask framed his eyes, the faint symbol of a bird spreading across his chest like a dare. Arms crossed. Relaxed posture. Not casual, controlled.

Peter blinked. “Let me guess. Another rooftop cryptid.”

“Close. Nightwing.”

The name landed with a thud in Peter’s brain. No match in the Gotham cheat-sheet he’d skimmed.

“Cool.” He turned back to the horizon. “You always sneak up on teenagers, or is this, like, a side hustle?”

Nightwing came closer, but didn’t sit. “You’ve been noticed. Red Hood mentioned you.”

Peter’s expression pinched, “Who?”

“Uh, red helmet, built like a brick house, acts broody?”

Peter rolled his eyes, now recognizing the description as the strange roof man. “Of course he did.”

Nightwing tilted his head, amused. “He said you were weird. And sad. But not dangerous.”

“High praise,” Peter muttered.

Nightwing took a few steps closer, still giving space. “You don’t look like you’re doing great.”

Peter gave a weak laugh. “You don’t say.”

Peter glanced at himself, then back at Nightwing. “Wow. Thanks. My self-esteem was really in danger of becoming stable.”

A soft huff of air. Maybe a laugh.

“You’re alone,” Nightwing said, not as a question.

Peter didn’t answer.

Nightwing didn’t press. “I’ve been there. Maybe not your exact brand of hell, but I know the smell.”

Peter didn’t ask. Didn’t want stories. He’d seen enough pain. Didn’t want someone else’s to carry, too.

“You ever screw up so bad the only thing left to do is disappear?” Peter said quietly. “Burn it all down just to keep someone else safe?”

Nightwing’s face softened. “No.”

Peter snorted. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretched between them.

“You got a name?”

Peter shook his head. “Not one that matters here.”

Nightwing nodded like that was an answer.

He stepped beside Peter, looking out at the skyline. “This city’s a mess,” he said. “But it’s honest about it. That’s something.”

Peter didn’t respond.

“You remind me of someone,” Nightwing finally said. “Kid I used to know. Tough. Pushed everyone away. Never asked for help, even when he needed it.”

Peter didn’t take the bait.

Nightwing didn’t push.

Eventually, he stepped back. “Alright. No name. No pressure. Just… don’t fall off any rooftops, yeah?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll add it to my to-do list.”

A faint smile flickered, then he vanished over the edge with practiced ease.

Peter didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

The wind filled the space where the other voice had been.

And he stayed there, small and cold beneath a too-wide sky, the silence wrapping back around him like a second skin.

The cold deepened.

Peter shifted just enough to rest his chin on his knees, breath fogging faintly in front of his face. Gotham’s skyline pulsed in the distance, different than Queens, more jagged. Less alive. It looked like a dying thing pretending to be something else.

He tried to tell himself the encounter meant nothing. Just a costumed stranger poking around for gossip. Another person who’d see a scrappy kid on a rooftop and think they understood something.

But the silence Nightwing left behind felt different.

Not heavy. Not comforting. Just there. Like a hand you didn’t ask for, still lingering after a pat on the back.

Peter hated how much that unsettled him.

He was supposed to be good at this part. The disappearing. The isolation. He’d mastered the art of quiet exits and burned bridges. Hell, he invented ghosting.

But there was something in Nightwing’s tone. The way he didn’t try to dig. Didn’t try to fix. Just stood there and let the air be awkward.

It reminded him too much of Ned. Of MJ. Of May, sitting with him in silence after the world cracked open.

Peter rested his forehead against his knees. The wind toyed with his hair, tugged at his sleeves again, relentless as guilt.

He thought of Queens. Of warmth that didn’t smell like rot and old smoke. Of home-cooked meals and someone waiting at the door.

He thought of the boy he used to be.

And he hated how far away that boy felt.

A siren wailed in the distance, swallowed by the thick Gotham air. Somewhere below, a car backfired, followed by shouts. The city kept moving.

Peter didn’t.

He stayed there until the edge of dawn bled pink into the clouds. Until his limbs ached and his mind felt scraped clean.

Then he stood. Slowly. Every motion a negotiation.

A rusted vent clanged nearby—too sudden, too loud—and he flinched, breath catching in his throat. Stupid. Jumpy. Weak. He hated that too.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on knots he hadn't realized were there. His hands were shaking. Maybe from the cold. Maybe not.

He stood too fast. The skyline tilted and righted itself in a blink, stomach lurching in protest. He ignored it. His legs felt like someone else’s; too long, too stiff, too used to landing on rooftops with precision and now barely able to carry him across one.

He didn’t know where he would go. The apartment wasn’t a home, just a holding cell without bars. Another box in a long line of boxes that kept him breathing, not living. Staying there right now felt like surrender. Like rot settling in.

So he walked.

Rooftop to rooftop at first, muscles aching with each jump, balance off, lungs burning in the cold, ribs aching with exertion. Gotham was less cooperative than New York; fewer flat tops, more jutting towers and cruel, sharp angles. But Peter knew how to make cities into paths. Even when they fought him.

He moved like a shadow losing definition, slipping between the bones of a broken skyline.

At some point, the roofs got too far apart. His legs too sore. He climbed down a fire escape with all the grace of a haunted raccoon, boots slipping on the rusted metal. The city met him on the street like a slap: sour exhaust, the perfume of urine and wet cement, neon lights flickering like seizures.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kept his head down.

The people didn’t look at him, and he returned the favor. Gotham’s pedestrians moved like they were all walking out of funerals they weren’t invited to. Peter blended in perfectly.

He wandered without aim. Past alleys that whispered bad decisions. Past store windows with TVs blaring news he didn’t want to hear. Past a busker playing a cello with so much sadness it sounded like a goodbye.

Eventually, he found himself beneath an overpass. Graffiti climbed the concrete pillars like vines, messages in color and curse words. Someone had tagged a crude Batman with a speech bubble that just said “No.”

Peter sat.

A cracked bench beneath the overhang offered nothing but cold. Still, he took it. Leaned back against the concrete, legs stretched out, breath visible in the air like the ghost he was trying to be.

For a moment, the world faded. No Gotham. No voices. No past.

Just the thrum of the city above and the ache in his chest.

He took out the crumpled granola bar from his pocket; half-stale, half-smashed, all he had besides the can at the apartment. He stared at it for a while like it might transform into something better. Then he took a bite. Chewed slowly. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing to fill it with.

The wrapper crackled too loud in the silence.

He stopped halfway through, appetite vanishing.

A movement to his left—a shuffle of feet, too soft for most to notice.

Peter’s eyes flicked up without moving his head.

A kid. Maybe ten. Ratty coat, hands stuffed deep in his sleeves. He looked like someone had wrung him out and hung him up to dry.

Peter didn’t say anything. Just held out what was left of the granola bar.

The kid eyed it, then him. Then snatched it and bolted without a word.

Peter leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Gotham took. That’s what it did. That’s what it was.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it could give something back.

Not much. Not enough. Just a flicker. A heartbeat. A granola bar.

And maybe, for now, that had to be enough.

He didn’t move for a long time. Not until the wind shifted again, carrying the scent of rain and rust. Not until the world started to stir around him.

Somewhere deep in the city, someone screamed. A car alarm wailed. Life continued.

Peter rose, joints protesting.

His feet took him east, probably. Or maybe south. Directions blurred when you weren’t trying to arrive. He passed a flickering “OPEN 24 HRS” sign where no one looked open. A corner store with steel bars like prison teeth. A man slumped under a tarp that didn’t look waterproof. Nobody noticed Peter. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Which was fine. He wasn’t in the mood for another masked intervention.

The rain came in spits at first, barely more than mist, but it thickened fast. The kind of rain that soaked you from the knees up, like the world was trying to drown you slowly.

He pulled his hoodie tighter. It helped about as much as a paper towel in a hurricane.

Lightning flashed somewhere behind the clouds, distant and silent. Just enough to remind the city it could still be afraid of the sky.

Peter ducked into an alley when the rain got worse. A chain-link fence on one side, a row of dumpsters on the other. He checked instinctively for cameras, then shook his head at himself. As if there were still secrets left to protect.

He crouched under the narrow overhang behind a shuttered bakery. He wiped water from his face. His hands were trembling again. Low blood sugar, cold, exhaustion.

He leaned back, the bricks cold and slick behind him. The world narrowed to the alley: rain tapping rhythm on the metal lids, the soft squelch of his soaked socks, the thunder now closer, like footsteps too big to belong to anything human.

Then, footsteps.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened.

Wet shoes slapping pavement. Careful. Hesitant.

A silhouette emerged at the alley mouth. Small. Hooded.

Peter tensed, but didn’t stand. The figure crept closer.

Then stopped.

“You don’t have a place either, huh?”

The voice was young. Probably around twelve. Not scared. Not brave, either. Just resigned. The kind of voice that had been disappointed enough times to stop expecting anything.

Peter blinked rain from his lashes and said nothing.

The kid didn’t wait for an answer. He just sat on the other side of the alley, cross-legged on a milk crate, as if they'd agreed on it.

They sat in silence. Rain between them. Not friendship. Not trust. Just mutual permission to exist.

Peter finally muttered, “Didn’t think this spot was taken.”

The kid shrugged. “We can share. I’m not territorial.”

A pause.

Then, “You look like you used to be someone.”

Peter stared at him. Lightning flashed again.

“Yeah,” Peter said, barely audible. “I was.”

The kid didn’t say anything else for a while. Just picked at the hem of his sleeve, nails tinged black with city grime. Rain drummed steadily above them, rhythm fading into background noise.

Peter glanced over. “You live around here?”

The kid gave a half-snort. “I live everywhere.” Then, after a beat: “Used to crash near Dixon and 7th, but that building got condemned. Not that it was ever un-condemned, really.”

Peter nodded slightly, even though he didn’t know where that was. “Dixon and 7th,” he repeated, filing it away like it might matter later.

The kid leaned back against the bricks, arms crossed like he’d done this a hundred times. “This part’s called the Narrows. Not the worst place if you don’t get stabbed. Cops don’t come around unless someone sets something on fire or bleeds on the mayor’s shoes.”

Peter blinked. “Good to know.”

“You’re not from here,” the kid said, like it wasn’t a question.

Peter didn’t answer right away. “I’m just… passing through.”

The kid raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You look like you passed through a garbage disposal.”

Peter huffed, almost a laugh. Almost. “Not wrong.”

They lapsed into silence again.

“Gotham’s like… I dunno.” The kid waved a hand vaguely toward the skyline, like he was trying to describe a fever dream. “It doesn’t like you, but it’ll keep you. Long as you don’t expect anything from it.”

Peter looked up at the clouds, “That’s your sales pitch?”

“Nah,” the kid said. “Just the fine print.”

Peter shifted slightly, one boot squelching in the puddle he'd sat in by accident. “You got a name?”

The kid looked at him for a long moment. “What, you gonna report me to Batman?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Would he care?”

The kid shrugged. “Maybe. He’s weird. I heard he has shark repellent spray.”

Peter blinked. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

“You’d be surprised what’s not a joke around here.”

Another beat. Then the kid said, “Toby.”

Peter nodded, hesitating before deciding to give the truth, “Peter.”

“Cool.” Toby pulled a half-eaten candy bar from his coat, offered it without much hope.

Peter shook his head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Toby took a bite, then pointed vaguely behind them with the candy. “If you’re looking for food that won’t kill you, there’s a soup van that comes down 14th around nine. But you gotta get there early. The guy who runs it gets mean after the second hour.”

Peter tilted his head. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Mrs. Doyle. She’s the one who guilts the soup guy into showing up.”

Peter gave him a look. “She a saint?”

“She’s an old ex-nun with a baseball bat.”

“…Right.”

Toby grinned, mouth full of caramel. “Welcome to Gotham.”

Toby scraped the last of the candy bar from the wrapper with his teeth, then crumpled the foil into a tight little ball and tossed it with perfect aim into a rusted trash bin nearby. It missed. Bounced off the rim with a sad metallic clink.

“Gotham’s got no arc for underdogs,” he muttered.

Peter smirked faintly. “Don’t take it personally. I think that bin’s rejected better people.”

Toby looked at him sideways, like he was reappraising something. “You talk weird.”

“Sorry,” Peter said. “Didn’t get the Gotham phrasebook.”

“You sound like a librarian who got hit on the head.”

He chewed that thought for a second. “But, like, a cool librarian. One with nunchucks.”

Peter gave him a look. “..I do not have nunchucks.”

“Not with that attitude,” Toby shot back, grinning like he'd just won something.

The sky rumbled low, the kind of thunder that felt more like a warning than a weather report. Toby didn’t flinch. Just hugged his arms tighter around himself and sat closer to the concrete pillar.

“You got anywhere to go?” the kid asked suddenly. Like the words had tripped out before he could stop them.

Peter hesitated. Then, “Not really.”

Toby nodded, like that was the answer he expected. “Figures. You look like you belong in the cracks.”

Peter didn’t respond. Mostly because it was accurate.

“I know a guy,” Toby said, after a moment. “Not the soup van guy. Someone who sleeps in an old subway station. He’s got, like… a hot plate and a dog. Dog’s mean, but he’ll bark at rats, so that’s something.”

Peter glanced at him. “You trust him?”

Toby shrugged. “Nah. But I trust the dog.”

Rain started falling in earnest now. Fat, cold drops that hit the pavement with the enthusiasm of unpaid interns. The air smelled like copper and mold.

Peter pulled his hood back up, “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

Toby didn’t push. Just nodded again, all quiet and understanding in that very Gotham way, like he knew what it meant to want your distance more than your comfort.

“Try not to get mugged,” he said.

“I’ll do my best.”

Toby stood and jammed his hands back in his coat. “If you do get mugged, though, don’t fight back. Resisting just makes it worse.”

He started walking away, back hunched, head down.

Peter sat there another minute, listening to the city breathe through stormwater and traffic. Then he stood too. Didn’t follow Toby, just watched him go until the kid disappeared between two buildings like smoke.

Gotham didn’t offer safe havens. But sometimes it gave you directions. And sometimes, if you were really lucky, it gave you someone like Toby.

Even if just for five minutes.

Even if just to remind you you weren’t the only one wandering through the cracks.

Chapter Text

The sky was bruised purple and orange, the kind of dusk Gotham loved to wear like a heavy coat. The walk back to the apartment was quieter than the streets around him. Cars grumbled. Someone shouted a name across the road. A dog barked like it had something to prove. But none of it stuck to Peter. The noise just passed through him, like wind slipping past a building.

His ribs ached with every step, a dull throb that pulsed through his torso like an echo. They weren’t broken, not anymore, but healing took longer when you hadn’t eaten properly in days. He hadn’t even noticed how slow his healing factor had gotten until last night, when turning over on the mattress had sent pain shooting through his side.

The building came into view, still sagging and miserable-looking in the early morning gray. Peter climbed the stairs two at a time, then regretted it halfway up. His breath hitched, sharp in his throat, and he slowed. No one was chasing him. Not now.

The apartment door whined like an old dog as he pushed it open. The air inside was stale, the kind that clung to walls and memories long after anyone who lived there was gone. He crossed the room and dropped to the mattress, if a pile of springs and flattened cotton could still be called that. He rolled onto his back, staring at the cracked ceiling, then reached over to the floor and grabbed the can he’d stolen from the corner bodega.

No label. No clue. It was a gamble, like most things lately.

He found the sharpest piece of metal he had in the apartment—an old nail, rusted at the edge—and jammed it into the lid, prying until it gave with a hiss. The smell hit him first. Beans. Or maybe chili. Either way, edible. Cold and clumpy, but edible. He ate straight from the can, slow at first, then faster. Like maybe the food would disappear if he looked away.

When it was done, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, leaned back, and let his eyes shut. Just for a minute.

---------------------------------

The sun was up by the time he stirred again. His stomach wasn’t full, but it wasn’t clawing at him either. That counted as a win.

His mind drifted to the library. He hadn’t meant to think about it. It was just there. Like a blinking cursor in the corner of his thoughts. That woman. The redhead with the sharp wit and the kind eyes. She hadn’t asked questions when he clearly had answers he didn't want to give.

He stood, stretching with a grimace as his side twinged again. Still sore. Still healing. But walking was doable. He needed money. He needed something to do with his time before his brain started eating itself alive.

He made the walk in silence, the city gradually shaking itself awake around him. By the time he reached the library steps, the sun had climbed just high enough to make the windows glow.

Inside, it smelled different from before: old paper, floor polish, and something warm and human. Maybe it was the sorrow and unshakeable grief that had made everything smell horrid and unfamiliar. Peter moved past the shelves slowly, taking in the familiar hush of the place. He almost missed the presence behind him.

"Well, well," said a voice. "Look who the Dewey Decimal System dragged in."

Peter turned, and there she was. The same redhead from before with a knowing smile and eyes that saw more than they let on.

He didn’t smile back, but something in his shoulders loosened.

“You came back,” she said, sounding like someone had just handed her good news.

“Wasn’t sure I would,” Peter muttered. “But I was wondering... do you need help? Like, work. I can shelve books. Clean. Whatever.”

She blinked once, surprised, then smiled softer this time. “Are you asking for a job?”

“Yeah. Just... part-time. Or whatever kind of time. I don’t have a resume or anything. But I won’t break stuff. Probably.”

She studied him. Not his face, his movements. The way he kept one arm tight at his side. The way his breath hitched slightly when he twisted to look at her.

"Are you hurt?" she asked gently.

Peter blinked. "What?"

"You winced when you turned."

He hesitated. “Old injury.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t push. Just tilted her head and nodded. “Come on. Shelves won’t organize themselves.”

---------------------------------

Hours passed like pages turning.

Peter moved through rows of dusty spines and worn bindings, sorting, shifting, shelving. He didn’t talk much, and she didn’t ask him to. There was comfort in the quiet: the soft rustle of pages, the occasional thunk of a book sliding into place, the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

His hoodie stuck to his back with sweat. His ribs hated him. But he kept moving.

One kid came in crying and left laughing. An older man asked about books on birdwatching and left with five. The woman helped them all, and Peter watched. She seemed to know everyone. Or at least, she made them feel like she did.

When the clock finally nudged past four, she waved him over.

“You’ve earned this,” she said, pressing folded bills into his hand.

Peter blinked down at them. “Wait. Already?”

“You worked. You get paid.”

He opened the bills and paused. Sixty bucks. For a few hours of shelving books and occasionally not knocking things over. His fingers closed around the money.

“This is—this is a lot,” he said. “I can’t—”

“You can. And you will.” Her voice was calm but firm. “Let me guess, you were about to give it back?”

He didn’t answer, but his hands tightened like he was holding a grenade, not cash.

She smirked. “Tough. You earned it. Don’t make me slip it in your bag when you’re not looking.”

Peter reluctantly tucked the bills into his pocket as though they were fragile.

She didn’t hover as he went to leave. Just gave a small nod and turned back toward a stack of returns, like she knew he’d come back eventually—like maybe she hoped he would. Peter hesitated at the door. The glass was cool against his fingers. He looked back once.

“Thanks,” he said. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

She glanced up. “Anytime.”

It didn’t feel like a goodbye. But it felt like something.

The bell above the door jingled behind him as he stepped out, blinking against the light that had grown harsher in the late afternoon. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, slicing up the sidewalk like cracked glass. Gotham was alive now; louder, busier. People moved with urgency, with stories he’d never know, with destinations that probably made more sense than his.

He walked with his hands deep in his pockets, head down. Wind tugged at the edges of his hoodie, trying to snake past his collar. It wasn’t cold, not really, but the kind of breeze that made you feel like the city was watching. Judging. Daring you to trip.

The money in his pocket felt heavier than it should. Not in weight, in consequence. He hadn’t stolen it. He hadn’t earned it the way he used to. It had been handed to him with no strings, no expectation except maybe that he’d come back tomorrow and do it again. That terrified him a little. That someone could just give. 

The streets shifted as he walked, graffiti-splotched walls giving way to shopfronts and half-clean windows. He passed a florist, the smell of soil and petals drifting out through the cracked-open door. He passed a laundromat, its fluorescent lights buzzing like flies over headless mannequins. He passed a man in a trench coat yelling at a pigeon, and the pigeon, to its credit, looked utterly unimpressed.

Peter didn’t know what part of the city he was in anymore. Didn’t care. He just followed the smell.

It started faint, like a memory of breakfast. Grease, salt, something sizzling on a grill. His stomach perked up, interested for the first time in days. Not ravenous, not hollow. But, excited.

The diner sat on the corner of a block that didn’t seem to belong to anything. Not glamorous enough for tourists. Not grimy enough for warning signs. It was beige and boxy, with pink neon letters that buzzed faintly and flickered in and out, like the sign itself wasn’t fully committed to existing.

He paused outside the door. Watched someone push out, a tired-looking man with a newspaper under one arm and a to-go coffee in the other. Their eyes met and the man nodded and held the door open.

Peter gave a small smile and stepped inside.

Warmth hit him first. The kind that wrapped around your ribs and told your bones to stop clenching. It smelled like fried onions and strong coffee and burnt toast. Almost homey, if home had been a little scorched and caffeinated.

The place wasn’t too crowded. A woman at the counter stirred her tea with more energy than necessary. A guy in a booth typed frantically on a busted laptop. The waitress behind the counter looked like she’d been working since Nixon, if he even existed here, and her ponytail had seen better decades. But she smiled when she saw him.

“Seat yourself, hon,” she called.

Peter nodded once, wordless, and picked a table by the window. The vinyl was cracked but clean. The table had one leg shorter than the others, so it wobbled slightly when he leaned his arms on it.

He looked at the menu without really seeing it. His brain had already decided.

When the waitress came over, pad in hand, he just said, “Eggs. Toast. And a milkshake. Chocolate.”

She gave him a look—not suspicious, just maternal. Like she wanted to ask if he was eating enough but knew better than to ask someone with that many fading bruises and shadows under their eyes.

“You got it,” she said.

And then he was alone again. Watching the cars outside. Listening to the hiss of the griddle and the clink of silverware and the soft hum of a tired city exhaling.

The food arrived quicker than he expected.

The eggs were soft and buttery, flecked with pepper. The toast was golden, smeared with margarine that had melted just enough to soak in. And the milkshake—God, the milkshake—was thick enough to bend the straw when he tried to drink it.

He ate slowly. Not because he had to. But, because he could. No rush. No one yelling, bleeding, or dying nearby. Just food on a plate.

He didn’t think about tomorrow. Just the taste of chocolate and the way the sun hit the syrup bottle. Just this.

For a moment, just a moment, it didn’t matter who he was. Or where he was. Or what universe he didn’t belong to anymore.

He was just a kid in a diner. With eggs. And toast. And chocolate.

And a little sliver of peace.

The sun hit the window just right. Dust caught in the light like glitter someone forgot to clean up. And for a moment, Peter Parker was just a teenager with chocolate on his lip, staring out at a city that hadn’t quite eaten him yet.

Peter rested his head against the cool glass, eyes half-lidded. He was full. Not safe, he’d never call it that. But not in danger either. Not in this exact second.

The bell above the diner door jingled again.

Peter didn’t look up at first. Just another customer, he figured. Maybe someone here for burnt coffee and a plate of hash browns they’d regret in an hour.

But then the jingling stopped.

So did the clinking. The silverware. The murmur of conversation. Like someone had pressed mute on the world.

He looked up.

Two guys had walked in. Peter noticed him first, the short one.

He was the kind of short that didn’t look harmless. Compact, wiry, like a rat that had grown up in tight spaces and hadn’t been told it could relax. Patchy stubble shadowed a pointed chin, and a wet sheen coated his forehead despite the chilly diner air. He wore a threadbare puffer jacket zipped all the way up, like armor, but it was too big for him. The sleeves hung down over his wrists.

He had nervous energy. Not the kind that meant he was scared, Peter could tell the difference, but the kind that said itching to hurt something. To prove something.

He kept sniffing. Loud, wet. His lips smacked when he talked.

He pulled something from his coat. Not a phone. Not a wallet.

A gun.

Peter’s heart didn’t lurch. It didn’t even race. It instead, steadied. Like his body recognized this rhythm. Like it had been waiting for it.

“Everyone down!” He bellowed, voice cracking like a busted speaker. “Now!”

The lady behind the counter froze mid-step, eyes locked on the barrel. A spoon clattered somewhere near the back.

Peter didn’t move. Not at first.

He was slouched in the booth like any other half-dead teenager. His milkshake still in hand.

He went table to table with a plastic bag. “Phones. Wallets. Don’t be cute,” he barked, voice nasal, grating. “You—yeah, you, lady with the kid—faster.”

He waved a small black pistol like he was trying to shake crumbs off it.

Peter didn’t move. Just stared blankly ahead like someone watching a car crash unfold across the street. No panic. Just bone-deep stillness.

The taller guy was quieter, more in control. He was the one giving instructions to the waitress now, who was behind the counter, trying not to cry. Tall, bald, cold eyes. Leather jacket with a rip in the sleeve. He was dangerous.

But Short Guy was the problem. Loose fuse. Hair trigger. That kind of guy could kill someone just because it was a Tuesday.

Peter's fingers tightened under the table.

The short man got closer to Peter’s booth. Too close.

“Hey. Moron. You deaf?” he snapped. “Wallet. Bag. Now.”

Peter didn’t look at him. He nodded once and reached for his bag. Slow. Controlled. Mechanical. Every movement rehearsed. There was a little lull in the tension as he passed the cash he had over, and Short Guy didn’t seem to notice how deliberately empty Peter’s eyes were.

Then came the waitress.

The tall man grabbed her wrist and started yelling about hidden money. She tried to stay calm, but she flinched when he twisted her arm.

The Short Guy grinned.

A horrible, crooked little thing. “Yeah, teach her,” he muttered. “Teach the bitch not to hold out.”

And then it happened.

A sharp crack, something hitting the floor. The waitress gave a small, broken sound. The tall man standing over her like he’d done nothing wrong.

Something inside Peter didn’t snap. It shifted, like a door opening in a room that had been sealed shut.

His body moved before thought caught up.

The chair shoved backward. Silverware clattered. Short Guy turned, confused, just in time to see Peter’s hand grab his hoodie and slam his face into the counter with a crunch that left a red smear across the white. His body went limp.

Peter didn’t check if he was breathing. Didn’t have time to. 

His spider sense spiked. The tall man spun, gun rising.

Peter ducked low. Fast. Inhumanly fast. He drove his shoulder into the man's gut, lifted, and twisted. A blur of controlled violence quiet and efficient. The kind Natasha trained him for when people were watching. The gun flew. They hit the ground hard, The taller man shouted, tried to swing, but Peter moved with the kind of instinct that didn’t ask for permission. He pinned him with an ease that felt like muscle memory. Like breathing. And Peter's knee was on his chest before the man could suck in a breath.

Peter’s knee pinned the tall man’s back hard against the floor, crushing his shoulder blades into the cold linoleum.

He twisted the man’s arm behind his back in a sharp lock, fingers digging into muscle. The man hissed, struggling, but Peter was already shucking off his own hoodie.

With a swift motion, Peter wrapped the jacket’s sleeves around the taller man’s wrists, tight, secure. No fancy cuffs, but enough to bind him like rope.

“Don’t try to get out,” Peter said. No edge. No volume. Just a promise.

The man froze. His eyes wide, the whites showing.

Peter’s jaw clenched. His knuckles were still trembling.

Peter looked up, breathing heavy but not ragged, and scanned the diner. The waitress had pulled herself to her feet, still clutching her bleeding lip, eyes glassy. Someone else was crying near the back. No one else moved.

“You okay?” he asked. Not softly, gently. A difference.

She nodded, wordless and shakily.

“You’re safe now,” Peter said quietly, his voice steady.

Then he looked down at the taller guy again. Still pinned. Still alive.

Peter stood up slowly. Not in a rush. But deliberate.

“Stay down,” he said. Not a threat. Just a fact.

He turned back and reached into the short man’s jacket, pulled out the wad of stolen bills. His now crumpled cash was there, stuffed beside a purple wallet with glitter stars on it, probably the waitress’s. Peter slipped it free, tossed it toward her. It hit the floor near her sneakers with a soft thump.

He went to leave.

Someone stood up from a booth—an older man, balding, still trembling. “H-Hey! Don’t leave! The cops’ll want to talk to—!”

He left with the bell still jingling behind him, the sound warbling like it couldn’t decide whether to mourn or mock.

His hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, fingers curling around the crumpled bills like they were lifelines. Sixty bucks, real and stubborn in his grip. It was the kind of money that didn’t solve problems but could maybe stop them from screaming louder.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see the haunted faces.

The streets felt colder now. Not in temperature, though Gotham had a knack for dramatic wind at just the wrong moment, but in spirit. Like the robbery had knocked something loose. Not just inside the diner, but in him.

Peter shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket and kept his head down. The milkshake still lingered on his tongue, faint and sweet. The eggs had settled in his stomach like a peace treaty he hadn’t realized he was negotiating. And now it all curdled under the weight of what almost happened. What did happen.

He wasn’t a hero here. Not anymore. That wasn’t part of the deal.

But it still clung to him like static, that instinct, the one that used to mean web lines and one-liners and catching bad guys mid-fall. Now it just hummed in his ribs like a song stuck in his chest, demanding to be sung.

He walked faster.

Block after block blurred past. Storefronts, rusted bikes, graffiti that had something vaguely political to say if you squinted. He didn’t look at any of it. Just moved. A man on a mission with no destination.

His breath was shallow, heart hammering, not just from the pace but from the sudden crash of adrenaline. His stomach churned, cold sweat slicking his palms. 

Then it hit—the sharp, hollow ache. The memory crashing in like a fist to his gut: the snap of bone, the sickening thud of Ben hitting the pavement, blood pooling under frantic hands that couldn’t save him. The silence afterward louder than any scream.

“With great power...” Ben’s voice, a ghost in the chaos, echoing in the hollowness of that moment.

For a second, the cold alley blurred into Queens. The city faded, and all that remained was the weight of loss, raw and unforgiving.

He barely made it into a darker corner before doubling over, dry heaving against the rough brick.

He pressed his trembling hands against the wall, fighting to keep standing. Every face, every wound, every desperate moment in this city reminded him this wasn’t Queens. There, he had family. Now, there was no saving grace. No safe place to run to. Just cold streets and silence.

He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth, and forced his legs forward.

Eventually, his feet remembered where he resided.

The building greeted him with its usual charm: cracked bricks, a staircase that creaked dangerously every third step. He climbed anyway, slower this time. Not because of his ribs. Because he was tired. Bone-deep tired.

The apartment door opened with the same groan. He stepped inside and let it shut behind him.

Inside, the air was stale again. The mattress hadn’t grown any softer.

He sank down onto the mattress and let the silence press against his ears. Tried not to replay it. The diner. The gun. The waitress’s glossy eyes.

Peter pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

The sixty bucks were safe in his pocket.

He pulled them out slowly. Counted them again. Still there. Still real. Still warm from his body heat and the librarian’s stubborn kindness. He pulled his 20 out of the lining of his left shoe. He hadn’t even looked at it since stashing it, like making eye contact would tempt fate.

He folded the bills carefully, tucking them back into his pocket like they were a fragile secret.

He lay back on the mattress, eyes tracing the cracked ceiling. His ribs ached with every breath, but that pain was familiar. Manageable. The ache in his chest wasn’t.

Memories of Ben clawed at the edges of his mind like static in a bad signal sharp and unwelcome. He tried to push them down, but they festered, mixing with the night’s tension. The diner, the gun, the waitress’s eyes, fragments swirling in a dark pool.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, caught between wanting to disappear and not having the strength to move. The city’s distant hum seeped through the cracked window, sirens, late-night footsteps, a dog barking somewhere too far away to care.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy. Not tonight.

Maybe not for a long time.

Chapter Text

The subway hums like a heartbeat; loud, uneven, wrong.

Peter sits on a train that doesn’t stop moving.

Across from him: a child. Six years old. Hoodie zipped all the way up. His eyes glint like glass marbles. Familiar, almost; until you see what’s wrong.

Spiderwebs stretch over the boy’s face, thin and twitching, threading through skin and mouth like stitches.

He blinks, and the kid is older. Nine. Then twelve. Then fifteen. His own face staring back, wide-eyed, then bloodshot, then bruised.

Above them, the flickering ad glitches:

“HAVE YOU FAILED ENOUGH YET?”

It blinks.

“NEXT STOP: GOTHAM.”

He stands, rushes to the door. It won’t open.

Slams the emergency handle. It melts in his grip.

Outside, cities blur past:

Queens at night. A street corner with blood on the pavement. Flames licking the skyline. The Statue of Liberty, scaffolded and crumbling, mouth agape in silence.

The kid across from him is gone.

That doesn’t matter, because Tony is now on the platform.

The gauntlet glows molten red. Smoke coils off his skin. His eyes don’t lift to meet Peter’s.

Peter pounds on the window. “Please, Tony, don’t—”

The snap cracks like thunder.

And then the train screams off the rails.

---------------------------------

He’s not dead. Probably. But he’s at a table now.

Familiar.

The chairs are half-filled. The lighting buzzes like insects overhead. Food’s on the plates. But it’s too perfect. No steam. No smell. Plastic sheen over gravy and guilt.

A chair creaks.

May sits down first.

She’s hunched. There’s blood smeared across her side, soaking through the toxic green of her jacket. Her voice is faint, rattling in her chest.

“You said I’d be safe,” she wheezes. “You said we were doing the right thing.”

Across from her: Ben.

His shirt is torn, the bullet wound purple and weeping. His fingers fumble at the hole like he could still patch it.

“I died because you let him go,” he says, voice thin. “You let him go.”

Tony arrives next. Burned, broken, black veins spidering up his neck from the gauntlet still fused to his hand.

“You were just a kid,” Tony says. “But I let you in anyway.”

Then comes Matt.

Suit and tie. Calm, collected. Folder in hand.

“I’ve reviewed the case, Peter,” he says, voice even. “And the evidence is overwhelming.”

Peter shakes his head. “I didn’t mean—”

Matt interrupts, sharp. “You exposed minors to known threats. Manipulated public memory. Violated interdimensional law. Repeatedly endangered civilians.”

May rasps, “You dragged me into this.”

Ben mumbles, “You made me die.”

Tony shakes his head, “You weren’t ready.”

Matt’s voice is clinical and cruel, “The defense rests.”

Two more chairs scrape.

Ned and MJ sit together.

MJ won’t look at him. There’s ash on her sleeves. Ned's voice cracks when he speaks.

“You didn’t have to tell us,” he whispers. “We didn’t want to be part of it.”

“We trusted you,” MJ murmurs. “Now we’re next, right?”

Their hands grasp each other under the table. Like they’re bracing for something.

Peter’s breath catches. “I-I was trying to protect—”

“No,” Matt says. “You weren’t trying to protect them. You were trying to matter.”

Peter bolts up, and the room tilts like a sinking ship. Plates fall. Silverware skitters across the floor.

One chair remains empty.

He blinks.

Now he’s in it.

Across the table: himself.

No mask. No bruises. Just his face, expressionless. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just... tired.

And he speaks, but his mouth remains unmoving, “Wherever you go, you bring the grave with you.”

The others start whispering. A low, rising tide of voices layering over each other. May’s rasp, Tony’s burn-scorched syllables, Matt’s clipped lawyer tone, MJ’s bitterness, Ben’s disappointment, Ned’s fear.

Their words overlap, suffocating.

“Should’ve known better.”

“You’re a curse.”

“Every universe, it’s the same.”

“You ruin what you touch.”

Food begins to rot on the plates. Eyes start bleeding. May coughs and coughs and doesn’t stop. Matt’s folder is filled with photos, snapshots of bodies. Of MJ clinging to Ned. Ben clutching his wound. Aunt May’s corpse. Tony, snapping. Every frame another face he’s failed.

The table stretches endlessly in every direction.

Peter tries to stand. His legs don’t work.

His double leans forward, mouth opening wide, “You didn’t fall into this world, Peter. You infected it.”

The lights explode.

The table splinters.

The room tilts.

The walls catch fire.

And Peter screams.

---------------------------------

Peter wakes up already moving.

He’s not gasping, he’s falling. He hits the floor hard, shoulder smacking wood, body tensed like he’s mid-fight. His pulse jackhammers. His vision doesn’t catch up. The apartment walls still look like they’re breathing.

For a second, just one blinding second, he doesn’t know where he is. The dream clings to his skin like smoke. His shirt is soaked through. His hands won’t stop shaking. Something inside his throat is making this broken, raw sound—half sob, half gasp, like he can’t get enough air.

He claws for the wall. The cold hits his palms. It’s real.

It’s real, but it’s worse.

His fingers twitch like he’s still trying to web something, someone, pull them back.

He curls inward on instinct. Chest heaving. Neck damp. Every heartbeat is a punch.

There’s no one here.

No fire.

No May.

No Tony.

Just the dark, and the quiet, and the fact that he can’t tell where the nightmare ended.

He stays there for a long time.

Not crying. Not really breathing right either. Just… shaking. Like his bones don’t trust him anymore. Like the apartment might split open and reveal another version of him sitting at that table, waiting to accuse him all over again.

The floorboards are cold. His fingers are colder. The bruise across his ribs pulls when he finally moves—slow, cautious, like he’s scared the floor will give way under him.

He drags himself upright. Doesn’t stand. Just leans his back against the wall, legs half-folded, eyes locked on the dark window like it might show him something else if he stares long enough.

It’s still night.

Or maybe it’s just always night in Gotham. Hard to tell.

The hunger comes in slow, delayed, like his body was too busy screaming to remember it was starving. But it’s there. Gnawing. Heavy. The can of food from yesterday sits across the room, empty and tipped over, as though it was mocking him.

He doesn’t move to go get food.

Instead, his eyes flick up to the ceiling, half-expecting it to start melting, or for another ad to blink awake.

“Have You Failed Enough Yet?”

A twitch hits his jaw.

He shoves his palms against his eyes.

He doesn’t want to sleep again.

He doesn’t trust sleep.

Time isn’t real in moments like this. It stretches, curls inward like smoke, folds in on itself until all that’s left is the pulse behind his eyes and the pressure in his chest. The only clock is the pounding of his heartbeat, the ache of his ribs where his breath won’t go deep enough.

The shadows on the walls don’t move. Gotham outside stays gray, or maybe black, or maybe just… indifferent.

His fingers dig into the floorboards. Nails chipped. Knuckles pale. Like if he just holds on tight enough, the world won’t shift again. Like the train won’t come roaring back through his skull.

The table. The voices. That version of himself with no expression, no soul left to burn.

“You didn’t fall into this world, Peter. You infected it.”

His throat clenches. His jaw won’t unlock.

He forces himself to count his breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

His breath hitches around the fifth count, catching on memory. On blood. On May’s voice, breaking apart in her chest.

“You said we were doing the right thing.”

He swallows, hard. It tastes like metal. Or maybe guilt. Maybe they’re the same thing by now.

The silence in the room presses in, thick and choking. His chest rises shallowly, breaths sharp and ragged, too tight to be calm, too forced to be steady. Every inhale feels as though it were dragged from his lungs, scraping against his ribcage.

His eyes refuse to close. He can’t let them. Not again. Not after what’s waiting there.

The city outside presses against the window; gray, cold, indifferent. Like it doesn’t care if he’s here or gone.

The weight in his ribs twists tighter. The pain isn’t just physical anymore, it’s carved into his soul.

He blinks hard, trying to clear the shadows behind his eyes. But the ache stays.

Time drags on, slow and relentless. No relief. No rest.

Just the cold floor beneath him.

The empty room around him.

He wants to scream, but the sound sticks in his throat like broken glass. So instead, he just stares; at the cracked ceiling, the dull lightbulb flickering above, the shadows clawing their way up the walls.

The ache in his chest isn’t pain anymore. It’s a cage. A noose. A slow, grinding rust on the edges of every thought. The memories aren’t memories—they’re knives, sharp and cold, carving deeper with every blink. Aunt May’s broken whisper, the disappointment in Uncle Ben’s eyes, Tony’s final, burning snap. The weight of their deaths is a stone lodged inside his heart.

The voices don’t stop. They pulse like a second heartbeat, relentless as a storm tide. They curl around his mind, pulling tighter, whispering worse than silence ever could.

“You break everything you touch.”

“You bring ruin, no matter the cost.”

“You’re poison. Everywhere. Every time.”

He sinks. His hands tremble, fingers clutching the now splintered wood beneath him like it could anchor him. But it’s a sinking ship, and he’s the hole in the hull.

There is no light. No mercy. Just the endless, dark echo of his own failures reverberating off cold walls that don’t care.

No rescue comes. No hand reaches out. No dawn breaks the endless night.

There is only the crushing weight, and the slow, hollow sound of his own breath—shallow, ragged, fading.

And still, somehow, he stays awake, trapped in this endless spiral, drowning in the cold truth that nothing will save him.

---------------------------------

The night doesn’t end. It bleeds into the next hours, dragging slow and thick like molasses. Peter stays curled against the cold wall, eyes fixed on nothing, everything.

The apartment breathes—groaning floorboards, distant sirens, the quiet hum of a city that doesn’t stop for anyone.

His ribs ache with every shallow breath, a dull throb that won’t quit. Hunger gnaws at him, but he can’t bring himself to move. The thought of food feels like a weight too heavy to lift.

His hands twitch—like webs straining to shoot, but the thread is gone, frayed beyond repair.

Time coils and folds in on itself. Minutes stretch into hours. The gray outside barely shifts.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. But the sounds get swallowed inside, lost before they find his throat.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he pushes himself up. Slow, careful. The bruise on his ribs protests with fire. His legs wobble beneath him, unsteady, foreign.

He doesn’t stand. He leans against the wall, sliding down to the floor again, the weight of the day settling like a shroud.

The hunger claws at his mind again. His gaze flicks to the tipped-over can on the floor, empty and mocking.

The cold window offers no answers. Outside, Gotham yawns awake, indifferent as ever.

Peter closes his eyes, not to sleep, no. He can’t trust that. Just to shut the world out for a moment.

A breath.

Then another.

He counts—slow, steady. In. Out. In. Out.

The ache doesn’t leave. But maybe, just maybe, he can hold it at bay for a little longer.

The sun’s light hasn’t broken through the grime-coated window, but the city outside grows louder. Car horns blare, footsteps echo somewhere below, life stubbornly pushing through the shadows.

Peter stays where he is, back pressed to the wall, legs curled up tight. His eyelids flutter, heavy like they’re weighed down with stones, but sleep isn’t a refuge, it’s a trap.

The dark under his eyes has a dark of its own, a bruising shadow digging deeper into his skin. His face looks like it’s been dragged through every hell he’s ever known and thrown back with a silent curse.

He tries to swallow down the sickness rising in his throat. The taste of metal, the bitter tang of guilt, like acid eating him from the inside out.

The day is relentless, but he doesn’t move for a long time. Every second feels like pushing through water thick with lead.

Eventually, he drags himself once again upright, joints protesting. The room spins like the train he can’t escape.

Feet dragging, he stumbles to the small cracked mirror propped against the wall. The reflection that stares back is hollow. No mask. No hero’s spark. Just exhaustion etched in every line.

He blinks, and the eyes staring back look like they’ve been up for days. Like they carry the weight of every mistake, every loss.

A quiet voice in his head, barely a whisper, tells him: you have to keep moving. You have to try.

The library is a good bit away, his fragile tether to something like normalcy, something akin to hope.

His limbs feel like lead. His breath is shallow and ragged.

The walk is a crawl.

Each step is a battle.

Every task feels insurmountable.

His eyes burn; his mind drifts.

Eye bags beneath eye bags shade his gaze like bruises.

He blinks too hard, fighting the sting.

Every sound feels distant and muddled, every movement slow.

By the time Peter pushes the door open, the sky’s gray—not in the poetic way, but in the heavy, fluorescent kind. Cloud-cover like a film over everything. Cold light. Cold air. Cold skin.

The library breathes quietly.

Not peaceful. Just... quiet.

Peter’s steps feel wrong on the tile. His shoes squeak too loud. Every muscle in his body pulls the wrong way, like they’re bracing for something that already happened.

He doesn’t speak when he comes in. Just gives a small nod to the red-haired woman at the front desk, who glances up from her screen with a flick of curiosity and something just shy of concern.

Barbara doesn’t say anything at first.

She doesn’t need to.

He looks like someone put a ghost in a hoodie and told it to shelve books.

Peter moves past the desk. Shoulders hunched. Eyes glassy.

She speaks once he’s nearly out of earshot.

“You’re late.”

Not accusing.

Just a fact.

Peter pauses. Turns slightly.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t offer more. Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t apologize.

Barbara leans forward slightly in her chair, hands folded over a thin stack of paperwork. “You alright?”

It’s not gentle. Not fishing.

He thinks it’s a test. One he could fail with one wrong word.

Peter shrugs. “I’m here.”

That’s as honest as he can get.

She watches him for a moment longer, then nods. “Alright. New returns cart’s in the usual spot. Don’t drop anything, or I’m making you re-label the Dewey decimals by hand.”

A breath. Almost a laugh. It dies before it hits the air.

Peter moves on.

The library is quiet today. Not empty, just hushed. Pages turn somewhere in the distance. A kid coughs. An old lamp buzzes above the microfiche station like it’s trying to power down but can’t quite die yet.

Peter’s hands shake when he tries to lift the first stack of books.

He misses the cart entirely on the first go. One hits the floor with a slap, echoing far too loud for a paperback. He flinches. Eyes twitch up like someone’s going to yell at him.

No one does.

He kneels, slow and stiff, to pick the book up.

It’s just some dog-eared mystery novel. The kind someone probably read on a rainy afternoon and forgot the ending of. The cover’s bent, the spine cracked.

His fingers tremble when they curl around it. Not from the cold. Just everything else.

The air in the library feels heavier than outside. Quieter too. Like the silence here is watching him.

He shelves the book without looking at the label. Doesn’t matter. Maybe someone else will fix it later. Maybe no one will notice.

He reaches for the next stack.

It keeps going like that. Book after book. Shelf after shelf. Movements slow, mechanical. His muscles shake like they’ve forgotten how to do this, how to exist without tension.

His vision blurs once. Twice. A third time.

The words on the spines don’t stick. Neither do the numbers. They’re just ink, and his brain won’t hold anything that isn’t burning.

He leans against the shelf for a second. Just long enough to pretend it’s a choice. Just long enough to catch his breath without making it look like that’s what he’s doing.

The world spins. Just for a moment.

And then it doesn’t.

And then it does again.

He keeps moving.

A kid drops a book two aisles over. It hits the floor with a dull thud. Peter’s whole body flinches like it was a gunshot. His fingers tighten on the book in his hands until the paper creaks.

He doesn’t say anything. Just breathes. In. Out. In. Out. The same broken rhythm he’s been trying to pretend is normal.

Eventually, he makes it back to the desk.

Barbara glances up.

He doesn’t meet her eyes.

She doesn’t speak.

He unloads the cart. A couple books hit at the wrong angle and nearly topple. He catches one on reflex. The other he just watches fall.

His body hurts in a way that sleep can’t fix.

His head hurts in a way sleep will only make worse.

Barbara finally says, “You look like hell.”

Peter shrugs. “Feel worse.”

Something almost flickers across her face. It’s not sympathy. Not exactly.

She says, “If you pass out in the large print section, you’re sleeping with the encyclopedias.”

Peter doesn’t smile. But his shoulders drop half an inch, maybe. Less tension. Less weight, even if it’s just for a second.

He nods once, almost grateful.

Then he goes back to shelving.

The books keep coming. They always do.

New returns. Mis-shelved. Old donations no one wants but no one throws away. They pile up in silent towers behind the desk, looming like judgment.

Peter takes the next stack with fingers that don’t feel like they belong to him. The corner of a hardback digs into his palm. He doesn’t adjust.

He moves as though he’s already one foot in the grave through the stacks. Every aisle feels longer than the last. Every breath feels like borrowed time.

Somewhere near the back, the fluorescent light overhead flickers hard enough to buzz. It stutters twice before holding steady, casting long, pale shadows that stretch behind him like accusations.

He puts away a gardening book in the mystery section.

He doesn’t notice.

On the next shelf, a biography about a man who died for what he believed in. The cover stares up at him. A face mid-smile. Frozen in hope.

Peter slides it between two thick history volumes. Out of sight.

His knees give a quiet pop when he crouches for the bottom shelf. He bites back a sound.

When he stands, the world tilts again. Just slightly. Just enough.

He grabs the shelf to steady himself. Breath ragged. Vision tunneling.

It passes.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

He loses track of time again.

There’s a dull thud behind him.

Barbara’s voice follows, flat and calm, “Break’s a thing, y’know.”

Peter turns, slow. She’s not close, still at the desk, but watching him as though she’s trying to figure out if a vase is cracked or just dirty.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she says. Not believing him. Not pressing either.

There’s a silence after that.

Then: “You ever actually read anything in here?”

He blinks at her. “What?”

She shrugs, casually flipping a page on something that probably isn't interesting but gives her something to look at besides him.

“I mean, you’ve shelved enough of them. Figured one might catch your eye.”

Peter glances down at the stack in his hands. Titles blur together.

“Not really.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow. “That should be illegal.”

Peter gives a weak huff of breath. Maybe it was supposed to be a laugh. It doesn’t get far.

“Maybe next time,” he mutters.

Barbara doesn’t push. Just says, “Mm,” and goes back to whatever she was reading.

Peter finishes the cart.

The building moans as someone leaves. The door creaks open and shut with tired hinges. The world outside is still gray, but brighter now. Morning properly claws its way into day.

The cart is empty.

Peter stares at it like it might refill itself if he waits long enough. It doesn’t.

He leaves it by the main shelves and walks back toward the desk, steps slower now, worn thin by the weight in his limbs and the sleep he didn’t get.

Barbara glances up as he nears. “There’s a stack near periodicals,” she says. “Newspapers, mostly.”

Peter nods. His mouth is too dry for words.

He finds the stack where she said, wedged beside a flickering overhead and a dusty rack of puzzle books nobody ever touches. The papers are heavy. Ink-stained. Folded wrong. He grabs the whole bundle and tries not to think about how they smell like mildew and someone else’s cologne.

One drops as he lifts them. He doesn't bend to pick it up right away. Just stares at it, half wondering if maybe this is where he leaves it. Just… leaves something behind for once.

But no.

He crouches, groaning faintly as his ribs remind him who’s in charge, and snags it off the ground. Straightens. Keeps going.

Back at the archive cabinet, he files each paper slowly. Alphabetical, then by date. His hands are steadier now, but only because they’ve forgotten how to shake.

The city’s headlines glare up at him. Words like “RANSOM,” “ESCAPE,” “TRAGEDY,” “MASKED MAN.” All of them bold. All of them heavy.

He doesn’t read them. Just files them. It’s easier that way.

After a while, the words blur again, letters swimming across the paper like ink bleeding underwater. He rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist, smudging a streak of dust across his cheek without realizing it.

Somewhere across the library, a chair squeaks. Someone coughs. A phone buzzes against a desk and is silenced.

Barbara rolls past again, checking returns, glancing toward him without turning her head.

“How is it that you keep looking worse and worse,” she says mildly.

Peter shrugs.

“You hungry?”

That catches him off-guard.

He frowns. “What?”

Barbara stops, eyes flicking toward him, warm, there's an odd hint of care in them.

“I’ve got a granola bar,” she says. “Probably expired. Still food.”

Peter swallows, already feeling the phantom taste of chalk, and hesitates.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Barbara doesn’t argue. Just shrugs. “Your funeral.”

She wheels off again, rustling papers and organizing things that probably didn’t need organizing.

Peter turns back to the filing.

The ache in his stomach gets louder after that. But he ignores it.

The fluorescent light above him flickers again. He doesn’t notice this time.

He’s halfway through the newspapers when the smell hits him.

Warm. Salty. Something like chicken broth and herbs, carried on the faintest draft from the front desk. His stomach clenches so hard it hurts.

He pauses, hand hovering over a copy of the Gotham Gazette.

A mantra of don’t look’s flood his mind.

He looks.

Barbara’s at the desk again, a paper bag open beside her keyboard. Two styrofoam cups of soup sit nestled inside like treasure. She cracks one open, steam curling upward. The smell is instant and criminal, something rich and heavy with garlic and thyme.

Peter swallows. His mouth’s already watering. His body’s gone traitor on him, practically vibrating with hunger.

Barbara doesn’t glance up.

Not at first.

She just lifts the spoon, blows on it once, sips.

Then, almost casually, she says, “Guy forgot my order was for one.”

Peter doesn’t move.

“Gave me two instead,” she adds, tapping the lid of the second cup. “Said I looked like I could use it.”

Peter blinks at her. She doesn’t meet his eyes. Just keeps eating unbothered, like she hasn’t just declared open war on his self-control.

“I’ll throw it out if you’re not interested,” she says next. Shrugs. “No big deal.”

Peter’s feet move before his brain catches up. Quiet. Careful. He stops just shy of the desk like he’s afraid he’ll wake something.

Barbara doesn’t look up.

But she nudges the second cup an inch closer to the edge.

Peter stares at it. His hands twitch.

Then he takes it.

He wants to say thank you. But, he just walks away in fear that if he speaks, the soup might vanish out of spite.

He eats behind the stacks. Standing.

Each spoonful tastes like forgiveness he doesn’t think he deserves.

He finishes the soup slowly.

Not because he wants to savor it—though, god, it’s good—but because his hands are still shaking too hard to eat faster. The broth is warm all the way down. It hits his stomach like a truce. Not peace, not healing, but a pause in the war.

When it’s gone, he stares at the empty cup for a few seconds. Like if he looks long enough, it’ll refill itself. Then he sighs—quiet, rough—and folds the lid down tight.

He finds the nearest trash can and tosses the cup in like it might explode if he doesn’t do it carefully. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he makes his way back to the desk.

Barbara’s still there. Typing.

Peter stops beside her and mumbles, low and awkward, “Thanks.”

She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t want to waste it,” she replies, a small smirk playing across her lips.

Peter nods once, almost imperceptibly, then turns away.

The rest of the shift drags, but it doesn’t gnaw at him the way it did before. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, not really. But every step feels like a test. Like gravity’s heavier now, pressing him down from every angle. His limbs drag, slow and uneven, like he's wading through concrete instead of tile.

A cart wheel sticks.

Peter doesn’t have the energy to fix it.

He just muscles it forward, letting it squeal against the floor like a warning siren. The sound makes him wince. A nearby patron peers over a book. Peter ducks his head and pushes on.

He catches his reflection in one of the tall glass display cases—blurry, distorted by glare—and almost doesn’t recognize himself. Hair a mess. Eyebags like bruises. Skin pale under the flickering overheads.

If someone shelved him, he’d belong in the horror section. Or tragedy.

He blinks too slowly, and for half a second, the reflection almost shifts. The train. The table. A face that isn't his but is. He jerks his gaze away before it can settle.

Another book. Another shelf.

He kneels to restock the bottom row, and the movement nearly folds him in half. The floor’s too cold. His knees crack. When he stands again, the room tilts, just a little. But enough.

He steadies himself with a hand on the cart. Counts under his breath.

One. Two. Three.

Still standing. Barely.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed. Hours? Minutes? Time in here is soft and gray, like the air just decided to give up on counting.

Barbara rolls by in the distance, tucked into her wheelchair, a clipboard in her lap, flipping through notes. She doesn't say anything as she passes, but he catches the tiniest glance over the rims of her glasses.

Not judging.

Just watching. Clocking the sag in his shoulders. The stumble he covers too slowly. The way he moves like he's conserving battery. There’s concern in her gaze.

The quiet stretches again.

He stacks another book. Misses the slot. Stares at it for too long before correcting it.

His body wants to lie down.

His mind won’t stop running.

But he keeps moving, if only because stillness might break him open again, and he’s not sure there’s anything left inside worth spilling.

The clock clicks.

Peter doesn’t look at it. He already knows what it’ll say: not enough.

Not enough time passed. Not enough energy left. Not enough of him here.

His legs ache from standing too long in one spot. The kind of pain that isn’t sharp, just present, constant, like the buzz of a fridge or the hum in his ears. One knee clicks when he walks now. His left hand is cramping from gripping book spines too tightly.

He’s reshelving in the back corner now, biographies, maybe. He’s not really seeing the covers anymore, just shapes, colors, weights in his arms. One falls. The sound seems louder than gun fire, he flinches like he’s been shot. His brain’s too keyed up, too slow, too out of sync.

Voices from the front desk echo faintly, distant and low, like they’re underwater. The lights overhead feel harsher now. Or maybe they always were. Every sound scrapes.

There’s a long pause between shelves, just standing there with a book in his hand, unsure if he already shelved it. He squints at the spine like it’ll reveal the truth, but it’s all letters and blur.

He puts it somewhere and hopes it’s right.

A couple walks past him whispering. The girl glances at him like she’s about to ask a question, but Peter doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t meet her eyes. Doesn’t breathe until they’re gone.

His vision’s gone flat at the edges. Hunger is a whisper now, dulled by soup and exhaustion. The chill’s not as sharp, either; but only because it feels like he’s moving through cotton, or fog, or something just as heavy and slow.

His knees lock again. He shifts his weight to keep from collapsing entirely. The cart’s down to the last few books. Five more. He can do that. Maybe.

One at a time.

He starts to count again, not even aware of what he’s measuring.

One.

Book shelved.

Two.

His elbow cracks. He winces.

Three.

The lights above him hum too loud.

Four.

Something in his chest twinges, sharp and quick, then fades.

Five.

He exhales. His throat’s dry. Not cracked. Not bleeding. That’s something.

He leans against the end of the shelf. Not to rest, just to keep from toppling over.

Almost done.

The clock clicks again.

This time, he looks.

Shift’s over.

It doesn’t feel like it. Feels like it’s always been this, just shelving and buzzing and that throb behind his eyes that might actually be his soul trying to escape through his temples.

Peter drags the now-empty cart back toward the front. Each wheel has its own idea of what direction to go, and honestly, he kind of relates.

Barbara’s still at the desk, typing something. She doesn’t look up when he stops, just gestures vaguely toward the wall. “Cart goes there.”

Peter parks it in silence. For a moment, he stands still like he forgot what comes next.

“Thanks,” he says. Quiet. Real. Not about the soup, not about the job. But, for the fact that she didn’t ask for more than he had today.

Barbara glances over. One eyebrow lifts. “Try not to die on the way out.”

It’s almost a joke.

He almost smiles.

But the corner of his mouth twitches, and that’s close.

Just before he reaches the door, Barbara calls out, “Hey.”

He turned, blinking slowly, her voice had to swim through fog to reach him.

She reaches into the desk drawer, pulls out some cash, “It’s not much. less than yesterday’s. But it’s yours.”

Peter hesitates. For a second, it looks like he might not take it. Like the idea of accepting something feels heavier than the cash itself.

But eventually, he does. Slips it into the pocket of his hoodie like it might vanish if he looks at it too long. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Barbara doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile, just studies him for a beat.

Then, casually, “There’s a diner a few blocks east. Yellow awning, weird mural of a chicken on roller skates. It’s cheap, warm. Open late.”

Peter freezes.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But it’s like someone hit pause on his lungs.

His eyes drop. Shoulders tense.

He doesn’t say anything, just sort of nods, a mechanical movement.

Barbara doesn’t push.

She just adds, “I hear their milkshakes are pretty good.”

He lets out a breath, short and shallow. “Maybe.”

She watches him walk out, shoulders hunched, steps uneven. Like he’s carrying ghosts in his hoodie pocket, along with his pay.

The doors slam shut behind him. The night breathes back in. Cold and indifferent.

But his pockets aren’t empty, his stomach isn’t either.

Just tired.

So, so tired

Chapter Text

The city exhales fog like smoke from a dying fire — damp, close, clinging to the skin. Peter walks through it with his hood pulled low, shoulders hunched as if he could vanish inside them. His steps drag slowly and unevenly. Not deliberate. Just defeated. His body’s forgotten how to move like it used to. Every joint feels like rusted metal.

Behind him, the warm light of the library dims, swallowed by the gray like a ship slipping beneath cold water.

The cash in his pocket shifts with each step. It’s not much. Just enough to maybe grab something hot, if he felt brave enough to try again.

He won’t, not tonight.

His fingers twitch. Not from cold, but from memory — the glint of a gun, the burn of adrenaline, the way instinct had taken over before he could blink. His body remembered long after his mind begged to forget. Diners forever stained in his memory.

Still, he walks.

Gotham doesn’t sleep. Not really. It just pretends, resting one eye while the other watches for blood in the water, always waiting. Always hungry.

Peter turns a corner.

Stops.

The rhythm breaks.

It’s subtle, only a snag in the weave of the city’s constant hum. But his senses catch it. A thread pulled too tight. A sound out of place.

He tilts his head. Listening.

A dull thud. Then another.

Muffled, but close.

A sharp breath. A voice choked mid-word.

“Please—”

Then a wet sound. Impact. Something breaking. Someone coughing on their blood.

His spine locks up. Muscles tense. His feet are already turning.

He finds the alley. Narrow. Too narrow. Wedged between two buildings that look like they’ve been forgotten on purpose. The only light comes from a flickering bulb above a dented steel door, barely enough to outline the scene:

Three men. The first guy only uses his fists, but the way he stands is cocky and overconfident, it says he’s no stranger to breaking bones. The second guy has a pipe. The last one has a knife, glinting under the flicker of the alley light like it thinks it’s got something to prove. They circle something smaller, someone, a kid, curled against a dumpster like he thought it could shield him. Blood streaks his face. His hands are up. A futile attempt.

Peter's throat tightens.

Because this? This is exactly the trap.

A city that doesn’t want him, offering just enough pain to make him care. Dangling a life-like bait. Whispering, "Come on, Spider-Man. Be what you were. Ruin yourself all over again."

He should walk away.

He tells himself that.

Then again.

But his legs don’t listen.

One of the men snarls, “Hey. Keep walking.”

Too late.

Peter’s already on him.

He moves like someone with nothing left in the tank and no choice but to burn what’s left anyway. The first guy doesn’t even get a chance to react. Peter drives his fist into his gut — controlled, measured. Civilian-level strength, barely. But enough to fold the man like a lawn chair, wheezing as he drops.

The second one swings the pipe.

His senses flare and he ducks. Too slow. Pain explodes across Peter’s shoulder. A flash of white behind his eyes. But it does something else too, it lights a fire in the cold pit of his chest.

He catches the pipe mid-swing, fingers locking tight. Wrenches it free. The man stumbles, off-balance, and Peter drives his knee up fast, gutshot. The man crumples, gagging.

The third guy steps in, brandishing his knife like a trophy. Not clean or tactical, but a jagged, dull-edged knife; the kind you’d use to gut fish or open a rusted tin can. But it gleams in the alley’s flickering light like it knows exactly what it’s here for.

Peter senses the shift too late.

A breath and the man’s on him.

Peter dodges left. The knife comes with him. It catches the edge of his hoodie, tears through cloth, then skin, just enough to draw blood. A shallow slice across his ribs, sharp and cold. Peter flinches, gasps, stumbles back.

The man follows. No hesitation.

Another swipe, messier. Wild. Peter ducks under it, but slips on something wet and hits the ground hard, shoulder slamming into concrete. Pain flashes white. His vision spots.

The man pounces.

Peter rolls.

The blade misses his chest by inches, sparks grinding off the pavement. Peter grabs the man’s wrist with both hands. Twists.

The knife wobbles. Doesn’t fall.

Peter pulls the man forward and rams his knee up hard into the guy’s side. He grunts and stumbles, but doesn’t go down.

The blade jerks toward Peter’s neck.

Peter ducks again and feels the air split above his shoulder.

He drives his elbow into the man’s temple. The guy snarls, swears, and shoves him back.

Peter’s hand slips. His balance goes with it. He hits the dumpster behind him with a grunt. His ribs scream. The cut from earlier stings hot and wet.

The man lunges again.

Another slash, closer this time. Peter dodges, but his shoulder catches the wall. Brick scrapes his skin raw. The knife jabs again. He deflects with his forearm. Sparks fly in his nerves. It hurts.

He grits his teeth, ducks low, and drives forward, slamming his shoulder into the man’s gut. It knocks the wind out of him, but not the fight. The guy snarls and grabs for Peter’s hair, the knife still in his other hand.

Peter twists hard, bringing his elbow up into the man’s jaw. Bone-on-bone. The man stumbles, teeth bared in a bloody snarl, but the knife stays in play.

Too close. Too close.

The next strike nearly lands in Peter’s throat. He jerks sideways, grabs the man’s wrist mid-swing, and forces it down. Their limbs lock in a brutal tangle, muscles screaming. Peter’s strength shudders out, not full-force, he’s still holding back.

The knife scrapes his side again. Just a graze. But it sends fire through his nerves.

Peter makes a sound, something wordless and raw, and slams his knee into the man’s thigh. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. The guy buckles.

Peter twists the knife free.

He doesn’t use it, just flings it down the alley, far out of reach.

The man lunges again, fists now, but Peter meets him halfway, grabs the front of his jacket, and slams him against the wall. Not a clean move. Not trained. Just force.

The alley’s gone still.

The last guy groans on the pavement, blood blooming under him in slow, pulsing circles. Peter’s breath hitches, shallow and fast. He doesn’t feel heroic. He feels wrecked.

The hoodie sleeve on his right arm is slashed through. His shoulder throbs, deep and molten, where the pipe connected. His ribs scream under the weight of his breathing. The new gash on his side is sticky-wet, soaking into the hem of his hoodie, clinging cold and damp to his skin. It’s not deep, he doesn’t think it is, but it’s enough. Enough to remind him he doesn’t bounce back like he used to. Not when he’s starving. Not when he hasn’t slept. Not when the cold’s in his bones and won’t leave.

The kid against the dumpster hasn’t moved. Still curled up, hands over his head, shivering like he expects the next hit to come from the guy who just saved him.

Peter staggers forward and kneels slowly, as though every joint is trying to negotiate the movement.

“Hey.” His voice is rough. Too soft for this alley. “You still with me?”

The kid flinches, just barely.

Peter doesn’t reach out. He knows better. He just lowers his voice and keeps it steady. The way he used to when someone was hanging off a bridge or trapped in a crushed car, scared out of their mind.

“You’re okay now,” Peter says, and it’s a half-lie, half-hope. “They’re not getting back up anytime soon.”

The kid risks a glance. His face is a mess—blood at his temple, split lip, and one of his eyes is swelling shut. He nods once, barely, like a hinge too rusted to move more. But, doesn’t say anything.

Peter forces a smile. It aches more than the cut. “Good. That’s good.”

The itch starts slowly.

It creeps up his neck first. Then spreads down to his spine.

He lifts his head.

There-Fire escape-Watching.

A kid perched on the railing, still as stone. Clad in black and red, his yellow-trimmed cape catches the wind just enough to move. Watching.

Peter reads the shift in his weight, the way his fingers flex at his side. Not relaxed. Not ready to attack either. Just waiting.

Sizing him up.

Peter pushes to his feet, pain flaring behind his eyes. The cut in his arm throbs like it’s keeping time with his heartbeat. Pain shoots hot up his side. He swallows it and meets the boy’s eyes. He doesn’t flinch.

He presses a hand to the wound at his side. It comes away dark. He tucks it back into his pocket like that’ll help.

He stands too fast, and the world tips. His legs nearly buckle.

The kid against the dumpster startles.

“I’m-” Peter starts, then stops. He looks at the kid, then back at the silent figure above. His voice comes quieter this time, edged in gravel. “You’re okay. You should go.”

It’s not a request. But it’s gentle nonetheless.

The kid scrambles up, still shaky, and stumbles toward the mouth of the alley. Peter doesn’t watch him leave. He just listens for the fading footsteps, the choked breath, the rustle of someone still alive.

Only once the silence returns does Peter let himself move again.

He leans on the wall, just a little. Breath coming too fast. Sweat slick under his arms, despite the cold. His vision edges dark, like the corners of a film burning up.

From above, the vigilante still watches.

The boy’s eyes flick to Peter’s injured arm. Then his stance. Then the torn hoodie.

Then back to Peter’s face.

Peter’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t speak to him. He doesn’t explain, he doesn’t owe anyone that.

But he does meet the gaze.

Not a challenge.

Just a tired acknowledgement.

Peter shakes his head and mutters loud enough, “Don’t follow me.”

He turns, shoulder stiff, his side still weeping, blood still leaking into the lining of his hoodie, and walks away.

The alley closes behind him like a mouth sealing shut.

Each step is slow and deliberate. Not because he’s beyond exhausted, but because everything hurts. His shoulder pulses. His knuckles are raw, skin split in thin angry lines. His ribs scream every time his foot hits the ground.

But he keeps walking.

Gotham yawns open ahead of him, gray and wet and full of sharp corners. Sirens moan a few blocks over. Tires hiss through puddles. Somewhere, someone’s shouting.

It doesn’t matter.

The streets stretch ahead, slick with condensation, oily puddles reflecting rust-colored streetlights. Peter keeps to the side, hood up again, face down. A shadow moving among shadows. His steps are uneven and he’s limping. The kind of gait that draws attention if anyone’s bothering to look. They’re not.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Reflex. No webs come out.

He misses them. Not just the powers. But the grace.

His breath catches around a cough. His chest is too tight. He blinks hard, the world tilting for a second. Streetlight halos fuzz at the edges. He presses one hand to the brick wall and just stands there, hunched in the alley’s throat, breathing like the city punched the wind out of him.

His ribs grind with every breath. The gash at his side has soaked through the fabric, sticky against his skin. It itches and burns and aches, all at once. His hoodie is torn where the pipe caught him.

He breathes through his mouth. Doesn’t have the strength to wince anymore.

His whole body feels like it’s been hollowed out and filled with broken glass. Not just from the fight. Not just from the cut. From everything. From the dreams. From the silence that comes after. From the constant crawl of hunger that never turns into actual appetite.

He pushes off the wall.

The cash in his pocket feels heavier now.

He could buy food. Bandages. Maybe a new hoodie, one without a slash down the arm like a neon sign pointing at him, stating he’s the perfect target.

But that would mean stopping. That would mean going into a place. Talking to people. Standing under too-bright lights and pretending to be okay long enough to be handed a receipt and plastic bag and leave without collapsing.

He doesn’t think he can fake it tonight.

He’ll find a thread. He’ll stitch the hoodie shut if he has to. The bleeding will stop eventually. His healing isn’t gone, it’s just as tired as he is.

His legs want to stop. They say it with every step, knees like wet sand, barely holding shape. Ankles threatening betrayal. The pavement stretches ahead like a punishment.

His hand is pressed tight to his side, trying to keep the bleeding down, but the warmth is a bad sign. It means he’s still losing something.

Not fast. But enough.

He rounds another corner.

Almost there.

Another block. The fog clings heavier here, thick and low, curling at his ankles. Like it’s trying to pull him under.

His vision tilts again, like the world’s leaning too hard to the left. He braces a hand on a brick wall. Holds there a second too long.

Breathe in. Shallow. Out. Shallower.

His fingers twitch. Muscles locking up.

But he makes himself keep going.

The building is up ahead now. Sagging. Ugly. Familiar.

His hand shakes as he reaches for the handle on the side door. The metal’s cold enough to bite. His breath fogs in front of him.

The hallway stinks of rot and old paint. Each step up the stairs is a negotiation, one more muscle giving out, one more breath caught sharply behind his ribs. He doesn’t remember his legs being this heavy. Doesn’t remember the banister being this far from reach.

The stairs feel longer than they should.

Each step groans beneath him, joints creaking louder than the wood. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, rattling through cracked ribs and settling sharply behind his eyes. The wall scrapes his shoulder where he leans, but he keeps going. Because stopping would mean collapsing, and collapsing means maybe not getting back up.

By the second floor, his vision pulses. Black around the edges. He grips the banister hard enough his knuckles pale, but his legs still quiver beneath him like they’re considering mutiny.

The third floor feels like the summit of something cruel.

He fumbles the door open with a half-numb hand, shoves it closed with a boot heel, and stands there for a second, swaying. The silence inside is different from the street, heavier. It presses down. A kind of hush that only lives in dead places.

He stumbles toward the mattress in the corner. Every movement tugs something sharp.

Peter drops down onto it, the mattress groans under him, puffing mildew into the air. He doesn't care. He lands hard, the breath knocked out of him, ribs barking, shoulder screaming. 

He peels the hoodie off slowly. The fabric clings and rips. What skin isn’t raw is bruised. His side’s still seeping through the shirt beneath. There's a tear from the fight, shallow but mean-looking, rimmed in dirt and dried blood. 

He tears a strip of the shirt with his teeth, too weak to bother looking for anything sharper. The sound it makes is louder than it should be, and it feels obscene, like ripping pages out of a book he used to believe in.

He presses it to the gash on his side first. Hisses through clenched teeth. There’s no water to clean it. Not even a stale bottle from yesterday. He used the last of it… he can’t remember when.

He holds it there.

His hand shakes.

Blood seeps anyway.

He presses harder.

Next is his shoulder. The pipe didn’t break the skin, but it bruised deeply. It’s swollen and sore. He doesn’t touch it.

Then the ribs. He can’t see the bruises, but he doesn’t need to. Every breath tells him they’re worse than before. After the mugging. After the robbery. After tonight.

Peter leans his head back and closes his eyes. The room spins once. Twice. Then stops.

He doesn’t sleep. Not yet. Just sits there, arm wrapped around his ribs, fabric pressed to the worst of the bleeding. It’s not enough. He knows it. He knows infection is a real possibility. Knows he should get help. Knows he won’t.

The adrenaline’s gone. What’s left is bone-deep. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t just sit in your muscles, it weighs down your soul.

He tries to breathe evenly. Not too deep. His ribs won’t let him. His arm’s stiff. His side throbs. But it’s the silence that's the worst. It presses against him from all angles. The kind of silence that makes you think.

Makes you remember.

Aunt May’s voice, warm and worried, asking if he’d eaten. Tony’s dumb nickname for him. Ned’s laughter. MJ’s hand in his. All of it feels so far away now, like it happened in another life, to another boy, one who didn’t have blood on his sleeves and guilt baked into his bones.

He tries to rest.

But the mattress presses back, too damp, too soft in all the wrong ways. Dust rises with every movement, curling into his nose, and his lungs. His chest fights against the effort to breathe.

His hand stays pressed to the wound long after the blood stops soaking through.

He doesn’t realize it until his knuckles go numb.

He blinks at the ceiling. There’s nothing to see, just dark beams veined with cracks and water stains, but it pulls at him. Like it’s waiting. Like it knows what’s coming.

His mind goes where it always does: back.

Not to the fight. To the space in between.

To the pause before he moved. That breath where he considered walking away.

He sees it too clearly. That alley. That kid. But in this version, he’s a second too slow.

The kid doesn’t get back up.

He’s left slumped behind the dumpster, neck bent at the wrong angle, blood pooling where it can’t be mopped up or prayed over. Eyes open. Hollow. The kind of hollow that clings to Peter like oil.

The men scatter. Not because someone stopped them. Just because they got bored.

And Peter arrives in time to see it. Too late to stop it.

He swallows, but it catches.

His chest tightens.

Then his thoughts twist darker.

What if he had frozen?

What if that pipe had hit his skull instead of his shoulder?

What if his knees had buckled, his body finally giving out under the weight of all of it?

What if he’d gone down and not gotten back up?

The kid would’ve watched him bleed out first. Then screamed. Then choked. Then—

Peter shuts his eyes.

Hard.

But it doesn’t help.

The images stay, flickering behind his eyelids like a bad film reel.

He turns his face onto the mattress, the sour smell of mildew choking out the air, and lets himself fall into that place between waking and sleep. Not rest. Never that.

But maybe that's enough.

The wound pulses under his hand, a dull drumbeat keeping time with a heart too tired to break again. Somewhere in the building, a pipe bangs. Wind rattles glass. Gotham murmurs.

And inside Peter, deep down, where even guilt can’t reach, a flicker remains.

Not hope.

Just… persistence.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes like he’s been dragged through glass and left on concrete. His breath catches somewhere in the back of his throat, raw and ragged. The mattress beneath him smells of mold and old sweat, dampness curling into his lungs like a quiet poison. The hoodie lies next to him, black fabric mottled with blood; it had dried dark, almost invisible against the black fabric, but the memory of it hadn’t.

He tries to move. The weight of everything pins him, but he forces one arm forward, pushing against the mattress. The knife got him just under the ribs, twice. A shallow slice and another one that tugged when he moved wrong. The pipe left his shoulder pulsing deep and molten. Bricks scraped skin raw. His hoodie’s torn through the arm. His shirt is ripped from where he used it to keep the bleeding down. He’s wrapped in bruises and bone-deep exhaustion, and none of it is healing fast enough. Not without food. Not without rest. Not with this body running on fumes and spite.

His legs twitch, trying to respond, but they’re heavy, foreign. When he pushes up, sitting, his vision tilts. The world tips sideways, edges darkening like old film burning out. A wave of nausea nearly drags him under, and he clamps a hand over his mouth just in time.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel.

He lets himself sink back down. Half-closed eyes catch the peeling paint on the ceiling, the slow crawl of dust motes in the thin light from the cracked window. No clock. No phone. No way to measure time but the ache in his body and the cold that’s crept under his skin. There was just the steady gray pressed up against the broken window, the kind of sky Gotham offered when it couldn’t be bothered to pretend. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded. A car rumbled past. The rest of the world moved on without him.

He thinks about the library. The one place that makes some part of him feel tethered. He was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be useful, supposed to at least try.

And because the guilt knew how to wear his face, he listened.

He pushes up again, slower this time, dragging his legs over the mattress’s edge. The cold floor bites into his feet through threadbare socks. He sways, desperate to steady himself, but the effort is brutal. His knees buckle. Still, he grabbed the hoodie and dragged it over his arms. His shoulder screamed again—less pain, more complaint. But the motion stretched across his ribs and lit something sharp beneath the skin. He had to stop halfway and breathe through his teeth before he could pull it the rest of the way down. He nearly collapses, catching himself on the wall. But, he pushes through and exits the apartment.

The hallway was colder. Quieter. The building felt hollow, like it had exhaled sometime during the night and forgotten how to inhale again. He makes it as far as the landing before he slides down the wall like a shadow melting off the edge of something. His breath is ragged, and his heart hammers against ribs making them scream louder with every hit.

“Of course you miss the one thing that made you feel useful,” he mutters, bitter and raw. The words scrape the silence, and he almost hates hearing them, because it’s true. The library, the shift, his semblance of normal. The last thread tethering him to a life that doesn’t want him anymore.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes.

There are flashes. Not dreams, not really. Just fragments.

A knife glinting. Ned’s voice breaking in fear. Blood on pavement.

He opens his eyes once more and stares. He doesn’t cry. He couldn’t. He just stares at the peeling paint across the landing and tries to remember what it felt like not to be in pain, a time when the world was more of a gentle hand upon his cheek, rather than a brutal punch accompanied by a reprimand. 

The stairs are right there.

He could try. Could drag himself down, out, to the library. Pretend he’s okay long enough to clock in.

But he’s not okay.

And his legs wouldn’t hold.

Eventually, the silence started pressing too hard. The walls felt closer. The air becoming too still.

So he moved again.

It took everything he had to reach the rooftop.

Each step dragged. The railing cut into his hand as he gripped it for balance, and the stairwell felt longer than it ever had before. By the time he pushed the door open, the outside air hit him like cold water. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, ribs tight, shoulder pulsing.

The sky above was colorless. Gotham stretched out in shades of rust and charcoal, the fog curling around rooftops like smoke from something still burning.

The rooftop was colder than he expected, the kind of chill that soaked straight through the hoodie he’d barely managed to pull on. Wind threaded through the holes in the fabric, biting at his skin, but he kept going. Because the alternative was staying inside. And the inside was too small, too quiet, too loud.

He made it ten steps before his legs folded beneath him, not dramatic, just done. He didn’t fall so much as lower himself, inch by inch, until he was sitting with his back against the brick, one leg bent, the other stretched out like his body was trying to say: fine. stay down.

His breath fogged in front of him. Slow. Shallow. Careful.

The pain didn’t even spike anymore. It just simmered, low and hot across his ribs, heavy in his shoulder. His scraped skin stung in the wind. The dried blood on his side cracked every time he moved.

He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t care.

Gotham sprawled out in front of him like it knew it had already won.

He tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

For a second, maybe a second and a half, he almost forgot. Almost.

But his chest wouldn’t stop aching, not from the fight, not entirely. The ache was older than bruises. He could still see the kid’s face, too small, too scared, too close to being a body on the pavement. And before that, Tony’s voice. Saying his name like a question. Like he didn’t recognize what Peter had become.

He stayed like that for a long time.

So long that when the sound came—boots on concrete, the scrape of a cautious approach—he didn’t react at first. Just opened his eyes halfway and looked toward the shape that had joined him in the fog.

Nightwing.

Of course.

Peter didn’t move. Just let his head rest back against the wall, too tired to even tense up. “You lost, or just bored?”

Nightwing didn’t smile. Not this time. He crouched a few feet away, arms resting on his knees, gaze steady. “You look like hell.”

Peter huffed a laugh, brittle and fragile, “Thanks. You really know how to boost someone’s self-esteem.”

“Didn’t mean it as a dig,” Nightwing said. “Just, uh, as a truth. You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

Peter glanced down. He was. The fabric had darkened again. Not fast. Just steady. Like the wound had decided it wanted to be remembered.

He didn’t cover it. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Nightwing said, quietly. “It’s really not.”

Peter swallowed. His throat was dry. “Didn’t ask for an assessment.”

“I know.”

Another silence stretched. The wind shifted, sharp enough to pull at the edges of Peter’s hair. The city below whispered to itself, traffic and sirens and steam vents breathing in the distance.

Peter didn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have gone in that alley.”

Nightwing didn’t jump in to disagree. He just waited.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Peter said, voice low. “I should’ve— I didn’t even take them out clean. It was a mess. I slipped. I got cut. I almost—” failed. He almost failed.

He cut himself off.

The rest of the sentence didn’t need to be said.

Nightwing’s gaze didn’t waver. “You stopped three armed men. Saved a life. Walked away bleeding and still got back to your feet. That’s not failure.”

Peter let out a bitter sound. “You don’t get it.”

“Try me.”

Peter’s hands curled into fists in the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m not supposed to be here. This city already has people. Capes. Rules. It didn’t need me. I should’ve walked away.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because I’m stupid,” he snapped. “Because I don’t know when to stop. Because some kid was gonna die and I looked at him and saw—” He stopped, breathing sharp. “I saw everyone I couldn’t save. And I moved. I didn’t think. I just—” He shook his head. “And now I’m here. Broken. Worthless. Can’t even make it to a damn library shift without collapsing. What the hell am I even doing?”

Nightwing didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer comfort or platitudes. Just sat there, quiet in a way that didn’t feel empty.

After a while, he said, “You keep reminding me of someone.”

Peter didn’t ask who.

“He burned himself out because he thought if he ever stopped—if he ever let go, even just once—someone would die. Thought carrying the weight made him worthy of it.”

Peter stared at the skyline. “Did it?”

Nightwing looked at him, tired and honest. “No. It broke him.”

Peter shut his eyes. The wind scraped past again. His ribs ached in time with his pulse.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Nightwing said, not unkindly. “You need rest. Food. Help.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe not,” Nightwing said. “But you’re still alive. Which means you get to try anyway.”

Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

But his grip on his hoodie loosened. Just slightly.

And when Nightwing stood, slow and deliberate, and started to leave, he paused, just for a second, and added, “You’re not as alone as you think.”

Peter didn’t look up.

But he heard it.

And it stayed with him, even after the rooftop was empty again.

Even after the fog crept in and wrapped around him like memory.

Even when the sky turned more ashen and the fog deepened like a curtain.

The cold had stopped biting. It just settled in, dull and persistent, like everything else. His fingers twitched sometimes—maybe from the wind, maybe from the blood loss—but he didn’t move. Didn’t want to. Moving meant remembering his body was breaking. Stillness meant pretending it wasn’t.

The city below kept breathing. Gotham didn’t care if he sat up here all night and dissolved.

He leaned his head back again. Not to look at the sky, there was nothing to see, just gray and light pollution, but because he was too tired to hold it upright. His shoulder throbbed in dull, bruising pulses. The gash at his side kept leaking. He was starting to feel the burn in his ribs more now, deeper, like something inside had shifted wrong.

Nightwing’s words still echoed in his head.

"You’re not as alone as you think."

Peter didn’t know if that was meant to be reassurance or a warning. But maybe that was his trust issues talking.

He huffed once, dry and humorless.

Because it was funny, in a sick way. The idea that anyone thought he could still be saved. That some part of him was salvageable. That if he just tried harder, ate more, slept more, smiled at the right people, he’d be fine.

They didn’t get it.

This wasn’t about one bad day.

This was every day since the sky tore open and everything fell apart. Every day since he rewired the world to keep the people he loved alive and ended up here, bleeding in a city that didn’t know his name.

He pressed a hand to his side again. His hoodie came away sticky. Warm, which wasn’t good. Not in this cold. He looked down at it and thought, distantly, It’s less than yesterday. That’s something.

His body felt like paper. Folded too many times in too many wrong directions.

The silence stretched until it was unbearable.

He tried to sleep again. Sitting up. Head against the wall. Eyes closed.

But every time he started to drift, something dragged him back.

A flash of light.

A scream.

The sound of boots on pavement and a voice—soft, low, shaped like concern. It says his name and nothing else. Like it’s asking him to come back to himself.

He flinched and his eyes snapped open.

The city hadn’t changed.

He blinked slowly, every muscle in his face aching with the effort.

And something in him cracked, quiet and almost unnoticeable, like a single thread pulling loose in a fraying sweater.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t have the energy for that. But his chest hitched once. Just once.

Then he stood.

Not because he felt better. Not because he had a plan. But because he had to. Because the pain in his side was getting worse, and sitting here was starting to feel like waiting for something to finish him off.

The world swayed as he got to his feet. His vision pinwheeled. He bent forward, hand on his knee, breathing through his teeth until it leveled out.

One step.

Then another.

He gritted his teeth and headed for the rooftop door.

The door shrieked on rusted hinges as it swung open behind him. The sound scraped straight down Peter’s spine like a warning shot. He didn’t pause. Just stepped into the stairwell like gravity was something he owed a debt to.

The descent was worse than the climb.

Each step lit fresh nerve endings—his shoulder barked at every shift in balance, his ribs throbbed like they were echoing distant thunder, and the cut along his side had started bleeding more, warmth trickling beneath fabric gone stiff with dried blood. He kept one hand on the wall, the other pressed to his side, his breath shallow and fast like he could outrun the pain if he just kept moving.

By the time he hit the floor landing, his knees buckled, and this time there was no fighting it. He slumped down hard against the wall, shoulder dragging across cold brick. His head tipped back. Ceiling spun.

The pain didn’t spike anymore. It just settled in, an old companion now, digging in as though it signed a lease.

He closed his eyes.

Time passed, or didn’t. The hallway stayed gray. Quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but a dead quiet. Like the whole building was holding its breath, waiting for him to disappear into it.

He should’ve gone back to the mattress. Should’ve at least tried to sleep off the shaking in his hands. But something about the rooftop lingered under his skin, the open sky, the weight of Nightwing’s voice, the reminder that someone was watching. That someone saw him.

That someone might even care.

His jaw clenched. He didn’t want that. Didn’t trust it. Couldn’t afford to.

Still…

The cold was worse down here.

He pushed up again, slow, deliberate. His body screamed at him, but he moved anyway, because staying still hurt worse in a different way. It felt like rust setting in.

By the time he reached his room, he was drenched in sweat despite the chill, his breath hitching in raw little gasps, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin soaked through. He fumbled for the doorknob with numb fingers, shoved it open, and all but collapsed inside.

The door clicked shut behind him like the world exhaling.

Peter stood there for a moment, swaying on his feet. Then took two unsteady steps toward the mattress and half-fell onto it, his arm catching the edge and dragging it slightly sideways. The impact made him bite down a sound, something between a gasp and a curse.

The room reeked of that now familiar smell.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t move again.

His hand pressed against his side, and he felt how wet the fabric was again. It should’ve scared him. He should’ve been panicking, calculating blood loss, remembering first aid.

Instead, he just laid there, bones hollow, head spinning, breath barely making it in and out.

Gotham’s noise filtered in through the broken window.

Peter stared up at the ceiling.

The cracked plaster blurred and came back into focus like it was trying to tell him something.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

But for how long?

His hand twitched once, curling in the fabric of his hoodie.

Outside, the wind picked up.

And Peter, breath shallow, pain blooming warm across his side, whispered to no one, “Don’t follow me.”

But the city always did.

---------------------------------

He wakes in stages.

First comes the cold.

Not the sharp, bracing kind that clears your head, but the kind that’s settled in, made a home beneath the skin. It clings to his spine, curls around his ribs, seeps into the hollows of his joints like something half-alive. His breath leaves a faint fog in the air, then fades. Even the fog looks tired.

Then comes the heat.

Low and buried, coiled like smoke behind his ribs. Fever, probably. Or something worse. The gash along his side pulses in time with his heartbeat, each throb thick and slow and wrong. His body has stopped arguing with the pain. Now it just lives with it.

He opens his eyes. The ceiling above him has peeled another layer in the night. Or the day. Or whatever this is. There’s no sun. No clock. Just the light from the window, that gutted, horrible gray.

His hoodie’s twisted around him, sleeves tangled. The fabric at his side is damp again. Warm, dark. He doesn’t want to look. He already knows.

But he forces himself to.

Because pretending won’t stop an infection.

His hand trembles as he peels his shirt up.

The gash along his ribs is swollen now, angry red with a slick shine at the edges. Not healing. Not even trying. The skin around it looks bruised and irritated, too warm under his fingertips. His stomach turns.

“Okay,” he croaks. “Okay. Okay.”

He grits his teeth, rolls to his side, and pushes himself upright in stages. The room spins once, twice, doesn’t stop. The cold air of the apartment feels thick, like it’s turned to soup overnight. Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe his body’s giving up on staying solid.

He tears another strip from his shirt, hand shaking. No finesse. Just desperation. He tries not to think too hard about how little of it is left. 

He presses it to the wound, hissing through his teeth. The pain lights up his nerves. White. Sharp. Electrical. His vision blanks for a moment. It doesn’t even help much. Just makes it angrier.

He stumbles to the bathroom.

The faucet doesn’t work. He knows that. He knows that.

But he twists the knob anyway. Hope dies last, right?

The pipes rattle. Cough. Spit dust.

No water.

Toilet tank?

He rips off the lid and peers in.

Dry.

Of course.

“Cool,” he mutters, voice a cracked whisper. “Awesome.”

“If infection has a voice,” he mumbled, forehead against the wall, “it’s laughing its ass off right now.”

He slides down to the chipped tile. Breathing hard. Not from panic, just from being.

It’s getting harder to do that.

He stays there for a long time. Too long. He might pass out again. Might not. Time has gone shapeless.

Eventually, he drags himself back to the mattress.

His hands won’t stop trembling. His ribs feel hollow. There’s a film over his eyes that doesn’t blink away.

And he’s so, so tired.

The kind of tiredness that doesn’t leave room for dreams.

Something slithers its way in any way.

He’s in a kitchen.

Not the broken, roach-silent kind that lives one doorframe away. No, this one is warm. Small. Familiar. The smell of toast. The faint scent of laundry detergent. Sunlight through cheap curtains.

Aunt May hums as she moves around the stove, spatula in one hand, slippers soft against linoleum. She’s wearing her old flannel pajama pants, the ones with the dancing cacti.

“Peter,” she calls, without turning. “You’re going to burn the toast if you keep staring at it.”

He blinks.

Looks down.

His hands are fine. Clean. The toaster ticks.

For a moment, just a breath, it feels real.

Then something buzzes.

A glitch in the edges. A flicker.

The kitchen dims.

May’s voice stutters.

And Peter gasps, sitting upright on the mattress like he’s been punched.

The apartment crashes back into place. Mold on the ceiling. Cold in his lungs. Sweat on his skin. Blood on his side. His hands clench the sheet beneath him, trying to remember what warmth felt like.

“Not fair,” he whispers. “That wasn’t fair.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands fisted in his own hair. He wants to scream. He wants to run. But there’s nowhere left.

“You’re dying,” he mutters.

Not dramatic. Just true.

“Not in battle. Not protecting anyone. Just slowly. Quietly. In a room no one knows exists.”

His breath shakes.

“Kind of poetic, I guess.”

The silence stretches. It’s louder now. Full of everything he’s ever lost. The city outside doesn’t even bother making a sound.

You did this to yourself.

The thought lands like a needle to the chest. Small. Precise.

Peter doesn’t argue.

Because yeah. He did.

He stayed. He couldn’t help it. The kid in the alley, Peter saw him and moved before thinking. Like always. It’s in his marrow. Written in his DNA. Help first. Bleed later.

Now the bleeding won’t stop.

He touches his side again. The warmth there is slower now, not gushing, but still there. Still soaking into him like ink through paper.

This isn’t a heroic death.

This is entropy. This is consequence.

“This city doesn’t need me,” he says softly. “Didn’t ask for me. It doesn’t even want me.”

His voice breaks a little. He doesn’t fix it.

“I should’ve left it alone. Let the people in capes and cowls clean up their own messes.”

But he knows, he knows, he wouldn’t have. He can’t. It’s not how he’s wired.

So now he’s here.

Collapsed on a mattress that smells like copper. Hoodie sticking to his ribs. Skin burning. Alone.

And still, still, his first thought is: If someone screamed right now, I’d get up. I’d go.

Even if it killed him.

Especially if it did.

Because at least then it would mean something.

He closes his eyes again.

This time, the humming doesn’t cut through him. It wraps around his ribs like a thin, worn blanket, too threadbare to warm, but enough to stop the cold from biting for a moment.

He lets it be.

Not because he believes it, not because it promises anything, but because sometimes, holding onto the smallest thing—even a ghost—is the only way to keep breathing.

Chapter Text

He wakes to the sound of Gotham exhaling.

The kind of breath that feels colder than it should. Heavy with condensation, city-smog, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel earned. The mattress beneath him hasn’t changed—it still smells like mildew and rot, still clings to him like a warning, but the light creeping through the broken window is thinner now. Paler. Morning, maybe. Or something masquerading as it.

Peter blinks once. His eyelashes stick.

His whole body feels like it’s been packed in wet sand. Every breath scrapes. The fever’s still there—he can taste it in his mouth, warm metal and cotton—and the gash along his ribs pulses like it’s trying to keep tempo with a broken metronome.

The dust has settled, and the stillness consumes him.

He has to move, he can’t deal with the quiet.

He shifts his legs off the edge of the mattress and tries not to gag when the fabric peels from his side. It’s barely stuck this time. That should probably scare him more than it does. The blood isn’t bright anymore—it’s gone that dull, rusted color, the kind that says it’s been too long since he properly cleaned anything. He doesn’t check the wound. He doesn’t have to. His body’s already singing its answer, every note a warning. But the hoodie hides most of it, and that’s the best he can do.

His knees buckle when he stands.

He catches the wall before gravity makes a full claim. The whole room tilts, just slightly, but he waits it out, forehead pressed to the peeling wallpaper like maybe it’ll offer some kind of absolution. It doesn’t.

The library.

It threads through his thoughts like a promise he doesn’t remember making. He had missed his shift yesterday. Maybe even the day before. He doesn’t know. But if there’s one thing left in this world that hadn’t rejected him outright, it’s that quiet little corner of Gotham’s archives. The redhead. The warmth. The hush that didn’t feel suffocating.

He needs to get there.

Not to be useful, not even to feel human.

But because guilt is heavier than pain. Because time doesn't pause just because he’s breaking.

He laces up his ruined sneakers with fingers that won’t stop shaking. The left shoe’s sole is peeling off at the toe, and the right one has a dried streak of blood across the side. Doesn’t matter. No one looks that close anyways.

The hallway greets him like a bad omen. The light’s grayer here, thicker. Like the building’s been holding its breath and doesn’t quite want to release it.

He has to rest against the banister by the stairs. The weight of gravity feels biblical.

Regardless, he exhales and continues.

Down the stairs, each one a war. He grips the rail so tight his knuckles ache. The metal bites through his skin. His legs buckle once. He grits his teeth and keeps going.

Outside, Gotham greets him like a slap.

The cold is sharper here. Wet and metallic. The kind of chill that sinks in through skin and memory. Clouds hang low, heavy with unshed rain, and the sidewalks are slick with yesterday’s failed drizzle.

Peter doesn’t look at the sky. He doesn’t look at anything. He just keeps walking.

Every step sends a jolt up through his side. His hoodie sticks to the wound, peels away wetly, sticks again. His breath clouds in front of him, shallow and fast. No one on the street looks twice. Not at the kid hunched over, gray at the edges, dragging himself forward like it’s penance.

A honk blares. He flinches. The sound echoes in his ribs.

Two blocks in, his vision dissolves into spots. He stops at a streetlamp, and leans against it like it might hold him up. A bus rumbles past. A gust of wind throws grit into his eyes.

He wipes them with the back of his sleeve. He keeps moving.

The street blurs beneath his feet, the concrete warping at the edges like it's underwater. His legs carry him, but barely. Each step scrapes something raw. The warmth on his side isn’t warmth anymore, it’s heat. Thick and wrong. His hoodie clings to it, glued in place by blood that won't clot properly. He doesn’t have to look to know it's seeping again.

The fever hums in his ears. At first, it was a whisper, now it’s a symphony. His breath rattles, shallow and sharp, but he doesn't stop. 

By the time the library comes into view, his whole body is shaking. He stops just across the street, staring up at the brick facade like it might vanish if he blinks wrong. The windows glow faint and warm. Too warm. Like a place he doesn’t belong anymore.

His knees lock.

He nearly turns around.

But then a kid walks in. Red backpack. Head down. Ordinary.

Peter exhales.

And steps forward.

He crosses the street. But his foot catches the edge of the curb wrong, and for a second, his vision blacks out entirely. Just static. Cold and hot all at once.

He catches himself on a trash can. The metal screeches against pavement and someone nearby turns, brows furrowed like they might say something, but they don’t. They never do. Just a weird kid in a ratty hoodie hunched like he’s trying not to fall apart.

He grips the handle, white-knuckled, and waits for the spinning to stop.

Then he keeps going.

The library steps might as well be Everest. He climbs them one at a time, weight tilted to one side, right hand pressed to his ribs. The pressure hurts. But letting go hurts more. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The doors loom in front of him.

He doesn’t remember opening it. Just remembers the shift in air; of the warmth, quiet, paper-scented atmosphere and the way it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

Inside sounds flood his head. Fluorescent lighting, low murmurs, a printer humming.

The front desk is empty for the moment. A couple of college kids are tucked in the corner near the outlets. Someone’s dragging a rolling cart of books. The world is slow here. Still.

Peter stands just inside the door, blinking like he forgot how to see.

His knees tremble.

The heat in his side spikes again, sudden and furious. He sways, fingers twitching. His heart is racing now, fast and thin and wrong. His mouth is dry enough to crack.

He takes one step forward.

Then another.

And then his vision collapses into black.

He hits the ground hard. Knees first. Then his shoulder. Then everything else.

There’s no gasp. No warning. Just a stop of motion.

The library doesn’t go quiet, but a few heads turn. One girl yelps. Someone drops a book.

The darkness swallows him.

---------------------------------

Sound comes back like static, like a broken radio dial twisting through frequencies.

The ground's cold beneath him. That registers first. Tile, probably. Polished. Hard.

Then, shoes. Sneakers squeaking. A chair scraping too fast. A voice rising, sharp with panic and snapping into a whisper.

“Shit—hey. Hey, can you—? He just—he collapsed—”

Muffled footsteps scatter. He hears wheels rolling across floor. Someone gasps. Someone says "Call someone." Maybe they already are. Maybe this is all a dream.

Peter can’t open his eyes. Too heavy. Everything’s too heavy. His hoodie is soaked through. His ribs pulse like they’re counting down.

A new voice. Familiar.

Low. Controlled, but frayed at the edges.

“Parker—hey. Parker.”

Barbara?

Something brushes his shoulder. Not pain, just pressure. Gentle. Hesitant.

Another voice, sharper now. More urgent. Phone clicks. A tone.

Then:

“Pick up. Come on, Bruce. Now is not the time to be brooding, Jesus Christ—”

The words fracture. Glitch. Fade in and out like a radio caught in a thunderstorm.

He thinks he hears: "library—he just dropped—fever, I think—blood, he's—"

A sound near the phone. Click. Dial tone? Maybe not.

Then a different name. "Dick—" Or maybe she didn’t say anything at all. His brain fills in blanks.

More words spill out, too fast for him to follow. Something about breathing. Shock. Infection. Shallow vitals.

He hears his name again. Not shouted. Just spoken like a secret someone’s afraid of losing.

“Parker.”

The hum in his head deepens. Like thunder curling beneath water.

Something wraps around his hand.

And then—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Peter woke in a room that didn’t hurt.

That was the first lie.

For a long, stretched moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Just let the warmth pull at the edges of him like a tide he couldn’t fight. His thoughts drifted in and out of focus, untethered, floating. The kind of half-consciousness you sink into when your body is too broken to argue anymore. The ache was still there—burrowed under his ribs, coiled in his shoulder, pulsing like a dull warning in every joint. But it was quieter now. Muted. Distant. A bruised hum beneath the surface, familiar, but softened.

The second lie was the sunlight.

It spilled across the floor in soft, slanted stripes, warm and golden, like something out of a memory he didn’t trust anymore. It touched the quilt over him, the edges of the polished nightstand, the half-empty glass of water resting in a perfect ring of condensation. It made the air glow.

Sunlight didn’t belong in his world anymore.

But it was here.

So was the bed. Soft. Clean. A real mattress, not a sweat-stained one scavenged from an abandoned apartment. Sheets that didn’t smell like mildew or blood. The pillow cradled his head like it was made to hold weight gently.

And for one fragile second, his mind did what it always did.

It rewound.

This could’ve been his room. Could’ve been Aunt May calling from the kitchen, her voice soft around the edges of a tune she hadn’t finished humming. The smell in the air could’ve been toast, or coffee, or laundry detergent still clinging to her sleeves.

This could’ve been Saturday morning.

He could’ve been safe.

The illusion held long enough to ache, yet didn’t have time to settle before it turned to ash in his mouth.

Then the silence hit him.

Not the silence of his crumbling apartment, thin walls holding in too much of a dying world.

This was intentional silence. Thick with care. Quiet not from abandonment, but from dignity. A stillness that came from order, not emptiness.

His body didn’t believe it. He twitched, breathing sharper. Limbs stiff. Muscles bracing for impact. For noise. For pain.

Instead, he found the soft creak of bedsprings. The faint tap of a bird against the window pane. The calm tick of a clock he couldn’t see.

His throat was raw. He shifted, just a little, and the movement lit his ribs up like wire catching current. He hissed through his teeth, blinking hard. His hoodie was gone, replaced by a loose, soft T-shirt. His side was bandaged. His shoulder too. Thick gauze wrapped with precision. Someone had cleaned the blood from his skin. Someone had stitched the wound. He felt stripped down. Not violated, exactly, whoever did this had been gentle, but exposed in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be in weeks. His hands trembled. He didn’t remember. He barely recalled even making it to the library.

He wasn’t in his apartment.

He wasn’t even in Gotham.

Not his Gotham, anyway—the version he knew, where everything was rot and concrete and corners sharp enough to bleed on.

He reached for the glass of water. His hand trembled. The condensation made the cup slick, but he managed. The water hit his tongue cold and clean, and he drank like something desperate.

Halfway through, he paused.

Who had done this?

He looked around, vision narrowing.

The room was too large. Tall windows. Crown molding. A bookshelf full of hardcovers. Everything old, but perfectly kept. It smelled like lemon polish and faintly of parchment.

This was money. Old money. The kind that didn’t need to show itself off because it had already won.

This was not anywhere Peter Parker belonged.

His pulse kicked faster.

Sheets were kicked off. The floor was warm beneath his bare feet—polished wood that caught the light and reflected it back like it had something to prove. Even that felt foreign. Heat underfoot, like the house had been designed for comfort. Like someone lived here who could afford to be soft. 

His legs shook, knees threatening to give out under the sudden weight of gravity. But he stood. Slouched forward. One hand on the nightstand, the other clutching his bandaged side. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck even as goosebumps bloomed across his arms.

He shuffled to the door, heart in his throat.

He didn’t recognize the handle. Didn’t recognize the room. The light outside the door was golden, too. Filtered through high windows, the hallway stretched long and unfamiliar, like a museum too quiet for comfort. There were paintings, runners, wall sconces.

Everything was too perfect. Too untouched.

He stepped out.

And instantly felt small.

The hallway swallowed him whole. Tall ceilings. Wood paneling. Too many closed doors. It felt like walking through a memory someone else had lived.

His breath fogged slightly in the cooler air. His skin was still faintly feverish. His body was weak, humming wrong under the surface, like the infection hadn’t entirely given up.

Then—

He heard it.

A low, familiar sound. Threading through the silence like a tether.

Humming.

Gentle. Slow. Coming from somewhere deep within the house. It didn’t sound like danger. It didn’t sound like anything at all, really—just someone working. Moving. Living.

It wound through the air like a thread, warm and casual, as if someone had done it every morning for years. Not loud. Not even intentional. Just the kind of tune someone hums when they’re halfway through cooking eggs.

Peter froze.

For one, fractured instant, he could almost pretend it was May.

He could almost believe he’d stepped through a tear in the world and landed back in that too-small Queens kitchen with the cracked linoleum and the busted cabinet hinge that never stayed shut. She used to hum like that—soft and steady, her voice barely above breath as she moved through the motions of another morning. It didn’t matter what time it was. If she was up before him, she’d hum.

And for a second, he wanted—so badly it made his knees weaken—to just follow it. To turn the corner and find her there, in her slippers, spatula in hand, telling him he looked like death and needed to eat something.

But May was gone.

And Peter was not home.

And whatever he was about to find around the corner, it wasn’t going to bring her back.

Still, he moved.

Slowly. Carefully. One foot in front of the other, like the floor might vanish beneath him.

The humming grew louder.

Somehow, that made it worse.

The hall twisted and split. Doors lined nearly each wall. Every turn made him more aware of how enormous the building was, ornate and quiet, a cathedral for ghosts. But the humming didn’t stop. So neither did he.

Down a staircase.

Across a marble-tiled foyer that looked too expensive to exist in real life.

Through another hallway.

The smell of food reached him next. Something buttery and warm. Eggs? His stomach growled, sharp and sudden.

He followed the scent and sound until it led him to a wide doorway. Beyond it, a kitchen.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, striking polished counters and a vase of flowers on the table. The space was warm, homey in a way that clashed with the sheer size of the mansion. It smelled like comfort.

And at the stove, back turned, stood an older man in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, humming low under his breath, as he moved a pan across the burner.

The doorway held him like a force field. Warm air pressed against his fever-chilled skin, full of scents he hadn’t let himself remember in weeks—real food, not whatever passed for nourishment in Gotham’s forgotten corners. There was the crackle of something cooking. The clink of utensils. The shuffle of slippers or soft-soled shoes across polished tile.

Everything was warm. Normal. Wrong.

His hand clenched against the doorframe.

The man at the stove didn’t turn at first, just reached for the pan, tilting it with the ease of someone who’d done this same movement ten thousand times before. Calm. Methodical. Like this was routine. Like Peter wasn’t standing there with a body stitched together by scraps and a slowly dissipating fever.

And then—without turning—he spoke casually, “You’re awake. That’s good. You had us worried.”

His throat worked around the words before they came. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe,” the man offered gently. “And no, you didn’t break in. You were brought here. Injured.” A pause, then, “Someone was quite insistent.”

That didn’t help Peter’s spinning thoughts. He leaned more weight onto the doorframe, ribs aching. His gaze dragged over the kitchen—immaculate, spacious, lived-in in the kind of quiet way rich houses never managed to fake. There was warmth here. Sunlight, yes, but something else, too. Something older.

He didn’t trust this. He didn’t trust anything anymore. He remembered collapsing. Maybe. The library? A hallway? His side had been burning and the floor had felt like ice and gravity at once. And now, he was warm. Bandaged. Dressed in clean clothes. Sitting in a manor.

This wasn’t charity. It couldn’t be.

“Why?” Peter rasped. “Why bring me here?”

The man’s brow furrowed faintly, not unkind. “Because leaving you where you were didn’t seem like an option.”

Peter didn't move. Every cell in his body told him to be ready. To bolt. But his legs still shook, and the smell of food felt like a cruel joke.

The man turned back to the stove, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. “There’s toast on the counter. And jam, if you like. You should sit.”

Peter blinked. “I should—?”

“Sit,” the man spoke again, gently but firmly. “Before your knees give out. Which, by the look of you, is a matter of moments.”

He wasn’t wrong. Peter’s knees were on the verge of mutiny.

He moved, slow, cautious, like the kitchen might disappear if he startled it. The chair gave a soft scrape as he pulled it back. He sank down, hands gripping the edge of the table. The wood was warm from sunlight.

“Would you like tea?” the man asked.

Peter stared, “What?”

“Tea,” he repeated. “Or coffee. I’m afraid we’re fresh out of milk and juice.”

Peter blinked at him, “Tea’s… fine.”

“Excellent.”

The man turned away, calm as ever, and reached for the kettle.

Peter's eyes swept the room again. It was clean in that perfectly maintained way that said someone paid attention to the details—not for show, but out of muscle memory; habits die hard as they say.

His ribs throbbed. His shoulder ached. His side burned beneath the fresh bandages. But the kitchen smelled like eggs and toast and jam, and that alone was enough to make his throat tighten.

“This isn’t a hospital,” Peter acknowledged, more to himself than anything.

“No,” the man agreed.

“Then who stitched me up?”

There was a pause as the man poured hot water over a teabag, the scent of something herbal and sharp drifting up.

“Someone who knows what they’re doing,” he reassured at last, “And who doesn’t appreciate being second-guessed, particularly by the half-conscious.”

Peter’s brows pulled in. It was a dodge, but not an unfriendly one.

“I’m not a threat,” he insisted quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t looking for—”

“I know,” the man interrupted, setting the mug down in front of him. “No one said you were.”

Peter blinked at the steam curling from the mug. He didn’t reach for it. Just stared for a second, trying to piece together where the trap might be.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, voice quiet, cracked.

The man looked at him then. Fully. And something in his gaze was very old and very tired, but not cruel.

“Because someone should be,” he sighed “And because you clearly haven’t been shown enough of it lately.”

Peter didn’t answer. His chest felt as though it were cracked open, showing something bare, weeping, and so vulnerable. Showing the one thing that remains in the ruins of it all, his soul, broken beyond recognition, knowing nothing but grief.

He reached for the tea.

His hands trembled, but the warmth seeped into his skin. He didn’t drink it right away.

The man turned back to the stove and flipped the eggs again. “There’s no rush to explain anything,” he added over his shoulder. “You don’t owe anyone your story just because they offered you a warm bed and clean sheets.”

Peter swallowed hard.

But he nodded once.

Because for now, that was the most he could give.

Peter didn’t speak again, not right away.

The warmth from the tea mug grounded him more than he liked to admit. He stared at it, hands curled around the ceramic like he could absorb its steadiness through skin. The scent was unfamiliar but gentle, something herbal, with a bite of ginger underneath. His throat still burned from the fever, but he risked a sip.

It hit his stomach like a flare. Warm. Sharp. Alive.

He turned off the stove and plated food with quiet precision. No wasted movement. He set the plate in front of Peter with the kind of care that felt deliberate, not patronizing. Then he turned to wash the pan without fanfare.

Peter stared at the food. Two eggs, toast, a little fruit, neatly arranged.

His stomach twisted in protest and yearning.

“I didn’t know what you preferred,” he explained, wiping his hands on a cloth. “But I find simplicity rarely offends.”

Peter stared at the food. His fingers flexed under the table.

Eat it, his body begged. Eat it now.

But his mind hadn’t caught up yet. It still stood frozen in the doorway, watching May’s ghost disappear again.

The man didn’t press. He moved through the kitchen like someone used to silence, like it didn’t bother him. A few drawers opened. A cabinet clicked shut. The faucet ran for a second and then stopped. Dishes stacked.

Only after Peter had eaten half the toast, because his body finally overruled his brain, did he speak again.

“You said someone brought me here,” Peter commented. His voice was hoarse, but clearer now. “I don’t remember that.”

The man didn’t look up from drying his hands. “You wouldn’t. You collapsed on the floor. And because Miss Gordon was, quite understandably, concerned.”

Peter’s brow knit, “At the library?”

“Correct.”

Peter blinked. “Barbara.”

“Indeed.”

He looked down at his hands. Trembling, bloodless things. Still a little raw along the knuckles. Still not healing fast enough.

“I don’t remember,” he muttered.

“You wouldn’t,” the man murmured gently. “You were feverish. Quite severely so. And in pain. Dehydrated. Malnourished.”

Peter winced, suddenly hyper-aware of the bandages wrapped around his ribs, the aches crawling from his shoulder down. “I don’t belong here.”

“Perhaps not. But at the moment, here is where you are.”

The words sat between them like a stone dropped in still water. Not cruel. Just real.

Peter looked toward the window. The sunlight spilled across the tile like it had nowhere better to be. The view stretched wide, green and gold—Gotham in the distance, almost softened by the height and the trees.

This wasn’t just a house. This was an estate.

“Where am I?” he asked, quietly.

He poured himself a cup of tea, movements unrushed. “A private residence on the outskirts of the city.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“For now, it’s the best I can offer without betraying anyone’s trust.”

Peter’s jaw worked. That stung, but it was fair. He didn’t know why it felt fair. Or why it felt… okay, even if it grated.

The man sat across from him, not directly across, but at a slight angle, respectful. Observing without cornering. “You may not trust me. I understand that. But you were in no condition to make decisions for yourself. Someone had to.”

Peter flinched. “You could’ve taken me to a hospital.”

“Would you have stayed in one?”

The silence that followed was bitter and thick.

“No,” Peter muttered.

He simply sipped his tea.

Peter glanced back down at the food. It wasn’t steaming anymore, but it was still warm. He took another small bite of egg. The food tasted like it had been made with actual seasoning. His stomach, now realizing it wasn’t hallucinating, began to ache in earnest. Hunger clawed up his throat.

“I don’t want to be a problem,” Peter said, voice low.

He set down his cup. “You are far from the last person to grace this house’s steps and worry about such a thing.”

Peter’s lips quirked, almost involuntarily. But the smile didn’t last.

He looked up, meeting the man’s gaze. “I can’t stay.”

“You might not want to.” He countered, “But you can rest. If just for a little while.”

Peter didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The chair cradled his body like the mattress had, soft in ways he didn’t know how to process. Like the house itself wanted him to heal.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Peter stayed seated for a long time.

He picked at the food slowly, mechanically. Not out of suspicion, but because eating felt intimate, and intimacy was foreign territory now. The act of chewing something warm, something made for him, something plated without judgment, was harder to stomach than the food itself.

The man didn’t speak much. Just sipped his tea, occasionally adjusted the pan on the stove. There was more food, still warm on the burner. He didn’t offer seconds. He didn’t need to.

Eventually, when Peter had gotten about halfway through, he set the toast down with trembling fingers.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Peter sighed quietly, not looking up.

He paused in his motion, turning slightly, then leaned on the counter behind him, “I don’t want anything from you.”

Peter shook his head. “People always want something.”

“Then perhaps I’m the exception that proves the rule.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

“You say that,” He voiced, “as though someone who bleeds that much and still tries to stand doesn’t tell me exactly the kind of person they are.”

Peter blinked hard. His chest ached.

The infection was still there. Simmering under skin and stubbornness. His shoulder felt hot. His ribs tugged with every shallow breath. He felt like a peeling sticker on the back of a rusted sign. Something that used to mean something, now just barely clinging.

“I shouldn’t have intervened,” he murmured. “With the kid in the alley.”

The man was quiet for a beat. Then, “I’m not sure what you mean, but I think you’re quite wrong.”

“You don’t know what it cost.”

“Everything worth doing does.”

Peter finally looked up.

The man’s expression was calm, but not indifferent. Lined with age, but not weathered into cynicism. Just composed. Observing. Like he’d seen a hundred people like Peter pass through this house and still hadn’t given up on a single one of them.

That was almost worse than cruelty.

Peter stood too fast. The chair scraped.

He staggered, catching himself on the edge of the table.

The man moved like a shadow, there instantly, but not close enough to touch.

“I need—” Peter’s voice caught. “I need to go.”

He said nothing.

“I’m not—” Peter dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t belong here.”

He folded his hands behind his back. “That’s a sentiment I hear more often than you’d expect.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Peter stared at him.

The kitchen buzzed with quiet. A fly tapped against the windowpane. Somewhere deep in the house, a clock chimed the hour.

“I’m not staying,” Peter said again.

“I never asked you to.”

Peter’s mouth was dry. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“No.”

That threw him.

The man’s gaze softened.

“You are free to go,” he said. “When you’re ready. Not when you think you should be ready.”

Peter looked at the doorway. He could leave. Right now. Should leave.

But something about that word, should, stuck in his ribs like shrapnel.

He stood there, swaying slightly, unsure if his legs would actually carry him anywhere. Unsure what waited outside this building that hadn’t already tried to kill him once.

And that silence pressed in again.

The soft kind of quiet.

The kind he hadn’t known in weeks.

Not empty. Just peaceful.

His throat tightened.

“Can I ask you something?”

He raised a brow. “Certainly.”

Peter’s voice cracked, “Why are you being kind to me?”

The older man looked at him for a long moment, then offered a quiet shrug. “Because someone should be.”

Peter stared.

No name. No explanation. Just a stranger with a steady voice and a frightening amount of patience. Someone who’d bandaged his wounds without questions. Made him breakfast. Waited.

The kind of person Peter hadn’t let himself believe existed anymore.

And he still didn’t know who the hell he was.

He almost asked, almost, but the words caught behind his teeth.

So instead, Peter just nodded. Barely.

The man returned it, equally slight.

Peter lingered a second longer, eyes flicking to the plate in front of him. It was still warm. Still real. He wasn’t used to warmth staying.

His fingers, stiff with healing skin and caution, hovered just over the edge of the table. Then, slowly, he sank back into the chair.

It creaked beneath his weight, but didn’t complain. Neither did the man across from him, just resumed folding the dishtowel in slow, practiced movements.

Peter picked up a fork. He didn’t eat yet, he just looked at the food like it might disappear.

Peter’s fingers tightened around the silverware. The silence had stretched again, but it wasn’t hostile. Just waiting. Breathing.

He stared down at the food. Chewed once. Swallowed.

Then, voice low, almost inaudible over the kettle beginning to hum:

“…What’s your name?”

He hadn’t meant to ask.

The words had slipped past his ribs before he could stop them, like blood through gauze.

He almost took them back. Almost.  Naming things made them real. Made them harder to leave behind.

The man paused mid-motion, only slightly. Then set the dish towel aside with practiced care.

He didn’t offer some grand introduction. Just one word, like it had always been enough, “Alfred.”

Peter exhaled, barely a sound. His eyes flicked up, catching the man’s gaze for the briefest second before dropping again.

Alfred.

Peter mouthed the name once but didn’t say it aloud. Like saying it might echo too loudly in his ribs.

He stared at the plate again. The toast was lightly buttered, and the jam had already bled into the edge like a bruise blooming through bread. Someone had put effort into this. Not just fuel. Not just calories. Effort.

He ate slower now.

The first few bites had been hunger. Desperation. But now his body was catching up, reminding him he’d gone too long on too little, and shoveling it down might end with him hunched over the sink. So he paced himself. Sipped water between bites. Didn’t speak.

Alfred didn’t press.

He moved with a quiet rhythm around the kitchen, pouring tea, adjusting something in the oven, making notes on a folded pad of paper tucked near the stove. Like it was any other morning.

Like Peter belonged here.

The illusion itched under his skin.

He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet. Not anymore. Not since everything fell apart. Every calm moment felt rigged, like there was a timer he couldn’t see, counting down to the next thing going wrong.

“…You stitched me up?” he asked for confirmation.

“I did.”

Peter didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

Alfred gave the faintest nod. “You were in a dangerous condition. But not beyond help.”

That phrasing caught something in Peter’s chest. Not beyond help. Like he wasn’t a total lost cause.

He sat back slightly in the chair, exhaustion beginning to drag at his bones again now that the worst hunger was quieted. His ribs still ached, his shoulder throbbed, but there was a sense of relief. The kind that made you feel how tired you really were.

The sunlight shifted along the counter, crawling higher. His eyes tracked it. His fingers curled slightly on the table.

“You can rest more, if you’d like,” Alfred offered, with the kind of tone that didn’t frame it as weakness, just a truth, “Your room will be waiting.”

Peter’s throat bobbed. His body wanted that. But it still didn’t trust it. Still felt like if he closed his eyes, he’d wake in the apartment again. Back in the cold. Back in the rot. Back where things made sense, with such clarity that it felt as though accusations of his failures were strewn across the walls.

But right now, this chair was warm, and he liked the company. So, rest could wait.

Across the kitchen, the man—Alfred, he reminded himself—moved with ease. Not watching him. Not hovering. Just there. Present. Which was worse, in some ways. Peter had met plenty of people who demanded things loudly. Few who knew how to make space without making it feel like a trap.

His knee bounced once. A twitch, not a decision. The kind of anxious energy he’d spent years translating into rooftop swings and web-slinging velocity. Now it had nowhere to go.

“So,” he said, voice breaking the silence more than he meant to, “what’s the catch?”

Alfred, mid-pour of tea, paused just a fraction too long. “Pardon?”

Peter tapped his fingers on the rim of the plate. “I pass out in a library and wake up in a… mansion? With eggs and gauze and weirdly comforting humming?” His eyes flicked over the kitchen, over the vase of flowers on the table, over the gleam of sunlight catching the tile. “This kind of help usually comes with a price.”

Alfred placed the teapot down with a soft clink. “Help,” he spoke, calm and even, “should not be a transaction.”

Peter looked at him.

“I didn’t say it shouldn’t be,” he muttered. “Just that it usually is.”

A pause. Not awkward, just long enough to settle.

“There’s no catch.” Alfred asserted, “I’ll say that for as long as it takes to get through.”

Peter’s chest ached. Not in the broken-ribs way. In the quiet, human way. The way that came from hearing things you didn’t believe but wished you could.

“…Okay,” he mumbled, the word brittle and half-formed.

Alfred didn’t push. He simply moved back to the stove, going back to humming under his breath, like their entire conversation had been just a momentary breeze against the kitchen’s stillness.

Peter stood.

The chair scraped once more against the floor, and his head swam, vision pulsing white at the edges for one sharp second. He gripped the back of the chair, grounding himself, waiting until the dizziness passed.

“You’ll find the room across the hall has fresh towels,” Alfred stated mildly, not turning around. “Should you wish to clean up.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears.

Eventually, quietly, he said, “Thanks.”

Then he stepped away from the table.

The hallway swallowed him again, golden light still slanting across the floor. The air didn’t smell like dust or rot or old rusted pipe. It smelled like lemon soap and wax and clean wood.

He wasn’t ready to go back to the room. Not yet. 

So instead he drifted down the corridor, one hand trailing along the wall as he walked, slow and unsure. Not toward comfort.

Just away from the kitchen.

Because sometimes you need space to feel the edges of yourself again.

And Peter—still stitched together by grief, guilt, and just enough strength to walk upright—was still trying to remember where those edges were.