Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Let it be said that Peter Parker really, really, really hated magic.

Himself from a month ago was naive and stupid and too engrossed in how cool it all looked. The present day version of himself,  after the hellish past 24 hours, never wanted to see the golden orange glow of magic sparks, runes, and whatever the fuck else ever again. At any point in time in the near future would be too soon.

He thought that when saying goodbye to his girlfriend and best friend, and he thought it now as he stared at a grimy, slightly ripped up tourist map of Gotham City, New Jersey under the faint glow of a window on a rundown building. 

Parker Luck at it’s finest.

First, he fucked up Dr. Strange’s spell. Then villains, all of whom knew who Spider-Man was Peter Parker, accidentally got through; but so did the two other Peter’s, and that wasn’t terrible at all. After trying to help the villains, all except one went crazy, another killed his aunt, the fight between them all destroyed the construction on the Statue of Liberty, and Dr. Strange had to wipe everyone’s memory of Peter to keep any other villains from coming through and to keep the multiverse stable.

And now, to top it all off, he’s in a city that did not exist five minutes ago.

Peter kind of felt like crying. 

It was bad enough the people closest to him had to forget who he was, but now he didn’t even have the comfort of his own city. Not even his home state! Just some alternate version of New Jersey.

Peter went to run a hand through his hair in frustration, but paused at the sight of a bright yellow sticky note on his palm. It was covered in writing. He squinted at it in the dark, and shifted under the pale light filtering from the window above him some more to read it better.

Tiny chicken scratch that practically screamed it was written by a doctor stared back at him. The size and terrible handwriting made it even harder to read in the dim light.

Dear Peter, 

I am sorry to have to do this to you, but it had to be done. There was too much damage done to the seams of the multiverse to simply erase your civilian identity from existence – I had to erase Spider-Man from everyone’s minds as well. For even further safety precautions, both for you and the multiverse, I sent you to a universe where I believe you will easily find friends and family, while also continuing to be Spider-Man.

It continued on the back:

I wish I could explain my reasonings, but time is running out. Once again, I am deeply sorry for what I had to do. 

Good luck – you’ll need it. Your friend, 

Doctor Stephen Strange

At first, the words didn’t register. A numb shock filled his mind, followed by a short burst of anger, before his emotions finally settled on what he could only describe as devastation.

He had no way to go home. He couldn’t go home.

Tears sprung into his eyes faster than he could stop them, and they spilled over. The lump in his throat that had been growing became too much. He tried to keep quiet as he slumped against the damp and dirty wall of the building and slid into a sitting position with his knees bent to his chest, but he didn’t know how well he succeeded.

Everything hurt. His body, his emotions, his heart.

All he wanted were his friends and family – the AcaDec team, Pepper, Morgan, Happy, Ned, MJ, and Aunt May. He wanted his mentor to pop up and give him advice. He wanted the familiarly of New York City. A warm cup of hot chocolate, his bed, clean clothes, to catch a fucking break for once.

He had none of that. Just the bloody, dirty suit on his back and a sticky note.

Said sticky note got crumpled and fell into his lap alongside the Spidey mask.

Peter wiped away the tears on his cheeks, but they just kept coming. His breathing stuttered. His nose ran. The cuts and bruises all over his body were still tender, and didn’t help his shitty feeling.

Suddenly, his enhanced hearing picked up movement from above. Peter stayed still and listened to it over the sounds of his hitched breathing. When something – someone – landed just outside the alleyway he was in, he scrambled to his behind a nearby dumpster, all the while keeping hold of the sticky note and his mask. He attempted to stop his crying more, but it was as if a damn had broken because the tears didn’t stop.

(He couldn’t even stop shaking, though he didn’t know if that was more because of his crying or the biting cold of the night.)

Near silent footsteps entered the alley.

His spidey-sense didn’t blare any warnings, though it did hum at the back of his neck. 

“Hello? Is someone down here?” a voice, an adult though a young one, carefully called out. “You don’t have to be scared – it’s me, Red Robin. I thought I heard crying. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

If Peter needed any other proof that he was in a different universe, this would be it. No one back home had the name ‘Red Robin’ other than a restaurant chain with a somewhat catchy jingle.

Was this person a vigilante? Most likely. He doubted a villain would sound this concerned and genuine, but then again, with how his luck had been ever since Mysterio, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if this person was evil. Disappointed, sure, but not surprised.

The supposed vigilante inched closer. 

Peter panicked. He might not exist in this universe, but still – no one needed to see him in the Spider-Man suit. “D- Don’t come any closer!” he shouted, pressing himself against another wall of a building and the dumpster.

Red Robin’s feet halted their steps. “Alright,” they said calmly.

And, because apparently his mouth worked faster than his brain, Peter continued, “I’m naked!” 

There was a pregnant stretch of silence where Peter kind of wanted to die of mortification. 

“…Oh. Um–.”

“Not- no, wait, I’m not naked. I just- I have clothes on, but they’re not… I, uh. Don’t worry about it, I’m fine. It’s fine.” A short beat of silence. “Please leave.” It seemed as if his tears finally stopped, and he wiped his cheeks dry with the back of one hand. He hissed quietly when he went over a bruised cut too roughly.

“I will leave if you really want me to,” Red Robin started, “but I can help. Call someone, give you a ride, get you some warm clothes. Medical attention, too.”

Peter didn’t respond. He shivered, and frowned. Part of him wanted to say yes for some help, and he probably would if he wasn’t only in his suit. The other part of him, the part he was going to definitely listen to, wanted to insist that he was fine even though Red Robin had heard him crying.

He didn’t get a chance to follow through with the latter of the two options, because the sound of a window sliding open halted the conversation.

“Where are they?” a voice of an elderly woman asked, insistent and determined.

Peter quietly moved to his knees to peer over the dumpster, while simultaneously making sure he stayed relatively hidden. The widow he stood and sat under was open now. An old lady leaned out, gray curls pinned and a lavender robe over her night clothes. Her brows were furrowed and a small frown tugged on her lips, and Peter wanted to say she was angry but there was something else about her expression that let him know it was actually worry.

Just on the edge of the light from the window stood Red Robin. Peter was unable to make out most of the vigilante’s getup, but the person had dark hair, a black mask covering his eyes with white lenses, and the suit looked to be most red and black with a little bit of yellow.

Red Robin’s head tilted in confusion at the old woman. “I’m sorry?”

“The kid who was crying over here. Where are they?” she asked, and Peter winced. He hasn’t been as quiet as he thought. “Do they need anything?”

“Have any spare clothes you won’t mind giving away? Kid said–.”

“I’m fine!” Peter interrupted. “I don’t need any help, I can figure things out by myself if you just leave me alone.” As he sat back down, he cringed. Refusing help wasn’t the smartest, but these people were strangers, and he was tired of trying to be nice to possible good and bad people and having it backfire spectacularly in his face.

Not that he would resort to being mean. He’s just…tired. He could rely on only himself for a bit of time, surely. He didn’t need help.

“I’ll be right back,” the woman said.

Peter sighed quietly, a little annoyed and frustrated.

True to her word, the woman came back to the window. “Here.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Red Robin.

“Of course. I’ve lived here for ages. Learned to keep a few spare things, like clothes and money, around with how many helpless kids there are on the streets, and not many of us Gothamites choose kindness first thing,” she said. Her voice raised a little as she added, “Hear that, boy? Kindness is rare in this city. Accept it when it’s handed to you.”

Peter frowned, not responding. He suppressed more shivers. It felt like it was getting colder each passing minute.

Red Robin took a step and a half forward. “I’m just gonna toss the bag in your direction, okay?”

The bag – a dark colored backpack – landed close to the dumpster and nearly right in front of Peter a second later. Peter stared at it. 

Mysterio tricking him and the Goblin attacking came to the forefront of his mind. But… Red Robin and this old lady – neither of them were villains, were they? The old lady, though stern and a little harsh, sounded genuine, and Red Robin seemed to actually be concerned. Peter didn’t really have any other proof than those things that they were good guys, but something told him he could trust them for now.

Hesitantly, he snagged a strap of the backpack with his foot and yanked it to him. Inside were clothes – a red hoodie with a oddly shaped golden ‘W’ on the front, black sweatpants that had a line of yellow bats going down one leg, a long sleeved blue tee with a weird triangle and an ‘S’, and a couple pairs of clean underwear, socks, and gloves – a pair of black converse, unopened toothbrush and toothpaste, and an envelope of some ten dollar bills that had a woman on it instead of Alexander Hamilton. Peter gaped at it all.

The woman hadn’t been joking.

“This is… What?” Peter counted five ten dollar bills. “I can’t take your money!” 

“Yes you are. I can spare a few dollars.”

Fifty is not a few dollars!

Peter tried to argue, but the words wouldn’t come out. He settled on getting dressed instead, pulling the hoodie and sweatpants on. The hoodie was a size too big but he liked it that way, and the sweatpants were the same way, the cinched hem loose at his ankles. He just tied them around the waist securely so they wouldn’t slip down. Finally he slipped on the shoes, and, seeing as they weren’t too big while he also had on the suit’s boots, tucked the laces inside. Stuffing the sticky note and his mask inside the backpack, he pulled up the hood and finally stood.

The still healing wounds on his body were agitated now from all of the quick paced moving he just did. He ignored them in favor of trying to give the woman twenty dollars back.

“I can’t take this money from you,” he insisted.

“You can and you will,” the woman said, looking at him as if to dare him to argue any further.

“What if I’m a drug addict, huh? That- giving me money isn’t smart.”

She looked at him like he was dumb. “Kid, I know how to tell drug addicts apart from suffering street kids. Keep the damn money, and find some shelter.” She then shut the window. It closed with a thud, and she locked it right after, pulling the curtains closed.

It left Peter standing there with one hand stretched out as he held two tens. He pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed through his nose. Begrudgingly, he out the money back in the backpack.

Red Robin stood just on the other side of the patch of light, eerily still. Peter couldn’t tell, but he had the feeling the vigilante was staring at him. It was weird. Is this how people felt when he looked at him in his mask?

“This might be a stupid question,” Red Robin started, “but do you have anywhere to go?”

Peter shook his head. Being on the other side of the vigilante business was weird.

“There are a few homeless shelters close by, lucky one of the more trustful ones. I can show you the way if you want me to. If not, I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

Peter thought about it for a moment. As much as he wanted to say no, a bed sounded nice after the past 24 hours. It wasn’t his own, but surely it was better than staying out in the cold, which wouldn’t be the best idea. Ever since the bite, he got cold quicker. It was both a blessing (cuddles from friends and family) and a curse (possible unintentional spider-hibernation).

Speaking of, along with the weather getting colder, so was he, and because of that he was starting to finally feel exhaustion creep up. It felt worse than usual, no doubt because of the fighting from earlier.

Giving in, Peter nodded. “Sure. Lead the way.”

+++

The relief Tim felt when the teenager in front of willingly agreed to go with him to a shelter without any resistance had him nearly muttering finally. He didn’t, though. He stayed calm and collected, only let a little of his relief show, and told the kid to follow him.

As they both walked to the homeless shelter, Tim took notice that the guy was about his height, maybe an inch taller. From the limited features he could see in the dark, he was most likely in his mid to late teens. Dark hair, probably a brunette, with brown eyes and fair skin.

At first glance, when the teen walked through the dim light of the old lady’s window, Tim swore he had features similar to Dick. The recognition was gone as fast at it came. When Tim looked a second time, the only similarities he could definitely point out was the dark hair, and even the kid’s hair was lighter. 

He mentally shook those thoughts away.

As if a random street kid was related to Dick – the thought almost made him laugh. Dick didn’t have any biological family members left other than the cutest five and two year olds in the world, Mar’i and Jake Grayson, the only kids he had with Kory before they separated. If he had a teenage son, then that meant he lost his virginity at a much younger age than anyone else believed, and that was not a train of thought Tim wanted to continue on, especially with only two hours of sleep in his system.

For a second time he pushed those thoughts away, this time succeeding. He focused on the current silence of the other Bats and Birds.

Bluebird and Spoiler were in Red Hood’s territory for the night. Jason was on a cass with Arsenal and Starfire, and even after making up with Bruce he only trusted those two completely to watch over Crime Alley. The comms were silent in their end. Tim knew that meant they were beating someone up and didn’t want the sounds to distract the others.

Batman and Robin were quiet on their end in a section of Old Gotham, as well as Black Bat wherever she was in Burnley. Oracle was on comms at the Watchtower as usual. Despite the current silence, one of them would occasionally speak up, none having yet said anything about how he muted his side of the comms a few minutes ago.

Dick was back in Blüdhaven tonight, though Tim didn’t know if he was patrolling a Nightwing or not. If he was, his comms were  always able to connect to Oracle if needed.

Tim pulled himself out of his thoughts as he and the street kid finally made it to the homeless shelter. At that exact moment, Oracle updated the others on his position for him so they wouldn’t worry any further, and Spoiler and Bluebird came back on line.

“Alright, there it is,” Tim said as they stopped across the street. They both stood under a nearby street lamp. With better light, he was able to see that his eyes were still a bit red from crying, and there were a few spots on his face that looked suspiciously like dried blood. “You can just walk in. There should be someone up front to find you a free bed.”

The street kid nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he said. “I, uh… Yeah. Thanks.”

“Hey, no problem. Now please, if not for your sake then my sanity, go inside and get warm.” He looked like he was freezing, and Tim had no doubt that he was. It was currently November, and the temperature was slowly yet gradually decreasing. A storm was blowing in that should hit them around sometime in the afternoon tomorrow, and that was going to make the temp drop even more. Tim hoped that the kid had enough common sense to check the weather and stay at the shelter.

The kid nodded again, this time faster, more sure. “I am, I’m going. Thanks again.” It seemed like the idea of warmth was a motivator for him.

Tim let himself smile a little.

A strong gust of wind blew through. It made the hood over the kid’s head fall back, and Tim once again had to do a subtle double take. 

Underneath the grime, sweat, and blood Tim was, for a second time in one night, faced with facial features similar to his adoptive brother. Tim didn’t say anything. Just let the kid fix the hood and run across the street to the shelter. Tim didn’t move until he got inside, and then he grappled to a nearby roof.

He started a one way comm with Oracle. “Hey, O, can you look at something for me?” he asked over the background sounds of Spoiler making fun of Batman, Robin threatening her, and Bluebird and Black Bat laughing. This could just be a crazy coincidence. Maybe if he got a second pair of eyes…

“Yeah, sure. What is it?”

“Find a camera pointing at the street I was just on with a street kid. If you can, get a close up of his face. His hood falls down, so you should get a clean picture.”

“On it. Any particular reason?”

“Just look at his face,” he said. “And tell me if he reminds you of anyone.”

There’s a chance he’s just seeing things. That this was a coincidence. That his sleep deprived brain was making stuff up with the help of the shadows. 

But this family just never seemed to stop growing, and Tim felt like they were due for a new addition. It’s been two years since Harper and Cullen joined the Batclan. And two years of no surprise family members felt weirdly suspicious.

It was quiet on Barbara’s side for a few moments. Then, “Alright, I got it. And… oh. Well, uh.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I can’t say for sure. He doesn’t look one hundred percent like him, but…”

“So I’m not going crazy for thinking there are similarities between this kid and N?”

“No, you’re not going crazy yet.” Tim rolled his eyes at the little jab. “It’s probably nothing, though, Red. There are a lot of kids with dark hair and dark eyes.”

“I know. But when has anything been that simple with this family?” Tim left the roof via his grapple gun, and started in the direction of his bike. It was nearing four in the morning. He had a college course at eight he couldn’t miss.

“Trust me, I know,” she replied, a bit of laughter in a voice. “Nothing is ever simple with the Bats… But, Red, you do know what you’re implying right? N is, what, thirty-one? Guessing on the kid’s age, he’d have to be a teen when the kid was born.”

“I know,” he repeated. “Maybe we should send in Bluebird tomorrow after she gets out from her classes to see him in better light.”

“You want to stalk a homeless kid? Seriously, Red?”

“Just once! Just a visit! She works there anyway, off and on, so it wouldn’t be weird.”

Barbara sighed. “Why did I think you grew out of your stalking phase?”

Tim just laughed a little. “You're fault for thinking that in the first place, O.” Before he heard her response, he cut off the one way comm with her and connected another one way call with Harper. “Hey, Bluebird, are you volunteering tomorrow? I need you to check on someone for me…”

Chapter Text

When Peter thought of homeless shelters, his mind immediately brought up F.E.A.S.T. – Food, Emergency, Aid, Shelter, and Training.

It was Aunt May’s idea, something she always wanted to do and had plans for. It became a reality after everyone returned from being snapped out of existence. There were many people, too much to count, who were uprooted from their homes and forced to the streets. He and May were included in that percentage, but they were lucky enough to find a small apartment without too much trouble. Not everyone had that luxury. 

With Pepper’s help, F.E.A.S.T. was built. It didn’t help the entire world, but it did at least help the people of New York who needed it. Peter volunteered when he could, both as just Peter and Spider-Man, and became a known face around there rather quickly even before his identity got exposed.

This homeless shelter – Martha’s House, he noticed it was called – was similar to F.E.A.S.T. The building, even though it looked to be in a worse part of the city, looked cared for both inside and outside. In the front entrance, there was a schedule on a wall for when breakfast, lunch, and dinner would be served. The building was a bit larger, and only a few lights were on since it was nighttime.

The main difference, Peter took notice, were the hours. F.E.A.S.T, like nearly all other shelters, allowed people to check in between 5-7 P.M. every night, but Martha’s House didn’t seem to have that restriction. But unlike most others, F.E.A.S.T. let people stay longer than the normal 2-3 days; Peter wondered if it was the same way here.

At a desk in the front entrance sat a dark skinned girl with her hair in two large, circular buns on top of her head. She tensed when she saw him. One arm moved, and he guessed she was reaching for an on hand weapon in case anything went south.

Peter took his hands out of the hoodie’s pocket, and held them up none threateningly. Hopeful the college girl thought the gloves of his suit were for the weather and nothing else.

“Hey, um, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He pushed off the hood. Maybe with it down he looked less like a robber or something, and more like a regular, nonviolent person. “Red Robin said there might be a free bed here?”

She immediately relaxed, much to Peter’s relief. “Oh. Yes, of course. It’s a bit crowded tonight because of the bad weather that’s coming soon, but there should still be one. You can follow me.”

Peter nodded, and the college girl stood from her seat and walked around the desk. She was short, Peter would be surprised if she stood above five feet at all, but something in her posture said she wasn’t one to be messed with. He kind of got the vibe from the old lady too, now that he thought about it a little, and definitely from Red Robin.

What type of city was this that made people like that? Barely an hour, and he noticed that the people of Gotham were tougher than a regular, everyday person.

Of course, the people of New York were similar, but more in a resigned sort of way, unsurprised by aliens and gods and a man in a flying metal suit. But most of them didn’t expect danger from a random person obviously looking for help. They just kept an eye out for glowing holes in the sky.

When she got in front of him, she stuck out her hand. “Name’s Evie. I’m a volunteer here at Martha’s House during the nights,” she introduced herself, yanking him from his thoughts and back to the present. “Got a name I can call you?”

“…Peter,” he slowly said, and she smiled a little. It felt a little odd, yet also relieving, not having someone immediately know his name. No one had to ask for his name for months, until now. 

Immediately that relief changed into something more negative. Not wanting to get emotional again, Peter forced those thoughts away and focused on Evie.

They shook hands, and then Evie turned to lead the way. As they walked, she pointed out where the bathrooms and showers were and said that everyone had free reign of the entire building. She told him where the cafeteria was, and the hours food was usual served and that if he came late to one meal there was a 50/50 chance of there being leftovers, and where extra gas masks of all kinds could be found when necessary. Peter wanted to ask why he would need a gas mask at all, but Evie was on a roll with explaining everything, so he kept his question to himself, making a mental note to ask about it later.

“Unofficially, the bed is yours, but if you’re gone for a night it can be taken by anyone who needs it,” Evie explained. Her voice got quieter as they made it to where the beds were. “Even here, it’s survival of the fittest. We do have sleeping bags for people to use when there are no beds left, though, for emergencies. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened in a few months – I think it might be a new record.” She smiled, obviously proud of that fact and Peter did his best to return it. “This city is a shithole, but it’s gradually getting better. We have the Bats and the Wayne’s to thank for that.”

“The Bats?” Peter asked.

Evie gave him a look. “You definitely aren’t from here, huh? I thought so because of your accent, but if you don’t know the Bats, well…” She let out a quiet sigh. “They’re a group of vigilantes who watch over the city; have been for decades now. It used to be just Batman ages ago, but more keep popping up. Some people call them the Bat Clan, or Bat Family, or the Bats and the Birds, but there’s no official name like there is for the Justice League. Technically, we share one of the vigilantes with our neighbor city, but rumor has it Nightwing was the first Robin, so most of us just call him Gotham’s. It pisses off anyone from Blüdhaven.” Evie smirked, amused, and if Peter understood the history of Batman and the Bats and the Birds then maybe he would be amused, too. Instead, he was still a little confused. And concerned. 

How bad did a city have to be for it to have a group of vigilantes?

He understood why they had the Avengers back home. The world got threatened by aliens and accidental evil robots and HYDRA, and maybe even some other things Peter didn’t know about. They went everywhere; they didn’t stick to one city, even though their main base of operations was in New York. And there were even some NYC vigilantes, too. Not many, and Peter didn’t get to meet any of them properly, but still. 

There wasn’t a giant group of them watching over the city like there was here.

“Alright, here’s the bed,” Evie spoke in a whisper, breaking him from his thoughts once again. Peter quickly noticed that they stopped walking, and looked where he could just make out Evie motioned to.

It was a bunk bed, and when he glanced around the room he saw that most, if not all, of the beds were exactly the same. Someone was already asleep on the bottom. Through the dark, he was just able to make out two lumps, one larger than the other. Most likely a parent and child who decided to share a bed for the night.

“It already has clean sheets and stuff, so no need to worry about that. If you want me to, I can go and bring you a towel and anything else you need so you can take a shower.”

Peter shifted his feet, and made sure to keep his voice low as he asked, “Will it be alright if I wait ‘til morning?”

He just barely made out her nod in the dark. “Of course. I’ll tell one of the morning volunteers to help you out then.”

Peter tossed the backpack on the top mattress. It landed with a quiet thump. “Thank you,” he said.

Evie nodded. “You’re welcome, Peter. Have a good night’s sleep – and keep your things close,” she warned, “we try to keep things calm here as much as we can, but people do steal things from others often. Good night.” She walked off without another word.

Peter sighed, and climbed into the bed. He didn’t even get a chance to wonder more about the city and it’s vigilantes before he slipped into a fitful sleep.

+++

Waking up was disorienting.

After the restless sleep, everything that happened in the past day or so felt more or less like a nightmare, and there was a blissful second right before he woke up fully where everyone was okay. But then his ears registered the unfamiliar sounds of the homeless shelter and the city outside, and when he woke up just a little bit more he was able to tell that the bed he was on wasn’t his. Nothing smelled of home. He didn’t hear May in their kitchen getting ready for work. His phone wasn’t going off with texts from the groupchat he had with Ned and MJ, or the one with the AcaDec team, or the alerts he had set up on his phone to warn him of nearby crime – he didn’t even have a phone anymore.

The semi-relaxed state his sleep had put him in vanished. His body sagged yet tensed, and he twisted to where his face was mushed in the thin pillow. He yanked the hood back over his head for some semblance of privacy with one hand, while his other arm stayed protectively wrapped around the backpack.

Peter knew he needed to get up. There were things he needed to do: tons of research about the city, it’s vigilantes, maybe even Google himself to see if there’s another him here – and if there was, things were even more complicated – and probably even other things he had yet to think about. He needed to eat, and to definitely take a shower, too. 

But there was this invisible weight keeping him down. Ever since he went to Doctor Strange for the spell the first time, he had been moving nonstop. Now that he was still – no fighting, no searching for MIT staff, no curing, no spells – it felt like a monumental task to merely sit up.

A near phantom feeling of being stuck under the rubble of the warehouse Vulture dropped on him all over again. Except this time, he kind of wanted to just stay down.

Maybe he could sleep a little longer. Maybe that might help.

Before he was able to follow through with that, something rammed into the bunk bed, startling him. He jolted half way up, eyes darting around for any sign of danger, but found none. Just a middle aged man with a scraggly beard, a beanie over his head, stained over sized clothes, and a trash bag of belongings. 

The man grunted an apology, but didn’t seem to be truly sorry.

“It’s alright,” Peter said anyway. He rubbed one of his eyes, and then saw how many beds were empty and how many people were actually awake. “Hey, uh, excuse me? Sir? Do you know what time it is?”

The man glared at him. “Do I look like a fucking clock to you?” he snapped.

“Well- well, no but–.”

The man muttered something crude under his breath, and walked away without letting Peter continue.

Ah. Well, then.

Peter deflated a little, almost even laid back down but stopped himself. Moving and getting up felt like such a chore, but he had things to do.

If you can push off warehouse rubble of you, he thought, and it sounded like a mix of MJ and May, you can get out of this bed. Spider-Man always gets back up.

He let his head fall back. For a moment, he just stared up at the ceiling, mustering up the little bit of determination he had left.

Then, “Alright,” he whispered to himself. “Come on, Peter.” Come on, Spider-Man.

He sat up all the way. Then, before he had the chance to think of anything else, got out of the top bunk semi-gracefully, and slipped on the straps of the backpack over his shoulders.

He walked around until he found a volunteer who wasn’t busy – a nice but take-no-shit type of middle aged guy who, while finding Peter a towel for a shower (and fresh clothes, no matter how much Peter protested that what he already was fine), broke up three fights in fifteen minutes. An argument between two old men who carried knives; a small group of pre-teens versus a pissed off woman they stole from; and lastly, two volunteers fighting over whether or not ‘The Butts Match’ with a few other people backing them each up.

Peter didn’t understand the argument. He didn’t think he wanted to understand.

Finally, Volunteer Guy (the man had introduced himself, but Peter was still waking up and only remembered that it started with an H), found him everything he needed for a shower – travel sized shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant included.

When he handed him a clean navy blue sweatshirt and some jeans, Peter tried to refuse. “I’m fine with what I have, sir,” Peter said. “I don’t–.”

“Kid,” Volunteer Guy interrupted him sternly, “if you say you don’t need this, I will duct tape these clothes to your hands, because you do. I don’t know how long you’ve been on the streets, or how long you’ve been in Gotham, but it’d be fucking dumb to refuse a simple sweatshirt and jeans.”

Peter frowned, but did as told and took the clean clothes.

Not to sound like a certain billionaire philanthropist, but Peter handed being handed things. Not in the same way his mentor hated it, and not even completely. It just felt wrong taking something when he had hardly done anything at all to deserve being given something.

There was also the added fact that Peter liked getting and doing things himself. 

Of course, things were a little different with close family and friends. It was easier to accept gifts and help from them. But from strangers? Peter just…didn’t like it. Probably had something to do with growing up poor and hating pity.

Whatever, it wasn’t the time to get introspective, he just didn’t like being given things in a different yet similar way that his mentor hated being handed things. 

Pleased that Peter took the clothes, Volunteer Guy smiled kindly, “Smart choice. Did Evie show you where the showers were?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Did she explain how long you’re allowed to stay at a time?” At Peter’s answering no, he explained, “The max number of days you can stay here consecutively is five – after those days are up, you have to leave for at least forty-eight hours. It sucks, I know. But those are the rules, and even if we do have sleeping bags for when things are crowded, people can’t actually live here. And curfew is technically whenever it’s completely dark outside.

“You won’t get in trouble or anything if you’re not here by then,” Volunteer Guy explained more when he noticed Peter’s confused look, “but there will be a higher chance of other volunteers thinking either you found a different place to stay or the villain of the week kidnapped and-slash-or killed you, so the bed you used will be given to someone else. Make sense?”

Peter nodded again. Evie said something like that last night, if he remembered right. Just…she didn’t mention the possibility of dying via Gotham’s bad guys. “Yes, sir. Um, thank you.”

Volunteer Guy waved a hand in the air. “Ah, no need to thank me for being a decent person, kid. Get washed up – unless you take an hour long shower, you’ll make it to the cafeteria for some fresh lunch.”

The conversation ended there. Peter turned and walked down the hall to head to the showers, but Volunteer Guy’s voice had him turning around.

“Oh, hey, wait kid!”

“Yeah?”

“One last thing,” the man said, “in the middle of the night, if you’re awake and you see a dude in a red helmet with a bunch of knives and guns silently stalking around, don’t freak out. He’s cool.” Volunteer Guy sent a thumbs up, and then turned and walked the opposite way down the hall. 

Peter stood there and blinked.

…What. The fuck.

+++

So, here’s how Peter’s shower at the homeless shelter: amazing. It somehow had better water pressure than what he had at his and his aunt’s place, with hot water that didn’t go away five minutes in. It was heavenly.

But here’s how it also went: Peter struggled for nearly twenty minutes because he couldn’t get out of the Spider-Man suit. It sucked. His body was still sore and healing, and he was 87% sure he reopened a healing cut on his back while peeling the suit off. 

Turned out, the Stark tech didn’t survive the journey from one universe to the next. Meaning, he was unable to use Karen. Meaning, the nanotechnology couldn’t be moved. Meaning, the skintight onesie couldn’t loosen to where Peter could just step out of the suit, and he had to wiggle and squirm his way out while simultaneously praying that no one else decided to use the showers.

Because these were communal showers. There were stalls, and curtains, but still. Peter was scared someone would walk in and find out his secret. Peter wasn’t ready for that to happen, for anyone to know – he didn’t think he ever would be.

But no one entered, and Peter took a nice hot shower, and soaked in the warmth the best he could. He needed it. After all, he couldn’t exactly thermoregulate like a normal human being. It was part of the reason he had such a fitful sleep last night: the cold wouldn’t completely leave him.

After the shower, he changed into the jeans Volunteer Guy gave him, and the shirt and hoodie from the night before. He also slipped on clean socks and the converse (which ended up being a size too big with the suit’s boots off, so he had to stuff a paper towel or two in them), and then packed the Spider-Man suit in his backpack. He put the clean clothes and other things in a separate pocket, just so none of the grime on the suit dirtied anything else. He’d figure out a way to clean the suit later. Right now he needed food.

Peter made it to the cafeteria with time left to get a fresh lunch. With still damp hair, he got in line to get some food, a tray in hand.

They we’re serving soup and sandwiches. At the end of the line, there was a plump, old sweet looking, white lady handing out cookies – chocolate chip, though two different kinds. One with gluten, and one without. Peter took one with gluten in it with a thanks, and then left to find a seat with not too many other people around.

It smelled good; and tasted even better, Peter learned, once he actually sat down and ate. And, paired with the shower, he felt better. Not completely, no. He still wanted to just lay down in the bed he used, and moving still felt like a chore, but it wasn’t as bad.

Thinking of what he had to do to survive here didn’t help anything.

He didn’t even know where to start. It was almost too much to process.

Research Gotham, the vigilantes, and the villains. Figure out how to fix the Spider-Man suit. Somehow get an apartment, but that required getting a job. Make more web-fluid – and, God, he didn’t even know how much he had left. All the while he needed to somehow avoid Child Services because was still a minor at seventeen, and he knew people sometimes thought he was a year or two younger, simply because he had a baby face.

Peter resisted the urge to groan and drop his head face first into his half eaten soup.

Going back to bed sounded more and more appealing by the second.

He couldn’t, though. As much as he wanted to go back lay down, he just couldn’t. Life currently sucked, but… Aunt May would want him to at least try to figure something out.

…Okay, yeah. He’d figure out a plan for the foreseeable future. For Aunt May.

Chapter Text

Harper Row had just made it to her usual spot outside for lunch at the community college em she went to, when her phone vibrated incessantly in her pants’ pocket. She pulled it out and quickly checked the I.D. as she sat down, wondering who the hell was calling her on a Friday while she was at school.

She was only vaguely surprised to see that it was Tim Drake-Wayne. They talked regularly – the bisexuals gotta stick together, after all, even if Tim wasn’t out to everyone in his family just yet – but rarely did any of the Wayne’s call her during the hours she had class or on campus for different things, unless it was an emergency.

Then again, it was Tim. He might just be overthinking what to wear to an upcoming date with Bernard again, even though the two have been together for a couple months now, so.

That was the exact reason she was tempted to not answer. Unfortunately, the entire Wayne family was more stubborn than a pack of damn mules, and she didn’t feel like having tens of missed phone calls.

(There was one time she missed a call from Duke, so he had gotten Jason, Steph, and Cass to spam her with calls and texts until she finally answered. He just wanted to see if she and Cullen wanted something from Batburger, in the end. Seriously, that guy was far from the ‘calm’ sibling.)

But Tim’s call still might be an emergency.

Giving in, she pressed the green button on the screen.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to the shelter this afternoon?”

“Hi, Tim. Thanks for checking in on me. Cullen and I are great, and I have this thing called school.”

“Yeah, so do I, and it’s the reason I’m on my fourth cup of coffee while speed writing an essay that’s due in four hours.” He grumbled.

“So you called me?” she asked. She could hear the faint clicking sounds of computer keys in the background. Tim was typing fast and with a purpose.

“Yes, because I need to know if you’re volunteering at Martha’s House.”

Harper took a bite out of the pizza on her lunch tray. College lunch pizza was so much better than high school pizza. “I told you last night I would.”

The sound of typing stopped. “…Oh. So I didn’t imagine that,” Tim muttered, then continued on writing his essay. “Great, thanks, Harper.”

Harper half heartedly rolled her eyes. She loved him, really, he was one of her closest friends. But, seriously, how was this the guy who became Wayne Enterprise’s temporary CEO at age seventeen? More importantly, how was this the guy her little brother had a childhood crush on a few years ago? Tim was a mess, and she knew, thanks to certain people (re: Jason), that he was an even bigger mess back then, behind all the scenes of the galas and rich people stuff.

“Yeah, sure. You never explained why, though,” she said, taking another bite of pizza. “Or what this person even looks like,” she added.

“He’s a teenager – somewhere between Cullen and Damian, I think,” Tim told her. The typing started up again, but at a more subdued pace. “And I have a theory, of sorts, but I don’t want to say anything to anyone else until I know for sure.”

“Okay,” Harper said. “Like, a potential rogue theory, or what?” Her eyes moved around, making sure no one was around to hear. The semi-secluded area of the area she picked still only held herself, luckily. Most of everyone else who were around were actually inside, or headed that way, for lunch.

Unluckily, it was like a wind tunnel in that one area, and of course a harsh gust of wind blew through right then. Her dyed blue hair got in her face and she sputtered, as well as shivered. Maybe sitting outside was a bad idea with a storm coming in.

“Or what,” Tim answered. “I don’t think it’s anything bad, or else I’d go straight to B or Dick. He seems like a good kid, though. He looked a bit roughed up, but nothing too bad. Quiet. New to Gotham. I couldn’t tell for sure, but his hair looks brown. Dark eyes and pale skin, but that might be more due to lack of food and sleep right now than anything.”

She hummed, opened her drink with one hand, and took a sip. “So, a generic white kid.”

He paused, and his typing faltered. It made Harper slow her eating. “…Maybe. Maybe white passing.”

She sighed. “You’re being weird, dude,” Harper said bluntly. 

Tim groaned. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, but Babs already knows, and I don’t want to risk this getting to the rest of the family yet, so just- please, Harper, just check on the kid.”

“Hey, chill out, I am,” she assured him. “Just saying you’re being weird. You’re usually so secluded when you’re working on a theory or a case like this.”

“This particular one needed another pair or two of eyes.”

Her brows furrowed some. “Okay. I’ll go right after school. Promise.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Other than you having a theory, can you tell me anything else?”

He was quiet for a second. Even his typing stopped. “I think he might be of Romani decent.”

“Oh, like Dick.” Now the white passing comment made sense. Still didn’t explain why he was being cagey about this, though.

Tim audibly held back a snort. “Yeah.”

+++

The food from lunch gave Peter some energy, and though it didn’t fill him up thanks to his enhanced metabolism, it also helped his body recover even faster. Paired with his sleep from the night before, albeit restless as it was, he could tell that he was halfway to being completely healed. Give him another day or so, and Peter was positive that even the shoulder that got a bullet shot through it would be one hundred percent healed.

So, a couple hours after lunch, he decided to face the cold – and a possible storm, if the gray clouds and wind were anything to go by – and find a library to do some research. 

Peter burrowed his face in the neckline of the hoodie, hood up and hands covered with gloves and deep in the hoodie’s pocket, clenched around a clean tourist map Volunteer Guy handed him when he said he needed to know the way to the library. The November chill still bit at him. (Well. He thought it was November. It was back in his world, anyway.) The jeans weren’t the warmest things, and converse didn’t hold in heat well that much either, and he kind of wished his had a scarf. But he powered through. Fought whatever drowsiness crept up because of the temperature.

On the way to the library, even with the tourist map, Peter got lost a few times. He had to back track and keep an eye out for street names and numbers, and gave extremely looking sketchy people a wide berth, as well as the few cops he saw. He just needed to get to the library in one piece to figure out what this world was like. Maybe find out the date and time and such as well. 

Peter pulled out the map and glanced at it, then at the nearest street sign, to make sure he was heading the right way. He should almost be there – a few more blocks, a left turn at an intersection, and then another few blocks and he should be there.

The sidewalk was a bit crowded, and the road was busy with vehicles of all kinds. Peter found that he didn’t stick out too much – he looked like an everyday teenager, not a homeless one. Not yet, anyway. He blended into the crowd after lunch work crowd easily. No one payed him any mind; just went about their day and ignored the kid in the red hoodie.

Or so he thought.

It happened when he caught sight of a stand with magazines laid out for sell. The person manning the stand was beginning to pack up everything that had potential to be ruined by a storm, but Peter still stopped when the front covers of a line of magazines caught his attention. He edged more out of the way of the crowd when someone knocked into him.

The magazine cover was a conglomeration of news about celebrities – actors, musicians, billionaires, and superheroes. There was something about a guy named Bruce Wayne and he kids. Peter only took notice of it because of his last name – didn’t Evie say the Wayne’s helped out the city somehow? The other thing – the main thing – that had him stopping, were the superheroes front and center: a candid of them post-fight. There were four of them: two blondes, a woman in her mid-twenties at least and guy around Peter’s age; a man…person…thing who looked to be completely made out of rock; and–

“Holy shit, is that Reed Richards,” Peter blurted, and leaned closer to look. And, yeah, that’s definitely him, alright. Younger than what he was back home, yet with more gray hairs, there stood one of the smartest men alive.

Before everyone got blipped, Dr. Richards had been planning a trip to space with a couple of friends. That got put on hold for obvious reasons. Peter hardly had time to keep up with the news and all when he came back, but he thought he did hear someone at school mention that they did end up going eventually – but nothing of the aftermath. No one did. There were tons of speculations, though.

Was this – four regular people gaining powers and sudden fame – the aftermath of that space trip?

Peter didn’t have time to properly think it over, or to even read the headline, because suddenly his spider-sense spiked higher than it ever had while in Gotham. He refrained from acting on instinct. A hand harshly latched onto his shoulder (the wounded one, lucky him) and yanked him around to face the danger.

A pissed off, middle aged cop stood there. “And what the hell d’ya think you’re doing?” There was a second cop behind him, just off to the side, with a mean smirk. He was younger, though not by much. These two were definitely partners on the job. 

The police car they rode in sat at the curb close by, merely feet away. There was already someone in the back – someone young. Peter couldn’t tell if they were a boy or a girl, but they couldn’t be a teenager just yet.

Peter blinked, mouth parting in a slight shock. “Uh- I… Looking at magazines,” he stuttered. “Sir.”

The man scoffed condescendingly. “Sir,” he mockingly echoed. “Oh, we got a polite one on our hands this time, Murray.”

The younger cop, Officer Murray, chuckled. “It would seem so, Bishop. A liar, too.”

Peter eyed them both. The spider-sense had yet to calm back down do a dull hum at the back of his neck like it had been ever since he arrived. He thought the dull hum was because of Red Robin last night, but it hadn’t truly gone away, not even when the vigilante left. It put him even more on edge.

It didn’t help that his last interaction with cops was far from civil. And these two men were obviously not any nicer.

Officer Bishop gripped Peter’s shoulder tighter. The teen held back a wince, but something must have shown on his face because the officer tightened his hold even more, trying to force him towards the police car. “C’mon, punk, you’re coming with us.”

Against his better judgement, Peter resisted. “Wh- what? Why? I swear I was just looking at the magazines!” 

Officer Murray scoffed. “Sure, kid. Kids like you got the worst kind of sticky fingers.”

If they weren’t accusing him of attempting to steal, Peter might have found the irony of those words funny.

“Kids like me?” he asked dumbly.

“Homeless brats,” Officer Murray spat, “stealing in broad daylight.”

Peter shook his head. “Wait. What? Wait, wait, wait.” As they tried yank him in the direction of the cop car again, Peter twisted his shoulder out of Officer Bishop’s hold. “I- I wasn’t stealing! I was just, uh, looking at them, I swear–.”

Officer Bishop rolled his eyes. “Nice try.” He lowered one hand to his waist, and Peter flicked his eyes down to see that it hovered over a taser. It was, coincidentally, right beside a gun. Officer Murray had cuffs ready in his hands. “Are we gonna have to do this the hard way, kid?”

Peter froze. He subtly glanced around again, trying to figure out how to not get arrested without causing a scene, when he spotted the police car. The back door was open. 

Before he could use that as a distraction, a young voice of a girl spoke up behind Officer Murray, “Hey, pigface.”

Officer Murray spun around. He barely had time to even curse as the kid rammed her entire body, shoulder first, into the man’s gut as hard as she could. Officer Bishop moved into action. He went for his taser, but Peter knocked it out of his hand.

So much for not causing a scene.

“Get the keys, get the keys, get the keys!” the kid shouted, then bit down on Officer Murray’s arm when he tried to grab her. The man shouted and instinctively let go. She stumbled away, unbalanced and unable to stop her fall since her hands were cuffed behind her back.

Peter currently struggled against Officer Bishop. He didn’t want to show too much of his strength, nor did he want to hurt he guy. But he did want to get away and help the girl. He dodged a few hits and grabs, moving and jumping out of the way in a such a way the it caused the cop to stumble or run into something. During one particular attempted hit from the man, Peter ducked and moved forward, snatching the key to the handcuffs right off the man’s belt.

He hurried away from the cop just as quickly, and rushed over to the girl. She repeatedly kicked at Officer Murray, landing a solid one to his face when he tried to bend down and tase her, and Peter used that moment where he stumbled away in pain to help her to her feet. The kid took off running down the street instantly, and Peter had no choice but to follow.

Peter could easily surpass her because of his enhanced speed, but he didn’t. He stayed at a steady pace behind her. The cops were shouting at them, speaking into their walkie-talkies, and running after them. He heard the start of a car engine, and risked a glance behind them to find that Officer Bishop was the one chasing them, while Officer Murray had gotten into the police car.

And Officer Bishop had his gun out.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Peter grabbed the girl’s arm, and pulled her into the next alleyway. She yelped in surprise. To Peter’s relief, she didn’t fight him, going along willingly. Deep in the alley, they bent down behind a group of trash cans, and he unlocked the cuffs on her wrists as fast as he could. Once she was out of them, Peter let the keys and cuffs fall to the ground.

They went to run further into the alley, only to stop at a chain link fence about ten feet tall. Peter glanced behind them and saw Officer Bishop run past the alley’s entrance.

“There’s a hole,” the girl said, pointing to a gap between the brick wall and fence. It was just big enough for her; Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to squeeze through it.

As she started to climb through it, the police officer rounded back to the alley with his gun up. Behind him, the police cruiser sped by with the sirens on.

“Freeze!”

The girl tumbled the rest of the way. Her pants got torn at the knee, the fabric having gotten caught on one of the broken wires. She waved at Peter to hurry. “C’mon! C’mon!”

“Last chance! Freeze or I’ll shoot!”

“Keep running, I’ll catch up,” Peter said, and began the climb up the fence. When she didn’t immediately move, her dark blue eyes flicking between him and the cop, he added, “I promise. Go!”

A shot rang out. The girl bolted, and Peter gritted his teeth together when it grazed his left bicep. Officer Bishop shot off a few more, but none of them hit home. Peter speedily climbed that hopefully wasn’t too inhuman, and flipped over the top when he got there. He landed in a crouch and darted off.

The alley split off into two ways at the back. The girl was waiting for him in the section that went left, and they were ready to run down that way until Officer Murray screeched to a halt at the section’s entrance. Peter and the girl quickly turned on their heels and ran the other direction.

+++

Various turns, short cuts through alleys, and dodging multiple bullets later, they escaped the cops. 

It took almost ten minutes, but they did it. Peter ran into a run down convenience store with the girl right beside him, and snuck into the Employees Only room. The policemen rushed through and out the back door, and when it was clear that they weren’t coming back inside, Peter and the girl went back out the way they came.

They broke into a run again when they got on the streets, not risking getting caught, and continued to run when it started trying to rain, thunder booming in the distance and getting closer with each passing second.

“There’s an abandoned movie theater just this way,” the girl told him, jogging instead of running and obviously out of breath. “It’s nothing special, but I’ve stayed there a few times during storms.”

Peter nodded.

Now that they weren’t getting chased, he got a better look at the kid. And that was what she was – a kid. No older than twelve or thirteen, at most. She had wavy dark brown hair that came down to her shoulders, and a black beanie sat on top of her head; he could just make out the ends of bangs poking out from underneath it on her forehead. Her eyes were a dark blue, and she had light, tawny brown skin similar to his own. Her clothes weren’t in the best shape, and neither were the black and white converse she wore.

“I’m Teresa, by the way,” she said as they got to the movie theater.

It was run down; abandoned, just like she said. Nothing about it looked modern, and Peter suspected it was built during or around the 70s.

The girl – Teresa – moved a wooden board and disappeared inside right as the rain started to come down. Peter followed. 

Inside it was dark, but he could hear Teresa searching through something a few feet away. Not much light filtered through the gaps of the wooden boards and planks covering the windows and doors. Hardly a minute later, light from a flashlight she found filled the lobby of the theater.

“Peter,” he suddenly said, when he realized he never introduced himself. “I’m Peter.”

He could just make out Teresa smiling behind the flashlight. “Cool.” She was still catching her breath from running so much. “Um… You’re not gonna, like… Fight me, or beat me up, or something to have this for yourself, right?”

Peter blinked, then reeled back some. “What? No! I- why would I?”

“We’re in Crime Alley now,” Teresa explained like that should mean something to Peter. She walked further in the lobby, the flashlight focusing on a wall where old and worn posters for movies hung. “It’s the worst part of the city. I’ve only been here a few months, but when shelter is hard to find…” She shrugged. “I’ve seen some other homeless kids fight each other for any kind of shelter. Some kids even fight the adults for it, too. Sometimes it’s the other way around.”

He frowned, then shook his head. “Well, you can trust me,” he said. “I’m not- I won’t beat you up, or fight you, or anything. You need this place as much as I do.”

Teresa didn’t say anything for a moment. Abruptly, she turned around and shone the flashlight in his face. Peter squinted and winced, raising one hand to block the light.

“Hey!”

She stayed silent.

Peter let out a quiet sigh. “You don’t trust me, do you?” he asked. He didn’t blame her. 

“…You helped me get away from the cops,” she said instead of answering. “You could’ve let me fend for myself, or not grab the keys to the handcuffs and ran to save yourself.”

“It would’ve been wrong to just leave you like that,” Peter said. “Those guys obviously weren’t good cops.”

“No one from Gotham does stuff like that without expecting something in return,” Teresa said, frustration evident in her voice. Or maybe that was fear. “Except for the Bats.”

“I’m not from Gotham.” He paused, thinking about what he should say. “Where I’m from, I’m used to helping people and being nice to others. It’s just how I was raised. I didn’t… I’m not expecting anything in return, Teresa. I promise.”

There was a beat of silence where only the sounds of the storm outside were heard.

Slowly, Teresa finally moved the flashlight’s beam out of his face. She aimed to the ground instead, showing off the aged 70s carpet. “I want to believe you. You’re the first genuinely nice person I met in a while,” she admitted. “But…” Her shoulders moved up and down in a jerky, tense shrug. “I dunno.”

“What about the homeless shelters?”

“I ran into a couple prostitutes my first week here. They said to avoid the shelters, except for Martha’s House and the one or two others that are connected to it. I went once, and the volunteers were kinda nice too, but someone called CPS on me. I don’t trust the system here, so I ran.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. He pressed his right hand to the grazed wound the bullet gave him almost absentmindedly as the pain finally fully registered.

Teresa shifted on her feet a little, and moved the flashlight around. “Thanks, though, Peter. For helping me out.” She started walking around and looking at different things.

“You’re welcome.” He removed his hand a bit away from the wound. From want he could see in the very limited light, it wasn’t bad but it wasn’t good either. He grimaced. “Thanks for letting me crash here with you – or, well,” he stumbled over his words, “I mean, I can- if it’ll make you feel better, I can go. Find a different place to wait out the storm.”

“No, it’s fine.” Teresa shone the flashlight back at him from a few feet away. “You-.” She stopped suddenly, and gasped. “You’re bleeding! Did you get hit?”

He just shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Peter!”

The admonishment was familiar, in a way. A different voice, a different pitch, and he could almost clearly hear someone else saying his name like that. It almost made him smile. Brushing off bad bruises and wounds always elicited some sort of exasperation and worry from everyone. The memories were brushed away quickly, though, and his mouth twitched into a slight frown as he pressed his hand back against the bullet graze.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, and hoped it came off as reassuring when Teresa hurried over to shine the flashlight on his arm.

She looked up at him. He sighed.

The following fifteen minutes were spent trying to out stubborn a twelve year old about whether or not he needed first-aid.

+++

Back at Martha’s House, Harper stood beside the front desk with her little brother, Cullen, as she talked to one of the volunteers, Howie. The middle-aged man stood in front of her, with a box of canned goods on the desk’s surface he’s meant to take to the back. The building was packed with people, even a few regular folks just waiting on a ride so they didn’t have to walk to wherever they needed to be in the rain.

Cullen rested his elbows on the desk’s surface and pulled out his phone. Harper caught sight of Damian’s contact name, and a text saying, “if todd tries to ‘accidentally’ kill my pet turkey for thanksgiving again when he gets back i am going to ‘accidentally’ kill him,” before she focused back on Howie.

“Yeah, I just heard from Evie that Red Robin showed another kid this place last night,” Harper lied. “I just want to make sure you guys don’t need my help today.”

“With the storm and the crowd, it certainly wouldn’t hurt having your help,” Howie said, “but I think we’ve got the kid covered. Showed him the showers this morning, and gave him a clean shirt and jeans. I think he ran into that old lady down that way who hands out stuff to homeless kids, because he had one of those Jansport backpacks and actual clean clothes.”

Harper nodded. “Oh, that’s good. He’s still here, right?”

Howie frowned in thought. “Maybe. He left a bit ago to find the library, but I haven’t seen him since. He could’ve come back when I was busy, though.” Before she couldn’t respond, he went on to say, “Marjorie wants to call CPS again.”

“Again?” Harper repeated. “Last time she said that, a twelve year old ran back onto the streets.”

“I know. But, Harper, we can’t keep just not calling them,” he told her. “It’s the law. And this kid who came in last night is fifteen at the least.”

She shook her head. “The Red Hood said not to call CPS until he’s back.”

It had been a couple months ago, during the a rare time where Harper was volunteering at night with Evie and Howie. (More volunteers were needed at the time because of a recent Arkham breakout). Red Hood made an appearance around three or four in the morning, not asking but stating, ordering, them to stop calling Child Protective Services until he got back from wherever he was headed. Harper, personally knowing Jason, agreed immediately. Evie and Howie agreed too, though more hesitantly.

“The Red Hood is also a crime lord,” the man stressed quietly. “And he hasn’t even been seen since September. If we don’t follow the law, Martha’s House is gonna be shut down, and we can’t have that happen. It’s helping people. It’s helped you, back when you two were still with your dad.”

Harper glared at him, and Cullen cut his eyes over, seeing how she might react.

Howie held up his hands placatingly. “I’m just trying to get my point across.”

“You didn’t call CPS on me or Cullen,” she pointed out.

“Not on you kids, no,” he admitted. “But we did tell ’em about your dad, eventually. It helped you get emancipated faster.”

She just barely held back a frustrated groan. “Okay, but the system isn’t safe here, Howie! Not like it is in other states. How many times has it been on the news that Batman and Robin, or one of the other vigilantes, helped Commissioner Gordon dislodge a forming trafficking ring within the system?”

“It hasn’t happened in nearly two years–.”

“Howie, you’re getting up there in age. You’re supposed to be smart.” She lowered her voice, “Why else would the Red Hood tell us not to call CPS ‘til he’s back?”

Howie leveled her with a look. “I know the implications, Harper. But we can’t rely solely on the vigilantes, or a crime lord.”

Even though she was a vigilante herself, Harper knew he was right. They had to put some trust in the legal system whether she liked it or not; they had to follow the law, even if it only to keep suspicions at bay and for the homeless shelter to stay up.

Howie ran a hand down his face. He looked around for a moment, before starting, “Okay. Okay, listen. I know the system is fucked up. I know there’s a good reason not to call CPS, especially since Red Hood told us not to. So I won’t call them about the kid, but I can’t promise anything from Marjorie.”

Harper slowly nodded. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her rain jacket. “Yeah, I know.”

He returned the nod. “Now,” he gently slammed the palm of his hand on the box beside him, “there are twenty other boxes of canned goods that need to be taken to the back. Grab one and follow me.”

Harper gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” She then grabbed the back of Cullen’s rain jacket and yanked him along with her towards the pile of boxes against one of the walls.

Cullen yelled in surprise. “Hey!”

“Come on, twerp. You’re helping, too.”

As her brother rolled his eyes but obeyed, she quickly pulled out her phone and texted Tim.

She really hoped the street kid wasn’t stuck in the rain somewhere.

Chapter Text

“It’s been hours. How long is this storm supposed to last?”

Teresa stood by a boarded up window. She peered between broken glass and a gap in two wooden boards at the pouring rain outside. Every few minutes lightning would strike, quickly followed by thunder, and the whistling gusts of wind sometimes made the rain go through the gaps and cracks. It hadn’t calmed down, not even a little bit, since the two of them made it to the movie theater. In fact, it might have even gotten worse.

Peter shrugged and made the typical, “I don’t know,” sound around the flashlight. He currently held it in his mouth, the beam clumsily aimed on the wound on arm.

Earlier, Teresa had convinced him to patch it up somehow. There wasn’t much he could do, seeing as though he lacked basically everything needed to tend to a bullet graze like this, but eventually he tore off a strip of his shirt and wrapped it around his bicep. Now he just had to make sure his enhanced healing didn’t cause the fabric to heal into his skin by peeling the fabric away a little every so often.

He doubted that would happen so soon, but… It happened once, way back when he was still getting used to the powers the spider bite gave him, not yet knowing he had enhanced healing. Peter never wanted to go through that pain again. It sucked.

Once he was done checking the wound, he stopped holding the flashlight with his mouth. He wiped the handle down with his sleeve, then made it stand up right about a foot or so in front of him from where he sat.

It dimly lit up a decent portion of the theater’s lobby, showing off more of the aged and worn building. Outside, Peter recalled a couple of graffitied sections on the boards and wall. Inside, it was as if no one had touched anything in decades, things half stowed away into boxes and some posters were taken down but never thrown out, or even pealing off of their places on the wall.

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and leaned heavily against the side of the old snack counter, once again fighting off the urge to close his eyes longer than a few seconds and sleep. He didn’t know if that was because he was genuinely tired, or because of the cold the storm brought in. That was something he should probably figure out the differences in, if there were any. He never had to worry about it before like this. At least, not to the degree he did now.

Man, was he really missing his suit’s heater.

Thinking of the suit made him remember his mentor. He wondered for a second if the man knew about the thermoregulation thing or if adding the heater was just a precaution. Peter didn’t want to think about it – about him, about any of them – too long, so he forced his train of thought on something else.

His mind immediately conjured up the image of Dr. Reed Richards with those three other people – well, two people and a rock person. Peter guessed the latter was still technically a person, though, unless they were an alien, then… He mentally shook his head. Not the time to go down that rabbit hole.

It made Peter wonder if they traveled universes, too. But that couldn’t be possible. Dr. Richards wasn’t a superhero back on his world. And if they did, why would they have come here? Not to follow Peter, that’s for sure.

No one remembered him, or Spider-Man.

Alright, Peter thought to himself, let’s not go down that rabbit hole, either.

“What do you know about Reed Richards?” he asked aloud.

Teresa shrugged and walked over. She sat down on the other side of the flashlight. “He’s some sort of scientist,” she said. “Extremely smart, dating Sue Storm, went to space with her, her brother, and his friend and they all came back with powers a few months ago. People are calling them the Fantastic Four. You don’t know this?”

Peter froze. Quick, think! “Uh. No, yeah, of course I do. Just trying to make conversation, y’know?”

“Oh,” she hummed. “Yeah, he’s a cool guy I guess. They all seem pretty cool – except for Johnny Storm, he’s hot, as in, like, literally. Obviously.” She grinned like there was a joke in there, and Peter returned it the best he could. “I was gonna be surprised if you didn’t know about them – they’re the most recent heroes New York has after Iron Man died a couple years ago, and the Teen Titans moved their tower to a different city a few years before that and Supergirl only visits there, so they’ve been pretty popular since they got back from space.”

Peter froze again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “Iron Man,” he repeated slowly. “Ton– Iron Man?”

She gave him a weird look. “Uh, yeah,” she said, and her tone was just on the edge of duh. “Tony Stark, billionaire, a man in a tin can? Accidentally made an evil robot army and Ultron, who later killed him in Sokovia two years ago? I think even the Justice League got involved near the end, but they were too late for Iron Man. That’s what the news said, anyway. Everyone was arguing about whether or not he deserved a memorial. How did you forget that?”

He nodded, almost numbly. “Yeah. No, yeah, I know, I remember. I just- well, uh, nevermind.”

Two years ago. How was that two years ago? The thing with Ultron happened in 2016, and it was 2024; that was no where near to two years. Unless… This universe wasn’t on the same timeline, or something, as the one he came from, which made Peter even more confused. He had immediately assumed that this world was in the same year, and that it didn’t have any of his world’s heroes considering he was in a city that didn’t exist back home. His assumption was wrong. There were obviously a few of the same people here. And now he’s learned that this universe was behind five to six years of his own.

…And Iron Man was dead here, too. Because of course he was. If he was alive, that would’ve just been too good for someone like Peter. He got sent to another universe where his mentor – one of the few people who he would seek out to help him – did exist, but he was dead.

And if he died during what happened in Sokovia, that could mean anything about the Avengers. We’re they dead, too? Were they ever born? Or did they live normal lives? Based on what Teresa said about the Fantastic Four being New York’s most recent heroes since Iron Man, Peter wagered that the team, at least as a whole, didn’t exist. 

But Iron Man did exist. Existed. Past tense. 

Peter twisted his legs to sit criss-cross. His elbows moved to rest on his knees, and he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes when they began to sting.

Who else existed in this world that he knew, but were six feet under?

No. That was a thought that Peter did not want to think about. Seriously, sometimes he wished he could just turn his brain off.

Usually he would turn on an action packed movie or put on some music or go swinging through the city, to at least get some semblance of silence from his thoughts.

…They were in a movie theater, though. An empty one.

“Um. Are y–,” Teresa cut herself off as Peter suddenly stood and grabbed the flashlight.

“Have you explored any other part of the theater?” Peter asked.

“No,” she answered and stood, too. She followed as he walked over to the movie posters to look at them. “I’ve always stayed in this area. It’s been too dark, and I just got the flashlight last week.”

Peter nodded with a little hum. There are a few movies he didn’t recognize, and as much as he wanted to say it was because they were unique to this world, he couldn’t. He wasn’t 50-something years old. He didn’t know every single movie released in the 70s. With that said, he did recognize others – like Grease, for instance, and Halloween, and the second Jaws movie.

“Want to?” he asked.

Teresa was quiet for a moment. She eyed the Grease movie poster with a little something more than mild interest, then moved her gaze to a different one. “Sure,” she said, then grinned. “I could go for a little adventure.”

Peter’s mouth twitched into a small, wry smile. “I doubt it’ll be that exciting.”

“Dark and gloomy and storming,” she said with a small movement of a hand, “we’re basically in our own horror movie right now. It’s plenty exciting.”

He groaned. With his luck, that might very well end up becoming true, somehow. “Shut up,” he said, though not unkindly. He began the trek deeper inside the theater with Teresa at his side. “You’re gonna jinx us! Get us murdered by Michael Myers, or someone.”

She laughed. “Danny Zuko will pop out of thin air and sing until our ears drums burst.”

“But he’s a good singer! How can that happen?”

“He- he’ll sing really high – like, higher than people sing to break glass. And we’ll just… Our ear drums will just, like, blow up.” She mimed an explosion with her hands, softly giggling to herself, and Peter smiled and laughed a little, too. It was an absurd yet funny thing to think about, to be honest. “Then Michael Myers comes in and chases us.”

He made a face, still with a small smile. “What? But we’re dead.”

“We’re zombies.”

“Oh, my G– what kind of movie is this?”

“Uh, a horror one. Weren’t you listening?”

“Since when is Grease a horror movie–”

+++

Wayne Manor was surprisingly quiet for a change.

Tim thought it had something to do with the storm raging outside. Dark, thick clouds covered the sky so much that it looked nighttime by three rather than the usual five o’clock because of Daylight’s Savings. Sheets of rain continuously poured down at an angle because of the gushing winds, and the lightning and thunder were barely even seconds apart.

The gloom of it had every on the more quiet side things, even more so than usual for a few of them.

He knew, though, that the weird quietness was also because not everyone was there. Barbara was either at her own place or with her dad. Kate was back at her place, too, resting with broken ribs from a fight that had gone from bad to worse a week ago. Alfred tried to get her to stay at the Wayne Manor, but her reasoning to go back home was, “I have a girlfriend and if she decides to visit me, I don’t want my hoard of cousins to weird her out with their worried hovering.” Plus said girlfriend didn’t know about Kate being Batwoman yet, so. Tim didn’t blame her for booking it out of the Batcave’s medbay as soon as possible.

Steph and Cass were most likely still at Steph’s mom’s place. They hung out earlier once Steph got done with her classes for the day, and ended up paying her a mom a visit which ended up being an earlier than usual dinner together as they watched movies. Depending on how the weather went, they might stay there for the night. He only knew this because Cass texted the chaotic family groupchat Dick added everyone to.

Jason was still on a case. No one actually knew the fine details. Just that he caught wind of something within the CPS that put kids in danger, left to follow a trail back at the end of September, and eventually called in help from Roy and Kory a week before Halloween.

Dick was back in Blüdhaven, taking care of the two kids he had with Kory before they divorced. Mar’i was five and Jake was three, and Dick had his hands full with them both. They co-parented the best they could, but Kory didn’t stay in one place for long and went on dangerous space missions often. Dick, even though he’s a vigilante, either worked in Blüdhaven or Gotham, and always made sure someone could babysit for the nights he didn’t stay home; he wasn’t out as Nightwing as often as he used to be. But Tim knew Kory visited, and she even took the kids on a trip to somewhere for a week when Mar’i was out of school, just so Dick could have some alone time and not have to worry too much about getting home in time to the kids. 

The family could get loud easily, but without eight family members who frequented the place, there was a significant lack of shouting. Added in with the mood dampening storm, and yeah, the manor was quiet.

Tim actually almost didn’t come to the manor. But he did. Somehow, he found himself here. Always did when there was a storm, oddly enough. He knew it had something to do with his childhood and absent parents and more often than not being alone in a too big house while a storm raged on outside, but fully acknowledging that meant actually thinking about his so-called abandonment issues, and he’d like to save that for never, thanks.

Other people were in the manor, like Harper and Cullen who got bribed into coming over with Alfred’s infamous cookies by the man himself after they finished volunteering at Martha’s House before the storm got too bad. Damian was…somewhere, probably with one or all of his pets, and Duke was resting in his room after his daytime patrol. And Bruce was there too, obviously. He was somewhere talking to Lucius Fox about WE stuff.

Tim was so glad he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He liked the job, really, but he felt like being the CEO of WE, even temporarily, aged him ten years. Also Bruce was missing and/or dead, and Damian was a murderous ten year old…yeah, it wasn’t a fun time.

What also wasn’t a fun time, was losing track of his older brother’s possible kid.

“How did we lose him after only a day?” Tim asked, slumping in his desk chair in his old room.

The atmosphere the storm made felt suddenly fitting once Harper explained everything she learned at the homeless shelter. It…wasn’t much at all.

Harper was in the bright red beanbag in at the end of his bed. (Everyone had one, each a different color, in their rooms all thanks to Bruce.) “Dude, I don’t even know. I called Babs and asked if he made it to the library on my way over, and she checked the cameras. No sight of him,” she said.

A beat of silence, broken only by howling winds and booming thunder.

Dread started to form in his stomach, but he refused to jump to conclusions. “That is not good.”

Harper sighed. “Yeah. I did learn that his name is Peter, though. Howie told me once he remembered it.”

“Any last name?”

“No, just Peter.”

Tim’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Damn.” He absentmindedly moved his chair back and forth with the foot that was still on the ground. His other rested in the seat, knee bent. If he had a last name, they could search it for potential matches – if the name wasn’t a fake.

Suddenly, an idea came to him.

He sat up and planted his feet on the ground. He pushed so his chair rolled back to his desk, and he immediately signed into his computer. In moments, it was connected to the bat-computer in the Cave, and he was able to pull up the camera feed of the homeless shelter.

Harper struggled to get out of the beanbag, muttering a, “Fucking hell, why is this so difficult,” before finally rolling onto the floor. She got to her feet and walked over, eyes taking in what’s on the computer screen. “Is this right now?”

“Yeah. I can rewind it, though.” And he did. As hey waited for it to get at the right time – Harper told him the kid left an hour or so after lunch time – Harper went to speak, but stopped herself. Tim glanced at her. “What?”

“If I ask why we’re stalking a random teenager, will you actually give me a non-vague answer this time?”

Tim was quiet for only a moment, thinking, and then stood. “Watch the cameras – look out for a teenage boy in a Wonder Woman hoodie.”

Confusion and slight annoyance twisted her features, but she agreed. “Alright,” she said slowly, and sat down in his chair when Tim stepped away.

He went to his bed, and crawled halfway under it. What he was searching for was years old, and something he hadn’t touched since he first officially moved into the Manor as a teenager. There was a chance it was back at his apartment, but Tim doubted it. Eventually, he found it underneath a Superboy shirt he thought he lost and old study sheets from high school before he had dropped out. He grabbed the old picture book, and shimmied back out from under his bed, sitting on the mattress instead.

Tim opened it up. He combed through various old, shaky and blurry photos from when he was nine to twelve, back when he chased after Batman and Robin secretly to take pictures.

Among all of the pictures he took in the very beginning, where Batman and Robin were far away – a black shadow with bright traffic light colors right beside it – was one lucky shot. Near the end of Dick’s time as Robin, Tim got lucky while sitting and waiting on one roof. There was a crime scene in an alley way next to the building he was on, and the cops showed up, Jim Gordon included. In no time, Batman and Robin and Batgirl appeared.

The four were underneath a street lamp on the sidewalk right below Tim, talking about a potential suspect. Tim couldn’t hear them well, they spoke quietly, but he did get a picture of them. Batman stood just out of the light where he still looked like a shadow, right behind Batgirl and Robin, both of whom actually stood in the light. They faced the direction of Jim Gordon, and consequently Tim. They stood in such a way that the only faces Tim didn’t see clearly was Jim’s, because his back was to him, and Batman’s, because it’s Batman.

Dick was probably around eighteen in the picture, close enough in age of the street kid, Peter.

Tim took it out of the picture book, and walked back over to Harper and the computer, right as she stopped the rewind and paused on a teenager heading toward the shelter’s doors. The camera angle was the same one as the picture, creepily enough, but Tim didn’t dwell on that. Without saying a word, he put the picture of Dick as Robin next to Peter, who was in the process of putting his hood back up.

Nothing but the sound of the storm filled the air for a good few seconds.

Harper leaned forward. “That’s Dick,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s Peter.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t say anything else as she lifted a random pen on Tim’s desk, and covered Peter’s eyes.

Their hair were similar but different shades; so wavy it was almost curly, and strands flopped over their foreheads almost the exact same way. Same nose and jaw. Similar body build. But in the picture, Dick wore a half smirk and held himself confidently; in the frozen camera feed, Peter’s shoulders curled in on himself and his mouth was pulled into a frown.

“No way,” said Harper in disbelief. She dropped he pen, and he removed the picture. He stepped away to put it back in the picture book. “What does Babs think?”

“She’s not completely sold on the idea, but she thinks it’s likely Peter’s his kid,” Tim explained. He shooed her out of his chair and sat back down. He started the camera feed again, and they watched as Peter left the building. On the outside camera, they saw him go down the front steps and take a right down the sidewalk before finally leaving the camera’s view.

“You’re gonna tell him, right? This isn’t something you can just keep a secret.”

Tim sighed, hacking into other buildings’ cameras to search for where Peter went. “I don’t want to say anything to him until we know for sure,” he explained.

“Those two pictures side by side is pretty damning evidence,” she said. She pointed out Peter on the screen, and they both carefully watched as he looked at a piece of paper he pulled from his pocket and take a random turn.

“A DNA sample would be even more damning.”

“I am not stealing this kid’s DNA for you.”

He groaned, and maybe it was a bit on the dramatic side. “But Harper!”

“No way! I’m not the resident stalker, here,” she argued. “I’ll keep volunteering at Martha’s House and see if he’s there, but I’m not stealing DNA for you.”

“You’re no fun.”

“It’s called being a normal human being.” She rolled her eyes.

Tim scoffed. “You’re a part-time vigilante. You’re not normal.”

“Fuck off.” Then, “He went off camera again.”

“I know, I know.”

They only got a few more minutes of following Peter with various cameras aimed at the streets of Gotham, before Tim’s bedroom door opened and someone tossed something at his head.

“Drake! Come with me.”

Tim cursed under his breath, pushing away the previously balled up green rain jacket with one hand while simultaneously hiding the camera feed by pressing a few keys with the other. “Damian! What the hell!”

Harper just laughed at them.

“Just come on, dimwit,” Damian said. Tim caught sight of the tale end of his eye roll when he finally turned to look at him.

Tim glared. “Yeah, no.”

Damian glared right back. “Why not?”

“Because, knowing you, you want to sneak out on patrol, and even Bruce said we can’t go out tonight.”

Yet another reason for the silence of the Manor. They were all a bit…disgruntled…at the fact they were unable to go out for patrol. It was a testimant about how bad the storm really was when Bruce agreed with Alfred and said no to going out.

“I am not planning on sneaking out in this weather,” Damian argued, saying so like it was the most absurd idea in the world.

Tim stared blankly at him, and Harper made a sound of disbelief.

Damian huffed, and his brows pulled together and his mouth thinned. “I’m not, Drake,” he said. “I promise. I want to check on the barn, and make sure it is closed correctly.”

And that… That was no way a lie. Damian adored his pets. And he was asking for help in his own, backhand way from Tim – not anyone else, like Cullen, who’s closer to his his age, or Bruce.

Tim could either agree, and keep up the good brotherly relationship with Damian; or he could say no so he and Harper could track down where Peter possibly went, and potentially make Damian mad at him. The choice to make was obvious, unfortunately.

He groaned and stood, snatching up the rain jacket as he went. “Alright. But if I get sick because of you, I’m erasing all of your progress on Twilight Princess. Harper, can you–”

She took his spot with a nod. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, then I have nothing to worry about,” Damian said, and made his way out of Tim’s room. “Because it will be your lack of spleen that gets you sick. Not me.”

Tim rolled his eyes with a small smile. “Smartass.”

“Dumbass,” he shot back.

“Language, young sirs.”

Both of them stopped in their tracks, shared a quick look, and then looked over their shoulders at Alfred, who was putting away clean sheets in the hallway closet. They chorused an apology, and hurried the rest of the way down the hall and stairs.

+++

Neither of them said much of anything on the trek across the large yard to the barn that was built a few years ago, when they first got Bat-Cow. Even if they did talk, they would have to shout over the rain and wind and thunder.

By the time they got there, Tim was tempted to just stay in the barn with Bat-Cow and Jerry the turkey, rather than walk back to the house. The rain jacket and rain boots helped him not get soaked, but he still got wet. The front ends of his hair, face, and his pants did not stay dry, and when he looked at Damian, he saw that the fifteen year old didn’t look much better. 

Damian quickly began checking on the windows once Tim turned on the light. He stopped by Bat-Cow on his way. She was locked safely in her usual stable with a bucket of food and water. She seemed a bit antsy because of the weather, but otherwise fine.

Tim decided to check the back door of the barn. On his way there, he passed by Jerry, who was asleep on a rather large pile of hay. He decided not to bother the animal, and continued on.

“What are you and Harper working on?” Damian asked, just as Tim made sure the back door was locked correctly.

He tried to open it with the lock in place. It didn’t budge. Good. “A case,” he answered. Tim turned, expecting to see Damian still with Bat-Cow but he wasn’t. He looked around in confusion before finally spotting him in the upper part of the barn, checking the window up there.

“Tt. Obviously. What kind of case?”

“One that doesn’t concern you.” Then amended the harshness with, “Yet.”

Damian turned and stared down at him. “Yet?”

“It’s… It’s a delicate case,” he explained. “Only people who know the details are me, Harper, and Babs.”

“You didn’t tell Father? Or Richard?” Damian questioned, and there was a hint of confusion in his tone.

“No. I’ll have to eventually.”

Damian didn’t respond. He had a thoughtful expression on, so Tim didn’t say anything more. The teenager climbed down, checked on Jerry and his food, and then searched around. Tim was about to ask what he was looking for when he saw Damian duck into an empty stable as he softly said, “There you are. Hello, Alfred.”

A minute later, Damian walked out of the stable stall with the black and white tuxedo cat stuffed in his rain jacket. Alfred’s head poked out, and Tim was surprised that he didn’t look pissed.

While Damian was still looking down, Tim whipped out his phone and snapped the fastest non-blurry picture in his life. Little brothers were cute sometimes, okay? 

“Is it something dangerous?” Damian asked.

Tim looked up from his phone, locked it, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “No. Don’t worry about it, okay? We’ve got it handled.”

“If it’s not dangerous, then why aren’t you telling anyone else?”

“Like I said, it’s a delicate case. It has sensitive info. I want to be a hundred percent positive on something before I do.”

Damian frowned in a way that said he understood but didn’t like it. He definitely wanted all the details. Too bad, so sad, little gremlin, Tim thought.

“…I want to help, if you end up needing it,” he said.

Tim smiled. “‘If’ being the operative word.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “I hate you. Also, delete that picture.”

“Sure, but I already sent it to Dick.”

He scowled as Tim laughed and headed to leave. “If it weren’t for Alfred the cat, I would slaughter you.”

Tim just ignored him, and closed the barn door after Damian walked out, Alfred the cat’s head now also in his rain jacket.

The walk back ended up being worse. This time, they faced the opposite direction the rain was coming down from, so they got pelted in the face with fat rain drops. It didn’t take long for them to decide to book it instead, running inside and closing the door a little too loudly.

They both stayed on the door mat, not knowing they should risk stepping off of it.

Tim shrugged and began peeling off the rain jacket. Damian did the same once he carefully let out Alfred the cat. 

It was then that Alfred the human walked in with two towels and a smile on his face. They chorused their thanks when he handed the towels over.

“You’re quite welcome. Checking on the pets in the barn, I presume?” the man asked.

Tim nodded as Damian said, “Yes. They’re all safe, and the barn is closed properly.”

“Glad to hear it.”

As Tim toweled off his hair and Damian grabbed his arm to steady himself as he took off the rain boots, Tim quickly took notice that the Manor wasn’t as quiet as it had been. There was childish laughter, the faint sound of Bruce’s voice, the excited barking of one of the dogs, and another familiar voice.

“Is someone else here?” Tim asked.

Alfred smiled knowingly. “A certain brother of yours decided to make a surprise visit.”

Tim blinked. Wait, what?

Damian’s eyes narrowed, then his face lit up. “Richard?”

“Master Richard and young Mar’i and Jake arrived just after you two left for the barn. Everyone is in the main living room.”

Damian immediately shot off like a rocket, and Tim was quick to follow once he finally slipped off the rain boots.

He was excited at finally seeing Dick again – it’s been a long two weeks – but he couldn’t help but feel a little anxious. He hadn't been expecting to see Dick for another few days, and with just finding a kid who looked too much like him to be a coincidence, Tim didn’t know how he was going to hold the secret in.

Apparently Harper felt some anxiety about the situation too, because when he entered the living room and made eye contact with her, she let some of the panic show on her eyes. He sent her what was hopefully a reassuring smile, and focused on Dick hugging Damian before anyone else could notice. Off to the side, Bruce held Mar’i, the five year old dramatically telling him a story involving mermaids and Christmas elves. On the couch with Cullen, Duke was holding Jake and tickling his sides, making the toddler let out a stream of giggles.

“And there’s Tim!” Dick shouted. “Get over here and hug me.”

“Not while you’re also holding the bat brat.”

Dick out stretched one arm and did his best puppy eyes. In his other arm, he held Damian hostage.

“Drake, just do it. He is suffocating me.”

Tim sighed like he really didn’t want a hug, and shuffled over, anyway. “Fine.”

Dick grinned but rolled his eyes. “I’m not suffocating you, Dami. Geez, when did you two get so dramatic?” He wrapped his free arm around Tim’s shoulder when he got close enough, and pulled him into his side. Tim immediately melted into the touch, hugging him back.

“They were born that way,” Bruce mused.

“Was not, Father.”

“I resent that.”

Everyone else laughed at them.

Tim joined in, but it was half-hearted at best, too busy worried about his and Harper’s case, and how the hell they’re going to keep it from Dick for the time being.

Chapter Text

Exploring the abandoned theater actually ended up being kind of interesting. Creepy as hell, but interesting.

Teresa kept up a stream of her horror scenario through it all. At some point Zombified-Peter and Zombified-Teresa died, and the ensuing result ended up being an epic battle between Evil Danny Zuko and Michael Myers.

To their surprise, there were only four screens in the theater. Well, four and a half. There a fifth one, halfway done being put together and never finished above a stage. Abandoned equipment lied here and there – a rusty latter that still stood, a screen that was only halfway up and worn down with age, loose screws, various other tools – and there were absolutely no chairs put in yet. A handful were against one wall in a messy, disorganized pile, and there were strips in the ground that most likely indicated where the chairs would have gone.

The other four screen rooms were all the same. Old screens, old chairs, decades of dust; there were even curtains that framed the screen, though most had fallen apart and hardly even framed anything anymore.

There were definitely rats in the place. Maybe a couple of mice, too.

A rat skittered right in front of them once in the hall. It happened during a particularly loud clap of thunder, and made both of them scream, Teresa instantly gripping his uninjured arm and Peter holding the flashlight like a weapon. He had to suppress his fight instinct so he didn’t kick the rodent. 

Thankfully, nothing else jumped out at them, but they still watched out for a stray rat or mouse.

They made it to one of the back rooms, where they found even more old movie posters – Zorro, Rocky, Close Encounters, Star Wars, and others – and even a few boxes of movie film reels. There were some containers of themed decorations, too.

Teresa carefully opened one box. A cloud of dust still flew into the air that made both of them cough. After waving away the dust and calming down, she peered inside. “Oh hey,” she said, surprised and cheerful, “Christmas decorations! And some for Thanksgiving, too!”

Peter didn’t know why, but his throat felt a bit tight. He coughed again. Maybe he’s having a bad reaction to the dust. “Oh, cool,” he managed.

She dug into the box, halfway pulling out random things to look at them. “We should decorate,” she said, then visibly faltered. “I- I mean, if we stay here.”

He blinked. “You want us to stick together?” At her hesitant nod, but refusal to look at him, his confusion grew. “I thought you said you didn’t trust me?”

Her shoulders jerked a small shrug. She slowly stopped eagerly searching through the holiday decorations, stopping soon after, but her eyes never left the contents.

Peter sighed quietly through his nose. “Teresa–.”

Her gaze snapped to his in an instant, and she interrupted him, frantic, “What? What, do you not trust me? I haven’t done anything! I helped you get away from the cops!”

“I know, I just…”

In all honesty, he hadn’t been expecting to stick around people regularly to make friends, let alone have a twelve year old get attached to him. After the first five days were up at the shelter, he had a vague idea of never going back and hiding away in an abandoned apartment building, or something. His plan was to mainly focus on just getting by, alone, and live that way, and hopefully start Spider-Manning while doing so. He didn’t want anyone else getting involved. That way he had less of a chance of ruining someone’s life and/or getting them killed.

“I was planning on leaving once the storm passed,” he admitted, eyes focusing on a dark outline of another box rather than the girl in front of him. “Let you stay here, if you didn’t want me to take to you Martha’s House. This is a good place – there’s a roof, and admittedly sketchy bathrooms with no working water or electricity, but at least there’s a toilet…”

When he looked back at Teresa, he saw that stubborn expression on her face for the second time. And, he noticed with slight fear, glassy eyes reflecting on the flashlight’s beam. Oh, God. He was not prepared to comfort a kid who was about to cry because of him.

Maybe he should become a hermit, cut off all human interaction and turn into a spider-themed cryptid instead of a vigilante.

“But I want you to stay!”

“I can’t,” he told her.

“Why not?” Her brows were tightly knitted together and her lip was wobbling.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I just can’t, okay? It’s safer for you that way.”

Teresa glared. “Or maybe you just don’t want a stupid little kid following you around.”

For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. That wasn’t what he meant at all, but he had no idea how to explain that in the moment. It didn’t matter though, because she turned around to walk away before he had a chance to even say anything. She stopped after a few steps, and turned back and stomped over. He didn’t even try to keep ahold of the flashlight as she snatched it away.

“This is mine,” she snapped. “Get your own. You’ll need it when you leave.”

He raised his hands half-way up in surrender, though she didn’t see it because she was already walking away. With another quiet sigh, he stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket and followed her, if only because she had the only source of light.

+++

The storm ended up being so bad that some water leaked into a good portion of the theater’s lobby’s carpeting, so both of them made sure they had their own belongings – Peter, with the backpack that held his clothes, suit, and other stuff, and Teresa with a box that held a scratchy blanket, an almost empty jar of peanut butter, and other random important things – and camped out in a different area.

It ended up being the half-finished screen room.

Teresa sat closer to the screen itself, huddled against the wall of the stage. She used her balled up beanie as the tiniest, and probably crappiest, pillow ever, and covered up with the scratchy blanket and held the flashlight, that was now off, close. She was either genuinely sleeping or ignoring Peter’s existence; the latter of which he didn’t blame her for, if she was doing so.

The rest of the night went by slowly. He didn’t get much sleep at all between worrying that the cold would make him hibernate like an actual spider (he didn’t know if it would actually happen, and he didn’t really want to find out right now, if so), his mind making up all sorts of terrible scenarios if he ended up sticking with Teresa, and the uncomfortable floor. It slanted down, so he had to lay a certain way so he wouldn’t roll from the wall opposite of the screen. His backpack was a decent pillow, though not the best, and his enhanced hearing picked up the sound of rodents scurrying around. Random little noises kept him waking up every so often.

When he was asleep rather than awake, dreams were nonexistent. That was the one good thing of the night. Peter expected at least a nightmare or two, but that didn’t happen.

By the time morning came, Peter was forming a headache – or a mild migraine – because of the lack of sleep. Teresa woke up eventually, and refused to acknowledge him. Peter didn’t try to say anything to her. He didn’t want to make anything worse. But he did end up slipping $30 of the $50 into her too large jacket’s pocket without her catching him.

They ended up leaving through the back, Teresa leading the way through the dark since she decided to leave behind the flashlight; she didn’t have a bag of any sort to carry things with.

Outside, it was wet and cold and dreary. There were still clouds in the sky, but not as dark as they had been the day before. Water dripped off roofs, there was a gentle wind, and the streets were busy, filled with lower class and homeless people bundled up for the weather and aging cars driving down the road. This definitely wasn’t a good neighborhood of the city.

As they made it to the main street – or that was what Peter assumed it was – he reached to do or say…something to Teresa. Apologize for not sticking around, or explain himself, or something along those lines, but she muttered a, “Good luck, don’t die,” and crossed the street when there was a lull in traffic. Peter tried to keep her in his sight, but she blended well into the crowd on the other side of the road, and he lost track of her in seconds.

He sighed. Someone honked their horn twice at another car; a group of people were arguing a few blocks over; in an apartment building nearby someone was blasting rock music. He grimaced. Yeah, he definitely had a headache now. It didn’t help his sour mood.

He hated that he hurt Teresa in some way, but it was the safest choice for her. If they stuck together, she would get dragged into his chaotic, messy life somehow and get hurt because of him. Or worse. He refused to let that happen. She was a kid, and she certainly didn’t deserve to be homeless, but she also didn’t deserve to be stuck in the sticky web of hurt and death that was his life.

Peter rubbed a hand across his face, and started in the direction where he remembered he and Teresa ran from. Maybe he might actually make it to the library this time.

After all, he still had some things to look up. Figure out this world some more. He thought he had a general idea, though.

Teresa mentioned something called the Justice League, and Peter guessed it was a similar group of heroes to the Avengers. And between there formerly being an Iron Man and now a new hero group of people led by a variant of Reed Richards on his own world, he guessed there weren’t that many heroes from home. It didn’t blow his mind that much. Neither Peter Two nor Peter Three knew who the Avengers were.

As he walked – again once in a while looking at the map he shockingly hadn’t lost – he wondered if there was anyone else he might recognize this world. Alive. But Iron Man died earlier, so everyone else he knew possibly did as well. He wondered if there was another him here. It would complicate things, for sure, if that was the case.

With that on his mind, and adding to his plans to learn about this universe’s heroes and if there’s another Peter Parker out there, he trekked his way to the library.

+++

He did not make it the library – yet.

His stomach started a rebellion fifteen minutes later, achingly empty and growling and unhappy of it not being fed for nearly a full twenty-four hours. It worsened his headache too, which was definitely on the verge of being as bad as a migraine. So, he made a detour and walked around until he found a decently cheap place.

Said place ended up being a 7-Eleven.

Peter only planned to get a package of pop-tarts or something, but then he caught sight of the coffee machine near the back and changed his mind. It was cheap, even for a large cup, and surprisingly good and hot. He still ended up with the pop-tarts, but also a can of Pringles, a pack of gum, and a large water bottle. It knocked down the $20 he still had down to $12, but he didn’t care. He needed food and water and something hot to drink, and gum helped the hunger.

No one batted an eye at the bloody sleeve of his hoodie or the fabric that clearly covered a wound. Not even the cashier. The person just glanced at it, and wrung up the price for his food and drinks and set everything except for his coffee into a plastic bag. He paid, thanked the cashier, and then left.

Peter found himself at a park a few minutes later, deciding to eat and drink before heading over to the library again. He sat on a bench underneath a barren tree and ate the pop-tarts and drank the blessedly hot coffee. It helped his headache, but the sounds of the city still bothered him. There wasn’t anything he could do about that, unfortunately, so he just closed his eyes and focused on his own heartbeat with his head rested on the back of the bench, and slowly finished the rest of the coffee.

The park wasn’t busy at all. Everything was wet and muddy, so very few families came with their kids. Peter didn’t pay much attention to any of them. Well, he tried; his enhanced hearing still picked up things here and there, even from his spot on the bench that was furthest away.

“You have a boo-boo.”

Peter jolted, and snapped his eyes open. No one was in front of him, but when he looked to his left he saw a little girl no older than five. She had bright green eyes – weirdly bright, like she might not be completely human – messy black hair, and light brown skin. She was also upside down, hanging from one of the lower branches of the tree and scrutinizing the bloody fabric.

“Uh.” Peter blinked. “Hi?” Where was this girl’s parents? Why was she in a tree? And talking to him? 

He could tell she had a home. She wasn’t dirty in the same way Teresa was, and how he’s getting to be; though, she did have a few mud stains on her jeans. Her clothes fit her. She looked healthy, not malnourished. And yet she was talking to him, for some reason. Had no one taught her about stranger danger? 

The little girl’s brows furrowed together. “Hi. You have a boo-boo,” she repeated, then added, almost sounding worried, “That’s a lot of blood.”

Peter glanced down. She wasn’t exactly wrong. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. I’m okay. It stopped bleeding a while ago.”

She frowned a little. “If you say so.”

Peter expected her to leave after that. She didn’t. She stayed hanging upside down, weirdly bright green eyes looking him over. “So… Where’s your parents?” he asked awkwardly.

That brought a grin to her face. “Mama is with one of my uncles out of town, and Daddy is over there with my little brother. We’re playing hide and seek! Aunt Cass and Steph and Uncle Dami came with us, but Steph and Dami went to get everyone hot chocolate.” Her grin widened. “They’ll all beat you up if you try to kidnap me.”

That shocked a little laugh out of Peter, though it was mostly on the nervous side of things rather than actual amusement. “Oh, that’s. That’s…nice,” he said. “I won’t kidnap you. I promise.”

She went back to studying him, but her smile stayed. “If you say so,” she said for a second time. A second went by, and then she gave a decisive nod that was cute coming from an upside down five year old. “I’m gonna hide again. Bye, bloody boy!”

Peter choked on air a little at the nickname. The girl pulled herself up, and went back to climbing around in the tree. He wondered if he should find the girl’s dad or aunt and warn them, but he had no idea what either of them looked like. Instead, he watched for a minute, made sure she didn’t slip with how fast she climbed, before finally looking away and taking another sip of his nearly gone coffee.

Of course that’s when he heard a yelp and a gasp of pain.

Peter instantly twisted around, and looked up. “Are you okay?” he asked, even if it might be a dumb question. He set his coffee carefully beside him, as well as his backpack. He saw the little girl even further up the tree in what looked to be an uncomfortable sitting position from this angle.

“My- My foot is stuck,” came the reply, scared. “I almost fell, and- it’s stuck.”

Peter moved into action without even thinking about it. “I’m coming up to help, okay? Is that alright with you?”

He saw her nod through the branches. “Uh-huh.”

Peter stood on the back of the bench, and hauled himself up on the nearest branch. “You must be one heck of a climber if you got that high,” he said, subconsciously going into Spider-Man mode. “Like a cat – or a monkey.” He squeezed through a particularly small gap between two branches, and avoided another one that looked like it was beginning to form ice. “Or a spider. Or a spider monkey.” He dramatically gasped. “Wait. Are you a spider monkey?”

The girl sniffed and giggled. “No! I’m a girl, silly.”

“Oh, my bad.” He finally made it to her, and smiled kindly when he stopped on a branch that was level with her. “But girls can be spider-monkeys if they want.”

She hesitantly returned the smile. A few tears trailed down her cheeks and her eyes were glassy with more that had yet to fall. She wasn’t exactly sitting like he thought she had been. She was on her stomach on a branch, arms and one leg wrapped around it. Her other leg was on the branch below. Well, no – it was stuck, her ankle wedged between a small v-shape of two limbs that grew out of the main branch. It wasn’t exactly a short distance from that one to the one the girl cling to, and Peter guessed that she had tried to push herself up, only to slip and get stuck.

“I don’t think spider monkeys get stuck,” the girl mumbled, sniffling again.

“They might,” he said. “You never know.”

She studied him again. “Are you a spider monkey?”

He smiled. “Nah. Just a boy who can climb good.” He crouched some to look at how badly stuck her ankle was. Not too bad, thankfully. “Does anything hurt?”

“Um, my ankle a little. And my chin.”

Peter looked at her face. Her chin was red, and there was a small scrape but very little blood. He gave her a reassuring smile and said, “There’s barely any blood. It might bruise, though.” She nodded. “Now. Listen to me. You’re going to have to let go some–”

“What!?” He arms gripped the branch tighter.

“It’ll be okay–”

“No, I’m gonna fall! I don’t- I can’t, I’m gonna fall!” The tears that she held back began to roll down her cheeks.

Peter kept his voice calm and determined. “No, you won’t. You won’t fall, I promise. I won’t let you. I’m going to help. Okay? You can trust me.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then I’ll catch you,” he immediately said. “But I will be holding onto you the entire time, okay? You’re just going from one branch to the next – exactly how you’ve been climbing.”

Her breath stuttered. “I’m scared,” she admitted quietly. “I never been up this high by myself before.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” he told her. “You’re not alone, I’m up here with you. We’ll do this at your pace. When you’re ready, drop your other leg down and I’ll help you stand on the branch. Okay?”

She hesitantly nodded, but stayed put until she gathered the courage to move her leg. Peter kept his hands in front of him, ready to catch her if needed. The branch her ankle was stuck on wasn’t dry. It was wet and slippery more so than some of the others, and he didn’t want her to lose her balance. When her foot settled on the branch, he gripped one of her arms carefully and was relieved when she didn’t push him away. Her hands stayed on the branch she had laid on.

“Alright. I’m going to move so we’re facing each other. I’m gonna have to let go real quick, okay?”

She nodded jerkily. “Okay.”

He moved as fast and as safely as he could. When he sat down on a branch that allowed him to be in front of her, he smiled and took hold of her arm again. “See? I was quick. And you’re doing great!”

It went like that the rest of the time they were up in the tree. Peter explained what he was going to, did it, and kept telling her she was doing great. He kept up a stream of words, and ended up telling a story about a cat he had to save from a tree once. The cat ended up scratching his arms, as well as his back because the feline refused to be put down normally and instead forced their way out of his arms and down his back. It got a few giggles out of her.

Getting her ankle unstuck was actually pretty easy. It was getting her to stay balanced that was the tricky part. She faced the truck of the tree for the most part, and there wasn’t a good way for her to sit down, what with the branch thinning out, so Peter just had her grip his shoulders as tightly as she could while he held onto her shirt with one hand and carefully unstuck her foot with the other.

“Aaaand there! All done.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Although she stopped crying, she still sniffled.

“Ready to climb down?” he asked.

She went to nod, but stopped. “Um. Can you carry me?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed with no hesitation. “Piggyback ride, or koala style?” 

Her lips pursed as she thought about it seriously. “Koala style,” she finally said. 

“Alright. Hold on tight.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, enough to where he almost told her to loosen her grip, and her legs went around his torso. When Peter was positive that she wouldn’t slip from his grip, he wrapped one arm around her back and began to carefully climb down. He used his more recently injured arm, which definitely didn’t help the healing process, but it was either that or move the still slightly sore shoulder.

It was when he planted his feet on the back of the bench, that someone shouted, “Mar’i!” and the girl jerked upright.

Her eyes roamed across the park. Then, her face broke into a grin, and she shouted back, “Aunt Cass!” to a small, young Asian woman with short black hair heading their way. 

Peter got down from the bench and stood. The little girl – Mar’i, he guessed – didn’t make a move to get down, though. “Uh,” he mumbled, and bent down so she could let go. She didn’t budge. The aunt stood in front of them now, obviously suspicious of him, with her arms crossed over her chest. He gave an awkward smile. “Hi.”

Dark brown eyes bore into him. “Hello.”

“He saved me!” Mar’i exclaimed, grinning again. “It’s fine, he’s cool, Aunt Cass.”

“He saved you?”

Mar’i nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! I almost fell and got stuck, so he came and helped. And he climbs super duper good, like a spider monkey!”

The woman hummed, though she did uncross her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Cass frowned. “What for?”

Peter fumbled. “Uh… I don’t know? Overstepping, or something–.” He cut himself off as Cass began to smile. Mar’i finally let go and stood on her own two feet, so he was able to stand straight again.

“It is okay. Not mad at you. We got worried because she disappeared,” Cass explained. “Thank you for helping.”

He shrugged, feeling awkward. “You’re welcome. Anyone would’ve done it.”

Her head tilted to the side just ever so slightly. “Not just anyone.” She stuck out her hand. “My name is Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cass.”

Peter shook her hand. “Peter– whoa!” She yanked him forward. He was about to question her when he saw that she was intensely looking at the poorly made cloth bandage over the bullet graze. “Oh, that. It’s fine.”

“What happened?” It sounded more like a demand than a question.

“Nothing bad, seriously,” he lied. Peter pulled away from her grip and took a step back. “It stopped bleeding a while ago.”

Cass studied him in a similar way Mar’i did earlier, but more intense. More knowledgeable. It made him uneasy, and he inched closer to the bench where his belongings were.

“There is a free clinic you can go to if you need stitches, in Park Row,” Cass told him. “It is called the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic.”

Peter picked up his trash, and put on his backpack. A free clinic almost sounded too good to be true. But he didn’t need it anyway. “Oh. Thank you for telling me.”

“Cass! Mar’i!” someone shouted. It came from across the park, from a blood woman maybe a little younger than Cass. She held a drink carrier with three drinks and a bag with a local café’s logo on it. Beside her stood a young teenage boy with another drink carrier with only two drinks, and another smaller bag. “Hot chocolate and pastries! C’mon!”

“Coming!” Cass shouted back. Then, focused back on him, “Thank you for helping my niece, Peter.”

Mar’i gave him a quick but tight hug. “Yes, thank you! Bye!” And then she ran off with a wave.

He waved back. “You’re welcome.” 

Cass sent him a parting smile, one he returned, and then she left to catch up with her niece and other family members.

Peter didn’t stick around to watch them reunite with one another. He finished the last couple of sips of his now cold coffee, and then tossed his trash in the nearest trashcan. He pulled out the tourist map, and was about to figure out the closest walking route to the library (he ventured farther from it than he originally wanted, unfortunately) when loud laughter cut through the air. Peter glanced up, mildly curious and not expecting to see anything out of the ordinary at a park, but what he saw made him do a double take.

In the group of where Cass and Mar’i now stood with the blonde and the teen, now had two other people. A toddler, who was being held by the teenager, and a man. 

A man with a face so shockingly familiar, Peter truly and instantly believed he had to be hallucinating.

A man with a face of someone who should be dead.

Peter could hardly breathe.

The man must have felt his stare, because he raised his head from where he was crouched in front of Mar’i. He looked around, and soon dark blue eyes landed on him.

Scratch that. Peter couldn’t breathe, at all.

Because for the first time in twelve years, the face of Richard Parker was staring right at him. Alive and breathing.

So, he did the only thing he could think of.

He ran.

Chapter Text

Peter’s first thought was this: my dad’s alive?

His second thought was this: no, fuck, Mysterio is back.

Rationally, underneath the sudden panic, he knew that was impossible. Quintin Beck was dead, supposedly, back in his universe, and as far as he knew, the man didn’t exist here – in Gotham, at least.

But he wasn’t thinking rationally.

That man in the park had the same face as Richard Parker. He hadn’t even aged. Seeing him threw Peter back twelve years, and he was five again, staring at his mom and dad as they kneeled in front of him, in the living room of Ben and May’s living room with a small suitcase beside him and bigger ones behind his parents for themselves, as they said goodbyes and promises of coming home before leaving on a trip to Italy for the wedding anniversary.

Their flight never made it.

And now there’s a man with his dad’s face, exactly the same age as he last saw him, and the only conclusion that Peter’s brain listened to was that Mysterio was back.

It wasn’t possible. But also, maybe it was. He had mentioned the multiverse when Peter first met him (had he been lying? unknowingly being so close to the truth to get Peter to trust him?), somewhere underground with Director Nick Fury (but that wasn’t the real Director Nick Fury, something in his mind shouted at him), so it could be possible.

Then again, he died.

Then again, Peter sorta died too and sorta came back five years later.

Then again, his dad was apparently alive in this universe, so who’s to say Mysterio wasn’t and somehow got in touch with his universe’s Mysterio before he died and now he’s planning on tormenting Peter again?

Somewhere deep down, beneath the growing anxiety and panic, Peter realized that was far fetched even for him. Unfortunately, his brain was only sticking to irrational and insane and anxiety inducing thoughts rather than anything else at the moment.

Peter was half tempted to run back, and throw something at the man to see if it went through him and hunt the area down for Mysterio’s drones. He didn’t. He wasn’t that paranoid. Yet.

At some point, seconds or minutes later, he didn’t know, Peter found himself on a rooftop – only vaguely aware that he got up there via a fire escape like a normal human rather than with his web shooters – and had squished himself between the half wall at the edge and a large AC unit. He curled into a ball. He knees were tucked into chest with his forehead rested on them, eyes squeezed shut, and his hands were tangled in his hair to ground himself.

He wanted to stop thinking about Mysterio. About how he was fucking with his mind again, that there was no way he could be because how did he know about his parents? Why would he use Richard Parker against him? It didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t make sense because it wasn’t real.

No. Wrong choice of words. It didn’t make sense, because Mysterio wasn’t here, no matter what his mind was telling him. And no matter how hard it was to admit despite seeing it for himself, Richard Parker was alive in this universe.

“He’s not here,” Peter whispered to himself, shakily starting the breathing exercise he knew of. “It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not.”

It was just Richard Parker. His dad.

Peter didn’t know if that was better or worse.

+++

It was Stephanie who broke the silence first.

“So. I’m not the only one who saw the kid look like he saw a ghost and bolted. Right?” she asked, and Dick was kind of relieved that said something. He almost began to believe he imagined it with how quick the teenager ran off.

He stayed crouched in front of Mar’i, who had cut herself off from explaining something when she saw he was staring at someone else. “Yeah, no, I saw him, too,” he spoke slowly. His brows were knitted together in confusion – for more reasons other than the kid bolting.

“Something spooked him,” Cass said. He looked up at her, and she looked back. She had on a certain expression that immediately made him wary as an older brother.

His eyes narrowed a little. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” She smiled. Then signed, “What did you do?” with an almost knowing look.

Dick sputtered, still a little confused and accusation didn’t help. “Nothing! I literally just looked at the kid.”

“Maybe it was your ugly mug,” Stephanie said.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Jason,” was his immediate response.

“Pfft. As if. He’s been on a case for three months,” she said. “I haven’t spent time with him at all.”

“How tragic,” Damian drily muttered.

She sniffed, chin raised. “It is, actually, thank you for saying something, Dami.”

Damian made a face at her and rolled his eyes. He focused his attention on Jake, who was eating one of the pastries (a warmed croissant) and making a small mess on both himself and Damian. His annoyed look with Stephanie turned into disgust as a soggy piece of the croissant fell from Jake’s mouth and onto his jacket’s sleeve. “That’s disgusting,” he said.

Stephanie laughed at him, but Cass took out one of the napkins she stuffed in her jacket pocket and wiped it off. “You’re welcome, little brother,” she said after his quiet ‘thanks’.

Dick smiled fondly at his son and siblings before turning his attention to his daughter. “Sorry about that, sweetheart, what were you saying?” he asked. 

“I almost fell from the tree!” she shouted with a grin.

Dick froze. His heart jumped in his throat. “You what.” Then, remembering what he told her earlier, “I thought I said no climbing the trees today.” Everything was still relatively damp from the storm last night. He thought he had explained that well to Mar’i.

She blinked innocently at him. “Did you?”

Apparently not.

Stephanie coughed to hide her laughter.

“I did,” said Dick, just on the edge of stern and disapproving, doing his best not to get angry out of fear of his kid (almost) falling from a tree. “The bark is slippery because of the storm, and there’s probably ice, Mar’i. It isn’t safe.”

Her grin was beginning to fade. “But we were playing hide ‘n seek! I was- hiding spots were- I couldn’t use the same one again,” she said like it was obvious, stumbling over her words. “So I hid in the tree!”

He frowned. “And almost fell.”

Mar’i stared at him with wide eyes for a moment. “And got stuck.”

Dick grunted and let his head fall forward, chin to his chest. This was somehow payback for all the times he climbed the chandeliers, it just had to be.

“Mar’i,” he sighed. “Sweetheart…” He lifted his head and placed his hands on her small shoulders, looking her over for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked, even as he cataloged a small scrape on her chin that was on top of a forming bruise and reddened palms from grabbing at the bark. “Anything hurt?”

Mar’i nodded. “My chin, a little. Ankle did, too, but not anymore.”

He sighed with relief and cupped her face. “I’m glad you’re okay. But that’s why I didn’t want you climbing in the first place. You have to listen to me when I tell you things like that, understand?” When she nodded, Dick squished her cheeks together, smiling when she began to smile again. “Manners, sweetheart.”

“Yes, sir,” she giggled. Though it sounded more like yesh, shir.

“Good.” He kissed the top of her head and then released her, only to pick her up and place her on his shoulders as he stood up. “Want your hot chocolate now?”

She gasped. “Yes! Please.”

Cass handed the little girl her drink, and then Dick’s his. Both of them chorused their thanks, and the group stayed in the loosely formed circle.

They came to the park mostly because Steph and Cass deemed it unfair everyone else got to see Dick and the kids before them. They met up here a bit ago, Damian coming along because he didn’t want to be stuck in the house all day, and none of them had plans to head anywhere. Well. There was the grocery list Alfred gave Dick to buy in advance for the upcoming holiday, but he’s sure as long as they did it at some point before nightfall it would be fine.

None of them were in a rush to leave. Even with the November chill, which the hot chocolate and warm pastries helped with. They could have met in a warmer, dryer place, but Dick didn’t want to subject strangers to the chaos of his family in the mid- to late-morning, so a mostly vacant park it was.

“Hey, Mar’i, you said you got stuck, so how’d you get unstuck?” Stephanie asked.

“The boy helped me.”

Stephanie and Damian both looked at her, the latter of the two also avoiding the piece of croissant Jake was trying to get him to eat. Dick would have looked too, if he were physically able.

“What boy?” Steph asked.

“The one who ran,” Cass answered for her.

Damian frowned. Dick could see the suspicion growing in him. “Why? If he had just helped her, the wh–mph!”

Jake successfully stuffed the food in Damian’s mouth. The two year old laughed. “Eat, Dami!”

“Jake,” Dick sighed. Then, to his youngest sibling, “You can spit it out if you want, Dames.”

Damian grimaced but ate it anyway. 

“Maybe he didn’t realize who Mar’i was,” suggested Steph. “I mean, you’re pretty famous, Dick, but not many people know about your kids. Could’ve been shocked he helped the Dick Grayson’s kid.”

Dick fondly rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored her teasing. “Not many people recognize Mar’i because B and I threatened to sue every reporter and paparazzi if they so much as tried to take pictures and write stories of them without permission.”

Cass nodded. “Only Gothamites know. Even then, it’s only citizens from this area of the city,” she said. “He doesn’t have a New Jersey accent.”

“That doesn’t explain why he ran,” Damian said, agitated. He then looked at his nephew as if daring the boy to try feeding him again. “People usually run to famous people. Not away.”

Jake grinned and held up the rest of his croissant. “Eat! Eat it, Dami.”

“No.”

“Pwease?”

“…Fine. One more bite.”

“Yay!”

Dick held back a smile at the scene. “Socially anxious?” he guessed.

“Can I have a bite, Jake?” Mar’i asked.

Jake twisted in Damian’s hold and looked up at her with the biggest frown yet of the day. “No.”

Before a fight could break out, Dick quickly said, “Mar’i, you have your own. Aunt Steph is holding it if you want it.”

“More awkward than anxious, I think,” Cass said.

“You spoke to him?” Steph asked as she handed the croissant to Mar’i, who took it with a mumbled thanks. Dick resigned himself to having crumbs, and maybe even hot chocolate, in his hair soon.

Cass nodded. “Yes. He’s nice. Good climber, too.”

Mar’i gasped. “He is! He is! He’s like- like a spider monkey. And his arm was hurt, but he still helped me down from the tree.” 

Cass’ lips formed into a thin line at the mention of the boy being hurt. The others took notice of it immediately. It had to be a serious injury for her to be worried but not say so in front of the kids, even if Mar’i did see it.

“Well, I’m glad he helped you, Mar’i,” Dick said. “I’ll have to thank him if we ever see him again.”

It wasn’t until Stephanie volunteered to take Mar’i to the bathroom when she said she needed to potty as they were leisurely walking back to their respective cars, when Cass brought it up again. Damian was behind them, walking even slower than Dick and Cass since Jake insisted on walking as well, gripping Damian’s hand.

“He looks like you,” Cass signed slow enough that Dick caught her hand movements out of the corner of his eye. She also made sure to keep her hands in front her just enough so Damian wouldn’t see.

He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “Does he?”

“You saw him. You know he does,” she signed.

Well. Dick couldn’t say she was wrong, but… He signed back, “I kind of thought he looked like someone else.”

“Who?” she verbally asked.

“Somebody that I used to know.”

Cass hummed. “Are you going to tell me who?”

“I need to look at something first.”

She nodded, satisfied with the answer for the time being. Just as Steph came running to them with Mar’i on her back, both laughing, Cass signed, “We can’t rule out a clone.”

Dick sighed. “I know.”

First, he wanted to rule out his own theory.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t know exactly how long he sat there, between the AC unit and the half wall on the roof. It wasn’t a short time though, he knew that much.

It took a while to really make himself believe that Mysterio wasn’t messing with him again – to focus more on the rational facts of the situation rather than his mind’s irrational thoughts and ‘what if’s that he had immediately latched onto. A few times he almost started to panic again about it, but each time it happened, it got somewhat easier to calm down.

Then all he had to do was process the revalation that Richard Parker was alive in this universe. And that the man had a daughter, and few siblings if what the little girl, Mar’i, had said was accurate – adopted siblings, most likely. Like him and Ben were.

If Peter remembered correctly, his dad got adopted into the Parker family at around ten years old, when Ben was a teenager. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he got adopted here too, just with a different family.

But, well… Could he even call this universe’s Richard Parker his dad? 

That thought came to him suddenly, and he groaned into his knees.

The multiverse was confusing.

Eventually he moved. Limbs stiff, muscles sore, body tired, and mind weirdly numb for now, Peter made his way out of his spot and off of the roof. He carefully removed the strip of fabric covering the bullet graze on his bicep, and tossed it in the dumpster in the alley. It had to be pulled away gently as to not reopen it.

Standing at the mouth of the alley, Peter realized he had no idea what to do. Seeing this universe’s Richard Parker and having a panic attack zapped what little energy he had. It caused his brain to feel blank and foggy-like.

He sort of felt like how he did when he first woke up at the homeless shelter (which was only yesterday, but it felt forever ago), which hadn’t ever really gone away, if he was being honest. He just didn’t think about it and shoved those feelings to the back of his mind to get through the previous couple of days. It seemed now, though, that they were back full force. He didn’t like it, especially because it wasn’t exactly unfamiliar. He felt the same way after Ben died, and then after Tony died, and even back before those two instances, after his mind was able to process what had happened with his babysitter/friend, the feeling had appeared off and on.

It wasn’t fun then, and it wasn’t fun now.

Doing the best he could to not think about those things, he heavily leaned his back against the building he was closest to, the backpack cushioning him. As he stood there, he debated on whether or not he should try to make it to the library again, or if he should go back to Martha’s House. It might take a while for him to get to either of those places, seeing as he had lost the tourist map when he ran from the park, but it was better than sitting on a random roof and letting his thoughts drag him down.

With that final though, he decided to try one last time, and Peter headed in the direction of what he hoped was the library.

+++

This would be so much easier if he could use his web-shooters, Peter thought as he took a turn and frustratingly didn’t see the library anywhere. Maybe easier was the wrong word, because he didn’t know what the roof looked like, but it certainly would be faster. Without the tourist map, he kept getting lost. A wrong turn here, another there, and somehow he ended up in the same area he had been before.

What made the situation worse, was his headache from earlier making a vengeful comeback as a migraine. Between barely catching a break the last few days, the lack of good sleep, and the new sights and sounds and smells of this city, Peter had actually been expecting something like this.

Honestly, Peter didn’t even want to go to the library anymore. He just wanted to lie down somewhere. Or swing around as Spider-Man to get to the place faster, though that probably wouldn’t help his migraine.

God, and it was painful – it felt like his skull was being jackhammered relentlessly, and the afternoon light stabbed his eyes like needles. Every sound made the throbbing pain worse; everyone smell made him nauseous. A general sense of malaise stuck with him, though he didn’t know how much of that was because of the migraine itself and how much was because of the fact that his spider-sense simply didn’t like Gotham.

Even still, he made sure to not run into any cops or stop for too long in one place. His spider-sense helped with that. Anytime someone almost ran into him, it moved him out of the way just in time.

He only stopped when someone said his name.

“Peter?”

He squinted at the ground. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and he lifted his head and looked up to find the college girl, Evie. She had on weather appropriate clothes, and in one hand she held a chili dog while in the other she had a bottle of Coke.

“It is you,” she said, and stepped closer to push them both out of way of foot traffic. “You look… It’s a miracle no one has mugged you like this – what are you doing?”

Peter pressed one hand over his eyes and leaned against the wall they stopped beside. The smell of the chili dog made his stomach roll. He groaned, clenching his teeth together. A particular sharp stab of pain made his shoulders rise and curl into himself, tense.

“Peter?” Evie prodded, stepping closer.

Right. She asked him a question. “Uh. Library,” he managed to get out. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” There was a beat of silence from her, and then, “Why don’t I take you back to Martha’s House? I don’t think you should be out in this state. The library will still be here tomorrow. Probably.”

“S’just a migraine,” he mumbled.

“And a bullet graze that needs to be cleaned,” Evie stated, pitching her voice low to be accommodating to his pain. It didn’t help. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. You can leave once you’re feeling better.”

Within two days, this was his third attempt at heading to the library, and he just wanted to make it there already, even though he also wanted to lie down until further notice. 

Something in him said he should probably take Evie’s help.

Evie sighed. “Peter,” she started. “I just want to help you.”

Too bad he had a stubborn streak ten miles long.

“I’ll be fine,” he said through a particular sharp throb of pain. He winced as the migraine continued to worsen, pressing the palm of his hand against one eye. “Just…” With his other hand, he tried to wave her off. Or was he trying to wave away the chili dog’s aroma? “I’ll be fine.”

Evie was quiet. The silence stretched longer than Peter assumed it would, so he started to think she walked away without him noticing or something until she said, defeated, “Okay. I can’t make you do something you don’t wanna do. But I have medicine in my truck. If you want, I’ll go grab a couple for you.”

He went to refuse – pain relief medicine didn’t work on him anymore, it had something to do with his unnaturally fast metabolism – but Evie spoke again, “Actually, no. I’m gonna go get it. You stay here. I’ll be right back.” And then she walked away before he got a chance to argue against it.

It didn’t take long before Evie came back, this time with her chili dog half eaten and the medicine bottle balanced in the same hand that held the bottle of Coke. Peter watched her, and then clumsily caught the medicine and drink she shoved into his hands. 

“Keep them both,” she said.

For a second, Peter didn’t move. “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly, looking at her with one eye squinted open because of the sun. 

“Yeah. I have more medicine at my place, and I can always buy another Coke. I haven’t opened either of them, and I checked the seals before I bought ‘em, so they’re safe.” Evie pulled out her phone and looked at the time. “Listen, I gotta go, I have plans with my mom, but the library is close – just turn left at the stop light right there, then another left at the second intersection, and you’ll be at the street it’s on. Stay safe, Peter. Come back to Martha’s House if you need or want to. Bye!”

It took a few minutes after Evie left for Peter to actually move again, a bit surprised from running into her and her kindness. He set the Coke between his feet, and opened the bottle of medicine, which he saw was ibuprofen. As much as a small part of him wanted to keep up with the stubborn streak, he also very much wanted his migraine to go away. He took note of how strong one pill was, guessed how much he might need, and then swallowed back the medicine with the Coke, with little hope that it would actually work.

Much to his surprise, it did start to help the pain after some time. Not completely, but enough to where Peter felt like he wasn’t actively having his skull caved in. He tossed the ibuprofen in the backpack, sipped on the Coke, and followed Evie’s directions to the library.

+++

Apparently the saying, “third time’s a charm,” actually had some truth to it, because he made it there without any further incidents. It almost felt too good to be true as he stood there and stared up at the large building, so much so that Peter was almost tempted to not test his luck about going inside.

He pushed aside the wariness, though, and put the Coke in the backpack with everything else, and headed inside.

The heat inside felt amazing – as was the quiet; it immediately lessened the pain of his migraine even more, though he could still somewhat hear everything outside. Peter nearly stopped in his tracks just to bask in the warmth but didn’t, only because a woman in a wheelchair entered behind him and he didn’t want to block her way. At the front desk sat an old lady and, thinking of Evie’s words earlier, asked where the restrooms were. Once she gave him directions, Peter thanked her and headed that way.

He went into the family restroom in between the men’s and the women’s so no one had a chance of walking in. In there, he slipped off the hoodie and the shirt he wore underneath, and cleaned the half healed wound on his bicep with just water and paper towels. The gloves he had worn yesterday had to be thrown away – too much blood had gotten on them when he had been holding a hand over the bullet graze – so he wadded them up in a few paper towels, and tossed everything in the trash. After he was done, he slipped on the one clean shirt he had, stuffed the other one in the same pocket his suit was in, and put on the hoodie despite the blood stain. Then, he left the restroom, and headed back to the front desk.

The old lady wasn’t there anymore – one short glance around, and he spotted her putting back some books in what looked to be the children’s section – and instead the woman who had been behind him when entering the building sat there. Red hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore glasses. She had greens and a few freckles, and generally looked harmless but, just like everyone else so far native to this city, something told him she could kick his ass if she wanted to.

Peter walked up, keeping his hands in his hoodie pocket as he fidgeted some. “Hi,” he said, and the woman immediately looked up from stamping the front pages of a stack of books and smiled.

“Hi. Do you need help finding something?” she asked.

“No, thank you though. I was wondering if I could use one of the computers?” Peter motioned in the direction he noticed the computers were. “I don’t, uh, I don’t have a library card or anything, I’m not a student, so I understand if I can’t, but–.”

The woman – her name tag said ‘Barbara’ – nodded and waved a hand reassuringly. “No, it’s fine that you don’t. You can use one. It’s no problem at all as long as you stay on appropriate websites and such. You’ll just need the guest login information, and if you give me a second I can write it down for you.”

“Oh,” he said, a bit surprised. “Oh, cool. Sweet. Thank you.”

She smiled, and Peter didn’t know if he was imagining it or not but she looked somewhat amused. “You’re welcome. Are you researching something? I know you said you weren’t a student, and I don’t want to assume anything, but teenagers hardly ever come here for fun.” As she talked, she grabbed a pen and a stack of sticky notes, and wrote the guest login information down. 

“Oh,” he repeated. Shit, uh… “Superheroes,” he blurted. “Um, vigilantes and stuff. I’m not from here, but I’ve heard there’s a lot of vigilantes and bad guys. Figured it’d be smart to research some of them.” Not a complete lie, but not the entire truth, either.

Barbara smiled wryly. “Definitely smart. Here you go.” She handed him the sticky note with the login information.

He took it with a little smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Stay safe, okay, kid? Gotham can be brutal to even those of us who’ve lived here their entire lives.”

Peter nodded. Her phone began to ring before he got a chance to verbally respond, so he mouthed another ‘thanks’ and headed off to the computers.

+++

“Hey, Dick. I’m at work, so I can’t talk forever,” Babs’ voice came through his phone’s speaker.

Dick, with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, smiled a little. “Yeah, I know. But I need to ask you to search for someone when you have time.” He flipped through a yearbook he held, one from Gotham Academy from his senior year. It’s the only one he ever bothered to buy, but he never ended up keeping it for himself; Bruce was the one who actually held on to it, tucked neatly with a few more from the others’ school years on a well cared for shelf in his office. The faces in his yearbook were all vaguely recognizable but none of them were the one he was looking for.

“Give me the name and I’ll start ASAP,” she said.

He frowned to himself. “It’s a fake name – Elizabeth Reilly. I know she works for the DEO but I don’t want to bother them for something as simple as this.”

“Simple?” Barbara echoed, almost sounding confused. “Since when is anything you ask me to search for simple?”

Dick relented, “Okay, simple for… So maybe it’s not that simple, whatever. Just, please search for anyone who uses that fake name.” He flipped through a few pages on last time, before giving up on the yearbook. He set it back in it’s place, and left Bruce’s thankfully still empty office.

“I’ll do my best. No promises it’ll be quick, though,” she said. “Do I get to know why?”

He didn’t immediately answer. “I met someone, a while ago,” he eventually began. “Maybe a little after I took up Nightwing.”

Barbara whistled. “Oh, wow. That is a while ago.”

“Shut up, you make me sound old,” he laughed. She joined in, though quieter since she worked at a library. “Anyway, we were working on a case at the time. I think she was making fun of the Titans because of the hidden identities thing, or teasing us a little, because she refused to give us her real name. We lost contact right after the case, so I never got to learn her real name. And, I dunno, I kinda want to get in touch with her, if possible.”

Dick had a suspicion it wouldn’t be. But he didn’t want to think about that too much just yet.

“Sounds like you had a little crush,” Barbara teased. “Maybe you still do.”

He groaned, kind of annoyed and kind of amused. It was a good thing Barbara didn’t know back then, because she definitely would have teamed up with Wally and Donna, and insisted that he was ‘absolutely smitten, look at how he smiled at her, Wally!’. He had blushed when they said that because it was embarrassing, not because he had liked anyone. They still sometimes brought it up once in a while just to get a reaction out of him.

He was forever glad neither of them found out that he and the mystery DEO agent slept together.

“No,” he denied. “I- no, I didn’t and don’t have a crush, Babs.”

She chuckled, amused and disbelieving. “Sure, Dick. Whatever you say.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“Love you, too.” Her side of the phone call was quiet for a moment, and Dick took notice that he had wandered into one of the lesser used living areas. When Barbara spoke again, she sounded serious, “Tim is working on something I think you might be interested in. He’s not going to want to tell you anything about it, but he should.”

That made him frown. “Okay. I’ll talk to him after this, then. Is something wrong?”

“No, not wrong. It is a serious thing, though. But if he refuses to tell you, text or call and I’ll tell you what it is.”

“Why aren’t you telling me what it is now?”

“Because Tim deserves at least a chance to come clean.”

His brows furrowed at that. “Alright. I think he’s still at at the Manor, so I’ll go pester him now.”

“You do that. Bye, Dick. Good luck.”

The was sort of a weird thing to say in response, he thought, but then again serious conversations often needed a little luck sometimes. Dick didn’t question it too much, and just said, “Thanks. Bye, Babs,” and ended the call.

“Everything all right?” Bruce’s voice didn’t startle him, but Dick was a bit surprised to see the man at the entrance of the library.

“Oh, hey, B. Yeah, just needed to ask Barbara to look someone up for me for a small case,” he said. “Why?”

“You walked off pretty quickly after you got back with Alfred’s groceries,” he said.

Dick internally winced. He hoped no one had noticed how fast he escaped to be alone so he could call Barbara and look at the yearbook. But what else was he to expect from a family of detectives? “I just wanted to go ahead and get it over with so I won’t be distracted by it later,” he explained, but knew it was a little bit of lie. ‘Elizabeth Reilly’ was going to be on his mind for however long Barbara took to find her real name. He exited the library, and he and Bruce walked side by side down the hall. A thought came to him then, and he used it to change the subject. “Hey, we have a gala coming up, right? It’s not canceled or anything?”

Bruce nodded. “Second week of December – the Annual Winter Charity gala.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously not canceling it?”

For a moment, a flicker of confusion passed over the older man’s face, before, “Ah. You think I should? Dr. Reed Richards and his girlfriend were invited and accepted the invite long before they got their powers. If Miss Storm’s brother and Mr. Grimm come along too, it won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t think you should,” Dick amended. “Just surprised. What, with your no metas in Gotham rule.”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth twitched down. “I don’t think I have ever explicitly stated that.”

Dick lazily shrugged. “I feel like it’s implied, whether you mean it or not, with how territorial you are of the city.”

He didn’t say anything at that comment, but Dick saw his expression twist a little. “But we have Duke.”

“But he’s within the city – the family – so it’s no big deal, y’know? I mean, it’s rare any meta from outside of Gotham helps out here, you gotta admit.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but a smile was starting to form. “Whatever the case, the Fantastic Four are welcomed here for the gala. I will not be canceling it, or taking away their invite.”

They both stopped walking near the staircase. Dick looked at his dad for a moment, then stated, “You’re totally going to use the gala as an opportunity to see if they can be trusted, aren’t you?”

Bruce stared back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Dick laughed. “Has anyone told you you’re paranoid?”

“Once or twice,” he said wryly.

“Well, consider this the third: you’re paranoid, B. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go pester Tim while Cass and Steph are keeping my kids occupied.”

Bruce sighed tiredly as his eldest started up the staircase two at a time. “Please don’t make him start another prank war in the Manor.”

Dick laughed again and grinned brightly. “No promises!”

Bruce mumbled something, but Dick was too far up the stairs to hear it, and he didn’t care too much to find out. He made his way to the second floor where most of the bedrooms were, and then down the hallway. His amused smile slipped off as he heard arguing. It got louder as he got to Tim’s room. It wasn’t a shock to recognize both Tim’s and Damian’s voices, but it did worry him. The two boys had been getting along better this last year, and they still fought from time to time, as all siblings tended to do – but it hadn’t sounded this serious in a long while.

“–get Kon to break all of your stupid, precious swords if you don’t get the fuck out of my room!”

“Do that, and I will break your camera personally!”

“I am five seconds away from punting you through the window. For the last time, get the fuck out of my room.”

Duke poked his head of his room cautiously, probably at hearing someone else in the hall. “I was about to text you – they’re getting pretty heated in there.”

Dick nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

Duke looked so relieved it was almost comical, and he exited his room fully and hightailed it down the stairs just as Damian yelled back at Tim.

“You are hardly home enough for this to be your room. I think I should be allowed in here whenever I want!”

Dick stepped up to the cracked bedroom door of Tim’s room. Neither of them noticed him. Tim stood near his desk, the computer pushed to the wall and half closed, and it was obvious he was trying to keep Damian from it. Damian stood a few feet away, looking a bit rumpled. He probably got pushed away by Tim. Both of them looked pissed at one another.

(At the back of his mind, he thought that if Tim went through with his threat, it would be impressive; the two were nearly the same height now. Damian wasn’t exactly small enough to be punted anywhere anymore.)

“Fuck you! You such a spoiled brat!”

“Well, you–.”

“Hey!” Dick shouted before Damian could toss back his insult.

Tim and Damian tensed, snapping their gazes over to him. Tim immediately dropped his defensive stance, but only a little. Damian’s scowl merely deepened, and he crossed his arms as his gaze shifted to the ground.

“What is going on in here?” asked Dick.

“Nothing,” they both mumbled, off sync and hesitant.

“Right,” he said. “That’s why you’re screaming at each other.” Neither of them attempted to immediately tattle on the other, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as he originally thought. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Neither of them made a move to answer at first. Tim looked away from Dick and to the ground in a similar way Damian did minutes before, and picked at the peeling leather at the top of his desk’s chair beside him. Dick was ready to use the threat of bringing Bruce up, or Alfred if that didn’t work, when Damian side-eyed Tim and pressed his lips into a thin line.

Another second of silence and then, “I was… I was bothering Drake,” he admitted.

Tim snapped his head up and glared, incredulous. “Bothering me? You were going through my shit!”

“Tim,” Dick sternly spoke. Tim glanced at him, huffed, and stopped an eye roll halfway through, obviously thinking better of it. When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, Dick turned his attention to the youngest. “Damian, you know that’s an invasion of privacy.”

He had the decency to look a little guilty. “Yes, I do, but–.”

“No ‘but’s, Damian, you don’t go through anyone’s things like that.”

“He’s hiding something!” Damian shouted back. His voice cracked at the end, and Dick and Tim didn’t outwardly react to it just to save him of embarrassment. Even still, Damian’s scowl deepened once again and his cheeks darkened.

This time, Tim didn’t stop the eye roll. “Oh, my God, seriously? Is this about what I told you yesterday? It’s just a case Harper and I are on together! I told you you’ll know more about it once we’ve got more information!”

“Well that was yesterday,” Damian said. “And this is today when we saw someone who looked suspiciously too much like Richard for it to be a coincidence.”

Tim stilled. “That’s not what our case is about,” he lied.

Dick’s brows knitted together. “Tim. What are you and Harper working on?” At his younger brother’s immediate hesitance, he sighed. “I got off the phone with Barbara. She told me you need to tell me something, Tim. That’s why I came up here, to see what it was. Does your case with Harper have something to do with it?”

Tim stayed quiet. After a moment, he twisted his chair around so he could collapse in it, slouching as he covered his face with his hands. He groaned. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. He dropped his hands and sat up, eyes wide as exclaimed, “But I was going to tell you eventually! I just wanted to get more information before I did.”

“You wanted to keep it a secret when there is a possibility that this person is a clone?” Damian asked.

Tim blinked, and his expression turned sheepish. “Okay, a clone was not my first thought.”

“Alright, okay,” Dick ran a hand through his hair and shut the bedroom door. “Tim, explain how this case came to be and your theory,” he said as he moved to sit down on the edge of his bed. “And maybe I can help rule out any other theories that might come up. Sound good?”

Tim nodded, as well as Damian, who decided to drag over the beanbag chair and plop down in it.

Tim took in a breath of air, and started, “So, a few nights ago…”

Chapter Text

Five days have passed since Peter first arrived in Gotham via Dr. Strange’s magic, and he was confident in saying that Gotham sucked.

The crime rate was atrocious. Along with searching what was known about the Batman and Robin and various other bat- and bird-themed crime fighters, numerous news articles about multiple villains’ crimes popped up. Peter began to understand why there was a large group of vigilantes running around Gotham. He was surprised to find it true that the crime rate was going down in recent years (albeit slowly), but it was still pretty terrible.

The death toll of some of the incidents had him grimacing. How anyone willingly lived here, he didn’t know. Although, now it did make sense why there was general air of ‘don’t fuck with me’ from the citizens.

After seeing too many headlines telling too high death tolls that neared the hundreds, Peter ended the search about Gotham there.

He clicked a random link for a small blog about Batman that also mentioned the Justice League, and ended up going down that rabbit hole. Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Green Lanter, Green Arrow – the list of heroes this world had but his didn’t went on. There were also mentions of other cities Peter didn’t recognize on the blog: Metropolis, Central City, Star City. His googling (which, by the way, Google wasn’t even the most well liked and popular search engine here, it was Bing, of all things) came to a stop when the sun started to set.

Barbara had came over, suggested that he leave before it gets too dark since the city became even more dangerous at night, and the library was due to close in a couple hours anyway. Peter had agreed, only because looking at the computer screen had worsened his migraine again.

Still, on his way back to Martha’s House, he nearly got mugged. His spider-sense was all over the place though, so he freaked out a little more than he should have and accidentally knocked the guy out with a single punch. 

That was a few days ago, now. Each day and night since, something had happened.

The day after he went to the library, everyone was forced to stay inside their homes, or some place safe, until lunch because there was a Poison Ivy attack in the early hours of the morning, and vines had grown over nearly half of the city in just a few hours. Everyone had to wait until Poison Ivy made the vines retreat before it was safe again. The Volunteer Guy, who’s name Peter learned was Howie, explained the pollen was dangerous 90% of the time, and there were different types of pollen, so it was the best course of action to stay inside away from the vines.

As her reason for her attack on the city? The news anchors on the TV Martha’s House had, said her favorite park got destroyed because of the storm – a tree had fallen into a nearby building, and that building crumbled into the park, and it had yet to be taken care of. Hence her attack on the city.

Peter became immensely glad Barbara had told him to leave when he did.

That night there was a series of explosions somewhere else in the city. It was nowhere near where Peter was, so he wasn’t too worried. That’s not to say he wasn’t worried at all, because he was, for the citizens of Gotham. The worry coursed through him alongside an itch under his skin, an instinct to put on the suit and go out and help – but he didn’t.  

The following morning, which was yesterday, people were talking about penguins, and it took his tired brain way to long to realize they were talking about a person the codename Penguin – a crime boss he briefly read about the other day.

Peter almost got mugged two more times, and nearly got spotted by those two cops that had chased him and Teresa, and later got his life threatened by an old homeless man when he accidentally trespassed the man’s self designated territory. Peter had been trying to take a shortcut, and he was going to edge by the little tent in the alley and go on his way until the old man jumped out and tackled him, shouting how that this was his alley and no one else’s as he pointed a broken glass bottle in Peter’s face.

Peter had scrambled away, lips stumbling over an apology, and left before the man could stab him with the broken bottle as he shouted more threats.

Shockingly, not much happened last night. Peter had decided to use the roofs to travel so he had a higher chance of not getting mugged, and nothing happened because of it, much to his relief. He did catch sight of Teresa, though – and something else.

On the other side of the street at the mouth of an alley, she had been huddled around a bin with fire in it with a few other homeless people. It was a stereotypical sight you usually saw in movies and TV shows. Peter stayed on the roof he was on for a while longer, just to make sure she wasn’t in any danger or hurt or anything of the sort, crouched just behind the half wall of the roof he had stopped on.

That was when he saw a figure on top of the six story apartment building that made up part of the alley Teresa and the other homeless people were in. Peter actually almost missed it. Whoever or whatever it was blended into the darkness well; so well that even his enhanced sight didn’t notice. If it weren’t for his spider-sense abruptly spiking, he probably would have missed the figure completely.

He wanted to dismiss the figure as one of the vigilantes. But his spider-sense wasn’t a dull hum that told him the figure could become dangerous; rather that it was, very much so, even just standing there.

From his position, Peter had only made out one thing: a reflection of either the moon light on goggles, or animalistic eyes of a nocturnal creature.

Peter moved to sneak onto the roof right after that. He made a vague plan of sneaking up on whatever was up there, and then do…something…but he never got a chance. 

The roof had been vacant when he got there. No person or animal, or villain or vigilante, in sight.

With a confused frown and feeling a little frustrated, Peter had moved to where he estimated the figure had stood. Looking down from the spot, the edge of the roof covered all of the people around the fire from sight – all except for Teresa.

Peter spent the following day, in the somewhat safety of the daylight, around that area of the city rather than going to the library like he had been. He searched for any signs that might clue him in to who might have been watching a homeless twelve year old, but there was nothing. No footprints or anything. Just a feather some bird had lost.

That was earlier today. Now, Peter sat in a secluded corner at Martha’s House, thinking about how dangerous Gotham actually was; how much it sucked that this was the city Dr. Strange had dropped him in within this weird universe.

He missed New York. His New York. Even if people didn’t know him back there, it was still home.

A home he couldn’t go back to.

As much as it saddened him, it also made him angry. He didn’t really know what, or who, he was angry at – Dr. Strange, the universe, Goblin, himself, his own bad luck, Mysterio – but it was currently being aimed at the Human Torch, someone who had nothing to do with anything.

It wasn’t right, he knew that somewhere within him the guy didn’t deserve it; he shouldn’t be angry at someone else just because of how shitty his life currently was, especially when they had no connection to the shit-fest. But he just couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it was.

A guy his age who gained powers during an unfortunate trip to space – powers that were more dangerous than enhanced strength and the ability to stick to things – was being praised and loved. There were still headlines that showcased another person’s dislike for the Human Torch and the other members of Fantastic Four, but mostly everyone liked them. Especially Johnny Storm. A flirty teenager who acted like he didn’t take the superhero gig seriously in the muted interviews Peter watched on the library’s computers. 

Fame this, glory that – it made Peter angry.

Between all of the almost muggings and general dangers of Gotham, Peter kept going back to the library. He looked up more information on the Fantastic Four yesterday. They were new but good, so deep down a part of Peter felt bad about not liking the Human Torch, but not bad enough to reign in his own negative emotions at the moment.

He never did the Spider-Man thing for fame. He just wanted to help out the little guy. But after having his secret identity outed, and having most of the entire city hate him, and being framed for a murder, and seeing this other guy get mostly positive attention upset something within him.

Peter frowned to himself, and scribbled in the notebook that rested on his knees. After one trip to the library, he stopped at a local store that sold everything cheap and bought the cheapest notebook. The library had free pens, so he got one from there. The first few pages were filled with notes about the vigilantes and criminals of Gotham, and then the next few were about other heroes and cities that weren’t in his world, and then another few pages of what was the same between the two universes. Near the back, Peter doodled potential new suit ideas. He was working on it in hopes of getting his mind off of everything. It wasn’t working too well.

Recently, the past few days he had kept flip-flopping between feeling so depressed and homesick that he didn’t want to even move sometimes, to feeling so angry that he could hardly pinpoint what he was angry about.

Peter stopped drawing to judge what he had made on the paper. It didn’t look good – something about it was too cartoonish for him – so, with a bit of unnecessary force from frustration, he heavily scribbled over the idea.

“–don’t have any beds left, but do have sleeping bags. You can use one if you’d like. I’m so sorry we don’t have anything better,” one of the volunteers’ voices drifted over from the front desk.

Peter sat in a corner of a vacant hall, so he peered around until he could see the front desk. A few people were milling about, but he didn’t pay attention to them. There was a young woman, maybe around Evie’s age, who stood in front of the desk the blue haired, teenage volunteer stood behind. The young woman was a few months pregnant, her stomach just barely noticeable with the thick jacket she wore.

Peter gathered his things and slung his backpack over one shoulder.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’ll take a sleeping bag, but can you check one more time? Please?” the young woman asked, shifting anxiously. “I just- it would be better for me and- and… and my baby if I had a bed.”

The volunteer’s brows twitched up slightly, and her expression turned serious but sympathetic. “Of course. I can’t promise anything, but–.”

“She can have mine,” Peter butted in when he got close enough. Two pairs of eyes instantly snapped to him, and he winced a little. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I’m sorry. But, um, yeah, you can have mine.”

The young woman blinked in shock. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “What?”

Peter refrained from fidgeting too much under both of their gazes. “I just- well. I haven’t used it yet today and, uh, they change and wash the sheets everyday. Right?” He looked at the volunteer, who nodded.

“Yes, right. We do.”

He nodded back, and looked at the young woman again. “Right. So, it’s clean. And it’s a bed. You need it more than I do.”

The young woman’s lips wobble. “Are you- can you do that?” She looked at the other teen. “Can he do that?”

The volunteer nodded again. “Of course. It just… It never happens.” She looked a little shocked too, but less so than the pregnant woman. But then the shock went away as a smile formed. It’s a smile mostly for herself, because she looked away and shook her head a little with a mumbled, “Shouldn’t be surprised,” so quietly that a regular person wouldn’t have heard it.

The words confused Peter, but he didn’t outwardly react to them.

“I can show you where it is, if you’d like,” Peter told the woman. “Or not. I just- um. Yeah.”

“If you don’t mind him showing you, I can get anything else you may need,” the volunteer spoke up. “An extra blanket or pillow, water, or food. We have leftovers from dinner I can get for you.”

The young woman nodded. “I haven’t eaten since lunch, so that sounds nice, please.”

The volunteer smiled. “Alright, I’ll bring that as soon as I can. And I’ll get you a sleeping bag, too. If you need anything else, my name’s Harper, so just ask around for me if you need me.”

“Thank you. I’m Linda,” said the woman. 

“Peter,” he said when both of them looked at him. “I’m Peter. Um, do you want me to show you where the bed is?”

Linda nodded, less sure than before. “Yes, please.”

He returned the nod, and as Harper walked out from behind the desk to get some food for Linda, he motioned for her to follow him. It was quiet between them both. Neither of them spoke again until they made it to the bunk bed Peter had been using for the past few days.

“This is it. Uh, it’s the top one. That- that’s okay, right?” He looked at her, a bit worried.

Linda smiled reassuringly, and almost looked amused. “Yes, it is. Thank you for letting me take this from you, by the way.”

“You’re not taking it from me. I’m giving it to you,” he told her. “Like I said, you need it more than I do. It’s only fair.”

Her eyes, which had previously lost their glassy appearance, filled with tears again. It was only a second before they began to fall, and suddenly she was crying. She wiped at her eyes but it didn’t help much; the tears continued to fall. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” she said through the tears. “I just- Hormones. I hate them. And this is Gotham, y’know, I hadn’t expected someone so nice to help me while stopping through. I’m sorry.”

Peter almost reached out to physically comfort her, but stopped, not knowing if it would do any good coming from a stranger. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s okay. I get it.” He paused, and winced. “Well, not the pregnant part, obviously, but I mean- not expecting many good things.”

If you expect disappointment, then you’ll never be disappointed, MJ’s voice rang through his mind, and he shoved away those thoughts before he had a chance to really think and cry, too.

Linda laughed through her tears at how he stumbled over his words. She wiped at her eyes again. She sniffled, getting a better hold of her emotions as the seconds went by. “Thank you, again, for the bed,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

His spider-sense decided to flare up at that moment. It was a little more than a dull hum, and he did his best not to outwardly react to it. Peter raked his eyes around the room. It didn’t take too long for him to spot a figure in a dark corner.

A red helmet with white eyes stared right at him. In the shadows, Peter could make out faint outlines of a jacket and weapons strapped to his thighs. No doubt more lied under the jacket.

If it weren’t for the fact that the spider-sense reacted similarly like it had with the vigilante from the first night, Peter might have been worried. It didn’t alert him of immediate danger like the figure from last night had, so this person couldn’t be too bad. Plus, on his first day here, didn’t Howie said that someone walked around the shelter at night sometimes and not to worry?

The red helmet tilted slightly to the side. Peter shifted his feet, not scared or worried but a little unnerved, because even with the creepy expressionless helmet he could tell whoever was underneath it was staring back at him.

Much to his relief, Harper walked up then. Peter tore his gaze away from the helmet as she handed him the sleeping bag. Whoever that guy was, Peter didn’t need to worry about him just yet.

+++

The following day, Peter was back at the library and once again sitting in front of one of the computers. The notebook and pen sat in front of him beside the keyboard, shut closed so no stranger would see anything he’d written.

At first, he had been searching for good fabric for a new suit, and various spider shapes to use as the symbol on his chest and back. He wrote down the best fabrics and then the cheapest one, and sketched a few ideas. Eventually that lad to looking into Dr. Reed Richards more, as well as the rest of the Fantastic Four, but there wasn’t much he’d already read and watched, so he looked up stuff about Supergirl instead. That lead to him reading about Superman, and then the Justice League, and then Batman, and the how apparently the billionaire of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, funded the Justice League.

(Some of the things he found out about these superheroes made him want to freak out with Ned. He ignored those thoughts the best he could.)

Peter absentmindedly scrolled through random news articles and headlines about the billionaire now. He clicked on whichever ones caught his attention, skimmed through it, and repeated the process.

He was bored, in all honesty. He wanted to go out and swing, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

He should probably do something other than hunker down at the library during the day, but the building was warm inside and none of the workers had a problem with him staying for so long everyday. He needed to figure out how to get a job somehow. He needed to do something about his suit. He needed to eventually find a cheap apartment. He need to–

A picture of this world’s variant version of his dad staring at him through the computer screen yanked him out of his thoughts. Peter almost exited the link, but stopped himself as he took in the picture. The man stood beside someone else – a guy maybe a few years older than Peter himself – at some sort of fancy event. Both of them wore suits, though not the typical black and white ones. Richard’s was a dark green with a black button up and a tie to match, and the other wore one that was all black except for the dark maroon tie and handkerchief thingy in the jacket’s pocket.

Peter scrolled a little until he could read the caption: Dick Grayson and Tim Drake-Wayne at the 2017 Annual Winter Charity Gala. He scrolled back up until he got to the very top where he read the article’s title. 15 Times Brucie’s Kids Looked Fancy AF, written by BuzzFeed. He went back to the picture and the corners of his mouth pulled down into a slight frown.

Whatever very, very tiny idea in the back of his mind to ask help from Richard – or Dick, whatever – flew out the window. This man was happy. He had money, and a large, happy family, and two kids already with someone that wasn’t this world’s version of his mom (and he had no idea how he felt about that). He didn’t want to ruin any of that with the Parker Luck. Hell, this guy wasn’t even a Parker here.

And that meant his mom wasn’t a Parker. Which meant there’s a chance they didn’t know Ben and May. And for some reason that made him want to cry even though he already knew that was a possibility in the back of his mind.

Swallowing over the forming lump in his throat, Peter exited out of the site, logged off the computer, and gathered his things. Over the past few days, Barbara got into the routine of saying goodbye to him as he left, but today he avoided her. It was shockingly easy; she was showing a college school student down one of the aisles, and too busy explaining something to stop and say bye.

The cold November air bit into him (because it was November, he checked the other day on the library’s computer – it was the the 14th today, a Wednesday) as he stepped outside. He pulled the hood over his head to keep some warmth, and headed in the direction of the shelter. He didn’t know if he was going to actually go there or not. All he could really think about was his– was Richard…Dick Grayson.

He was happy in this universe, and alive. That’s not to say he wasn’t happy when he was alive back in Peter’s universe, because in his few and faint memories of and with his parents, they were all happy. But Peter didn’t want to mess any of that up somehow for this man.

A man who Peter doubted he could call his dad. There were so many differences already between the two. Still, it was hard not to automatically think of him as such. There was still a small instinct to go to him for help, even if it had been over a decade since he was last able to. It’s not like he could help, anyway. Or, well, he could, probably, but then Peter might have to explain everything that’s happened, and that was out of the question.

How was he supposed to explain to some regular rich guy that he’s his dad from a different universe? Yeah, that would not go over well.

Whatever. He’d get through this himself. He’s Spider-Man. That had to count for something.

+++

When Peter got just a couple buildings away from Martha’s House, he caught sight of a familiar girl standing by a bench. She faced the way he was going and when he got close enough, he noticed how her hands were balled into fists at her sides and flexed anxiously every few seconds. She shifted on her feet a little. One moment Peter thought she might walk forward, the next he got the feeling she was going to turn around and book it.

He made sure his footsteps were noticeable as he got closer. “Teresa?” he asked, stopping at her side. It was a relief to see her, especially after witnessing that weird figure watching her. She didn’t look any different, except for maybe a little dirtier, and her was pulled into a loose braid.

Teresa looked up at him, surprised. “Peter,” she said. Then her expression shifted, like she suddenly remembered she was mad at him, and her tone of voice was bland as she said, “Hi.” 

“Hey,” he said slowly. She rolled her eyes at him – dark blue; Peter had to be thinking of his dad too much, because he couldn’t help but think their eyes were the same. He mentally shook those thoughts away. “What… Is everything okay?”

“Why?” she asked harshly, looking ahead of herself again. “Really doubt you care.”

Oh. That stung. “Of course I care,” he said. It came out with a hint of anger, and he did his best to reign it in. He ran a hand over his face. “I care,” he assured more gently. “If you don’t want to talk about it though, I’ll just leave.”

Teresa side-eyed him with a small glare.

When she didn’t say anything, Peter started walking. He took a few steps before she called out.

“Wait!”

Peter stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

Teresa hadn’t moved, but one hand was half raised towards him. Her anger was gone and replaced with uncertainty and anxiety. She lowered her hand when she noticed that he wasn’t leaving. “Um, you’re going to the shelter, right?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided,” he said, and walked back to her so they stood in front of each other by the bench.

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m coming back from the library. I haven’t decided where I’m headed – just been walking around randomly.”

“That’s not safe,” she said, a bit bewildered.

Peter sighed heavily. “Yeah. I know. I almost got mugged, like, three times these past few days.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

“Well, gee, Teresa, it’s not like I have a car,” he said sarcastically, motioning with one hand towards a parked minivan some odd feet away. “Can’t drive anyway, so even if I did…”

She rolled her eyes again, though it was less out of anger this time. “Okay, okay, it was just a question…” Teresa looked down and crossed her arms. “Look, um, remember what I told you? About them calling CPS on me?” She motioned with her head to the shelter, then continued when he nodded. “I’m, like, disgustingly filthy. I need a shower, and that’s the only place I trust not to get kidnapped or something, but I don’t want to get CPS called on me again. Do you think you can… I dunno, actually. I know you want nothing to do with me, but–.”

“Whoa, hold on, that’s not true,” Peter interrupted her. Her eyes snapped back up to him. 

“What? But you don’t want to stick together. I thought that’s because I’m younger than you, or something,” she said.

He rapidly shook his head. “No! I just have stupid bad luck! It’s the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing. Like, it’s a miracle I’ve been able to stay at the shelter for so long without something happening.”

Teresa threw her arms in the air. “Then why didn’t you say that!”

“Common sense isn’t common for me sometimes.”

That got a quiet laugh out of her. 

Peter smiled a little. “If you want me help getting into the shelter without a volunteer seeing you, I can help however you want me to.”

Relief made her shoulders visibly intense, and her lips twitched into a smile. She nodded. “Yeah, okay. Is there a back door? Because I was thinking…”

Teresa’s voice became muffled as Peter’s spider-sense acted up again. Not as sharp and insistent as it had been when he noticed that figure in the rooftop. Nor was it a dull hum. The feeling was similar to how he felt in Happy’s apartment before the Goblin attacked. In a split second, the feeling changed, his sixth sense blaring so strongly and with such intensity that it nearly physically hurt.

“Get down!” Peter shouted and tackled Teresa to the ground.

A millisecond later, the building beside them exploded.

Chapter Text

The first thing Peter registered after the explosion was the weight on the side of his back, which was much heavier than his backpack that now sat lopsided – debris. The second was the ringing in his ears caused by the explosion. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shook his head, as if somehow that might make it stop. Blinking rapidly, he he did his best to focus on one thing as the sounds filtered back in. There was a lot of shouts and screams from civilians, and the crackle of fire, and vehicles close and far away, and his heartbeat and the one below him–

“Teresa,” he said, his own voice mixing with every other sound he’d yet to filter out. He moved so he wasn’t actively squishing her to the ground, dimly aware of the debris shifting off of him.

On the ground, she was curled up with her arms covering her face and head, and she peaked out from under them at her name. Teresa sat up as Peter did, eyes now glued to the destruction beside them. Peter didn’t let her sit and look for long. He ushered them both up to their feet after doing a quick once over – from underneath her beanie and bangs, blood trickled down the side of her face, and he guessed she hit her head on either the bench or the ground when he tackled her – and then dragged her to the other side of the road.

There, Peter finally looked at what happened. His stomach dropped.

The building that exploded was a bodega shop underneath five floors of rentable apartments. Facing the building, the second floor’s right side was definitely the point of origin for the explosion. There was a hole there where a bunch of flames and smoke rose from it. The shop and the third floor were had also caught fire, and it was expanding fast; already the fire was nearing far too close to the fourth floor and the only visible exit in the front.

But that wasn’t all.

The explosion got part of the apartment building right beside it. Part of the outer wall was destroyed. The fire grew fast there, too, but was smaller than the other one. The next building over was the shelter. Nothing had happened to it, but because of the growing fires he couldn’t be relieved just yet.

People were screaming. Some passerby’s who had gotten caught in the explosion were helped to a safer space by others, and tenants of both buildings ran out. Or, they tried to. Most of the screams came from inside the building the explosion originated from. 

There was a high chance they couldn’t find a way out, and with each passing second the fire grew and the chance to get out safely dwindled.

Peter slung off his backpack and crouched down within an instant. He grabbed his web-shooters, slipped them on, then dug for his mask and stuffed it in his back pocket. As he stood, he pushed the backpack into Teresa’s arms. She startled from her wide-eyed stare at the scene, eyes snapping up to him instead, and grabbed ahold of the backpack tightly.

“What?” she faintly questioned in confusion just as he pulled off his hoodie.

“Hold that, and this,” he said, tossing the hoodie on top of the backpack. “Stay here, okay?”

Teresa blinked and shook her head. “What? Wait, what are you doing?” Her voice came out less shellshocked. “Peter?”

He began to cross the road. “Stay here! I’ll be back!”

“What the– Peter, wait, no!” She lurched forward and tried to grab his arm, only for him to move out of reach. “You can’t do anything, just wait for the firefighters – or at least one of the vigilantes.”

Peter looked at her one last time. “It’ll be too late if I do.”

He ran across the road before Teresa got another word out. He dodged a car, and squeezed through a small group of people in his way, and ran into the bodega’s entrance, skillfully dodging the flames that started to cover the doorway. People from the small group outside shouted at him, but he ignored them.

Flames came from the far right wall and the ceiling, flaring out as far as they could to touch and destroy everything in it’s path. Already nearly half of the shop was filled with smoke and fire. Peter only hesitated for half a second before looking around for anyone frozen in panic. When he found no one, he made his way to the second floor via a hidden staircase in a back room, it’s doorframe and the area beside it on fire. As Peter slipped on his mask while running up the stairs, he quickly concluded no one would be leaving this way.

He burst through the door of the second floor. At the sight of so much more fire and smoke and destroyed walls, he froze for a split second.

“Karen, is there–.” Peter tensed, cutting himself off. Right; the suit’s tech didn’t work. He began to wonder how he was going to find these people when his hearing picked up someone banging on an apartment door down the hall, paired with multiple voices screaming for help.

The door the shouts came from behind was blocked by a large plank of wood – a beam, part of the building’s structure. It was on fire, as was almost everything else in the hall.

Peter entered one of the abandoned apartments beside the one the people were stuck in. He went to one of the windows, relieved to find a fire escape. The window to the other apartment didn’t have one, he noted,  it it was right next to the one he was on. That had to be, like, illegal somehow, but he pushed that aside and focused on rescuing the family. He stuck himself to the wall between the fire escape and the window, before knocking and wiggling it open.

He poked his head in, only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun held by a middle aged man.

Peter immediately raised his hands so they were visible, still crouched and stuck to the wall. “Hey, man, no need for that, I’m just trying to help,” he said. There was another middle aged man behind the first guy, protectively holding a small, crying kid and shielding a pre-teen from sight. At the apartment’s door, smoke was seeping inside from underneath.

“Who the fuck are you?” the first man growled out. “You the cause for the explosion? Huh?”

“I’m Spider-Man. I didn’t cause the explosion, but I was nearby and decided to help,” he explained.

“Spider-Man,” he spat. “What, are you some wannabe knock off of Batman?” The man moved closer, and so did the gun. He eyed Spider-Man with a sneer. “God, you’re a meta, aren’t you? Batman has a rule against them, y’know.”

Underneath the mask, Peter blinked. No, he did not know that. That might be a problem if he continued to go out as Spider-Man after this, but that wasn’t important right now. “Rules shmules, dude, I’m not gonna sit back and watch an explosion take down two buildings with people in them. Listen, you can’t go out your door – it’s blocked by debris and fire. But I can help you, your partner, and your kids to the fire escape right here. We don’t have much time before it spreads more into your home.”

The following silence was tense. Peter honestly didn’t know how else to convince the man to let him help. He wanted to say something lighthearted, to maybe get them to relax, but no quips or jokes were coming to mind. As the silence continued on, he was becoming tempted to help them whether they wanted it or not.

“Freddy,” the one with the kids started, “don’t be stubborn. We can’t wait for the vigilantes; it’s too dangerous. This guy’s our only hope.”

“Yep. Your knockoff Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service,” Peter said.

“No. You’re Luke – someone we didn’t ask to come, but did anyway,” Freddy grumbled; it sounded like it was supposed to be some sort of insult, but Peter took it as a compliment. The gun was lowered and the safety clicked on. “Kids first.”

Luckily, things went smoothly with them after that. Peter helped the kids to the fire escape first, then the second guy, and finally Freddy. By that time the fire head consumed the apartment’s door and entry way.

Peter watched them go down the fire escape for a short second, before moving on.

He helped a few other tenants of the building the same way. None of them trusted him at first. One lady in her late twenties threw a vase of flowers at him, and a grandmother with her grandchild tried to knock him off of the wall with a shotgun that wasn’t loaded. They all jumped to the conclusion that he had been the one to cause the destruction of their building before allowing him to help out.

It…wasn’t too different from back home after Mysterio framed him and revealed his real name. It didn’t sting nearly as badly, because he really didn’t expect trust from those who had never heard of him before. Although, it was annoying.

Especially the grumpy old man in the second building who tried to refuse to leave as if he was a Captain and the building was his ship. And yes, that was the man’s own comparison. Peter wasn’t about to just let someone burn to death though, so he picked the old man up bridal style and carried him to the roof, which seemed to be the only safe area anymore, where he would then help the old man and anyone else to the street below. Along the way, he stopped and helped out the few other remaining tenants. All the while the old guy screamed about being kidnapped. Peter did his best to keep up his signature Spider-Man quips and such, a lighthearted joke or pun here and there to ease everyone’s nerves, but it was hardly his best work.

Other than that, it went pretty smoothly. That should have been his first clue that something was going to go wrong again, but Peter stayed somewhat optimistic as he helped the last of the tenants who were stuck. By that time, firemen and police and a couple of the city’s vigilantes had showed up – he over heard a deep, gruff voice ask an officer, “What do you mean someone already helped everyone?” at some point and couldn’t tell if the guy was angry or confused – and Peter was ready to call it quits.

Something made him go back into the second apartment building, though. Spider sense, lack of brain cells, or what, he went back into the burning building.

He kept an eye and ear out for anyone he missed. No one was there.

Peter shrugged to himself. He entered a yet to be burned apartment, planning on leaving through the window, when he noticed what exactly was inside it.

A meth lab – a large one. The wall between two apartments had been knocked down for extra space.

The explosion from this was going to be devastating.

And there were already flames entering the room.

“Oh shit.”

Peter ran further into the room to the closest window. He dove through it, glass and all, aiming for the close by building of the shelter–

And the meth lab exploded.

+++

For a second time in under an hour, he first registered the ringing in his ears. This time though, he had definitely been knocked out. For how long, he didn’t know. His body hurt everywhere in varying degrees. The smell of smoke was stronger than before. Instead of someone underneath him, it was the uncomfortable feeling of debris. Some of it was on top of him too.

Peter peeled his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a destroyed toilet. Then, he noticed the broken pipes and the crumbling, burning wall. There was a soot covered, limp hand sticking out of a pile of debris a bit further away, and Peter immediately looked away from it, eyes squeezing shut again.

The air hit part of Peter’s face more in one spot than the rest, and he lifted one hand to feel around. His mask definitely got ruined. Half of the right eye was missing, as was the fabric over his jaw area on the same side. There was a burn there too, and he hissed when fingers brushed over the tender spot. He slipped the mask off, held it tightly in his fist, and pushed up on his elbows to look around.

Whatever happened after the second explosion, he landed on his stomach. So when he lifted his head, it gave him the perfect view to see that half of the shelter was gone. Parts of it and the debris were still on fire. Over one particular burning pile he saw a large black figure dash inside the part of the shelter that was still standing.

Batman, he thought. It had to be. Unless there was another vigilante here who wore all black that he didn’t know about.

Back on the street, as Peter’s ears stopped ringing, he could hear the chaos over there. The sounds of the fireman chief shouting orders, water spraying, and civilians only just barely calming down with the help of police officers overlapped. It was just shy of becoming overwhelming for him.

Peter gritted his teeth. There was debris on top of his back, but it wasn’t heavy like the warehouse had been. With ease, he crawled out, body in pain the entire time. He tried to stand, but he hadn’t been expecting white hot pain in his calf so he crumpled back down, shifting so he landed on his back instead. That hurt too.

The debris had definitely been on fire at some point, because there were definitely a few burns littering his back; nothing bad, really. More than anything, it felt like he forgot to use sunscreen after a day at the beach, so he doubted there were any serious burns. His calf was a whole different story. It was marred with a second degree burn and a splinter of wood the size of two of his fingers was lodged right beside it; he took it out without thinking and tossed it into a small flame nearby. 

His hands and forearms had a few cuts from diving through the glass, and something had nicked his left side at some point. Nothing was actively stabbing him, but he did have another decent sized cut on his forearm that was bleeding.

Slowly, he sat up. He looked around again. Thanks to his research at the library, he was able to recognize a few vigilantes, even though all of their photos were either grainy or blurry, or both. Batman, Robin, and Nightwing were helping carrying out people from the part of the building that hadn’t been completely destroyed yet. Red Robin, Spoiler – or was it Batgirl? – and Signal were in another area searching through debris, most likely for survivors. Through some smoke and a few flames of fire, he saw that Black Bat stood near the officers and paramedics in the street. The guy with the red helmet – Red Hood – stood on the other side of the street with a short kid talking to him.

He squinted, and shifted to get a better view. Oh. That was Teresa.

Not wanting to get caught and worried over by the vigilantes who were close by, Peter crawled over pieces of debris and made sure to stay hidden behind thick areas of smoke. It was more difficult to actually walk and get across the street. He ended going through the ever growing crowd. The paramedics and officers both had their hands full, the firefighters were busy with the fires, and Black Bat was being talked to by an important looking man with a thick mustache.

He made it out with no one stopping him.

As he got closer to Teresa and the Red Hood, Peter could now tell how tense she was. He also now heard her yelling at him. It shouldn’t surprise him – the first time they met she attacked a police officer – but it did.

“–don’t care what you think! He’s in there!”

Red Hood’s helmet tilted down at he looked at her. “Kid, it’s not what I think, it’s what I know. Your friend isn’t in any of the buildings – the firemen have checked. Everyone who lived in the apartments got out before the second explosion.” The guy’s voice was modulated, but it was obvious he was trying for something like gentle. He recognized the tone. It was one he used with freaking out civilians as Spider-Man.

“He doesn’t live there! He went in to help, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!” Teresa yelled angrily.

Red Hood stood there silently for a moment. A crackly sigh came through the helmet’s modulator. “Kid. If there is someone else in either of the apartment buildings…”

Peter took a few hurried steps (okay, it was more like a heavy limp than anything, but that’s not important). He didn’t want her thinking he was dead. “Teresa!”

At the shout of her name, she turned. Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Oh, my god, Peter!” Teresa ran to him. Before she could get too close to hug him or something, he reached out with the hand that wasn’t stopping the gash on his side from bleeding more, and gripped her shoulder. “Jesus, what happened to you? Is this going to become a thing? When we run into each other you get hurt somehow?”

He scoffed a little, amused. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You just almost died!” she yelled, and with his ears still sensitive from the explosion, it made him wince. “You’re bleeding from, like, multiple different spots, and you’ve got some burns, so I think I’m allowed to be dramatic!” On the arm that was attached to the hand gripping her shoulder, was a nasty cut, visible through the signed fabric of his shirt. Teresa saw it, took in everything else about him, and said, “You need- You need help,” in a faux steady tone. “I don’t think you can just tear up a shirt this time.”

Peter shrugged. “I mean, I could…”

“No, she’s right,” a deep voice butted in. Teresa flinched some in surprise, probably having either thought the Red Hood had left or forgot about him, while Peter calmly looked up at the man and immediately felt shorter than he actually was. Red Hood was easily over six feet tall with large muscles and wide shoulders, and the guns and knives added both to the man’s stature and the intimidating factor. “You need medical attention.”

Peter blinked. “Wow, you’re tall,” he blurted.

Teresa incredulously looked up at him.

Red Hood was silent for a solid two seconds, and he breathed in as if to speak, but it was too late, because that was long enough for Peter to slightly panic about his lack of brain-to-mouth filter and continued on as if that might help, “I mean, like, huge. Like- like a pro-wrestler or something, but not quite, and they probably take steroids or something, and I don’t want to, um, like, assume or insinuate that you do, you’re just. A wall of muscle. What the hell.”

“I think you have a concussion,” Teresa said.

“No, rambling is normal for me, I’m fine–.”

“You still might have one,” Red Hood interrupted. “You have a nasty cut on your head.”

Peter removed his hand from Teresa’s shoulder as he straightened his stance, ignoring the amount of pain his body was in, headache included, and the mild nausea. The red helmet tilted as if to say ‘seriously?’ and Peter waved his hand in the air. “So? It’ll heal. I’m fine. Gucci, even. Aren’t you, like, an anti-hero-slash-crime-lord or something? Go help someone who needs it.”

“I’m trying to.”

“My god, why are you so stubborn?” asked Teresa, baffled.

“Think it runs in the family,” Red Hood mumbles quietly, definitely with the intent to not let either of them hear.

She didn’t; he did.

And of course he forgot to act like he didn’t, so he blurted, confused, “What family?”

Okay, maybe his lack of brain-to-mouth was partly due to a concussion. Sue him.

Red Hood tensed, and Teresa gave him another look, this time like he might be crazy. “What?”

Peter froze. “…Uh. Nothing.” He shook his head, which disoriented him a bit, and his vision went fuzzy for a few seconds. When he tilted – not even that much – Teresa reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him. Peter didn’t shake her off when she didn’t let go.

Truth be told, he felt like utter shit. Almost nearly as bad as he felt after getting thrown through multiple walls and floors, or getting hit by a bullet train. Even though he had access to it, he didn’t eat three meals a day at the shelter. Nor did he sleep well, if at all, every night. Those two things were definitely messing with his healing factor, because he did not remember feeling this physically terrible after the Goblin threw his bomb.

“Look, help wouldn’t be…bad, I guess,” Peter forced himself to say, “but I can’t…” Hospitals and that free clinic were out of the question. For one, he had only ten dollars to his name. For two, he didn’t want to deal with any possible questions about how he healed so fast, because that would definitely come up. Hell, he had been right there when the meth lab went kaboom, and he wasn’t as nearly burned and hurt as he should be. Eventually, he just settled on, “I don’t want to risk getting CPS called on me, or her.”

At the mention of CPS, Teresa tensed and took a step closer to him. Peter accommodated to the closeness by moving his arm to rest over her shoulders, and resisted the urge to lean more of his weight on her. On his back, she felt her curiously poke at the burned holes of his shirt, even tilting her head to look too. Thankfully she didn’t touch the actual burns.

Red Hood nodded. “I can understand that.” He looked around, mostly at the crowd of paramedics and officers and others, then said, “If I can find someone I trust, who won’t send you off with the CPS, will you accept their help?”

“Sure. Fine,” Peter tiredly sighed.

Wait. Should he be trusting a crime lord? He didn’t exactly have the best track record for trusting strangers. The corners of his mouth turned down at the though right as Red Hood moved to leave. The man noticed, and stopped.

“What is it?”

Peter looked at him with lowered brows. “If this ends up being some sort of trick,” he spoke slowly.

“It’s not,” Red Hood promised before Peter could continue. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s not. Just stay here. I’ll be back with someone.” With that, he stalked off.

Peter kept his eyes on him the best he could in the blue and red lights of the various emergency vehicles and street lamps and the dimming light of dusk. It was surprisingly hard to do so. When he lost sight of the red helmet, Peter shifted away from Teresa.

Anxiety was beginning to grow within him. The scene of the explosion, albeit worse than what the Goblin had done, was all too familiar all too soon. The police and the small fires in the wreckage and the smell and putting trust in someone who was known as a crime lord, had him suddenly very uneasy.

Why these feelings were hitting him now but didn’t earlier, he didn’t know. 

He inched away from Teresa a little more, mind jumping to far too many conclusions, one involving how the Red Hood might be the cause for the first explosion. Or one of the many bad guys Gotham had caused it. In any case, he needed to leave. Now.

With Teresa no longer helping him hold his weight, Peter lost his balance a little again and became dizzy for a second or two when he took a step.

“–re you doing?” Oh, Teresa was talking to him. “He said to stay here.”

As she reached for him, he stepped out of the way. “He’s not the boss of me,” Peter said with a wince as he put too much weight on his hurt leg.

“He’s the Red Hood, Peter, we should probably listen to him,” argued Teresa. “We can trust him! All the Crime Alley kids do.”

“Okay, well, I’m not a Crime Alley kid,” he told her as he started to walk away.

She followed after him. “You might as well be now. The shelter’s destroyed.”

“Thanks for that reminder,” he grouched.

The further they got from the scene, the more the cold set in. As fast as he could without pulling at any of his wounds, he stopped, took his hoodie from around Teresa’s waist, and slipped it on.

Teresa huffed. “Fine. If you’re seriously leaving, I’m coming with you this time,” she said, and stayed at his side when he began to limp down the sidewalk again. “It’ll just be me and you.”

Peter stumbled, breath stuttering, and he threw out a hand to steady himself on a lamppost they were under. Breathing came a bit harder, and an uncomfortable lump formed in his throat. He leaned the top of his head against the post with eyes shut tight and his hand curled into a fist, doing his best to block out the onslaught of memories of May bleeding and Goblin laughing.

God, what was wrong with him?

First the panic attack a few days ago, and now this? He needed to get his act together.

Teresa hovered at his side. Even with his eyes shut he could tell she was worried. “Peter? Are you o– ohmygod.”

Her change in tone and the abrupt sensation of someone behind them caused Peter’s eyes to snap back open. He tensed and spun around, half expecting some sort of threat, but froze when he finally saw who it was.

One of the vigilantes stood there. They stepped closer so they weren’t completely in the shadows, the street lamp illuminating light brown skin, black hair, and a blue eye mask with white lenses. The suit was mostly black with a bright blue bird with it’s wings spread on the chest. The wings went to the shoulders, then down the sides of the arms, and ended on the ring and middle fingers of both hands. Some type of sticks, a weapon of some sort, poked out over the shoulders from where they were situated on the back.

“Hey.” The vigilante smiled, kind and nonthreatening. “I’m Nightwing. A little birdie told me you might need some help.”

Chapter Text

Truth be told, Nightwing wasn’t even supposed to be in Gotham.

But Jason came back from his case with Roy and Kory, and Kory wanted to spend some bonding time with the kids, and who was Dick to disagree with her? He was going to stay too, and he did yesterday, but then the gymnastics classes he taught got canceled because the water pipes burst, so he made some minor changes in his plans to visit Gotham for the day. Partly it was to personally ask Barbara how the Elizabeth Reilly search was going. The other reason? Annoy Jason like the good older brother he was.

It went splendidly. At least, up until Jason said he saw Peter in Martha’s House the night before, and Dick had to explain what little they knew.

(Actually, Jason had bluntly asked if Dick got someone pregnant when he was a teenager, and Dick inwardly panicked, worried that there was somehow another kid, before his mind supplied him with Peter’s face.)

“So, let me get this straight,” Jason had said after Dick told him everything in the safety of one of Red Hood’s safe houses, “I leave for a few weeks for a case, and suddenly there’s a maybe-mini-you running around Gotham? And maybe-mini-you might be your kid with a woman you crushed on over a decade ago?”

“Damian thinks he’s a clone,” Dick had added, ignoring the crush part for now.

“What, like Kon?”

“Yeah.”

Jason had just stared in incredulous shock before he moved to grab a beer. “What the fuck.”

So, that afternoon, when one of the buildings had an explosion too close to the shelter for comfort, everyone suited up. If Bruce was confused why all of his kids (Dick had updated Cass, and Tim definitely told Steph, and Damian told something about the situation to Duke; there was a unanimous silent agreement to not let their dad know just yet) were so worried, then he didn’t show it. Besides, the worry could be easily said to be for Harper, since she was once again volunteering there. It wouldn’t be a lie, either.

There was a chance it was a rogue attack, as it were with nearly all of the explosions that happened in Gotham City. 

It seemed like this one probably wasn’t, though. When they got to the scene, none of the rogues there were attacking or killing or anything of the sort.

But there had been someone …

“What do you mean somebody already helped everyone?" Batman questioned Commissioner Gordon with Robin at his side. 

They made it to the scene moments after the first responders, who were already helping out the tenants of the buildings who escaped. Red Robin and Signal were searching the surrounding blocks to make sure this wasn't the act of a rogue or rogue-wanna-be, while Black Bat helped calm down civilians and Spoiler asked around about what happened. Red Hood was somewhere, lurking on the sidelines, not wanting to be seen with the Bats too much, too often. Nightwing stood by Batman and Robin, keeping an eye and ear out for anyone who might need help, away from most of the crowd. And as per usual, Oracle listened through the comms and watched through nearby cameras.

"I mean what I said, Batman," Gordon said. "The Costanza family reported on the person first." He motioned to one of the two ambulances on the scene where two men and their kids were getting checked on as the spoke to an officer. "Said the guy called himself Spider-Man."

"Meta-human?"

"Apparently the guy stuck to the wall with no help at all, so it's safe to assume so." Gordon continued before any of them could ask another question, "I don't think he's bad. He safely helped out every single person who was still inside the building when the explosion happened." There was a small commotion when a few more people came from the burning buildings. Nightwing squinted through the flames and smoke, and just barely made out the figure of someone on the roof. They disappeared back inside.

"He could have planted a bomb to have a chance to save these people," Batman said.

Gordon sighed. "I hate how possible that is," he admitted.

Nightwing didn't bother to pay attention to what Batman said next. He looked back at the crowd. He didn't spot Peter anywhere. Harper had left the shelter to help out in any way possible, and he saw her blue head of hair moving from person to person as she handed out blankets and water bottles. He knew Red Hood was in a nearby alley. His other family members were scattered around but safe. Just no Peter. He didn't want to get so worried so quickly, but he couldn't help it. Within the past few days, they figured out that if he wasn't at the shelter, then he was at the library and vice versa. Barbara had texted just an hour before the explosion that Peter left the library.

On a good day, Gotham wasn’t that safe. The city had the nation’s highest crime rate for a reason, even after all these years. And to have his maybe-son living here homeless, walking around the streets daily, and in no way a long-time Gothamite who knew what to expect from the city, had Nightwing worrying more as the seconds ticked by.

Robin moved up beside him with the intent to say something, but another explosion erupted from the building right beside the shelter. Batman tackled and covered them both and Gordon, and used his cape to keep away any stray flames and pieces of debris.

“Is everyone all right?” Batman asked. He moved off of them once it was safe to, and helped the Commissioner to his feet as Nightwing did the same with Robin.

“Yes,” Gordon responded through a groan from being tackled. “Thank you.”

“Nightwing,” Robin said, one hand gripping his elbow tight.

At his name, he looked down at the younger vigilante, ready to ask if he had gotten hurt, but stopped short. The flames illuminated his face so much that he turned to face the destruction in an instant.

“The shelter,” continued Robin. “It…”

Half of it was gone. Up in flames and destroyed from the second explosion.

“He’s okay,” Robin said just quietly enough that Batman wouldn’t hear. His grip tightened on his elbow; it was an easy hold to get out of, but it still rooted Nightwing to his spot, not yet giving in the urge to rush in and search frantically for someone who might not have even been in the building in the first place. “Clone or not, if he is anything like you, he will be okay.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” he murmured. He looked at their father. “B, we gotta–.”

“I know. Act quickly and efficiently, help anyone you can. We can’t waste time!”

The next little while was spent carrying out the people stuck inside the shelter. At some point, a few of the others decided to tackle the fallen part of the building. Some areas were still on fire, but they still searched for people who were still alive and stuck, unable to move or get out. Nightwing went back and forth, in and out, helping the homeless and the volunteers as best as they could. All the while, his worry for Peter stayed. He made sure to keep an eye out for the teenager through it all.

In the end, it hadn’t been him who found him.

“Yo, Dickwing,” Red Hood’s voice came through the comm. One glance at Batman told him it was a secure line between him and Hood only. B would have definitely said something about names on the field, if it was just a nickname.

Nightwing finished bandaging a burn on a shoulder of one of the volunteers. He motioned Black Bat over so she could take his place, and stepped away as he said, “What is it?”

“Found a baby bird of yours,” he said. “Hurt but alive, and stupidly stubborn. I’m trying to find Harper so she can help. I–.”

“What?” he interrupted harsher than he meant to. He started walking again, looking around to spot them.

“You heard me. As I was saying–.”

“Where is he?”

“Man, fuck you. I’m getting Harper to help him out because I don’t want anyone to spook him off. I think it’s something short of miracle he even agreed with me to get help–.”

“Hood, I’m not joking around! Where is he?”

There was a pause of silence, where Nightwing immediately realized how mad he sounded and where Red Hood said nothing. Signal and Spoiler, both who were just a foot or so away, looked over at him with a pair of paramedics and a wounded civilian. Nightwing walked further away as he ran a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply and then letting it out.

“…Sorry. I didn’t– I’m not mad. Just worried,” he said.

“I know, big bird. He’s across the street from the first two buildings that caught fire,” Red Hood told him. “He’s with a friend – another homeless kid, a girl about twelve years old. Just a warning: he might be trying to make a get away. I got the impression he’s not one to accept help easily, if at all, and neither of them want CPS called.”

Nightwing took in the information, then nodded, more to himself than anything. “Thanks, Little Wing.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

It didn’t take long at all to find Peter and his friend at all. Nightwing silently grappled over to a low roof to look down on the two kids – who were walking down the sidewalk slowly but surely – and jumped down carefully as quietly as he could the moment Peter stumbled and rested against a lamppost. 

The girl noticed him first from where she hovered, worried, beside Peter. The quiet scuff of his foot on the pavement alerted her attention to him, and her voice went up an octave when she let out a surprised, “Ohmygod.”

At her change in tone, Nightwing watched as Peter immediately tensed and turned around surprisingly fast with how injured he was. 

“Hey,” he greeted kindly, and smiled at them both in a harmless manner. “I’m Nightwing. A little birdie told me you might need some help.”

It was…odd, seeing Peter up close. He stood only a couple inches shorter than himself, although the lack of height might be due to the injuries Nightwing couldn’t see. His hair was a sweaty, curly mess; parts stuck to his forehead while other strands stuck out comically, like he had taken off a hat or something similar. There was a burn on his jawline, one that Nightwing was able to tell was merely a first degree burn by sight alone. There was a line of blood on the right side of his face, definitely from a head wound.

Tim, when explaining how he first suspected that Peter might be Dick’s son, had said that they didn’t look exactly alike, but there was definitely a resemblance. Nightwing saw a little of what he meant, even through the layers of soot, blood, and sweat all over the teenager in front of him. 

Peter didn’t speak right away. He seemed to be taking in the fact that there was a vigilante in front of them. The girl was also silent. However, she stared at Nightwing with wide eyes and a mouth partly opened from shock.

“Pe– I’m Peter,” the teen finally said. “Sorry, uh, yeah. Sorry. I’m Peter.”

Nightwing chuckled. “Hey, no worries, it’s fine. And you?”

The girl’s brows rose to high they almost disappeared beneath her bangs. “I…” A beanie sat crookedly on her head, and she had a streak of blood down her face, too. It was dry, though; it didn’t give off a shine from light of the lamppost. Other than that, she looked perfectly fine. Covered in dirt and soot, but fine.

And she kinda looked like… No, it had to be the shadows. Or his mind playing tricks on him.

“Teresa El–.” Her eyes impossibly widened even more, though this time a little panicked. She didn’t say anything else after that.

Realizing that both Peter and Teresa weren’t going to say anything else, he asked, “Would you two be okay coming with me so I can patch up whatever wounds you have?” Remembering what Hood said, he added, “I promise I won’t notify CPS. All I want is to help get those injuries taken care of.”

“Why?” Peter asked. By the way his expression twisted for a moment, Nightwing got the feeling he hadn’t meant to be so blunt. He continued, though, “And where would you take us? I just– I mean, not that I don’t trust you, you’re a vigilante, obviously, you’re trustworthy, but I guess there’s also that one percent chance you’re secretly being nice just to get me to trust you but then you later break that trust and ruin my life a hundred times over after we fight, because of…reasons. Um, yeah.”

Nightwing refrained from frowning too hard. “I won’t do that, I promise,” he said. “My words probably don’t mean much to you, but I swear I just want to do what’s best for you, and right now that’s fixing those injuries.”

Peter slowly nodded, only a little hesitant. “Okay. But no CPS.”

“No CPS,” he agreed.

Peter gently nudged Teresa with his elbow. “It’s okay with you, right?” The girl jolted a bit, breaking out of her thoughts, and looked at him.

“What?”

“Letting him help is okay with you?”

Teresa’s expression turned into what Nightwing could only describe as dazedly shocked. She nodded rapidly. He came to the conclusion that there was a high chance she was a fan, like most kids her age were. It was endearing, honestly. “Sure, yeah.”

Nightwing smiled at the kids. “Great. Follow me. I have a ride just on the other side of that corner.”

Okay, technically it wasn’t his – but he sure as hell wasn’t going to transport them both on his motorcycle. Plus, he’d very much like to get them looked at ASAP. 

If that meant hijacking the batmobile, so be it.

“Wait. You never said where we’re going,” Peter said, still following Nightwing anyway, who kept a slow pace despite wanting to hurry.

“I thought it was obvious.” He grinned over at them. “We’re going to the Batcave.” As he stopped to silently ask if Peter wanted help walking, the two kids shared a quick baffled look. Much to Nightwing’s relief, he accepted the help.

“A bat cave,” Peter mumbled. “Sure, why not.”

Nightwing couldn’t help but laugh a little.

Barely anyone knew of the Batcave – unless, of course, you were a vigilante or superhero of some kind, then the chance was more likely you knew about it. Regular citizens didn’t, so he wasn’t surprised at all by their confusion.

Their reactions to it were going to be priceless.

Chapter Text

Here was what Peter knew about Nightwing from his time searching the web in the library: 1) he mostly worked in Blüdhaven, but sometimes visited Gotham; 2) he’s been around for over a decade; 3) there was a rumor he was the first ever Robin, AKA Batman’s partner; 4) according to pissed of criminals and other bad guys who journalists had safely interviewed, he talked – a lot.

And the newest fact, the one he knew because apparently the vigilante was taking him and Teresa to some bat cave? Nightwing drove like a damn speed demon.

After making sure they buckled their seatbelts, he pressed the gas so hard that the tires screeched on the pavement at first. Everything outside became a blur as the man deftly swerved around other vehicles and through stop lights, and at one point they were even on the wrong side of the road.

Peter couldn’t bring himself to care too much, though. The pain of having been in an explosion had finally settled in, and his entire body ached. Teresa’s claim that he had a concussion might be true; his head was killing him and the slightest movement made him feel nauseated, and, with Nightwing’s driving, was unfortunately more often than not. But wherever they were going (a batcave, or whatever the man had said), they were obviously getting there fast, so. It’s fine. Hopefully if he threw up it’ll be at their destination and not in the admittedly fancy looking car.

Nightwing fiddled with a few buttons after taking something out of his ear and putting it in his lap. “Oracle, come in.”

A screen at the front lit up by showing a green…alien head? Wait no, just a head – a face. “Please tell me I’m not imagining things and you just stole the batmobile,” came a slightly modulated voice of a woman.

He chuckled. “Oh, but I did. But that’s not important right now. I need you to call Agent A for me, tell him I’m coming by the cave with two others – civilians. Both need medical attention, but one more so than the other.”

“…Of course,” Oracle said, though her tone was more tense than it had been. “Civilians? Are you sure about this, Nightwing?”

“Yes.” His response came immediately. It kind of surprised Peter, and when he glanced at the vigilante, he caught a splint second glance aimed at him. 

“I’m fine,” Peter argued, but it came out weak.

“That’s a bullshit lie,” Teresa said.

“Shut up,” he groaned the same time Nightwing sternly yet not unkindly said, “Whoa, language.”

“Agent A has been alerted,” Oracle informed Nightwing. Her tone shifted again, but it was still tense; Peter couldn’t exactly identify how, and he quickly gave up. “I’ll keep the others at bay as long as I can.”

“Thank you, O.”

“You’re welcome.”

The green face symbol thing on the screen went away. Peter stared at the now blank screen. 

“Was that an A.I.?” The words came out of his mouth before he could think things through. Not that he was thinking much, anyway, right now.

Nightwing chuckled, almost sounding taken back. “What?”

“A.I.,” Peter said, grimacing as he tried to get more comfortable. He just wanted to sleep. “Y’know. Artificial Intelligence.” He squinted at Nightwing incredulously. “You do know what that is, right?”

He laughed a little more. “Yes. Yes, I do. I just wasn’t expecting a kid to bring it up. But to answer your question, no. Oracle is a person. Why?”

Peter made a face at being called ‘kid’, but otherwise didn’t react to it. As much as he hated it, he’s gotten used to it, and he learned that with a face that made him look younger than he actually was, people weren’t going to stop anytime soon.

“Hey.”

Fingers snapped twice right in front of his face. Peter startled, both by the sound and the proximity. The maybe-concussion made his hearing extra sensitive, and his shoulders climbed up as if to protect his ears. He glared at the black and blue clad hand after opening his eyes. Wait, crap, when did he close his eyes? 

“Dude,” he complained.

Nightwing settled both hands on the wheel again. “You need to stay awake. We don’t know how bad that concussion of yours is. I asked you question, remember?”

Peter sighed. “Um… Yeah. Why I asked about Oracle being an A.I.? I dunno. Some heroes have one. Iron Man did. Wondered if you do, too. It would’ve been cool – not that Oracle being an actual person isn’t cool. She your guy in the chair. Guys in the chair are pretty awesome.”

“Iron Man?” Nightwing asked, and Peter frowned a little at the guy’s tone. He didn’t know what to make of it. “Are you a fan of his?”

“Something like that,” Peter mumbled. Then, to test the waters, “He’s a good guy.” He paused. “A hero.”

Nightwing shifted in his seat. When he spoke up again, there was a hint of something there. A subtle touch of something negative towards Iron Man that made Peter go on the defensive. “He made an evil robot army.”

“Not on purpose,” Peter fired back instantly. Truthfully, Peter didn’t know the entire story about Ultron back on his own world. It was a very taboo subject that he tried to get an answer about once, only for Mr. Stark to immediately diverge the topic. Later that same week Peter accidentally came across a device the man had been trying to make to search for the Hulk’s signature in space.

Even though he knew very little, he highly doubted Tony Stark’s intention was for Ultron to take over the world.

Nightwing sighed, bringing Peter back to the present. “You don’t know that. You didn’t know the guy personally. No one did, except for his wife, and she hasn’t spoken about Ultron since it first happened.”

“And are you his wife?” Peter snapped. And, okay, maybe bringing up Iron Man wasn’t a good idea. Usually he had a semi-decent control on his anger; but now, with a maybe-concussion and his body in pain and Nightwing insinuating that he didn’t think Iron Man was good, Peter felt particularly pissed off and didn’t care about acting happy or nice.

And he did know Iron Man personally. (Just not this world’s Iron Man.)

As they sped down into a cave, Nightwing chanced another glance at Peter, who was resolutely glaring at the dashboard in front of him. “No,” Nightwing admitted. “I‘m not. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Peter echoed, a bite still in his voice. One hand was clenched into a fist, part of the fabric of his hoodie wrinkled between his fingers, while the other was pressed a bit too hard on the wound on his side. He unclenched his fist, mostly so he wouldn’t accidentally tear the fabric, but still glared at the dashboard.

The vehicle parked soon after that. Relieved, Peter ignored whatever Nightwing started to say, and unbuckled his seatbelt. He opened the door. Got out. And caught one glimpse of a giant penny before his vision swam and he lost his balance.

He caught himself, luckily, on the top of the door, his other hand still on the wound on his side. Peter kept his eyes squeezed shut, even as his spider-sense warned him that someone was coming close. No one dangerous; either Teresa or Nightwing.

“I believe it would have been smart to wait for help, hm? Come on, dear boy, let us help you.”

Or, an old British man in a tux and a masquerade mask. He put Peter’s arm over his shoulder, his own arm around Peter’s waist, and then helped him walk.

Peter squinted at him, trying to get his vision to focus more.

“You may call me Agent A,” the old man said as they began to walk. “And you are?”

Peter winced as he straightened some. “Um. Peter.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

His then took notice of the sounds of actually bats high up in the cave. Peter tilted his head back and stared up at the stalagmites where they flew around. “Holy crap, it’s an actual bat cave,” he whispered.

“It’s the Batcave,” Teresa whispered from his other side. Peter looked down at her, eyebrows raising at her awestruck expression.

He blinked. “The what?”

“Batman’s hideout!” Teresa shouted, still in a whisper. “I didn’t think it was real!”

His brain refused to compute. “What?” He stumbled a bit, causing Agent A to tighten his grip. “Sorry.” He grimaced as a thought suddenly came to him. “Ugh, sorry,” he repeated, “I might be getting blood on you.”

“All is right, young man. I’m quite used to being bled on.”

“And the car.”

“That, too, I’m afraid. Careful now, we have some steps coming up.”

Nightwing laughed lightly from somewhere ahead of them. When did he get over there? “Way to make it sound morbid, Agent A.”

Sometime later – seconds or minutes – Peter was on a medical bed in what looked to be a medbay area, a covering over the area. Peter guessed it was to keep rat poop from landing on everything.

“I’ll take care of Peter,” Agent A spoke as Nightwing and Teresa hovered by. “Nightwing, would you mind helping patch up any injuries Miss…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I ever got your name.”

“Oh! Uh. Teresa,” she told him.

“Well, Miss Teresa, would you be okay with allowing Nightwing check on whatever injuries you have?”

Her face twisted in confusion. “But I’m fine?”

Nightwing settled a hand on her shoulder. Teresa tensed, and whipped her chin up to stare at him, as if she forgot he was there. He removed his hand as he said, sounding worried, “You have a head wound, Teresa.”

Her nerves came back – the awestruck expression was gone, and she looked like she did right before the explosion when talking about the shelter. “I- It’s from yesterday,” she said, eyes flitting away from the vigilante. “One of the other street kids got a lucky shot… It reopened when Peter tackled me when the first explosion happened.”

Agent A hummed. It didn’t come out absentminded, even as he moved around the small room as he got ready to help Peter’s injuries. “Well, it’s better to be safe than sorry, I always say.”

Nightwing nodded and smiled kindly as he said, “He’s right. Always is, too, so I’d listen to him.”

Teresa looked around nervously before her eyes landed on Peter. Her hands were balled into fists out of nervousness again.

He sent her the best reassuring smile he could muster up. That must have been enough to ease her nerves, because she visibly relaxed and returned the smile, though small.

With that, Nightwing gently guided her away, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words in a way that would calm anyone down.

“They won’t go too far, will they?” Peter asked after a few seconds.

“Of course not,” Agent A assured. “Just on the other side of that little wall there.”

He didn’t turn to look. Things were getting fuzzier by the second and he didn’t want to take any chances. “Okay. She is safe here, right?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Agent A smiled that smile every kind old person seemed to have. “Yes, she is. As are you, Peter.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Great. ‘Cause I think I’m about to pass out.”

Everything went black, and the last thing he heard was a surprised, “Oh dear–.”

+++

Trust me, Peter. When you try to fix someone, there are always consequences.

When all of this is over, if you need a job, and you’re willing to commute to another universe…

I watched you behind Norman’s cowardly eyes. Struggling to have everything you want, while the world makes you choose.

Strong enough to take it all. Too weak to take it!

Told you there’d be consequences!

Your weakness, Peter, is morality. It’s choking you. Can you feel it?

You listen to me. You have a gift. You have power. And with great power, there must also come great responsibility. Hm?

Peter woke up with a tight chest, burning eyes, a memory of Goblin’s crazed laughter ringing in his head, and the phantom pains of being so close to the blast of one of Goblin’s bombs covering him from head to toe.

His breathing came out faster than he knew it should be. Slowly, he lifted his hand to… Well, he didn’t know what; to feel his own racing heart, rub his eyes, to push his hair off of his forehead, grasp for someone who wasn’t there?

He let it drop back down. It landed on his chest.

His breathing didn’t get any better. It was getting worse, harder to breathe.

He was panicking. 

Why was he panicking? 

Your weakness, Peter.

It’s choking you.

No. No, it’s not. It’s not.

Can you feel it?

His hand drifted to the bottom of his neck, and he just rested it there with a little pressure, thumb and middle finger resting on the curves of his collar bones. It helped but also didn’t. He wanted to pull away at the hands that weren’t there.

They weren’t there. They weren’t.

Goblin wasn’t here.

He knew that so why was he freaking out? He wanted Aunt May, but she wasn’t there, either.

She wasn’t…

Peter tried sucking in a breath. The burning in his eyes grew, and a lump formed in his throat. He choked on air, or what might’ve been a sob, he didn’t know, all he knew was that he was panicking about things that weren’t there and for some God forsaken reason he couldn’t stop.

A whine threatened to escape him as he rolled to his side and curled up. He clenched his mouth shut, but his breath hitched again and again so he reopened his mouth to get at least a little air into his lungs.

It felt like forever until his brain finally came up with the bright idea to focus on something other than his wild train of thoughts – of May, and Goblin, and a bomb, and not breathing.

He focused his hearing. There were bats – why the hell were there bats – flying around up high and chittering, and he knew if he focused hard enough he might be able to hear their heartbeats.

After a moment, he heard voices, too. People voices. Three, maybe. One was close by, like really close by, and the others were off in the distance, far enough away that Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to hear them as a regular human.

The person who was really close by kept up a calm stream of words.

Peter’s brows furrowed. It was a familiar voice. British.

Who did he know that was British?

The name ‘Agent A’ popped up, and confusion overrode some of the panic in his head, only for things to come back to him quickly after.

Teresa, the explosions, Red Hood and Nightwing, a very tech savvy and fancy vehicle, and a bat cave where he briefly met a British old man before passing out. Said British old man continued to talk, telling a story of a chaotic prank war between what Peter could only guess were the man’s grandkids.

Peter listened. Focused on getting his breathing even again. Became embarrassed as what just happened settled in, and covered his head with the blanket over him. He wiped his face free tears and sniffled.

“—and then the youngest thought it to be wise to wait on the banister, like some hellion, and attack the second eldest when he least expected it.”

“…I thought they were having a prank war?” Peter asked. It came out rough, so he cleared his throat.

Agent A sighed tiredly, yet somehow it still sounded fond. “It got derailed very quickly. Do you have any siblings?”

Peter shook head, then remembered he was currently hiding under a blanket. He slowly removed it and sat up. “No. I’m an only child.”

“Really?” Agent A looked at him. “I would have assumed you and Teresa were brother and sister. You two look alike, if I must say.”

He furrowed his brows, and almost laughed incredulously. “What? No, we met, like, a week ago,” he said.

Agent A hummed. “Be that as that may, family can be formed outside of blood relations.”

“…I know,” Peter mumbled after a beat where he just stared at the man. The corners of his mouth turned down into a small frown as he looked down to his hands in his lap. Exhaustion pulled at him and he didn’t feel like keeping up a conversation; he chalked that all up to the panic attack he just had, and not the fact that he definitely didn’t want to talk about family. 

“What can I do for you, Peter?”

The question caught him off guard. He snapped his head up, and stared at Agent A in confusion. “What?”

“To my knowledge, it looked to me that you just had a panic attack. I can get you a glass of water or a heavier blanket, if needed,” he explained. “I apologize for not doing the usual grounding technique with you. You didn’t seem to hear me when I tried to talk you through breathing, and I have learned over the years that touching someone while they are in the middle of a panic attack isn’t always a smart decision.”

“Oh.” Peter shook his head, and smiled a little. “It’s okay. The talking helped. Gave me something to focus on.” He cleared his throat. “I guess, um, I guess some water wouldn’t hurt.”

Agent A smiled. “Of course. I will be right back.”

It didn’t take long at all for Agent A to leave and then come back with a glass of water. After saying a ‘thank you’, as Peter sipped on the fresh and cold water, Agent A informed him of his injuries. A minor concussion (Agent A did a quick check up by flashing a small light in each eye and asking a few simple, basic questions about Peter), bruised ribs on his left side, a light burn on his jaw, a few light burns on his back, six stitches on his forearm and six more on his side, and four more on his calf. The same calf also had second degree burns. He also had a mild head wound that was currently held together by a couple butterfly strips.

Agent A also told him that Teresa was currently using the Batcave’s showers, and Nightwing was impatiently waiting for him to wake up.

That made Peter’s brows raise a little. “Why?”

“You worried us when you passed out,” Agent A explained. “Though, I have come to the conclusion it was mostly due to exhaustion, and a surprising mild amount of blood loss. Nothing too serious.”

“How long was I out?” Peter found himself asking.

“About an hour – long enough for me to tend to and catalog all of your injuries.”

He almost wanted to ask how long his panic attack lasted, but didn’t know how without it sounding weird or awkward. It felt like forever, though for all he knew it might’ve lasted for only five minutes.

“Oh. Um. Sorry for worrying you guys.” It came out more stilted and awkward than he intended. 

“Nonsense – it was out of your control. No need for any sort of guilt,” Agent A told him. “Now, finish that water and rest. You need it. I will update Nightwing on your condition – and Teresa, too, once she’s out of the shower – and they will merely have to wait to speak to you until later.”

“Don’t I have a concussion?”

“It’s nothing too serious, but I will wake you up in a couple of hours to do another check up,” he said.

Peter wanted to insist that he was fine, but something told him that arguing with the man before him was forbidden, in a sense. Like with Ned’s Lola – you never argued or disagreed with her unless you wanted to feel extra bad about yourself for even doing so.

So, he agreed to rest more, albeit reluctantly.

Before Agent A left to speak with Nightwing, he added, “If you feel up to it, feel free to use the showers the next time you’re up. One of us will show you where they are.” And then he took his exit, leaving Peter alone.

Shockingly, or not, considering the recent events and how tired he actually felt, he fell back asleep pretty easily once he finished his cup of water. Peter thought the residual panic and anxiety from the earlier attack would keep up, but it seemed as if exhaustion won that round.

Agent A kept his word, and woke Peter up two hours later. He asked a few basic questions regarding things he should know – he asked Peter the most famous Justice League members, and it was only because of his research in the library that he got it right – and then allowed an excited Teresa to sit on the edge of the medical bed and hug him tight with relief. During the entire ten minutes Agent A did the check up, she hovered close by, and bounced on her feet the longer Agent A took.

By the end, Peter was positive Agent A purposely let the minutes drag on; the man smirked, clearly amused by Teresa when she breathed out, “Finally,” once he finished.

Her hair was still a little damp from her shower, but not much at all. For once, she was completely clean – even her clothes, which weren’t the ones she had on before. Still a size or so too big, but fresh and clean. She didn’t have her beanie on, so her wavy, borderline curly bangs were free while the rest of her hair was in a low and loose ponytail.

Agent A left with a promise of snacks, more water, and some pain killers. He was gone before Peter could even tell him that he didn’t need the last thing on the short list.

…Okay, he did, but he didn’t want to explain that they didn’t work for him. That would give away the fact that he was what this universe called a ‘meta’, and the first guy he saved made it clear Batman wasn’t fond of them. And they’re currently in Batman’s hideout. 

(Which, wow, an actual bat cave? This guy obviously had some sort of feeling towards bats.)

Before he brain could wonder too far down that rabbit hole, Teresa caught his attention.

“Agent A said you already woke up once,” she said.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, while you were in the shower, I think. He convinced me to rest more because I was still tired.”

“Are you okay? I overheard Agent A tell Nightwing something about a panic attack earlier, so I just… I dunno.” She shrugged, and looked away, nervous. “We’re not close at all, but it still made me worried.”

“I’m okay,” Peter told her. She looked back at him in question, like she wanted to believe him but didn’t. “I promise. A little in pain, but I’m okay. Brains are weird, and for some reason I woke up with a bad memory at the forefront of my mind instead of the present.” He eyed her. Two small, white butterfly strips could be seen from underneath her bangs, just on the edge of her temple. “Are you okay?”

Teresa nodded rapidly. “Yeah! Like I said, it’s from the other day. But Nightwing, like, insisted on putting butterfly strips on it. I don’t think it was necessary, but.” She shrugged, and gave a partial eye roll that held some typical pre-teen attitude. “It’s whatever, I guess.”

“Hey.” He nudged her gently. “He’s the professional here, same with Agent A. We should listen to them.”

“So’s Red Hood, and you were going to leave instead of letting him help.”

“You yelled at him,” he said, unable to come up with a better argument.

“I think yelling at him and refusing help shouldn’t be compared.”

This time, Peter rolled his eyes. “Maybe so. But if Nightwing thought the butterfly strips are necessary, then they just are.”

“Should I really listen to the guy who refused help?” she asked.

“Oh, my God,” Peter laughed through a groan. “You’re being annoying about this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Teresa smiled innocently. “Who, me? But I’m an angel!”

“You’re a brat.”

Teresa laughed, and Peter joined in until it caused his bruised ribs to jolt too much. He winced and hissed in pain, one arm wrapping around his torso.

“Ow,” he whined. “Don’t make me laugh.”

She did her best to stop laughing, though a few giggles still came through. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.” He waved off her apology. “Not your fault.”

There was a small beat of silence. And then, “Oh! Speaking of getting help,” Teresa started and Peter groaned dramatically, which made her laugh once more. “Did Agent A check out that bullet wound, too?”

It took a second longer than he would have liked for him to remember what she was talking about. And then, it came to him. Right. The bullet graze. It was healed now – just a pink scar on his bicep – so he hadn’t recently thought or worried about it. “Uh–.”

“Bullet wound?”

Peter and Teresa looked over to where both Agent A and Nightwing were. They both held trays; the former of the two held one with a plate full of snacks and a bottle of painkillers, while the latter held a tray of two cups of water and two mugs of something chocolatey – Peter could tell by the smell alone. Both men still wore their suits, fancy and vigilante respectively, along with their masks.

Nightwing had been the one speak.

“Uh,” Peter repeated. “I don’t–.”

“Yes, you do,” Teresa insisted, brows knitting together in confusion more than anything. He noticed she glanced at Nightwing, but mostly kept her eyes on either Peter or Agent A and she fiddled with her fingers nervously. Peter honestly found it weird; he might ask about it later, when she wasn’t unknowingly trying to out the fact that he had super healing.

“No, I don’t,” he denied.

She frowned and shook her head. “No, you got shot last time we saw each other. By that cop.”

Nightwing hurried over with Agent A right behind him. “You what?”

“I mean, it grazed your arm,” Teresa continued. “Right?”

Peter shook his head. “What? No,” he lied. “I mean– I… The cop shot at me, sure, but a bullet didn’t hit me.” She opened her mouth to correct him again, but he sent her a look that he hoped was subtle but also screamed please shut up. The look got cut short as Nightwing set down the tray on a table close by and tried to search him over for any bullet wounds.

She faltered. “But… I thought I saw blood?”

Peter insistently batted away Nightwing’s hands. “I’m okay! Geez. Look, Teresa, it was dark and raining. We just got chased by cops. Some crappy street light probably tricked your eyes, or something.”

“Are you sure?” asked Nightwing.

“I think I would’ve known if I got shot, man,” Peter told him.

Teresa didn’t look completely sold. Honestly, neither of them did, except for Agent A.

“Peter is telling the truth,” Agent A vouched for him. “I would have noticed if he had been shot recently, and he hadn’t. He is perfectly fine other than the injuries he sustained in the explosion.”

That seemed to ease Nightwing’s worry and potential confusion. It didn’t for Teresa, but she went along with it, thankfully. As Nightwing turned to pick up the drinks on the tray he brought in, and as Agent A set his tray down, Teresa mouthed a very confused, What?

Peter mouthed back, Later, and hoped she might actually forget this happened. Very unlikely, but he could dream.

And then his stomach growled. For five seconds. Loudly.

There was a moment where everything stopped and then, ever so slowly, the two men in masks both looked at him. Teresa stared at him with pure amusement and a dropped jaw.

Peter hid his face in his hands. “Oh, God.”

Nightwing began to laugh. “Oh, man. I think you might be hungry, kiddo.”

He just groaned. That was embarrassing.

“It’s a good thing I brought snacks, then,” Agent A said. Peter peaked over at him just as he held out a plate of different sandwiches. “Peanut butter and jelly, or ham and cheese?”

“…Can I have both?”

Agent A smiled. “Absolutely.”

Chapter Text

The Batcave was insanely cool – Peter really only noticed that when Agent A led him out of the medbay area and to the showers.

There was that giant penny he saw when he first got here. Peter was relieved that he hadn’t hallucinated it, but that was quickly followed by confusion. Why was there a giant penny in the first place? And how did it even get in the cave? (A hilarious image popped into his head of it being strapped onto the batmobile like a Christmas tree). Those same questions were aimed at the life-size and thankfully very much not alive t-rex near the penny.

Close to those two things, was a very large Joker card – but not a normal one that came from a deck of cards. This one has an image of a man’s pale face, his mouth painted red and stretched into a too large green, crazed eyes, and a bright green hair. 

Peter looked away from it quickly. It gave him the creeps. He eyed the rest of the cave, curious to see what else was there.

Vigilante suits in glass cases – some empty, some lit up to show off the suits, one so dark it was hard to tell if something was in there or not. An area to work on gadgets and keep them stashed away when not needed, and another to workout and most likely train with all kinds of equipment. A place to park the batmobile and other vehicles, like motorcycles. Large screens connected to what he heard Nightwing call the ‘bat-computer’. An area for lab work, which Peter wanted to get closer to so he could check it out.

And not everything was on the same floor. There were at least three different levels built into the large cave and the system it was apart of, stairs connecting them all in different places.

It was nothing like the Avengers compound, but awesome all the same.

Despite all of that, after taking a shower (the water pressure and heat was surprisingly good for it being in a cave), he kind of wanted to leave. 

Nightwing and Agent A were nice. That was amplified by the fact that the more time he spent with them, the more his spider-sense almost went away completely (which he refused to really think about). Neither of them pushed or asked about his and Teresa’s situation, at least not yet. It was bound to come up at some point, and on the off chance it didn’t, Peter would be surprised. All they’ve done was check up on their injuries and kept up a steady stream of food, water, and hot cocoa, with frequent conversations.

But Peter and Teresa couldn’t stay forever, no matter how nice Nightwing and Agent A were and how cool the cave was.

Besides, the longer he stayed, the easier it would get for everyone else to notice that he healed faster.

Hence why he bandaged his injuries himself after the shower.

Nothing was too noticeable yet, much to his relief – the healing factor still wasn’t at it’s best right now due to how little food and sleep he got lately – but that was bound to change soon.

Peter double checked that he hadn’t missed any wounds, and got dressed in the clean clothes Agent A handed him beforehand. A thick navy blue sweatshirt that was a size too big and comfortable jeans. He stuffed his dirty clothes and ruined Spider-Man mask in the backpack he took back from Teresa, then debated on slipping back on the Wonder Woman hoodie before quickly deciding against it. He slipped on some clean socks and then the slightly too big converses, and hesitated to exit the bathroom.

Right before getting to the cave’s bathroom, the batmobile had started by itself and left the cave with a screech of tires. Not even five minutes ago, he heard it come back, along with another vehicle of some sort.

Peter hadn’t been planning to run into Batman any time soon. The fact that the hero didn’t like metas had yet to truly settle in – between saving people, getting caught in an explosion, and getting taken to the Batcave, he didn’t exactly have time to truly process the information – but now that thought was coming to the forefront of his mind.

What was the extent to Batman’s dislike? Was it more indifference or more hatred? Did Peter need to be worried?

(…Did Peter even count as a meta because of the spider bite?)

None of this helped the anxiety that decided to stay after his panic attack earlier.

Knowing that he couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever, no matter what the answers to those questions, Peter mentally shook away those thoughts the best he could and took a steadying breath, the grip his had on the backpack’s strap tight, before finally leaving the bathroom–

–only to stop after two steps when his spider-sense blared a warning.

Someone landed in front of him, seemingly coming out of freakin’ nowhere, with shockingly quiet feet. The person straightened. They weren’t taller than him, maybe a couple inches shorter, with black hair and brown skin. They wore mask similar to Nightwing’s, but this one was dark green instead of blue. The clothes – a vigilante suit, more like – were predominantly gray and black with red accents, though the underside of the black cape on their back was a bright yellow and the buckle on his belt was green, along with the laces on the boots. A black ‘R’ encircled in red that sat where usually a breast pocket would. And… Wait– 

Was that a sword?

“Hey…?” Peter spoke uncertainly, eyes flicking back and forth between the person’s face and the (thankfully) sheathed sword. “Do you actually know how to use that?”

The vigilante scoffed. “Of course I do. Who do you think I am?” 

“Someone with a very pointy weapon that could easily kill someone else accidentally.”

There was a slight movement to the young vigilante’s head that had Peter thinking he just got eye-rolled at. “I am far too proficient in swordsmanship to accidentally kill someone,” they said, a lilt to the words that gave away the fact that English wasn’t their first language. “I do not kill anymore, either, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right… That- that’s, um, definitely reassuring,” Peter said with a nervous nod. “Totally. Not at all concerning. Um, so, anyway, I’m gonna…” He motioned in the direction where everyone else was and moved to step around the vigilante, but they blocked his path again. It was slightly annoying. “Look, dude, I just want to get back to my friend and sit down somewhere, because getting nearly blown up is super not fun on the body–.”

“What are you doing here?” 

The question caught him off guard. There wasn’t a bit of curiosity to it but rather hostility. It sounded more like a demand, which had Peter snapping his mouth shut. His brows furrowed a little and other than that, he did his best to not show too much of anything on his face. 

If this turned out into another situation where he trusted the wrong person and/or group of people…

The spider-sense wasn’t reacting any worse than it did with the other vigilantes, though. That had to count for something. Still, that wasn’t enough to ease his anxiety.

“Robin!” a voice shouted before Peter got a chance to form an answer. The voice was a little familiar, and when Peter looked he saw the same vigilante from his very first night here, Red Robin, coming their way. “Back off, you know Nightwing already explained why he brought him and his friend to the Batcave.”

Robin raised his chin. “He is a civilian–.”

“Yeah, a harmless one. Take a chill pill, brat. Go see if Agent A needs help cleaning up anything like you’re supposed to be doing.” Red Robin looked at Peter – well, he assumed he did, it was actually kind of hard to tell with the all white lenses – as Robin began to walk off with an unhappy ‘tt,’ and sighed. “Sorry about him. He can get…protective, I think would be the right word.”

Peter just blinked. “That’s Robin?” he asked.

Red Robin tilted his head to the side a little. “Yes. Why?”

“I thought he was supposed be a human version of the traffic light? Is he in his emo phase, or something?”

That startled a surprised yet laugh from Red Robin, and apparently he said it loud enough for Robin to hear because the young vigilante abruptly turned and shouted, “I am not in my emo phase!”

Peter held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it in, like, a rude way! Being emo isn’t a bad thing.”

“Tt. Whatever. Like I said, I am not in my emo phase.”

“Oh, man, I need to text the others this,” Red Robin said as he grinned mischievously. He pulled out a phone from…somewhere.

Peter, no longer with a slightly hostile and protective Robin blocking his way, started his walk back to Teresa and Nightwing again. Red Robin followed, still typing away.

“Hey, brat, do you even know what an emo phase is?” Red Robin called after the younger vigilante.

“Yes,” Robin bit out. 

Red Robin chuckled. A second later, phone now gone, he said to Peter, “Hey. By the way, it’s good to see you survived Gotham. I’m actually kind of shocked you stayed here.”

Peter smiled a little and shrugged, somewhat surprised the vigilante remembered him. “Don’t know where I’d go if I did leave,” he admitted. “I don’t remember if I said it, but thanks for showing me the shelter that night. It was nice while it lasted.”

“You’re welcome.” The vigilante returned the small smile, though it was short lived as he became more serious. “We can help you find another place to stay tonight, if you want us to.”

“No CPS?” he asked, more for Teresa than himself.

“Of course not. We’re vigilantes, dude, we don’t exactly do things by the law.” The corners of Red Robin’s mouth twitched downwards, and looked away. “That made it sound like we’re the bad guys, actually,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry, I get it.” Red Robin looked back at him, and Peter panicked. “I- I mean! I’m not… Not that I’m a vigilante – because I’m not! Why would I be?” He chuckled, wincing a little as it came out nervous. “Just, I mean, um, yeah, vigilantes aren’t, like, exactly legal. Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

At this point they both stopped walking, and Red Robin was turned to face him fully. The expression he had betrayed nothing, giving Peter no idea if he believed his, admittedly, awful lie or not.

There was a moment of silence. Red Robin opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it.

Peter smiled a somewhat forced grin. “Right! Great talk, bye.” He turned and began walking again, though with how fast he did it, it pulled at his bruised ribs – and the burns on his back, and the stitches in his side, and he put too much pressure on his hurt leg. The pain made him wince, but he ignored it. As long as he didn’t pull any of the stitches he had it’s be fine. 

Red Robin was quick to hurry to his side. “Hey, slow down. You’re injured. There’s no need to rush, take your time.”

Annoyance flared within him. He understood where they came from – he did – but he wasn’t fragile. He didn’t need to be cautioned to be careful. Pushing that annoyance aside though, he reminded himself that Red Robin and the others believed he was just a regular teenager with no powers and therefore more susceptible to injuries and death via explosions. 

Still, that didn’t stop him from muttering, “Man, I’m starting to think some of you have bird-themed names because you’re all a bunch of mother hens.”

“Excuse us for being worried about you after getting nearly blown up.”

Peter stayed quiet and continued walking over to where he knew Nightwing and Teresa were – a spare and empty desk on a lower level in the cave. All the while Red Robin stuck close to make sure he didn’t need help.

First Nightwing got freaked out over a bullet graze, and now Red Robin was worried for him, too.

Seriously. Mother hens.

As they got closer, Peter spotted a large, black shape. He was quick to realize that the said large, black shape was a human – Batman. He and Nightwing spoke to each other at the unused desk, and it looked serious. Teresa wasn’t anywhere in sight and that put him on edge. Neither was Agent A, and Peter was surprised by the amount of disappointment that brought on. 

The old man was nice, okay? And he made some seriously good hot chocolate.

“—brought two civilians back to the cave,” Peter’s hearing picked up what Batman said as they got closer. His voice was deep and gravelly; it was somehow both surprising and unsurprising at the same time. “What we’re you thinking?”

“I was thinking that two kids needed some help, B,” Nightwing shot back. “I know your upset, and I know Robin explained his own theory on your way here, but I don’t think we have much to worry about other than the obvious. You saw the results. There’s only a handful of options this could be.”

Batman was quiet for all of two seconds before he said, “They are just kids. You’re right. I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. I just worry.”

“I know you do. But let me handle this, okay? Please.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation, of which Peter understood none of whatsoever, ended there.

“Where’s Teresa?” Peter asked the moment he wouldn’t have to raise his voice too much to ask. He eyed the desk and a rolling chair she had been sitting in when Agent A showed him the showers. An opened deck of cards laid forgotten on the surface. 

When he looked back at the vigilantes, he was momentarily taken back by how much of an imposing figure Batman was. Tall and buff as Red Hood, if not more so, and the pointy things on his head that Peter assumed were ears and the large cape, just added to it.

Batman turned just as Nightwing said, “She went to help Agent A clean the medbay,” but stilled when he saw Peter.

Peter, slightly uncomfortable, shifted when Batman continued to just stare. “What? Do I still have dry blood or dirt on me somewhere? I literally just took a shower.” He searched for any missing spots he might’ve missed and patted his face, but saw and felt nothing.

“No,” said Batman. “You just look like someone I know. It…surprised me.”

“Oh.”

Batman merely hummed, and said nothing else of that topic, instead switching to ask, “Do you need anything? Nightwing explained to us what happened back in the city.”

He shook his head. “No, sir. Um… Agent A bandaged me up pretty well, so I’m good. But, uh, I was wondering when we could leave? That’s– Not that I don’t like it here, because I do, there’s some seriously cool stuff in here like that t-rex and the equipment I saw in your lab looks freakin’ awesome, but I just– we can’t stay here forever. But for obvious reasons we don’t exactly have a place to stay, and Teresa doesn’t want to the Child Services involved, and like I said this place cool but I don’t want us to overstay our welcome–.”

“Oh, my God, Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe,” Nightwing instructed with a little laugh.

Peter nodded rapidly and sucked in a breath of air. The action tugged on his bruised ribs, eliciting a small wince from him, but otherwise he ignored it. “Good idea.”

“Wow, you could probably give a speedster a run for their money,” joked Red Robin.

He awkwardly laughed. “Heh. Doubt it.”

“You won’t be overstaying your welcome, no matter what,” Batman said, and it was only a little reassuring. “Nightwing brought you here to get help. Figuring out a place for you and your friend to stay at is included.”

Again, he nodded, slower this time. “Okay. Okay, cool. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Peter.” A ghost of a smile crossed over the bottom portion of his face. It was gone as quick as it came, though. “Before we get to that, though, I would like to ask you a question related to the explosions that happened.”

“Shoot.”

“A few of the tenants in the apartments said they were helped by someone with the alias ‘Spider-Man’. Did you run into him, too?”

…Ah, shit. Would it be suspicious if he said no?

“I… Don’t think so?” Peter said, unsure. He shrugged. “I ran in to help. I didn’t see anyone.”

They all frowned, ranging from worried to confused.

“If you didn’t see anyone, you should’ve had time to get out before the second explosion,” Red Robin said.

Peter nodded. “Right. Yeah. I, uh…” He paused and glanced at his shoes as he tried to come up with a lie. “I got trapped,” he finally said.

The atmosphere got weirdly tense with that. Peter looked at what he could see of their expressions, but they didn’t give anything away other than their still postures.

“I wasn’t too close to the explosion, I don’t think,” he said. “Obviously. I mean, I’d probably be worse off if I was.”

Red Robin recovered first. “Well, we’re happy you’re alright. Right, guys?”

That jolted the other two vigilantes into speaking and moving again.

Batman nodded, though he was obviously still tense. “Of course.”

“Yeah,” Nightwing agreed. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, then clapped his hands together and smiled. “Alright! So, let’s figure out somewhere for you and Teresa to stay, how does that sound? B can go brood about the mystery spider elsewhere.”

Without a word, Batman turned and left.

+++

Barbara was exhausted.

Even with four cups of coffee in her system, she was ready to get in bed and stay there. Finally in her own apartment rather than the Watchtower, that was her exact plan. She had the following day off from working at the library, courtesy of a co-worker needing an extra shift for more money; Barbara offered up her hours without question after making sure it was okay with her boss and manager.

And after tonight, she was so looking forward to the extra bit of sleep.

It wasn’t that tonight was hard, it was just a lot. Distracting Bruce and the others so none of them would immediately go after Dick who stole the batmobile was tedious. Everyone became suspicious and hounded her for answers immediately. Her only response was to guide them through unnecessarily complicated wild goose chases for petty crimes across the city. It was honestly quite amusing.

Of course there were more serious crimes, too. Those popped up more as the night went on, especially after Bruce and Damian and Tim went back to the Cave. It was like the criminals knew Batman had left and decided to do their worst.

Not to mention the woman she’s looking for for Dick was close to impossible to find. Seriously, she couldn’t find a woman using the alias ‘Elizabeth Reilly’ anywhere, and it was beginning to piss her off.

Barbara shook those those thoughts away. She could think about that later, when she was more well rested.

It was time to get ready for bed. It was time for some peace and quiet. It was time for sleep–

A few knocks wrapped on her door.

Barbara halted her way to her room. She eyed her apartment door warily. When a couple more knocks sounded, she made her way to the door, grabbed the baseball bat that rested nearby, and cracked her door open. 

“Yes?” she greeted the people on the other side. A balding middle aged white man with his hair cut close to his scalp, and a middle aged Asian woman with straight black hair. Both wore serious expressions and suits, and Barbara had no doubt both of them had guns hidden somewhere on their persons. In the woman’s hands, though, was a manila folder, held in a way that Barbara couldn’t see what it was labeled as.

“Barbara Gordon?” the man questioned.

Her brows knitted together. Hidden behind the door, her grip tightened on the baseball bat. “That’s me, yes. May I ask why you’re at my apartment at four in the morning?”

The man smiled apologetically. “Forgive us for being here so late. But it’s in all of our best interests that we do this as soon as possible. I’m Phil Coulson, and this my partner Melinda May. We’re agents in the Department of Extranormal Operations.”

Barbara blinked her surprised. “The DEO,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Agent May said. “We got wind of you searching for one of our agents using an old alias of hers.” She held held out the file folder to Barbara. “We have the information you want.”

Slowly, Barbara took the folder. She glanced at it before looking back at the agents. “Is there a catch to this?”

“Only one,” Agent Coulson admitted. “We would just like to know why you’re looking for her.”

She studied them. Neither Coulson nor May looked like they had any bad ulterior motives. Coulson looked nice enough, and even though May looked like she could beat up a guy in two seconds flat even for her short size, there was an air of genuineness that couldn’t be faked.

“That’s fair. Okay,” Barbara said, and wheeled back to open the door wider and let the agents in. “Come on in. Would either of you like coffee? I feel like this is going to take a while.”

Coulson smiled as they stepped in. “That would be great, actually.”

“Yes,” May agreed. “Thank you, Oracle.”

Barbara stilled. The door shut. “Excuse me?” Her green eyes flitted back and forth between the two agents. “What did you just call me?”

“Oracle,” said May, like she was daring Barbara to deny it.

“That’s what we’ve come to the conclusion of,” Coulson said. “A regular person wouldn’t be searching for a deceased DEO agent’s alias. The firewall that our team’s hacker ran into on your computer confirmed it for us. We told her not to try and get through it. It would have given away the element of surprise.” He smiled. It wasn’t malicious or mean; quite the opposite actually.

…Fuck.

Well. There went her chance at sleeping for once.

Chapter Text

Much to Peter’s dismay, he and Teresa stayed the rest of the night in the Batcave. He didn’t want to, but agreeing was the best choice to make. Though, with Agent A and basically all of them being worried about his concussion and other injuries, it didn’t feel much like one.

The following morning, after an unknown amount of time, Peter woke up to complete silence. It was a vast difference from the night before, where the bats (both the animals and the vigilantes) were wide awake and moving around.

Peter rubbed at his eyes as he woke up more. As he did, he noticed a slight pressure on his back. Trying not to move too much in his half curled up position on his side, Peter looked over his shoulder, surprised to see Teresa fast asleep in the same position he’s in, but facing in the opposite direction. He tried to wrack his brain of why Teresa wasn’t in the bed she claimed when they went to bed for the night, and came up with an extremely faint memory of being woken up for a split second and someone whispering about something he couldn’t remember.

Logic told him that she had a nightmare and sought him out for comfort. He frowned, now a little concerned for her, and squinted sleepily at the little bit of Teresa’s face he could make out from underneath her bird’s nest of hair in the dark. 

There was no immediate sign of discomfort from her, so Peter let his head fall back into his pillow with a quiet grunt as his concern drifted away.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of letting his eyes shut and going back to sleep, but as the seconds ticked by, he felt himself become more and more alert, and knew that if he tried it would be a futile attempt. Peter laid there for another few minutes, slowly waking up and honestly thinking of nothing up until he noticed that he was in much less pain than before.

He could tell his concussion was gone. His ribs still ached but not as badly, same with the various burns and other injuries he had acquired. Nothing immediately flared in pain when he moved, either.

Minutes passed by, and Peter stayed in the bed just because he could. This wasn’t the homeless shelter, where at some point the volunteers needed to do a daily change of sheets. Or where another homeless person might try to sneakily steal his belongings. This was the Batcave, a well known vigilante’s hideout, and a place where Peter could relax a little. Not much, but a little.

Eventually he got up, turning on a nearby lamp and spotting the pile of folded clothes on a cleared off rolling tray as he did. It didn’t take him long to realize that they were his and Teresa’s clothes they came here in – clothes they allowed Agent A to take for a wash right before Nightwing finally talked them both into sleeping for the night.

Peter grabbed his clothes – and the clean pair of pants in his backpack, since his others got trashed because they had a burn hole in one leg – and was about to slip out to go to the bathroom to change when Teresa shifted on the bed. He froze, and watched her with wide eyes.

Complete silence, and then, “–eter?” She lifted one hand, probably to rub at her eyes but instead smacked herself.

Peter snorted.

Teresa groaned and muttered something incomprehensible.

He walked back over, picking up a blanket that had fallen off during the night, and covered Teresa with it using one hand. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

She mumbled a protest. “Wha’time izzit?”

“I dunno, early enough you can sleep more,” he guessed.

One blue eye squinted at him blearily through a curtain of hair, clearing fighting off sleep. He subconsciously moved the hair from out of her face for her, only really realizing he did it when the frown her lips were rigged into was visible. “Y’goin’?” she asked.

It took a moment for Peter to understand. “Yeah.” Then added, “But I’ll be back,” when her frown deepened.

Those words didn’t reassure her. Even in her half asleep state, anxiety showed through. Peter didn’t know why – maybe it had something to do with the nightmare she had.

He set his pile of clothes on the end of the bed, and crouched down. Because of how high the bed was raised, he ended up being a little below her eye level. One hand went to her shoulder as an attempt to comfort. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I just need to change clothes and go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

“Promise?”

He gives her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I promise.”

That made her relax once again. Her eyes fluttered shut, and he fiddled with the blankets until they covered her shoulders as he stood.

“Go back to sleep, T.”

+++

Fifteen minutes later, Peter was back in their now-shared medbay room wearing clean clothes and bandages. The Wonder Woman hoodie was clean now, too, and even the hole from the bullet had been stitched up. 

Now, he sat crisscross on the bed, his notebook in front of him as Teresa slept beside him. He studied what he had about Gotham’s vigilantes, worked on new semantics for less obvious web-shooters, wrote down what he might need for making more webs, and continued to figure out a new suit design.

Maybe an hour later, Teresa began to wake up. Peter was quick to flip to a different page to work on something not Spider-Man related.

Teresa sat up and promptly leaned against Peter’s left arm.

It surprised him, but he didn’t shake her off. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she mumbled. She squinted at the notebook. “What’re you doing?”

He paused his writing and glanced at the page. Two lists stared back at him: one for where he could go within Gotham, the second one for places he could go outside of Gotham. With Teresa.

“Places and options for us to go to once we leave here,” he told her. “I think someone told me about another shelter for Martha’s House, but we could also leave Gotham. If not now, then eventually.”

There was a beat of silence. “…Together?”

“If you want,” he said, ignoring the part of himself that wanted to say no. Teresa was just a kid, and he may have shitty luck when it came to the people he cared for, but it felt wrong to ignore the responsibility of at least trying to keep her safe, or to get her to a place where she could live like a normal pre-teen.

With a slight frown, he scribbled out Star City and Central City. They may be safer, but they were too far away right now. Neither of them had the means to get there.

“I…” He hesitated a little as he thought of what to say, “I just don’t want to be the reason you get hurt. I have shitty luck like that.”

“Kinda wanna say I don’t believe you, but I think both of us nearly getting blown up proves that you do,” she mumbled. “Sorry I just kinda assumed you’d stay with me.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “Sorry I hurt you when I said I wouldn’t stay.”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It’s alright.”

It was quiet for a few moments, where Peter tried to think of places within this city to stay with his limited knowledge that might be safe, but he was coming up short. The abandoned theater was always an option, if nothing else.

“There’s not many people you can trust on the streets,” she said quietly. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought I could trust you, even though we just met. And trust for me usually also means people stick together.”

His brows furrowed a little as he looked at her. “Putting your trust in the wrong people is…dangerous, I know. And in a place like Gotham even more so, but I’m glad you felt like you could trust me. You still can. I promise. Okay?”

She nodded, smiling a little. “Yeah, okay. You can trust me, too.”

He smiled back. “Awesome.”

Silence blanketed them once again for a few minutes, up until Teresa decided to speak again.

“Fawcett City’s nice. They’ve got their own superhero named Captain Marvel – he’s pretty cool.”

Peter blinked out of his stupor where he was doodling on the side of the page, and looked at her. “Captain Marvel?” he asked curiously. Maybe this one is somehow similar to his Captain Marvel, Carol Danvers, who he met briefly on the battlefield when Thanos attacked. Or not – at this point he wouldn’t be too surprised if that was the case.

Teresa nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. There’s actually a team, I think? Maybe, I’m not sure.”

Peter hummed, intrigued. If this universe’s Captain Marvel was part of a team, then there were sure as hell a lot more teams and heroes here than there were back home. It was almost daunting to think about.

He put question mark by Fawcett City – both to remind him to look up things about Captain Marvel, and to see what the city itself was like.

“You know a lot about heroes,” he said absentmindedly.

She shrugged, and he saw her smile out of the corner of he his eye. “They’re cool, and badass. And a lot of them just really care about the world, y’know? So many people talk about how humanity sucks these days and we’re all doomed, but superheroes and vigilantes don’t. A lot of them see the best in everyone, or at least believe there’s still good to fight for.” She shrugged again. “I dunno, I guess I look up to a lot of them because of it.”

Peter smiled. She wasn’t talking about him, but it felt nice that for once to listen to someone say something good about heroes and vigilantes. Even back home, a lot of people dunked on the Avengers, especially after the Accords happened. “That’s a good reason to look up to them,” he said.

She returned the smile. “That’s what my mom used to say. I think it surprised her at first.” Teresa sat up and stretched, then pushed some strands of hair away that had fallen in her face.

“Why would it surprise her?” Peter asked. “Did she not like them?”

She snorted a little, amused. “Oh, no, she did. She worked for an organization that sometimes works with different heroes when they need to for missions. I think she thought that I’d get tired of superheroes and vigilantes because of that, but it actually fueled my love for them more.”

Peter’s smile grew a little. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I mean, they’re so awesome, right? Who could get tired of them? They do all these amazing things!”

“Right?” She nodded her head rapidly in agreement, now fully awake and grinning. “Wonder Woman is bulletproof! Sue Storm from the new team, Fantastic Four, can turn invisible. How cool is that? And– and that’s not getting into the ones who don’t have powers b it still fight. Like Batman, and everyone in Gotham, and Green Arrow! And the Lanterns are so cool – I mean, they regularly deal with aliens! Aliens, Peter.”

Peter grinned at her enthusiasm, and at how much it brought on the feeling of familiarity. It was like talking to Ned again about the Avengers, except Peter was unable to properly input anything because he knew hardly anything about these heroes. He turned back to his notebook and doodled a spider in the top corner.

“Do you have a favorite?” he asked.

Teresa paused her rambling to think. She shifted around until her chin rested on one knee, arms loosely wrapped around her leg. “Nightwing,” she finally said.

Peter blinked, surprised. He thought back to the night before. Because of the concussion everything was fuzzy, but he did distinctly remember Teresa being skittish and nervous around Nightwing. And not in a way that immediately gave away hero-worship.

She noticed his expression, whatever it was, and seemingly shrunk in on herself. “I– he… He’s, uh, cool,” she said lamely.

He nodded in agreement. Even though he literally just met the guy and knew next to nothing about him, he did seem cool. And he was nice, too. The type of nice that almost reminded him of Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Or, well, that’s what he gathered from his concussed memories.

“He’s mostly in the other city, though, right?” he asked, mentally shaking away those previous thoughts before they got the chance to delve into emotional territory.

“Yeah, Blüdhaven,” said Teresa. Then added, “Y’know, I was trying to get there the other day. I was at the bus station and everything, but then those stupid cops showed up.” Her expression twisted into a small scowl. “I wasn’t even doing anything. I even bought a ticket with everything I had left.”

He winced sympathetically, and then grimaced at remembering how those same cops tried to arrest him at that magazine stand. “Geez. That’s just… Why would they even do that?”

Her shoulders moved in a shrug. “Who knows? A lot of the cops here are dirty pigs. Older street kids said it’s not uncommon for them to be the ones to sell people, at any ages, off to different kinds of trafficking rings.”

“That’s terrible. Man, this city…”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Peter started after taking in a deep, dramatic breath and letting it out, and ran a hand in through his hair, “that brought the mood down.” 

Teresa snorted a small laugh, then smiled guiltily. “Sorry.” She laughed again when her eyes caught sight of his hair – whatever it was doing since he had yet to tame it from the morning bedhead. As she climbed out of the bed she said, teasing, “You look like Einstein.”

Peter made a face. “…I guess that’s better than being him,” he said without thinking. Then, as an after thought, attempted to flatten his hair without looking.

“What? Why?” Teresa questioned absentmindedly as she inspected her clothes that Agent A had washed.

“I just…don’t– well.” He faltered as he tried to explain without really explaining. Then, he decided that he didn’t have to explain anything, and just said, “No reason.” It was hardly a good lie, and he knew Teresa didn’t buy it, but he didn’t care.

Luckily, she just looked at him with a raised skeptical brow for barely a second before shrugging. “Okay. I’m gonna get out of these clothes, now. Please don’t somehow keel over and die while I’m gone.”

Peter chuckled. “I’ll try my best.”

With that, Teresa left the room with her clothes bundled in her arms.

It made the silence of the cave noticeable, right then. Without either of them talking, it was both eerie, and peaceful. The latter, because since he lived in a city for his entire life, constant sounds were just…a part of life. Especially with his enhanced hearing. The former, because of the exact same reason. Sure there were things he could hear if he strained his ears hard enough – like water dripping from a stalagmite and bats shifting in their sleep – but not much. A vast difference from what he’s used to, and it was a struggle to decipher if he liked it or not.

Either way, it was a bit of relief to eventually hear someone walking about the cave. Teresa moved from the medbay cot she originally started out in and to the bathroom, but there was another person. Peter didn’t pay much attention, because it was definitely one of the many vigilantes here, and focused back on his notebook.

Or, he tried to.

“Peter!”

Teresa’s voice harshly cut through the cave’s silence, and in an instant he was out of the bed and the medbay entirely. He skidded to a stop at a railing, just barely holding back from jumping down to the same walkway level Teresa was on. He immediately noticed the hurt and utter betrayal on her face, before finally seeing that Nightwing stood at the computers, phone pressed to his ear. The eyes of his mask were wide with an emotion Peter was unable to identify.

Before Peter could ask, Teresa said, motioning to Nightwing, “He’s on the phone with some agents.”

Peter glared at the other vigilante, anger swelling in his chest.

“You called the fucking CPS?”

Chapter Text

Peter was pissed.

If he was Peter from a few years ago, he might not be so quick to anger and conclusions and would give the supposedly trustworthy vigilante the benefit of the doubt. Hell, even a year ago he would have done that. But this wasn’t then – this was now. And currently, Peter of the present day was sick and tired of believing that he could put even a tiny amount of trust into someone, only for it to backfire spectacularly. 

As Nightwing spoke quietly yet tensely into the phone – “I’m going to have to call you back,” followed by a tinny voice cut off mid-word when the call ended – Peter hurried over to Teresa. He stood in front of her protectively, even though he probably didn’t need to. Nightwing may have lied about not calling the CPS, but he wasn’t dangerous to them. Right now, anyway.

“How could you?” he seethed. “You promised you wouldn’t call them!”

“I did,” Nightwing agreed, calm, and went to speak again but Peter beat him to it.

“She trusted you,” he snapped.

Nightwing stepped forward slowly. “I know. But I can explain–.”

“No. No, forget it.” Peter turned a little to the side and grabbed Teresa’s shoulder, then gently pushed her in front of him and started walking away from Nightway. “Forget it,” he repeated. “We’re leaving.”

Behind them, Nightwing followed, moving at a little bit quicker pace than before. “Peter, Teresa – wait. This is just a misunderstanding. Let me–.”

Peter’s spider-sense flared. Immediately, he spun around and grabbed whatever was coming for him, moving it away.

Then he froze, as did Nightwing and Teresa, the former of the two’s wrist now gripped tightly by Peter.

Peter almost ripped his hand away as fast he had grabbed the vigilante, but stopped himself. If he did that then part of the suit would come off because of his sticky-ness. He did his best to relax his grip – which he knew was stringer than it should be, but if it hurt then Nightwing didn’t visibly react – but still didn’t let go.

“What?” Peter bit out when no one sooke.

Nightwing held up his other hand placatingly. “…I don’t want you two to leave just yet,” he spoke slowly, cautiously. “This is all just a misunderstanding, and I will explain if you let me. If not, I can take you back into the city myself if you’re really ready to leave. Same thing goes for if you want to leave after I explain, if you let me. I promise.”

There was a beat of silence, where it was just Peter staring at Nightwing with an angered glared, and Nightwing simply staring back. There was nothing in his expression that gave away to the fact he was lying, if he was.

His spider-sense was quiet, though, despite the anxiety and anger coursing through him. Other than the spike it did a minute before, it wasn’t warning Peter of anything.

Finally, Peter dropped his wrist. “Fine.” He pointed at Nightwing and stepped closer. “But if this is some sort of trick…”

“It’s not,” Nightwing promised. “Let’s sit down, okay? This might end up taking a while, and I brought some toast and jelly Agent A put together if you two want breakfast.”

He motioned to one of the desks that, sure enough, had freshly toasted bread and a couple jars of jelly on a tray. For something so simple they smelled amazing and looked it, too, and Peter was sort of surprised that he didn’t notice it sooner.

As Nightwing moved over to the desk, Peter stayed in his spot. Teresa stepped out from behind him and went to follow, only to stop after a couple of steps. She looked at Nightwing, then at Peter.

“Do you trust him?” she asked. When he didn’t answer right away, she changed the question to, “Do you think we should trust him?”

Peter didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to say no, but he also wanted to say yes. He wanted to leave and high tail it out of there with Teresa no matter the situation, but also maybe stay and hear Nightwing out. He wanted someone he knew he could trust, someone who would never trick him, but that was impossible. The few people he knew he trusted without a doubt were in another universe and/or dead.

He closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. He had slept well but he was still tired, and the anger had yet to go away. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice quiet. Then, “Can you go get my backpack and notebook for me?”

If she was confused by the sudden question, she didn’t show it. Just nodded and walked off.

While she was gone, Peter drifted closer to the desk, but didn’t go all the way. He crossed his arms and looked around the cave, unsurprised that it wasn’t any different from last night. He wished something was, if only so he had something to take his mind away from the tense atmosphere for a moment.

Luckily, Teresa came back soon enough. She handed him his backpack, and one prank inside showed him his closed notebook and the pen stuck into the looped rings. “You doodle a lot of spiders, man,” she said.

Something about her tone made him look back at her as he zipped the backpack up. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess so.”

“You like spiders?” Nightwing butted in and asked.

“No.”

An awkward beat of silence followed.

Teresa moved to the tray of toast and jelly and fixed her self a slice.

“…Okay.” Nightwing sat down in a chair nearby. “Well, then why do you doodle them?”

Peter’s lips formed into a thin line. “I don’t know. Why were you on the phone with some agents?”

“Because I was trying to find answers,” he said without hesitating, ignoring the heat in Peter’s tone.

That was the vaguest answer to a question Peter had ever gotten. Still, he moved closer and sat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk, and held his backpack to his chest. Teresa sat in another one, crisscross apple sauce, and ate her toast.

“Answers about what?” Peter couldn’t help but ask.

“About you two. I wasn’t on the phone with the CPS, but with the DEO – the Department of Extranormal Operations. If you don’t know, it’s a government organization that works to protect the world from all kinds of threats. Sometimes they team up with superheroes and vigilantes. It’s not wildly known to regular civilians, but they don’t try to hide themselves too much, either.”

Panic started to claw up Peter’s throat. Shit, did they figure him out already? His arms tightened around the backpack.

“But that’s not the important thing here,” Nightwing said, but the panic in Peter didn’t go away. “The thing is, you two look a lot like someone I know. Too much for it to be a coincidence. I know she worked for the DEO when I met her, but I never knew her real name. I was talking their agents seeing if they knew anything about her, or even you guys. We also took some DNA samples from you both we put it up against mine, because we don’t have a way to get hers.” He paused shorterlu. “You both share around fifty percent of the same DNA with me.”

There was a moment of silence where Peter’s thoughts screeched to a halt, and then immediately picked back up at a rapid pace.

Teresa, who had stopped eating when Nightwing mentioned the DEO, slowly and hesitantly asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means if we actually did a true paternity test, there’s a very high chance that it would come back somewhere in the high ninetieth percentile,” Peter explained. “Not one hundred percent, because for it to be that high, whoever does the test would have to test every single man of the same ethnicity, which would take forever, and holy shit, you’re trying to say you think you’re our dad.”

He didn’t deny it.

Peter was now freaking out. “What? No, oh my God, but– that would…” That would mean Richard Parker, who in this universe was Dick Grayson, was Nightwing, the man and vigilante in front of him. He nervously laughed. “Oh, no, ohmygod.” Not knowing what else to do, he covered his face in his hands.

Mixed emotions coursed through him. Shock at the vigilante’s admission; residual anger from minutes before alongside a bit of anger at that someone just took his DNA (how, Peter didn’t know, but it was probably through his blood and not his hair or something, which was a problem, because he didn’t know how much the spider changed it but it’s a given that it changed something about his blood); anxiety, but that’s nothing knew as of late; happiness, because as much as he was surprised by this and hesitant to even speak to the man, his dad wasn’t dead. Which was also just equally weird too.

He slid down the chair until he was almost off of it, and shielded his face with the backpack, hissing a few swear words under his breath as he gently hit his forehead against it.

“You already knew, didn’t you?”

Peter stopped his freak out momentarily, and let the backpack fall so he could look at Nightwing. It was then he realized the question had been fired at Teresa. Right. She was here, too.

He casted his eyes over to her. She looked surprised, sure, but not shocked.

“…Kinda?” Teresa said, expression growing sheepish and anxious. “I– well, my mom… She never told me out right, but there were hints and things that I didn’t really put together until a little bit before she died. She told me that if I ever found myself in Gotham or Blüdhaven, to not give anyone my full name unless the person was Nightwing.” As she talked, she set her toast on the desk, and nervously picked at the side seam of her pants. “Didn’t make sense until I remembered she only used my middle name, Elizabeth, once as an alias in a story she told me.”

“Elizabeth,” repeated Nightwing. “That’s what you were going to say last night, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

Peter thought back to when they met Nightwing. It was honestly a blur of accumulating pain and exhaustion with the adrenaline going away, but he did think he remembered Teresa going to say something else after she said her first name.

“Well,” Nightwing began and smiled, “how about we start over then.” He shifted the chair so he could reach Teresa better, and stuck out his hand with that smile still in place. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Nightwing. What’s your name?”

Teresa stared, dumbfounded, before stuttering out, “Uh, I… I’m Teresa. Teresa Elizabeth Fitzpatrick.” She then shook his hand. Peter watched as she tried to suppress a grin, but it took over her face anyway. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Wait. Fitzpatrick?

Before Peter got a chance to think about that, Nightwing said, “Actually…” He paused, visibly thinking whatever he was going to say next over. “I want to show you two my identity. But… I think it would be best if we sorted a few more things out before I do. Is that okay?”

“It’s your identity,” Teresa said. “It’s your choice to tell us or not, not ours.”

He nodded. “That’s true. Still, I think it’s best we talk more before I remove my mask.”

“Did you say Fitzpatrick?” Peter asked, no longer able to hold the question back when the silence began to stretch. He moved so he wasn’t almost sliding off of the chair, sitting straighter instead of at a weird angle. “As in, Mary Fitzpatrick?”

Teresa eyed him suspiciously. “Yes. How do you know that?”

“I… That’s my mom’s name. Her maiden name.”

Her face twisted into confusion, and she turned to face him. “That doesn’t make sense.”

He ran his hands down his face and groaned. “I know,” was all he could say.

“Mom never married,” she continued to tell them. “I don’t– she didn’t have any other kids other than me. She would have said so.”

“That’s something else I wanted to bring up,” Nightwing said. “You’re full blooded siblings. Both of you are my kids, but you also share a mom.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Teresa repeated, more insistent than before.

This time, it was Nightwing who said, “I know,” though it was in a much more calm tone. “It doesn’t. To get straight to the point, only one of you should exist. I met Elizabeth Reilly – well, Mary Fitzpatrick,” he corrected himself, “once around twelve years ago.”

And Peter was obviously not twelve. Sure, he had a bit of a baby face, so he looked somewhat younger than the seventeen years he actually was – but he doubted he could easily pass any younger than fifteen. It was obvious in that moment who exactly should and shouldn’t exist as Richard Parker’s – wait no, Dick Grayson’s kid.

He shifted in the seat, wishing he could just disappear. Some spiders could camouflage, right? Why couldn’t he get something like that? It would be very helpful so he did not have this conversation right now.

Nightwing’s eyebrows rose a little, imploring. “I just want to understand. That’s all. No one’s in trouble.”

Peter didn’t want to explain anything. Or give out too much information. But, unlike what he originally thought when the idea first crossed his mind to go to him for help, his shockingly-alive dad might actually understand a little and be able to help, rather than freak out because he was just a regular civilian.

“Would… Would you believe me if I said I’m from a different universe?” Peter hesitated to ask, wincing sheepishly.

Nightwing didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I would.”

He blanched. “Wait, seriously?” Peter couldn’t help but ask. He sat up straighter, shocked. 

“Of course,” he said, like it was normal. And what did Peter know? It probably was for them.

This universe, he concluded, was weird but also really, really cool.

“So, that’s it? You’re just from another universe?” Nightwing asked.

Peter nodded. “Yeah… I- There was this… Well, some things happened and now I’m here.”

“Was it magic or something else?” Nightwing asked, leaning forward curiously. “I’m asking because if we know how you got here, it might be easier to figure out a way to send you back – not that I don’t want you here,” he hurried to assure. “I would love it if you did stay, but I’m sure you want to go back to your home, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter admitted quietly through a surge of emotions building in his chest. “But I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head. “I just can’t.”

Telling them the truth – telling them everything – was tempting, very much so, but to do it, he would have to explain that he’s Spider-Man. And that’s just not something Peter could do right now. Even the mere thought of revealing his identity had an air of anxiety around it that it didn’t have before, so he kept that information to himself.

Nightwing didn’t press further, thankfully. “Alright. Just know you can talk to me about it at any time you’re ready to, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

There was a low chance of that actually happening, but okay.

Nightwing breathed in deeply and let it out. As he ran a hand through his hair he said, “One last thing: I’m going to take off my mask now. I have a feeling Peter already knows, because of the different universe thing, but once you know my identity it will be easy to make connections about who the others are. I just ask that you keep them all a secret. Please.”

“We will,” Peter promised.

Teresa nodded along. “Yeah. But… Shouldn’t they get to tell us their identities themselves, too?”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. We talked about this last night, and right before I came down here. The others knew this was most likely going to happen, and they’re okay with it.”

And the next thing Peter knew, he was staring at Richard Parker’s face once again. Except, he couldn’t run off this time.

It was less of a shock than before, but he had still yet to fully connect that Nightwing = Dick = Richard = his dad, so a jolt of surprise still went through him.

“Oh, sweet, sweet relief,” the man said and tossed the mask onto the desk. He rubbed at the skin around his eyes gently. “The adhesive was starting to agitate my skin… Now, as much as I would love to sit and talk to you both, I do have to call back Oracle and the DEO agents. If neither of you need to talk to me about anything else, I can go ahead bring Agent A down to take up upstairs instead of having you two stay here any longer.”

“That’s fi–.”

“Actually,” Teresa started, accidentally interrupting Peter. She hesitated. “Um… Can I– Would it be weird if I asked for a hug?”

Richard smiled – a soft thing that Peter had to look away from, because his emotional state wasn’t that great and he didn’t trust himself not to randomly start tearing up at the unfortunately unfamiliar sight. “Not at all.”

Peter busied himself as they hugged by standing and checking to see that his notebook was still in his bag. And, yep. It was. Along with everything else, ruined Spidey mask included. He frowned at it.

Damn. It wasn’t going to be easy getting the things he needed for a new suit.

He sighed, resigned himself to somehow figuring out how to do that without gaining the attention of a bunch of vigilantes, and walked over to Agent A when he spotted him, before either Teresa or their technically shared dad could drag him into the emotional hug session. He didn’t want that right now.

Nothing of what just happened felt real, per se, and he didn’t want the reality of everything to come crashing down during a hug, of all things.

Agent A didn’t have the masquerade mask on anymore. He introduced himself as Alfred Pennyworth, and then went on to offer to check on Peter’s injuries before they left the cave.

Peter shook his head. “Er, uh- thank you, but I already redid the bandages.”

Mr. Pennyworth raised an eyebrow. “By yourself?”

…Was that a trick question? It felt like a trick question. “Um. Teresa helped,” he lied.

“Helped with what?” she questioned as she came over. The edge of her eyes were pink, but otherwise she looked okay. Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw Richard already on the phone.

“Clean bandages for me,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t deny it. He sent her what he hoped was a subtle look of just go with it.

Teresa’s brows furrowed before smoothing out just as quickly. She smiled and nodded. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I did.”

Mr. Pennyworth hummed. “I see.” He turned on his heels, then, and motioned for them to follow as he began to walk. “Come along, now. I’m sure you are both eager to finally leave the cave.”

“Yeah. It’s so cold down here – please tell me it’s warmer where we’re going, Mr. Pennyworth,” Peter said. He’s been ignoring the cold of the cave as best as he could, but now that they were about to leave it, it was exceptionally hard to do so.

“It is. We have a fire place or two to use if you need one. And please, you may call me Alfred. No need for such formalities.”

“A fire place or two?” Teresa asked in surprise. “What’s above the cave, Alfred?”

“A manor,” he replied after a beat.

Peter blinked. “A what?”

Chapter Text

Okay hello hi!!! Like the title of this ‘chapter’ says, it’s not one lol. This is just an author’s note, I’m sorry :(

But it’s only because I want to tell you guys that one is coming. Usually I don’t do things like this, but because MIOJTF is quite literally my most popular fic ever, I decided to give you guys a little update on how it’s coming/why I haven’t updated

At first I really was just going to edit the ages of the Batfam & then finish the chapter & update, but that didn’t happen. First it was because I just needed a break, and so I planned to update in March and even wrote a teeny bit, but then my anxiety and mental health in general said a collective “fuck you” and it’s been the worst it ever has been these past couple of months. Like it’s caused my appetite to basically vanish, which is far from a good thing lmao. I just haven’t been having a good time.

But I’m starting to get the help I need, and I did manage to write a decent amount today (decent by my standards – it was an entire convo! i now have a scene and a half of the next chapter done lol), so I’m hoping I will be able to update soon!

And I say “soon” because LoZ: Tears of the Kingdom comes out in two weeks, and once I get my hands on that, I will not be writing for another month, at the least. And I’ll feel bad if I leave y’all hanging for another month or so, so I am going to do my damn best to get a chapter out before then lol

Seriously tho thank you guys for being patient. I know it’s not fun waiting, and this author’s note is probably a major disappointment, but still. Thank you for reading and being patient with me lol I appreciate it a lot :)

Anyway! That’s all lmao

Chapter Text

Dick couldn’t help but rub at his forehead, a bit stressed from the situation. That was not how he wanted things to go this morning, but on the bright side, at least he got information that made this entire thing make some sense. 

The DNA tests showing both were biologically his nearly made him freak out on the spot. Their focus had been on Peter potentially being his kid, not Teresa as well.

One thing was for certain, though: Damian’s clone theory could be scrapped.

As Peter and Teresa went to the main floor of the Manor with Alfred, he called back Barbara and the DEO Agents.

“Hey, you’re on speaker. What happened?” she asked when she answered. “Is everything alright? When Agent Coulson told me you hung up so suddenly, it got us worried.”

“Everything’s fine, now,” he said. Quite honestly, when he realized how angry Peter was, Dick didn’t know if he would be able to calm the situation down, but he still tried.

At that thought, he looked down at his wrist. It ached in a way that told him there was definitely a bruise underneath his Nightwing suit. Peter had a strong grip – inhumanly strong – and with how fast he had turned when Dick tried to reach for him…

“Are you sure?” Agent May questioned, bringing Dick’s mind back to the present. The woman hadn’t spoken much to him before during the previous phone call; just one or two add-ins in between Agent Coulson’s explanation on how they knew Elizabeth Reilly, AKA Mary Fitzpatrick: co-workers of the DEO turned close friends. Her tone then had been straight to the point, factual. Now, it had hardened into what Dick was able to only describe the voice version of Batman’s no nonsense expression during League business. “If Teresa is in danger, we will come and help.”

“No, no one’s in danger,” he was quick to assure. “I didn’t realize the kids were awake, so when Teresa heard me say ‘Agent’ when addressing Agent Coulson, she jumped to the conclusion I was on the phone with CPS. She shouted for Peter and I had to act quickly to explain before things got out of control.”

“Good,” was all Agent May said to that. It almost sounded like a threat; that if anything did happen, Agent May wouldn’t hold back on whoever was to blame.

“I’m guessing that means you got some answers,” Barbara said. “Because I would love to know how both Peter and Teresa exist.”

“Yes, I would like to know, too,” Agent Coulson said. “Mary only had one kid, Nightwing. From what your friend here has explained, both may be hers.”

Dick stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. He didn’t know what Barbara told them – most likely, as little as possible – but they were smart. Even if she didn’t tell them too much, the agents could deduct what was going on based on a few facts. And… Well, they sounded like good people. But they had found out where Oracle lived and subsequently her civilian identity (which was honestly a headache in and of itself, but they couldn’t deal with that right now), and most of all, they’re strangers – and former friends of Mary Fitzpatrick or not, he didn’t know how trustworthy they truly were.

After all, wouldn’t they have taken Teresa in if they were so close to Mary?

“I think it’ll be best if I keep that between myself and the kids,” he eventually said.

“And why is that?” asked Agent May. 

“Trust.”

“Or lack thereof, I’m guessing,” Agent Coulson said. “I get that. I’m not a father in the traditional sense, you could say, but I do have someone I see as my daughter. Daisy. There’s a constant want to keep her safe from the dangers of the world, and in ours, danger could be anywhere in anyone.

“We don’t take it to heart that you don’t trust us. But just know that if you need help with anything, May, the team, and I will be willing to help. Like I said before, Mary was a close friend. We’ll do anything to keep her daughter safe – and son, no matter how that works – if given the chance.”

Dick frowned a little. “I believe that you care a lot about Eliz– Mary and Teresa. But what I don’t get is why you didn’t help Teresa to get out of foster care – or how she ended up in Gotham – considering your apparent friendship with her mother.”

“They actually explained that to me before we called you this morning,” Barbara quickly began, tone somber. “Mary was murdered around two years ago; it’s an unsolved case. She had no living family members, so the next option for Teresa was close family friends.”

“They wouldn’t let us take her in. Being agents of the DEO, our lives are on the line 24/7, or close to it, and they didn’t want to put a kid back with adults with such a dangerous job,” Agent May explained. “We tried to keep track of where she went, but once she got to Gotham, we couldn’t find her at all. That was almost a year ago.”

“And then you caught wind of us looking into Mary,” Dick said, putting two and two together.

“Exactly.”

There was a pause in the conversation.

Something about the situation with Teresa…unsettled Dick. “Kids don’t just disappear from the radar when they enter a city.”

“I know,” said Agent Coulson.

“Nightwing,” Barbara spoke seriously after a beat, “Let me handle this part. If they’re up for staying a little longer, I’ll continue speaking with Agents Coulson and May about Teresa, and try to figure out why they couldn’t find her. You stay focused on the kids getting comfortable and situated – go back to Blüd, even. I’ll call back when I have some answers.”

“O,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Take care of your kids, ‘Wing. I got this part.”

Dick sighed quietly through his nose. He wanted to figure it all out – how to help Peter in this universe that’s new to him, and why Agents Coulson and May lost track of Teresa when she entered Gotham, and how all of this was going to effect Mar’i and Jake – but they needed him more.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, alright.”

“Good. Talk to you later, Nightwing.”

“Yeah. Bye, Oracle.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair as Barbara hung up. His wrist twinged at the movement, and he moved to take his glove off and roll up the sleeve. There was a faint bruise where Peter had grabbed him. That, plus the visible wounds Peter had that were healing much faster than a normal person…

He shook his head.

“One thing at a time, Dick,” he told himself. “One thing at a time…”

+++

For all intents and purposes, Peter knew what a manor was: a large house on an equally large, or larger, piece of land; an estate; basically a mansion. Most of the time, Peter heard them spoken about historically. How sometimes they got made into museums for old and important artifacts rather than kept as homes. They were huge, with tons of space and rooms and two or three floors, at least. 

And let Peter be clear of one thing: knowing about something and seeing that said something with one’s own eyes were two very different things.

Because the manor wasn’t just large, it was gigantic – and fancy. So obviously belonging to someone with a lot of wealth that he immediately felt out of place and like he didn’t belong, as if he was an actual spider and might just be chased out because of it. It was a bit jarring to go from the cold cave of a vigilante’s hideout to the warm home of a rich man and his family.

(It was pretty awesome, though. To have a secret base for nightly vigilantism right under the place you lived? So cool. And kinda genius, and not to mention: convenient as hell. He sort of liked it better than the Avengers’ base, the little bit he saw of it from those few minutes when Mr. Stark first showed him the iron-spider suit. It was just so far upstate – too far from Queens.)

They stepped out of an old grandfather clock that swung open, and into a study/office type room, with hundreds of books lining shelves, and a polished wooden desk covered in home office supplies and picture frames. The floor was wooden, with a large clean, nice rug underneath the desk and chair; Peter avoided stepping on it just so he wouldn’t accidentally get it dirty somehow. That one room alone was the size of the living room and the kitchen together at his apartment with Aunt May, the one they lived in before they had to commander Happy’s. 

The hallways Alfred led them through were long. Pictures – paintings and family photos – lined the walls, and there were small decorative tables here and there with expensive looking vases and whatnot. The wooden frames of doorways and archways and the hallway’s walls were dark and polished, well taken care of, and some were beautifully carved in designs that had to take forever to make.

They eventually made it to the living room – or, a living room. With how big this place seemed to be, there was probably more than one. It was bigger than the home office they first arrived in, but there were still a lot of books – multiple volumes of leather bound, thick and well kept books that looked like they had never been opened a day in their lives but also didn’t have a speck of dust on them – as well as a large TV, a a fireplace, couches and chairs, and a window seat…nook…thing with some pillows and a tuxedo cat curled into a ball as it slept in a sunbeam.

Teresa gasped quietly and immediately made her way over to the feline. She crouched in front of it and held her hand out for the cat to sniff when its head lifted.

Peter drifted over to one of the bookshelves beside the fireplace, curious about what the books were, while Alfred began to start a fire in the fireplace after he told them, sincerely, “Please, make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks,” Peter said for both of them, Teresa too enthralled with the cat to respond. He made his way to the couch closest to the fire place and sat down. It was comfy in all the best ways possible, and within milliseconds he was melting into the cushions, muscles relaxing.

“So, are you really from a different universe?” Teresa asked a moment later. He could hear the hesitance and skepticism in her voice even with his eyes closed.

Peter grunted. “Not talking about that. Too comfy,” he said. “Lucky rich people, spending money on good couches… Is this what heaven is like? It should be. Even my gluteus maximus is relaxed.”

“Okay, Mr. Drama, I did not need to know that.”

“Well unfortunately for you, now you do.”

A beginning of a snicker got cut off. Alfred, right. He’s still here. Still at the fireplace.

Peter opened his eyes and glanced at him, cringing in embarrassment. “What is that cat’s name?” he blurted. “I bet it’s, like, Reginald, or something.”

“That’s a terrible name for a cat,” said Teresa, still next to the animal but no longer petting it.

“The youngest named him Alfred,” Alfred informed them.

They both paused.

“Um. But you’re Alfred,” Peter said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Does that not get confusing?” asked Teresa.

“Not as often as one would think, no.”

They glanced at one another and shrugged.

Peter decided to just chalk it up to rich people weirdness.

Teresa moved on from the topic of Alfred the cat, and asked if they had any other pets. Alfred the person went to say that yes, they did, and Peter intended to listen – they had two dogs! – but he caught sight of a photo on a small desk near the couch, and was immediately distracted.

He moved to the end of the couch to get a better look.

It was a family photo. Well, mostly; Bruce Wayne (whose face was plastered everywhere in Gotham, so Peter knew what the man looked like despite having yet to meet him) and Alfred weren’t there, but there were several people in it. Peter recognized Richard first. He was grinning widely, hugging a young teen to his side who was looking away but smiling lightly.

Next Peter saw Tim Drake-Wayne, the one who had been in a picture from Buzzfeed’s article. He stood behind the other two, holding up bunny ears on the younger one’s head with a smirky grin. A girl – Cass from the park, Peter recognized – did the same behind Nightwing’s head, but stood on her tiptoes to do it, head poking over his shoulder with a mischievous smirk. Then there was a black teen, who stood on the other side of Richard. His eyes were casted to the side at Cass, and he was smiling as well but obviously holding back laughter. Finally there was another guy: black hair with a white streak – a candid of him with a half smile; though, this was different than the rest, considering the fact that the picture of this person had been cut out of a separate one and taped onto the other.

It was a good picture. A happy one. Peter couldn’t help but smile, too, while he looked at it.

Although, as he continued to stare at the picture, doubt creeped in. Should he really be here? They were all so happy. And lately, Peter didn’t have the best track record of good things happening to the people around him because of him.

“That is one of my favorite photos of the children,” Alfred spoke.

It startled Peter. He was so focused on the picture that he hadn’t heard the old man walking over. He looked up. “They don’t exactly look like children anymore, Mr. Pen– uh, Alfred.”

The corner of his lips twitched into a tiny fond smile. “No. But they will always be in my heart.”

Teresa climbed onto the couch. “I wanna see.” She leaned around Peter on her knees, and smiled. “This is recent, huh? I was kinda expecting something from when they were kids.”

“Well, most of them are adopted, so group photos of them as children together are nonexistent,” Alfred explained kindly. “This photo is from last January, during Master Damian’s birthday celebration with the family. The others ambushed him for a picture.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, taken back a bit. “Master?”

“Ah, my apologies. I never did tell you. I’m the butler for the Wayne family, although I do see the Masters and Miss as family. I like to believe they feel the same about me.”

“Of course we do, Alfred!” Nightwing’s voice came from the hallway, and not even a split second later the man himself walked into the living room. Except he wasn’t Nightwing. He was Dick Grayson – no vigilante suit in sight; a comfy sweater and pants had taken it’s place. “You’re the best grandfather-butler a person could ask for.”

That tiny smile of Alfred’s returned.

“How are you two doing?” Richard then asked Peter and Teresa.

Peter immediately said, “Warmer.” The fire was finally starting to produce heat throughout the room, and so now that ever-biting coldness that he hadn’t been able to get rid of completely was melting away. It felt great. 

Richard chuckled. “Yeah, the cave gets pretty chilly, especially during the winter months.”

“He even said his gluteus maximus is relaxed,” Teresa snickered.

His cheeks reddened. “Teresa! What the hell?” He shoved her – gently – from where she still sat on her knees beside him, and she toppled over. Her snickers turned into peels of laughter.

“What? That’s what you said, isn’t it?” she teased. “But this is a comfy couch.” She wiggled until she was on her back, knees bent and feet on the cushions.

“That doesn’t mean you tell someone else,” he complained, though he couldn’t help feel a little amused, too.

“No shoes on the couch, please, Miss Teresa.”

At Alfred’s words, she stretched her legs and moved a bit more to where her legs were across Peter’s lap and her feet hung off the arm of the couch. Alfred raised an eyebrow down at her, though she didn’t see it.

“Well, if I had to hear it so does our dad,” she said.

Peter froze. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, unsure what to say and how to respond.

Our dad.

That was such a foreign thing for him to hear.

“Shut up,” he finally got out.

“Give me another thirty dollars, and I might.”

“Um. No.”

“Then no.”

Richard chuckled. “I’m glad you guys are feeling better than last night,” he said. He moved to sit down on one of the other couches, absentmindedly looking for something as he did. Seconds later, he dug a remote from in between the cushions with, “Ah-ha! There it is. So, I do want to talk to you two more about some things, but after our earlier conversation I think it’s best if we just relax for a little bit. I can show you guys around the Manor later, if you’re up for it.”

“That’s cool with me,” Peter said. Relaxing sounds like the best thing he could do right now. It was up for debate on whether or not he’d actually be able to, but the past week or so had been one thing after another.

He just needed everything to pause for a second.

“Yeah, same,” Teresa agreed. “But what do you need to talk to us about?”

“Nothing bad, I promise. Just living situations; whether or not you’ll stay with me.”

Abruptly, she gasped and sat up, nearly kneeing Peter in the face. “Yes!” She faltered. “Uh. Please.”

Richard laughed. “Okay. We’ll talk details later.”

Teresa nodded rapidly in excitement with a huge grin. When Richard looked at Peter, he plastered a small, hopefully real looking smile in return.

The thought of possibly moving in with them didn’t hit him until that moment. It was a bit too much to think about right then, so he just watched as Richard turned on the TV and tried to focus on the show Teresa asked to watch.

He needed everything to pause for a second.

Things were not pausing.

+++

The rest of the day went simultaneously fast and slow.

Like Richard suggested, he eventually showed them around the Manor. There were more rooms than Peter originally thought, and an area of the home that Alfred and Richard, and assumedly everyone else, called the family wing. There was a large room filled with lounge chairs and couches but with still enough space to mingle that was probably a ballroom or something. The ceiling of that room had to be 20 to 30 feet, and the there was an huge space for a fireplace that was even bigger than the one at the Sanctum back in his world. Then, at one end of the great hall, was an organ. A freakin’ organ.

But that’s not all! No, there was also a library, an at home theater, a game room, a gym room, whatever the hell a billiard room was, and then the huge kitchen and dinning rooms. If there were other specific rooms, Peter would not be surprised, but Richard stopped showing them various areas inside the house of the kitchen and dining rooms, and went outside.

The backyard was huge, which was a shock to see but made sense because of how large the mansion itself was. A big, decorative fountain made Peter’s eyebrows raise. Alfred had a garden he tended to often, along with a greenhouse nearby, and lined by trees and bushes and a fence so it was more or less sectioned off, there was pool more off to the side than in the backyard. A barn sat far out into the yard, close to the tree line.

Peter blinked. “Is that a cow?”

Richard grinned. “Yep!”

“…O-kay,” he muttered, also noticing what was definitely a turkey behind the large and fancy fountain. Rich people are weird.

While they were outside, Peter and Teresa met Ace and Titus – two wonderful and adorable dogs, one German Shepherd and one Great Dane – and spent the next hour and a half playing with them.

Throughout all of this, Teresa asked about living with Richard and what Blüdhaven was like and a million other things. The questions were hesitant first, but as time went on she got more comfortable talking to him, and Peter merely listened rather than speaking up about the situation.

Really, all in all, the day was nice. Richard was cool guy, Teresa was energetic as ever and fun to be around even though Peter sort of just wanted to go somewhere and lay down until further notice, and Alfred was very kind. But Peter couldn’t help but feel himself gradually get…antsy, would probably be the best word, as the day wore on.

It didn’t help when other family members began to arrive at the Manor.

The first was Damian Wayne. The best Peter could describe the younger teen was prickly. Like a cactus.

Peter was in the library, helping dust and clean. He was on one of those tall ladders that rolls along the bookshelves, half tempted to used his sticky-ness to climb and reach different areas better.

(Alfred tried to deter him from helping, but Peter, certified Menace™ by the entire New York City, knew how to be annoying enough wear the man down. He did feel a bit guilty, but he would’ve felt even more guilty if he didn’t help, so. Annoying the old man, it was.

He tried to help gather wood for the fire, at first. Alfred’s stern insistence to not aggravate his ribs beat Peter’s stubborn insistence to help.)

“What are you doing here?”

Peter looked down to see the young teen from the picture. He was dressed in a school uniform, with his hair styled nicely. Green eyes pinned Peter down in a less than happy stare.

“I’m dusting,” he said.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I mean, what are you doing here? In my home?”

“Alfred brought us up from the…Batcave?” Peter was pretty sure he heard Teresa call it that, at that some point. Whether it was the correct name or not, though, he didn’t know. “Uh, Di– Nightw– um, Richard told me and Teresa he’s Nightwing.”

The boy crossed his arms. “He did?” It was question; it didn’t sound like one, though.

“Yeah,” Peter said. It came out more clipped than he wanted it to. Annoyance began to seep in. The cleaning was meant to get the entire situation out of his mind for a bit, or get rid of some the antsy energy that had built up. It wasn’t working as well as he’d hoped, especially now with the kid here.

“So, what are you? A clone?”

“Did he not tell you what I told him?” asked Peter. The kid went to speak, but what he said finally sunk in. “Wait, clone? That isn’t– cloning is a thing here? Holy shit!”

“Tt. Yes, it’s a thing here. By that, I can make a good guess that you aren’t from this world – or universe.”

Peter gave a hesitant nod. “Um, yeah. I’m not a clone. I don’t even know how that would be possible, anyway, because I don’t look exactly like him. If anything, I’d be, like… A test tube baby.”

That gave the kid pause. “I…suppose so. Are you a test tube baby?”

“No.”

“Well, you do look a lot like Richard.”

Peter shrugged, and went back to dusting. “He’s… He’s my dad, sort of.”

“Then why don’t you call him that?”

He set the dusting supplies Alfred gave him on top of the books. He looked back down, annoyed, and he knew his expression wasn’t hiding a thing. “Dude, what is this? An interrogation? I don’t think it matters why I don’t call him my dad. It’s not your business. I’m your guest – shouldn’t you be more– more hospitable, or something?”

The kid’s expression changed; Peter couldn’t read it. He shifted in place and crossed his arms a little tighter in front of him.

“Peter!” Teresa’s voice carried through the halls. It was panicked or anything like it had been before in the cave. This time, she sounded excited.

Peter let his head fall back. He wanted to clean and get his mind off of things, why did the world hate him so much? In his mind, he reminded himself not to grip the part of the ladder he was holding onto too hard. “Yeah?!” he shouted back.

Footsteps sounded through the halls next. Teresa didn’t shout back, so he had a good guess at who was running. Within moments, she entered the library, but she also was dragging someone with her. Tim Drake-Wayne looked so confused and startled that it was funny, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

“Peter! There you are,” she exclaimed. Then to Tim she said, “I told you I would find him! Anyway, so, I’ve already told him everything that’s happened, so we don’t need a repeat. But Tim, this is Pete, and Peter, this is Tim, and he’s–.”

“Red Robin,” Tim said for her.

The kid looked at Tim, visibly shocked.

“Drake–.”

Tim waved a hand. “Relax, Damian, Dick already told them he’s Nightwing. They were going to learn sooner or later. It’s fine.” He then looked between his brother and Peter. “Is everything okay in here?”

“We’re fine,” Damian snapped.

“Peachy,” Peter said with a thin smile. “Great – maybe even Gucci.”

“So you’re even like this when you’re not concussed,” Teresa said.

He smirked. “It’s a talent.”

Tim laughed and Teresa rolled her eyes.

Damian did that ‘tt’ thing again. “I’m going to go change out of my uniform,” he said, and left.

“See you at dinner, Dames!” Tim called.

Teresa bounced in place. “Guess who Damian is!”

“Robin.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, impressed. “How’d you figure that out?”

Peter shrugged and said, “He was, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, prickly like a cactus both times we talked.”

Tim chuckled and nodded. “Sounds about right. That’s our Damian. If he said anything that made you mad–.”

He immediately shook his head. “No, no– he… It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Sure, Peter,” said Tim. “We’ll leave you to your cleaning. Welcome to the family, man.”

Once they were gone, Peter let his head fall until his forehead rested against the tall book case. He sighed quietly.

+++

The tipping point that made it all just too much for Peter was Alfred showing him the room he fixed up. In the family wing.

It wasn’t meeting Bruce Wayne, who didn’t introduce himself as Batman but it was pretty obvious that he was. If not Batman, then Red Hood – and Peter doubted this man had any reasons to be a crime lord. Bruce Wayne was intimidating, sure, but mostly nice and even a little awkward. The man was, in a weird way, basically his grandpa.

It wasn’t even having dinner with the family members who were currently in the house. Sure, it was a bit awkward but not too bad. Peter just had no idea what to say, and Bruce asking, “Your last name is Parker? Not Grayson?” didn’t really help anything. The topic changed immediately after Peter only nodded in answer.

It wasn’t even Bruce warmly repeating Tim’s words after dinner: “Welcome to the family, Peter.” 

(He said that to Teresa, too, and she beamed.)

No, what finally made his brain go: ‘this is too much’ was a stupid room.

It was bigger than anything he’s ever had.

“I– I think I’m gonna go to bed,” Peter said to Alfred.

“Very well. You have had an eventful couple of days–” Try an eventful week and a half, Peter thought, “–so going to bed early is understandable. I will be sure to tell the others not to disturb you.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course, Master Peter.”

He cringed at that, but didn’t say anything against it, mind elsewhere.

It wasn’t until he was alone in the room, Alfred’s footsteps far away, that he let himself freak out.

He couldn’t do this.

He can’t do this.

“I can’t do this,” Peter whispered. The backpack dropped to the floor, a consequence of Peter shoving it off of his shoulders because, for some reason, the straps were being annoying.

He began to pace back and forth, back and forth.

“I can’t do this,” he repeated. “I can’t.”

It was all too much. Everything.

They were nice people, don’t get him wrong. But it was just…

Welcome to the family.

They weren’t his family. That’s the problem.

He had a family. They were just…gone.

Sure, Dick Grayson looked identical to Richard Parker, and Peter shared blood with him. But Dick Grayson was not his dad. His dad died with his mom in a plane crash when he was five. The Wayne’s weren’t his family. Uncle Ben and Aunt May were, and they were both dead now, too.

Tears stung at his eyes and his breath stuttered.

God, and they were all so happy here. He was going to ruin it, somehow.

Somehow be the cause of someone’s death again.

He didn’t want to go through that pain again.

He couldn’t go through that pain again. Or put anyone else through that pain.

With that thought, his mind was set.

He was going to leave.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Sneaking out started out great. There was no alarm connected to the window – or, if there was one that he didn’t see, it wasn’t on yet – and crawling down the brick wall was a piece of cake. It felt good being able to use his powers properly for the first time in what felt like forever. He avoided a trip wire his spider-sense warned him about, and didn’t ruin any plants around the edge of the manor by stepping on them.

It was the following few minutes where everything went sideways in way that Peter wasn’t expecting.

He inched alongside the wall. He kept his steps as quiet as he was able, and crawled over windows to avoid being seen from the inside. As he got to a corner, he paused and listened, and then leaned around. No one was there.

…Should he head to the driveway or the woods?

Before he got a chance to fully list the pros and cons of each choice in his mind, a faint tingle started at the back of his neck.

Peter turned on instinct, fist raised to punch–

“What are you doing?”

–only to freeze.

He blinked incredulously. “Damian?” he whispered.

The teen stared him down. Brows lowered, mouth set into a thin line, green eyes glinting suspiciously dangerously in the moonlight. He wore dark clothes – all black – and held a flashlight in one hand. Peter got the vibe he might have a knife or two up his sleeve. Literally.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

Peter lowered his arm. “Well,” he started. He didn’t finish.

In a blink of an eye, he turned again and ran as fast as he could towards the woods. He heard Damian let out a surprised sound and then what was definitely a curse in a foreign language. Peter heard the telltale sound of feet rapidly hitting the ground, and pushed himself to run faster.

The spider-sense flared again, and he ducked just in time to not get hit in the back of the head by the flashlight. It surprised him since he had been expecting a knife, and he unintentionally slowed down – enough to where Damian caught up and tackled him.

They went to down in a heap of gangly limbs.

“What are you doing?” Damian demanded again, attempting again and again to wrestle Peter into being still. It wasn’t working so well.

“What are you doing?” Peter retaliated, voice just above a whisper. “You threw a flashlight at me!” He eventually got the upper hand, only thanks to him using the slightest bit of his enhanced strength, and got out from under the angry teen. Still holding one wrist, Peter flipped on his knees and held it at the middle of Damian’s back. He made sure not to put too much pressure; just enough to keep the other boy still. “Why are you attacking me?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he snarled.

“I have literally done nothing.”

“Not yet. There is only one reason I can think of why you would be sneaking out.”

For a moment, Peter was confused. Then, “Is this about your identities?”

“What else would it be about?”

Peter leaned back and let go, and stood. “Not that,” he said. “I have no one to tell, and no reason to.” 

Damian, with a glare on his face, stood as well. He brushed the dirt and grass off of his clothes. “You were homeless not even three days ago. Tell the right person, and you won’t need to worry about money.”

“Well, I’m about to make myself homeless again. Now I’m leaving. Bye.” He waved, a gesture that came off as sarcastic, and began walking away.

“What are talking about?” Damian said, “No you’re not.”

“And yet here I go. Doing just that.”

“Parker, get back here!” Damian shouted in a whisper. When Peter didn’t stop or respond, he hurried to follow. “You can’t leave. You’re Richard’s son.”

Peter’s shoulder tensed on their own accord. He didn’t respond again. Just walked, quickened his pace, and stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket. He didn’t run because he didn’t want a knife thrown at him instead of a flashlight. When Damian met his pace and stayed beside him, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“And Teresa is your sister,” Damian continued. “You can’t leave her. Why do you want to? You two are close, I saw it for myself.”

“None of your business,” he snapped. “Just let me go.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Damian’s tone was harsher this time. “Whether or not I trust you, the rest of my family already does… They are your family, too.”

Peter abruptly stopped and glared him. He was not in the mood for this. He just want to get away and leave, and stay out of their lives. “Damian. I am leaving, and you can’t stop me.”

“Parker–”

“No,” he snapped. “Okay? No. I can’t afford to stay. It’s better with me gone.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Damian, unfazed by Peter’s anger.

At first, Peter didn’t know how to answer that. When he did, he answered with a question of his own, “Do you want someone to die?”

It surprised him, he could tell. Damian reared back a little, and in the moonlight Peter was able to see a little bit of confusion on his features. “What?”

“Do you want someone to die? Someone in your family? Like Richard, or your own dad, or- dammit, or even Teresa? Do you?” Other emotions besides anger were beginning to rise up, and he hoped that the tears would wait to make their appearance after he’s away from Damian.

“Of course not.”

“Then let me leave.” Before he could even think about it, he said, “I’m not going to be the reason Teresa loses her dad.”

Silence fell between them. The only sounds were ones of the night – an owl hooting here and there, bats flapping their wings and chirping, gentle breeze, nocturnal bugs and other creatures coming to life.

“You really think it will be best for everyone if you leave?” Damian asked, though something about it didn’t sound particularly like a question.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He stepped away, grabbed the flashlight that was only a few feet from them, and came back. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

Peter blinked in surprise. “What?”

“Pen and paper. Do you have some?” At his nod, Damian held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

Suspicious and now confused, Peter hesitated. He swung his backpack to his front and grabbed the notebook and pen. He flipped it to a blank page and handed them over, both of which Damian took immediately. He handed Peter the flashlight, so he turned it on and held it above the notebook.

“…What are you doing?” Peter whispered when a few seconds had gone by without any explanation. He tilted his head to get a better view of the words being written.

Was that an address? Directions, maybe? That just confused him more.

Damian didn’t glance up as he said, “Giving you one of the safe houses we rarely use. It’s one we use for emergencies when other safe houses are compromised and we can’t make it back to the Batcave. No one has used this one in ages, so you shouldn’t have to worry about any of us coming there.” He paused his writing and looked at Peter as he said, “It has everything we need there as vigilantes.”

Peter’s brows furrowed a little. The way he stressed that was weird. “That’s nice, but–”

“We have more than one. Giving you this one won’t harm anyone,” he interrupted the other’s denial. Damian went back to writing.

“I can find my own place.”

“Winter is setting in, and Martha’s House got destroyed. As your uncle I’m not letting you sleep on the streets.”

“You’re not my uncle.”

“Richard is your dad and my brother. I believe that makes us uncle and nephew.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“No, I’m not.” Damian stopped writing again and looked at Peter. “We’re the same age.”

He sighed. Stupid baby face. “I’m seventeen.”

”…I’m still your uncle.”

Peter took in a deep breath and held it, casting his gaze upwards. “Fine. Whatever. Can I leave now?”

“No.”

“Oh, my–”

Damian shoved the notebook and pen back into Peter’s hands, then took back the flashlight. “Do you know how to get out of Bristol?”

…No. No he did not.

At his lack of response, Damian rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t. When you get to the road, go right. There is a bus stop a few miles away. Wait there for me. I’ll bring you to Gotham Proper on Robin’s bike when I leave for patrol.”

Peter frowned. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because I doubt I can stop you at this point, so I might as well help your dumbass not get kidnapped or murdered.”

“Wow. Calling your own nephew a dumbass. I feel so loved, truly.”

“You were about to run away without even knowing which way to go.”

“Hey, I’m not denying it.”

Damian turned off the flashlight and began to walk away. “Just leave before someone finds us both out here.”

Stuffing the notebook and pen back in his bag, he walked in the opposite direction. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

+++

He made it off of the Wayne property and to the bus stop in just under thirty minutes, and then proceeded to wait there for all of five seconds before continuing down the road.

Hey, he never promised to wait for Damian. Peter said as such when he road up on the motorcycle, dressed once again in the emo Robin suit. But one threat of ratting Peter out to the others later, he was on the bike and Damian was zooming down the street to the city.

Damian didn’t take him all the way there. He made Peter get off at a corner of a street that supposedly had no cameras aimed at it, and let Peter off there. The young vigilante only slowed down enough for Peter to get off safely, then sped up and disappeared around a building without another word.

As Peter stood there, slightly dumbfounded by the turn of events, he took out the notebook and flipped to the page that had Damian’s scrawl all over it. He looked at the address, found the sign that gave him this street’s name, and was pleasantly surprised to see that he was already in the right place.

Peter walked just a few more or so blocks down the street before getting to the right apartment building. It was sort of run down looking. Inconspicuous, though, in the grand scheme of things.

He went in after hesitating for merely a few moments. He could always find another homeless shelter… But a bed and his own space sounded like heaven, right now.

You could have your own bed and space back at the mansion, dipshit, a voice in his head told him. It sounded a lot like MJ.

He quickly buried that thought and that voice.

Once inside and on the right floor, standing in front of the correct door, Peter followed the directions to unlock and dismantle the alarm system without sending alerts to Gotham’s vigilantes. He re-did the alarms once he got in, and stood in the dark apartment.

That’s when it fully hit him what he did.

Alone once again, of his own doing.

It’s better this way, he reasoned with himself. Richard and his kids didn’t need the bad luck Peter brought along with him, and neither did the rest of the Wayne family, vigilantes or not.

Peter fumbled around in the dark until he found a couch. He fell face first into the cushions.

He was out within seconds.

+++

(“You were supposed to convince him to stay, not help him!” Red Robin said when they met up for patrol.

Robin rolled his eyes. “Says the one who killed the silent alarm before anyone else noticed.”

“Shut up. Let’s start patrol before everyone gets suspicious.”)

+++

Peter woke up to a sun ray in his face.

For a moment, everything was peaceful. It felt like home. The sounds of the city were just outside the window. The sun was shining. He could smell someone cooking bacon from somewhere. Footsteps from neighbors in the same apartment building sounded through the floors. Aunt May was–

Reality came back in a snap.

Oh. Right.

With a sigh, he rolled into his back on the couch and flung and arm over his eyes to block out the light. His following attempt to go back to sleep was futile, and he ended up merely lying there for a long while, the sounds of Gotham City – not Queens – filling his ears.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but the sun’s ray had moved a good distance by the time he found the energy to get up. He took ghat moment to take in the safe house Damian sent him to.

It had all the basics a usual apartment had: a couch, a recliner, a rug, coffee table, TV, a kitchen, a bedroom, a hallway closet, a bathroom… Nothing about it really screamed Safe House of Gotham’s Vigilantes! Keep Out! like he thought it would. Surely there were hidden weapons and such, but he didn’t see any.

In the kitchen, there were only nonperishables stocked in the cupboards, and lots of bottles of water and different sodas in the fridge. Peter grabbed a Coke, then a can of peaches and a fork to eat them with even though he didn’t have much of an appetite, and sat on the counter.

Already, the place felt less overwhelming than the manor did. The apartment was tinier, and it was within the city – something Peter was accustomed to. It wasn’t homey or cozy, but rather familiar in a way that helped him not feel like he was out of place like the manor did.

The manor… It was a nice, extravagant place. But everything about it was just… Well. Overwhelming, as said before. Not to mention Richard’s entire existence. Being in the same vicinity as the man had Peter’s emotions on a rollercoaster inside the entire damn time. All of that equaled a freak out in the room Alfred gave him.

Peter stuffed a peach slice into his mouth, uncaring at the moment of the few drops of juice that got on his shirt.

Teresa probably hated him now.

As much as he felt sorry for running, at the same time he didn’t feel that much guilt about it. Life would be better this way. Hers and his. She won’t lose anyone. He won’t somehow bring tragedy to the Wayne family, whatever that may be.

A win-win for everyone! …Well, not necessarily a win for him – unless keeping others safe counts as a win, then yes, he won in this situation as well – but that’s beside the point.

No one else was going to be effected by the ever present Parker Luck, even if that meant being completely alone.

+++

(Footsteps thundered down the hall and then the stairs. Teresa skidded to a stop in the kitchen doorway. “Where’s Peter?”

Dick frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He’s not in his room!”

He shot up out of his seat. “B–”

“I’ll check the security cameras.”

Tim and Damian shared split second eye contact as the others exited the kitchen. They quickly followed as to not raise suspicion.)

+++

After eating two entire cans of sliced peaches and drinking a Coke, Peter made his way to the Martha’s House. Or rather what was left of it.

Other than not wanting to stay inside all day, he desperately needed to know what happened to everyone at the shelter when the meth explosion happened. He sincerely hoped that the pregnant lady, Linda if he remembered right, who he’d given his bed to was okay.

When he got there, he couldn’t help but grimace at the sight. In the daylight it looked worse than what he originally thought it would be, even after a day or so of people working to clean everything up.

Half of Martha’s House was gone. The apartment building beside it was practically nonexistent. Then the other apartment looked like it would be knocked down with how burnt it was.

“Peter?”

Peter looked to his right at whoever said his name. The volunteer who gave him a bottle of medicine and Coke last week stood there. Her hair was pulled back into a large bun, her sleeves were rolled up, and she wore dirty working gloves. She was sweating even with the October chill in the air.

A brunet teen with blue eyes stood by her.

He walked over to her and said, “Hey, Evie.”

Evie grinned, expression filled with relief. “Holy shit, I’ve been so worried about you!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you since last week, and with the explosions I was beginning to think the worst.”

Peter wryly smiled. “It’s gonna take a little more than an explosion to kill me,” he said.

“Where have you been, if it’s alright I ask that?”

“Uh…” He slightly hesitated. “I ended up running into this guy who took me and a friend to get medical help.”

More relief shone on her face. “Oh, good!”

“I have a place to stay now,” he told her. “At least temporarily. So you don’t need to worry about telling me where the next shelter is.”

“That’s great,” she said. “It’s not easy finding a place sometimes. But be careful who put trust in this city, Peter.”

He nodded in understanding. “No, yeah, I know. This guy… He’s trustworthy.”

“Good. Oh!” Evie turned slightly and gestured to the teen beside her. “This is Cullen. His older sister, Harper, volunteers sometimes; you might have met her at some point. Cullen, this is Peter. He used to stay at Martha’s House.”

“Hey, man,” Peter greeted, paired with a short nod.

Cullen blinked. His cheeks were pink from the cold. “Uh… oh! Yeah, uh, hi. It’s nice meeting you.”

Evie snickered to herself, and Cullen nudged her harshly with his elbow, for some reason looking embarrassed. It just made her laugh some more.

Suddenly, Peter remembered the main reason why he came. “The pregnant lady!” he blurted, earning him twin startled and confused looks. “Uh, Linda, I think? I gave her my bed because there weren’t any left the night before all of this happened. Do you know how she is? If she’s okay?”

Evie’s confusion melted away. “I’m not sure, I’m sorry. I’ve been helping clean up today.” She quickly added, “But I can ask around. I’m sure someone knows something.”

Relief flooded through him. “Good, awesome. Thank you. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll find out what I can.”

“Sweet. So,” Peter said, “Do you guys need help cleaning up?”

“No,” was her immediate response.

Peter frowned. “But–”

Evie shook her head. “You were in the explosion, right? You said you needed medical attention. You should rest.”

“I just want to help. I- I can do the small stuff!” Peter casted his eyes around for something ‘small’ to help with. “Like… Um…”

“Peter,” she sighed. “It’s sweet you want to help. But we have everything handled right now. Go to your place and rest, or something.”

“I rested yesterday,” he insisted. “C’mon, please, Evie?” He gave her his best pleading face.

Evie wavered. Peter was ready to have a mental celebration of wearing her down. But then she pressed her lips together, and her expression steeled.

“Adorable, but unfortunately for you my nephew is cuter,” she said. “Rest, Peter. The lady’s name was Linda, you said?”

Peter nodded.

“Okay. I’ll go ask if someone knows about her. Stay here,” she ordered.

Cullen went to stop her as she began to walk off, “Wait–”

“If I run into your sister I won’t tell you that you’re skipping unless she specifically asks. Promise.”

The other teen’s shoulders relaxed with relief. “Thanks, Evie.”

Peter rocked back and forth on his heels, hands stuffed in his hoodie’s pocket, as a somewhat awkward silence fell over them when Evie left. Cullen kept his hand on the one strap of his backpack on his shoulder.

Abruptly, Cullen asked, “Has anyone told you, you look like Dick Grayson?”

Peter shrugged, just barely refraining from outwardly showing his annoyance. He didn’t want to think about his no-dad or any of the Wayne’s. “No,” he honestly said. “Why?”

“‘Cause you do,” he said simply.

“No, I don’t,” Peter denied.

“Okay, you don’t look exactly like him,” Cullen acquiesced. “But there are a few similarities.”

“Then maybe I should get plastic surgery.”

Dramatic? Yes. Did he care? No.

Cullen laughed. “What? No way, dude, Dick’s, like, the most thirsted over man in Gotham and Blüdhaven.”

Gross, Peter thought, I did not need to know that. 

“You’re lucky to look a bit like him. It makes you so much more attractive than all the other guys.”

The compliment had Peter’s cheeks heating up more than he’d like. He’s never been good at accepting them, let alone hearing them. The first time MJ genuinely complimented him, he was pretty sure his brain went offline for a good five minutes or so. 

He nervously laughed. “Tha- That’s an exaggeration,” he said. “There are so much more attractive guys than me.” Like Thor.

Peter refrained from frowning. He never met Thor, but he missed him. Hopefully he was doing okay with the other Asgardians in New Asgard. 

Cullen said, “Maybe, but that doesn’t meant you’re not.”

Evie walked back at that moment. Peter was relieved until she asked, “What are you two talking about?”

“I was telling Peter he looks like Dick Grayson.”

Evie looked at Peter with a slight tilt of her head and calculating eyes. She shrugged. “I don’t see it. But you’re the one who’s friends with the Waynes. You see him more than me.”

Peter looked at Cullen. He tried not to panic. “You’re friends with the Waynes?”

He casually shrugged. “Yeah. Bruce helped my sister get emancipated and get legal custody of me so we could get away from our dad.”

“Oh. That’s cool he did that.”

Many questions were running through Peter’s head. Did he know about the last few days? Was Cullen also a part of the vigilante life style? Was his sister?

“That aside,” Evie brought back the attention to her, “I found out Linda got sent to Leslie’s Clinic. She’s okay other than a few burns and a mild concussion. She’s staying there for a couple days or so to keep an eye on her baby.”

Peter nodded, relieved at the information. “Great. I’m glad she’s okay.”

She smiled. “Me too. Now go rest, Peter. Or visit Linda. You,” she pointed at Cullen, “are going on a lunch run for me and a few others and yourself.”

Cullen groaned. “Seriously?”

“I will call Harper and told her you skipped if you don’t.”

“Ugh. Fine. Where am I going?”

Peter said his goodbyes to them, albeit a bit begrudgingly, and went back to the safe house. He sort of wanted to visit Linda to make sure and see with his own eyes that she turned out okay, but he didn’t know where the clinic was. He got lost enough times already; he didn’t want it to happen again.

+++

When he got to the safe house, he decided to have a look around since he didn’t do that the night before or earlier that morning after he woke up.

He checked out the bedroom and bathroom. Both were normal, if he didn’t include the exceptionally large medical kit under the sink that one might see a first responder with. Everything in the apartment had collected a tiny bit of dust from lack of use.

There were stacks of movies and CDs; the TV was old. There was a place for both a VHS and a DVD to be put in. The closet in the bedroom had spare clothes of all sizes.

What really caught his attention were the items in the closet in the small hallway. It was across from the bathroom, and when Peter opened it he wasn’t expecting much. The safe house was rather normal so far, for the most part.

This closet? Far from normal.

Honestly, the high tech lock on it that was connected to the security system should have given it away, but well. It didn’t.

Capes were hung up of different sizes and colors – black, black with yellow underneath, purple, yellow – and behind them, various types of knives, swords, and some guns were carefully mounted. There was a decent sized chest on the floor. When he cautiously opened it, there were more weapons. This time boomerangs of different shapes – ‘R’s and bats, mostly – but there were a few different types of masks and rebreathers, too.

On both sides against the small side walls were shelves. Spare and backup vigilante suits were folded up neatly, gloves and belts laid on top, and a few even had pieces of armor. Each shelf was a different suit for a different person. Boots scattered around haphazardly; the sturdy kind, steel toed and thick soled. Perfect for a crime fighting vigilante.

Then, finally, on a high shelf above the rack of capes, were more boxes and a sewing machine. Peter worked to get them down the check it out. One box had sewing needles and threads and cut up fabric.

Sitting on the floor in front of the opened closet, box in his lap, Peter picked up a piece of black fabric to inspect it. It wasn’t normal fabric. Nothing for clothes to wear everyday. The texture of it kind of reminded him of the first Spider-Man suit Mr. Stark gave him, but still somewhat different.

It was like kevlar.

His train of thought screeched to a halt.

No. It wasn’t like kevlar.

It was kevlar.

Peter dropped the piece of fabric and shoved the box off his lap. He scurried to the one he had yet to open. It was huge – large in both width and length and eight – and he yanked open the top to reveal multiple spools of kevlar fabric.

He dug around until he found a few different shades of red. Then a couple different shades of blue.

Peter felt a grin split across his face.

Looked like he wasn’t going to have to wait as long to get back out as Spider-Man as he originally thought.

+++

(“You gave him which safe house?” Tim harshly hissed in a whisper.

Damian stared back, unrepentant. “Have you gone deaf, Drake? I am not risking repeating it.”

“You- oh my, God. That one is only for huge, catastrophic emergencies!”

“Yes, and?”

Someone cleared their throat. Tim and Damian turned simultaneously to see Cass standing there, arms crossed with a perfected Look that she 100% learned from Alfred. Dick stood behind her with his hands on his hips. He looked far from happy.

Well shit.)

Chapter Text

“What were you two thinking?”

“When exactly?”

Dick shot Damian an unamused look.

Cass still wore that expression that she learned and perfected from Alfred.

Tim and Damian sat on a couch in the main living room, side by side. This had turned into a rare occurrence where neither of them were purposefully trying to get on the other’s nerve. Instead they were facing an angry older brother and disappointed older sister together, like maybe that would lessen the blow.

Sometimes having a sibling upset and angry with you was worse than a having an upset and angry parent. Especially with a brother like Dick and sister like Cass. Serious arguments with Dick didn’t happen too often, and ones with Cass were nearly nonexistent. 

At first, it did cross their minds to make a run for it. But neither of Tim nor Damian wanted their siblings in even more foul moods, or worse: to run and get stopped by Alfred. Bruce, Tim could deal with; everyone has lied to or disobeyed him, in the suits and out. But Alfred? Tim wasn’t going to take that chance, even if he hadn’t been trying to help Peter leave like Damian did.

Cass sat on the coffee table, feet flat on the ground and arms still crossed with her back straight. Behind her, Dick paced back and forth, and sometimes stopped to look at his little brothers to make sure they heard what he was saying.

“Don’t get smartass with me, Damian,” Dick spoke firmly. “You know exactly when and about what. How did you think this was a good idea? Gotham is dangerous, and yes, I noticed his visible injuries are healing faster than a regular person’s would, but he’s still healing after nearly getting blown up! And Tim, first you keep it a secret that you found a kid who might be mine and pull Harper and Barbara into it, and now this? Seriously, what were you thinking?”

Tim leaned forward a little. “If it makes you feel better, the plan wasn’t to let him go,” he cautiously told him.

“You cut the silent alarms,” Cass said before Dick could.

“To make sure the entire household didn’t swarm him! Or mistake him for a burglar or something!” Tim threw up his hands. “I sent Damian to check things out and bring Peter back inside when we figured out it was him. Then he let him go.” Tim turned to glare at his little brother with frustration and annoyance.

Did Tim have his own reasons to get Peter to stay? Absolutely. More tests had shown radiation of some sort within his blood and DNA. Tim needed (wanted) answers, because in this world there were multiple possibilities for why Peter’s blood was like that.

Cancer? Maybe. Experimentation? Possibly. Something else entirely? Who knew! Not Tim, because someone decided to help the kid run away.

Tim was thoroughly annoyed by it. He wanted to see if Peter had any answers, and maybe what the unknown sequence of DNA that popped up with the radiation was, and he never got the chance.

(Was it another thing he had yet to tell Dick? Yes. He’d get to that later.)

Damian didn’t look at all bothered, and still rather unrepentant about the whole ordeal. “I’m not sorry.”

“Damian,” Cass chastised.

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather I lie? Oh, yes I deeply regret helping Parker leave. My apologies. I will not do it again.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a very Bruce-like action that Tim was almost amused by.

A thought came to Tim. “Is this because you two had a little…disagreement or whatever in the library? Or because you don’t trust him?” he asked.

Dick’s head whipped back up and he stared his brothers down. “What disagreement?”

Damian huffed lightly. “It wasn’t a disagreement,” he said. “I had not realized you brought him and Teresa up from the Batcave. I asked him why he was here, and it perhaps turned into an impromptu interrogation.”

Tim softly groaned and rubbed his forehead. “No wonder he called you prickly.”

“He is the prickly one.”

“Seriously, Dami?” asked Dick.

“I was trying to gauge if he was trustworthy!”

“I wouldn’t have allowed someone who wasn’t into our home, Damian.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?”

“What I don’t understand,” began Cass before that specific argument could continue, “is why you helped him when you don’t trust him.”

Oh, yeah. That was great question.

“Please don’t tell us you just wanted him out of the manor,” Tim muttered.

Damian crossed his arms. “No. I had full intentions to talk him into coming back inside, or doing it forcefully myself. But…” The others looked at him questioningly when he paused. “But I quickly decided it would be better to simply let him go. Firstly, because when I tried to chase him down and seize him after he immediately began to run, he was able to best me and pin me on my stomach before I was able to do anything to him. I believe he can take care of himself if anything happens where he needs to fight off someone.

“Second, Parker insinuated that he believes if he were to stay someone will die. I decided to let him leave at that point, not because of my distrust, but because if we were able to talk him or force him back inside, he would just try again until he succeeded at getting away. Parker seems pretty adamant that his presence will cause a family member to die – specifically, he said he wasn’t going to be the reason Teresa’s father dies.”

Everyone looked at Dick. Silence fell over the four of them, and no one spoke for a long moment. Gradually, a heartbroken expression twisted on the eldest’s features.

Cass quietly spoke, “He would only think that if something like that has happened before.”

“Or he understands what it’s like to lose a dad, and is trying to protect Teresa from that,” Tim muttered.

Damian didn’t look so unrepentant anymore. “That’s the conclusion I came to, as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has some sort of hero complex.”

Tim’s brows furrowed in thought. Between what Damian just said, the inhumanly fast healing of his visible injuries that they all noticed, the abnormal and radiation contaminated DNA, and the teen’s rush to assure Tim that he was totally not a vigilante, an obvious picture was forming. And he wouldn’t be surprised if the others were putting the same picture together, or already did.

Vigilantism must run in the family.

Dick slowly said, “Am I- Is Peter’s dad dead?”

Tim frowned sympathetically. He knew that was one of Dick’s newest fears, ever since Mar’i was born, and then Jake: dying and leaving his kids alone. The only comfort for him was that he knew he had a big family and a large amount of friends who’d step up to raise them if that ever happened.

Cass signed to him, “It would explain why he looked like he saw a ghost when he saw you at the park.”

“Because he probably thought he was,” said Tim.

If he ever saw Jack Drake, seemingly alive and well in front of him again, or even Janet, in a different universe or the one they lived in on a random day, Tim had no idea how he’d react.

They were his parents. He missed them. He loved them. They weren’t the best but they also weren’t the worst, and if he saw one or both of them again… He might run, too.

Whether it was toward or away, he was unsure of.

And for some reason or another, Peter ran away when he saw Dick. He was also convinced that, somehow, he might be the cause of the man’s death in this world.

Dick collapsed into the closest seat and placed his face in hands.

“It wasn’t just you, Richard, he was worried about,” Damian said. “He was worried about being the cause of any of us dying.”

“But mainly him,” signed Cass.

“It seemed so, yes.”

“So, are we dead, too? Or are there any of versions of us in his life?” Tim asked.

“He didn’t recognize us,” she reminded him. “We had to introduce ourselves. He has a different last name, too. I won’t be surprised if none of us exist in his world.”

Right. The different last names. Tim really wanted to know why Peter wasn’t a Grayson but instead a Parker. Obviously Dick, for some reason or another, decided to take up the last name of whoever adopted him in the other universe.

When Bruce questioned the two different surnames last night at dinner, the atmosphere became a bit awkward. Tim doubted the reason was anything serious, and Peter honestly seemed equally confused. It was most likely a difference between their two worlds that had no meaning whatsoever.

A different last name, though, potentially meant no Bruce Wayne. No Batman. No brood of siblings, or aunts and uncles in Peter’s case. Cass was right; none of them were recognized by Peter. He didn’t know them, whether they existed in his world or not.

There was also the implication that there was no Gotham.

…Tim had so many questions.

Boots quietly thumping against the floor brought him out of his thoughts and caught everyone’s attentions. Jason appeared at the entry way seconds later, and he stopped after taking a few steps into the living room. He raised an eyebrow at Dick, then looked to the others as he pointed a thumb at their brother.

“Is he having an existential crisis or some shit?”

“Or some shit,” Tim said with a sigh.

The other brow rose to be with the first.

They all explained what happened. They took turns, and added things when someone else left out something accidentally. Dick joined in, too.

By the time they were done, Jason sat down in an empty spot on the loveseat and looked thoroughly unamused at the rest of them. “You guys did so much shit wrong, what the hell. I was hoping to meet the little punk and you fuckers ran him off.”

“Technically, Damian helped him,” Tim said.

Jason gave the youngest a what the fuck look.

Apart from looking annoyed that Tim kept pointing that out, Damian hardly reacted. “Again, I’m not sorry.”

Dick groaned and sat up. He ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, I messed up,” he berated himself.

“I’m thinking it was more of a team effort,” drawled Jason. “I mean, seriously. ‘Welcome to the family,’ Tim? What were you thinking?”

“B said it, too!” he immediately accused.

“Yeah, and he’s not here right now, so I can’t exactly judge him to his face.” He shook his head. “Seriously, guys, you overwhelmed the fuck out of the kid. I’m not surprised he ran.”

“Neither am I, now,” Dick admitted. “But we need to find him and make sure he’s okay.”

“You’re not forcing the kid to come back here if he doesn’t want to,” Jason immediately argued.

“I didn’t say we would. I just want to make sure he hasn’t ended up in a ditch.”

Tim rolled his eyes and snorted. “Oh, trust me, he hasn’t.”

The three oldest looked at him in silent questioning. In response, Tim looked to Damian, eyeing him expectantly.

When the others follow his gaze, Damian admitted, “I gave him one of the safe houses.”

Cass asked, “Which one?” Her eyes narrowed a little.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she, Jason, and Dick answered in unison.

“…The one for major emergencies.”

“You mean the one with literally everything any of the vigilantes in this city might need? Even for Huntress and Azrael?” Jason asked. “That one?”

“Yes.”

“Damian!” Dick chastised, “There are others you could have given him. Not the one meant for last resorts.”

“I have my reasons for why I gave him that one.”

“Which are?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Dick sighed and groaned, and ran a hand over his face. Another very Bruce-like action. Maybe it was a dad thing.

“Look, emergency safe house or no,” Jason began, “none of you are speaking to him any time soon. It’s either gonna be me or Duke, hell maybe even Steph or Harper. No more overwhelming the kid.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Tim said.

“Yeah, whatever, you had good intentions. I don’t care.”

Tim rolled his eyes and flipped him off. In response, Jason made a mocking expression and flipped him off with both middle fingers.

“Is there anything else?” Cass asked. “Something we might need to know?” She knowingly looked at Tim when she said that. Whether that was because she actually knew or not that Tim had more information to give was a toss up. But a believable one if she did.

Instead of lying or fibbing, Tim sighed a little and admitted, “I looked more into his DNA. Something’s up with Peter’s blood.” Nothing good would come out of keeping this from anyone. This could be a serious issue.

“How?” asked Dick.

“He’s been exposed to radiation at some point in his life.”

There was a beat of silence.

“As in…cancer treatment?” Jason asked, somewhat hesitant to do so.

“That is a possibility, but with how our lives are, it could be for any reason.”

Dick groaned into his hands.

Chapter Text

Barbara rubbed at her forehead. There was a pain behind her skull beginning to from her lack of sleep. And maybe from all of the caffeine she’s inhaled. And the screens of the computers. And this entire situation with Peter and now Teresa.

Peter’s situation was relatively normal, so to speak — for their lives, at least. He got sent here on a whim, and according to Dick, was unable to go back. Dick never got an answer on whether it was magic that brought him here or something else, but after going over everything from that night’s patrol, Barbara found a small spike of magical activity in the area where Tim found Peter that first night.

Barbara made a note to contact one of the magic users they knew to come and investigate what sort of magic it may be.

Teresa, on the other hand, was a bit more complicated. Agents Coulson and May gave Barbara files of Mary Fitzpatrick and the unsolved murder case, as well as whatever they were able to drag up of Teresa’s time in foster care before she got to Gotham.

Mary Fitzpatrick’s murder had very little evidence that pointed to the culprit, whoever it was. Unsettlingly so. It sounded like something that would happen here in Gotham rather in New York City. Barbara scoured through evidence photos to see if she could spot anything a regular detective would miss – something a Bat or Bird would hone in on immediately.

She found nothing.

Then with Teresa’s situation… The Agents weren’t wrong, per se, about her disappearing the moment she got the crime capital of America. Barbara found out that her social worker got changed at the same time, and the new one refused to give any information on the girl to Agents Coulson and May because they weren’t family. Barbara was able to find out that Teresa went to a seemingly nice family, a married couple in their 30s named Walter and Emily Tremmell, in the Diamond District who were well off, and soon found video feeds of Teresa from various security cameras within the city of her walking around with her new foster parents.

Those instances dwindled, which Barbara found odd. By the time month three rolled around, she saw no sign of the young girl anywhere. Not even in Crime Alley or the Narrows where a lot, if not most, of the struggling and/or homeless kids eventually ended up.

It wasn’t long until the sun began to rise, and Barbara reluctantly decided to head to bed and get at least a couple hours of sleep.

She got a full two hours before she had to wake up and go to work. The day was slow, and to her surprise she didn’t get much updates from Dick or Tim, or anyone, actually, about how Peter and Teresa were doing. She didn’t get answers as to why until Batman invited himself into the Clocktower that night.

Agents Coulson and May were there, too. They were going over Mary Fitzpatrick’s case one more time before they left Gotham.

“Batman,” Barbara greeted. “You could’ve told me you were coming by.”

“Hn.” He probably didn’t on purpose. No, he definitely didn’t on purpose. He hasn’t said it, but she knew he was unhappy with the two Agents figuring out who Oracle was and where she lived. He stared them down. “Agent Phil Coulson and Agent Melinda May. You’re still here.”

Coulson smiled as if Batman wasn’t angry with him. “Hello, Batman.” He stood from the chair he was in and walked over to him. He stuck out his hand. “It’s an honor to finally meet Gotham’s Dark Knight in shadowy armor.”

Batman didn’t shake Coulson’s hand. He didn’t even glance at it. He stood stock still. “Why are you still here?”

May stood and walked over as well. It wasn’t to try and shake his hand, though. She instead grabbed his elbow and pulled to move him back. Coulson let his hand fall as she did so.

“I apologize about him,” May said. “He’s a fan.”

The corners of Batman’s mouth turned down.

“Batman, relax,” Barbara tried. “They’re good. We can trust them.” She understood why he didn’t. She didn’t fully trust them at first, either, especially when they dropped the bombshell that was knowing she’s Oracle. But Coulson and May were good people. Barbara did an intense background check on them.

“They found your civilian home and identity,” he stated, tone low and dangerous.

“We simply came to the place where the searches of our friend were coming from,” Coulson said.

“You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

May smirked. “We have our own genius hacker on the team. She’s a fan of yours, by the way.” The last part was said to Barbara, whose brows rose in curiosity. “She wanted to come with us, but we heard of your no meta rule.”

“Daisy Johnson,” Batman said. “She has earthquake-like abilities.”

May looked back at him. Her gaze hardened. “Yes,” she slowly admitted.

“…There is not a no meta rule,” he informed her. “Our daytime vigilante, Signal, is one.”

“Forgive us for still being cautious,” Coulson said. “Our team is close, like a family. I’m sure you understand.”

Barbara looked at Batman.

“…Hn.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Coulson and May both look to her for clarification.

She sighed. “He understands, but still doesn’t like it.”

“That’s reasonable,” May said.

Coulson nodded in agreement. “It is. And if it makes you feel any better, we have not looked into anyone else’s identities. Nightwing’s may become our knowledge simply because Teresa will be living with him, and we will be keeping in touch with her this time. But we aren’t digging to unveil his identity — nor anyone else’s.”

Batman stayed quiet for a moment. “Nightwing plans to go back to Blüdhaven this weekend. I will talk to him about meeting you both.” He paused. “With Teresa.”

Coulson grinned with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

May showed similar relief, but subtler.

Honestly, Barbara was beginning to think that if the DEO agents and Batman got to know each other well, they would respect one another and maybe even get along. 

Batman said, “You're welcome.”

“You really care about her, don’t you?” Barbara asked the agents.

As Coulson began to nod, May said, “Of course we do. As we’ve said before, Mary was one of our closest friends out. When able, she went on missions with us. Teresa grew up knowing us and the rest of our team. We promised Mary to make sure she stays safe, and we plan on keeping that promise. Losing track of her in Gotham has been terrifying.”

“How is she?” asked Coulson. “And the boy, too — his name is Peter, right?”

Barbara looked at Batman. He knew more about the kids and how they were than she did at the moment.

“I don’t know what Oracle has explained to you so far, but they were caught in the edge of an explosion near a homeless shelter,” Batman told them. “Teresa didn’t get hurt. She has a small head injury, but that came from a fight with another street kid the day before the explosion happened. Peter tackled her to the ground when it happened, and it reopened the wound.

“Peter, however, acquired a few burns and scrapes. He ended up going into one of the burning buildings to try and help anyone who was trapped, but got caught in a second explosion. Peter got lucky; he has no life threatening injuries. As of right now, Teresa is with Nightwing. Safe.”

Barbara’s brows furrowed slightly. “And Peter?”

Batman’s lips thinned. “He ran away.”

“He what?!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

“Why did he run in the first place?” Coulson questioned.

Batman said, “We believe he got overwhelmed. We could have definitely done things differently to avoid this outcome, but I have a suspicion he would have ended up running off no matter what.”

Barbara pursed her lips. She could tell that was all he intended to tell her with Coulson and May still with them. She wondered why. Maybe it tied into Peter’s universe hopping? Something trauma related?

He continued saying, “We know where he is. He’s safe. But as of right now, we are giving him space. He may run again if any of us get too close.”

She couldn’t help but wonder why, and she made plans to later get answers. “Alright… It’s great he’s safe and all, but that still doesn’t explain why none of you called to inform me about it,” she said with frustration. “I could have helped.”

“Nightwing didn’t want to overload you. You already are looking into Mary Fitzpatrick for him.”

She rolled her eyes. “That dick. I can work on more than one thing at once.” She moved to her desk with all of the computer screens, peeved at Dick (and Bruce and everyone else, quite honestly) but pushed that aside. She grabbed the Manila folder and handed it to Batman. “Speaking of… Here is Mary Fitzpatrick’s case file. Not much to go on, and there isn’t much to explain why Teresa ended up on streets. Her appearances with her foster parents decreased over time. That’s about it.” She had a few printed stills from security feeds of the young girl and the foster parents, and handed them over as well.

He flipped through everything, silently. “Hm… No visible signs of abuse from the Tremmells. Her body language isn’t uncomfortable, but she keeps her distance.”

“Well, in those stills she is a mourning ten-year-old,” Barbara commented. “I’m sure we can find similar stills from security feeds of you and ‘Wing when you first took him in.”

His head minutely tilted in agreement. “Can either of you think of any reason Teresa would run away?” The question was aimed at Coulson and May.

“She may have felt unsafe,” Coulson theorized after a moment’s thought. “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“And it’s the most likely reason,” May added. “The month leading up to Mary’s death, she seemed…overly cautious. Almost to the point of paranoia. Not for herself, though, but for Teresa.” She crossed her arms, a thoughtful yet serious expression forming. “Is there a chance an enemy of Nightwing’s could have discovered who her father is?”

“You think someone killed Mary Fitzpatrick to get to Nightwing’s daughter?” Batman asked gruffly.

Barbara frowned in thought, and looked at him when she felt his gaze on her. It was short lived, though, because they both knew. Nightwing had enemies. They all did. And some of them overlapped. There were certainly rogues and villains who would definitely go after a vigilante’s kid for their own gain. Some didn’t even need a reason; some were just evil like that.

But which ones had the means to be able to know of Dick and Teresa being related before them?

“It is more likely than any of us wants to admit,” Barbara told May seriously.

“If that’s the case, they didn’t succeed,” said Coulson.

“No,” Batman agreed, “but that doesn’t mean they stopped trying.” He handed the case file and camera stills back to Barbara. “Print these. Give a copy to Nightwing.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

“I have another question,” May said.

He nodded once, an affirmative to ask away.

“Teresa is going to live with Nightwing now, correct? If they really did kill Mary to get to her, how likely is it for whoever it is to back off because of that, and set their sights on someone else?”

Silence fell over the four of them.

Shit, Barbara thought. Peter.

+++

Peter had a plan.

Step One: make the Spider-Man suit. He had the Kevlar fabric, but he needed shoes to make the boots with and maybe some other type of fabric (like spandex) to go either on top or underneath; or both. Layering, even thin ones, would be a smart thing to do with it being winter. The problem was that he didn’t have enough money to get any of those things. 

If push came to shove, he might take one of the pair of boots from the closet, and fix them to go with the Spider-Man suit. Most of these vigilantes were rich, or didn’t have to worry about money. They could handle losing a single pair of boots.

Step Two: make more web fluid. When he first started out as Spider-Man, he made it secretly in one of his science classes, with chemicals he found there at the school. Then, he made some at Stark Tower. Peter, though, was pretty sure he might be able to find cheap stuff to make the fluid out of. Maybe. Hopefully.

He didn’t want to have to sneak into a school’s science lab. Doing that in a city Gotham felt like a very bad idea. But if that ended up being the only way to get the stuff he needed, then Peter would do it. He would just rather not, at this moment in time.

Step Three: get a job. Should this be step one? …No comment. Peter wanted to get out and swing ASAP, and looking for a job first would slow that down. Surely, there were jobs that weren’t sketchy. Maybe a pizza delivery guy? Or just a delivery guy in general. That way he could also learn the layout of the city, while also getting paid with the bonus of not being stuck in one place for hours on end.

He knew part of the city — a small part; just where he’s been from going back forth between Martha’s House and the library. If he wanted to survive this dangerous city, he should probably be more familiar with streets and certain buildings. And being a delivery guy seemed like the best way to do it. Or, at least, something similar to a job like that.

Step Four: get his own place. As cool as this safe house was with everything a vigilante needed, Peter did not want to stay here. He didn’t want to stay in Gotham. But unless he wanted to be homeless in a completely different city, he should probably stay here until he had a handle on things.

Peter wanted to go back to NYC. This New York City wasn’t his, but it was a city he knew and was familiar with, and hopefully it wasn’t anything like Gotham in this world. Maybe if he got there he could check on May. Or even Ned.

…Maybe find out if MJ existed and see how this version of her was doing without a Peter Parker in her life to ruin it.

Or, better yet, avoid them all if they did exist, and find a way meet Dr. Reed Richards. Peter has always wanted to meet the man. Even if it wasn’t the Reed Richards from his world, he was still Reed Richards — one of the smartest men, if not the smartest, in the world — and meeting him would be a dream come true.

But that’s not going to happen any time soon. Step Four in general was going to take time. Peter couldn’t exactly run off to New York City right now.

Well. He could. But then the Waynes, either as themselves or as vigilantes, might follow, and he didn’t want that. Also, he’d be homeless again, as stated before.

Peter sighed. He eyed the four steps of the plan he wrote down in the notebook. It wasn’t a bad plan, he thought. It seemed doable.

It was just…going to take time.

Peter started to complain to himself that if only he didn’t mess up so bad that he had to be sent to an entirely different universe, then he wouldn’t be in this mess — only to stop.

Because, even if he did stay in his own universe, things wouldn’t be much different. He would still be homeless. He would still need to make a new suit and more web fluid. He would still need to find a job and a place to live. He would still be alone by his own doing.

The main differences were that he was now in a shitty crime-ridden city, and Richard Parker wasn’t dead, and said man had a family of vigilantes and was one himself.

…Seriously. What the fuck was his life anymore.

God. He didn’t even ask to be sent to a different universe, yet here he was. He fucked up so badly, Dr. Strange had to change the spell again.

Peter didn’t get the chance to spiral down that hole of depression.

A sound at the window in the living room caught his attention the same moment his spider-sense flared, similar to how when Red Hood had shown up at Martha’s House. The curtains were closed, so whoever was outside couldn’t see in, but Peter could just barely make out a silhouette against the light Gotham’s streetlights.

And then— nothing. Whoever caused his spider-sense to spike left. The vague silhouette disappeared.

Peter stared. Frowned.

Damian had said he didn’t need to worry about the others coming here to use the safe house. If that ended up being a lie, he was going to steal that sword of his and web it where only a guy with spider powers could reach it.

He closed the notebook where he’d written down his 4 Step Plan, and set it on the coffee table as he stood to go to the window. He peered through a small gape in the curtains he formed with a finger. No one stood or crouched outside on the fire escape. Nothing alerted his spider-sense; whoever was there a moment was now gone. All he saw were the nighttime sights of Gotham.

He pulled back the curtains completely and opened the window. The cold November wind nipped at his nose and ruffled his hair, making him involuntarily shiver as his eyes scanned the area. Still nothing in the immediate area… Except for a small, rectangular box on the fire escape.

Peter climbed out and grabbed it.

That was when things changed.

The back of his neck tingling in warning halted him from quickly going back inside, and closing the window and curtains. He stilled.

The danger didn’t come from the box, but from something else.

It was sharp. Insistent. Screeched of danger — just like it had been when he caught someone watching Teresa from a rooftop. 

Peter barely breathed as he focused on figuring out where it came from. 

When he figured out that whatever it was, was on the rooftop, he quickly moved to look. He expected to see someone directly above him, looking at him as they leaned over the edge.

No one was there.

His heartbeat picked up in speed, both in wariness and anxiety. His spider-sense has yet to be wrong, but no one was there. He didn’t even pick up a heartbeat when he listened for one. It freaked him out.

The danger didn’t leave. It remained unseen. Like whoever — whatever — lurked above planned on staying hidden until Peter went back inside.

A predator keeping an eye on its prey.

Carefully, he placed the box that had been left on the fire escape inside. Then, he made the (probably stupid) decision to climb to the roof. He did as quietly as he could on the rickety old metal, not wanting to risk anyone seeing him climb the brick wall like he wanted to do.

Just before he got there, his spider-senses quieted. Tremendously. Quickly.

It was almost more nerve wracking than the danger staying. 

And sure enough, once he got on the rooftop, nothing was there. Just the AC Unit, and a door that lead to the emergency stairs inside the building.

“What the hell,” he whispered.

He walked around the entire thing just to make sure. The only seemingly out of place thing was a bird feather near the AC Unit. Peter crouched down and frowned at it. He picked it up by the quill with the hand that didn’t still have able of the box, and twisted it back and forth almost absentmindedly.

Once was happenstance. Twice was a coincidence. If it happened a third time, it would officially become a pattern.

With that in mind, he took the feather with him back inside. He closed the window, shut the curtains, and eyed the feather once again, but this time in better light. It was tan with dark stripes, and quite a few inches long; he guessed it probably came from a wing. It curve slightly, too, and one side of the feather was shorter than the other.

Peter set it on the coffee table. He had no idea what type of bird it came from, but maybe he could do some research and find out. The entire situation weirded him out and confused him, and if it wasn’t just a mere coincidence, maybe some research later could give him some answers.

It could wait, though. He still needed to check out the box from the fire escape.

It was nothing too fancy. Just a black, sleek box about the size something like an iPhone came in once you bought it. It also reminded him of the box the E.D.I.T.H. glasses had been in.

…Oh. This was totally a phone, wasn’t it?

And, yep — there one laid, snug and secure with  a charger and earphones, all underneath a small piece of paper that had handwriting on it.

Peter was torn between being amused (because this was definitely something Mr. Stark would do, and even something he tried to do when he saw the state of Peter’s cracked iPhone one day) and annoyed (because he didn’t want any more help; the safe house was enough).

He set the phone, still in the box, on the coffee table next to the feather as he took out the note.

It read: 

Here’s a phone. WayneTech. The best out there & most recent model. My number is already in there. Text if you want help making some legal documents for proof of existence, I can get you in contact with Oracle. You’ll do it if you know what’s best for you.

-Red Hood
P.S. Yes, the bat brat told us where you are, but don’t worry, none of us will make a surprise visit. I’ll make sure of it.

The last sentence of both parts felt unnecessarily threatening. It had him rolling his eyes a bit. He could figure out a way to do those documents himself, and definitely already planned to. He totally didn’t forget about not legally existing for a moment, not at all. Nope. If anyone suspected otherwise, they were wrong. 

Peter muttered a curse under his breath, and ran a hand through his hair.

His plan may need to be tweaked.

He crumpled the paper and tossed it on the couch.

Red Hood… That was the guy Teresa had been yelling at when she couldn’t find him, right? He left to get Nightwing, so he had to be a member of the Wayne family, too. But which one?

He pictured the photo he had been looking at in the manor’s living room. Out of all of them, it was probably the guy whose cutout candid had been taped to it. Peter just didn’t know his name. He didn’t remember anyone mentioning it, anyway.

He shook his head, deciding to figure that out later, and picked up the box with the phone in it once again. He took the device out to inspect it. It was a navy blue with what Peter assumed was the WayneTech logo in the middle on the back. The logo was silver, and stuck out against the darker color.

His thumb rubbed against the power button.

A lump formed in the back of throat suddenly. His eyes stung.

He didn’t want a new phone. He needed it, but he didn’t want it. He wanted his old one, the one he’d set down in a place he didn’t remember after making the video that lured the bad guys to the Statue of Liberty. The one that had hundreds of memories stored in it. The one that Mr. Stark did give him when the old, too cracked one finally went kaput.

Peter poorly choked back tears. He unceremoniously plopped down onto the couch and let the phone fall onto the space beside him. A few tears fell, and he reached up to wipe them away.

His phone has so many memories held within it — and it was only just now dawning on him that he didn’t even have those with him. No pictures or funny videos. No texts to look back on. Nothing.

He sucked in a stuttering breath, attempted to blink away any remaining tears, and scrubbed his face dry with his sleeve.

Abruptly, he stood. He made his way to his backpack and pulled out his suit, needing a distraction.

And what better way to distract himself than with starting on a new Spider-Man suit? He could use the old one to get correct measurements. Maybe take a closer look at the tech, figure out the mechanisms of the heater Mr. Stark had embedded in it. Maybe even find a way to get Karen to work again, and later why the nanotech stopped working when he got here.

He slowed as he spread the remaining parts of the mask and the body on the coffee table after cleaning it off. An idea began to form.

Karen… He often used Karen to backup things like videos and pictures from his phone. Who knew when he’d accidentally destroy it? That way if it somehow happened, he never lost anything important.

His eyes flicked to the new phone.

Maybe he could just…do that in reverse. Get Karen working again and transfer stuff from the suit to the phone.

Yeah, he could do that. It should be doable. It would just have to be done as a side hobby or something. It wasn’t necessarily a priority — like the feather. Something to work on from time to time while going through the four step plan he made.

He ran a hand through his hair. Okay, he thought, you can do this, Parker.

“I can do this,” he muttered.

Come on, Spider-Man.

Chapter Text

A few days went by. Gotham civilians went about their lives. The Waynes did their own things, and at night the Bats and Birds moved through the shadows — all except for Dick, who went back to Blüdhaven with Teresa, and Nightwing was finally seen in his own city a couple nights later.

Meanwhile, Peter stayed holed up in the safe house. He had a single-minded focus of creating a new suit to get out to swing as soon as possible.

He itched for it. Longed for it.

He’s pretty sure he’s never gone this long without swinging around the city as Spider-Man. Not since the very first day he put on those sweats he made, all those years ago. It’s been a little over a week, now, and it felt weird.

He needed to get out there. To swing. To…

To fly.

If for nothing else then for his own sanity.

Sleep had been alluding him. Nightmares plagued his mind when he did sleep — even during naps. The sounds of the crime-ridden city he now resided in was too much. Pent up energy resided within him, making him jittery and hyperactive, although that could also be from ingesting too much coffee.

The suit needed to be made. Quickly. Because once he had it, Peter would have something else to do than stare at the ceiling on sleepless and/or nightmare-filled nights. He no longer would find himself going from the couch to the floor to the kitchen counter to the ceiling so often. He could go out and do what he loved to do: help out the little guy and web up criminals.

So, he worked on it practically nonstop. Making the suit gave his hands something to do, something for his mind to focus on. He didn’t leave the safe house, except for one time, and that was to a thrift store not too far away. He left the phone Red Hood gave him just in case it had a tracker in it, and avoided cameras to the best of his abilities. He entered the thrift store with $20 and left $7 poorer, but with a bag of items he got from the athletic wear section. Then, he made his way to a Walmart that had definitely seen better days, bought rolls of cheap off brands of sticker mesh and one way mirror film, and a plastic transparent fish bowl. It left him with a whopping $1.54.

The athletic wear — solid black compression pants, shirt, gloves, and socks — were layered with the Kevlar fabric for warmth. The lenses of the domino masks in the closet were too small for him to use his own mask, so he resorted to making them himself. He used the items he got from Walmart to create the lenses of the mask, cutting out correctly sized pieces out of the plastic fish bowl, and covering them with the sticker mesh and mirror film.

Before he attached them to the mask and added the black outline, Peter held them up against his eyes. For any other person, they’d have trouble seeing. For Peter, it was perfect. They helped his heightened senses focus better.

For the outer layer of the suit, he used the red and blue Kevlar fabric he found, and used the black fabric to create the spider-symbol on the front and thinner strands to create the webbing across the red areas of the suit. Then, a red spider symbol was put on the blue section on the back.

A pair of red boots that matched the color of the red Kevlar sat in the closet. Unfortunately, they were too small; a woman’s pair, most likely. What was fortunate, though, was that he still had his old suit. He cut off the boots just above the calves but under a line of gold nanotech that was attached to the old fabric, and worked on repurposing them for the new suit by replacing the old, damaged fabric with the Kevlar and athletic wear.

He didn’t attach them to the pants, though. Actually, he ended up keeping the suit into five separate pieces: boots, pants, a shirt, gloves, and the mask. As he worked, he thought of Peter 2 and how wearing the suit under civilian clothes was a good idea, now especially because of obvious reasons. 

He took very little breaks. Mainly he stopped to use the restroom, occasionally ate when he remembered to, and took a shower after one particular nightmare that made him relive the moment Mysterio made him see a decomposed Iron Man suit crawl out of a grave. He woke up, had a panic attack, threw up, and then stood in the shower for a good hour and a half, emotionally numb and exhausted.

He immediately got to work once he got out, a mug of coffee in hand as an attempt to rid of the exhaustion that seemed to cling to his bones these days.

And then, mere hours later… It was done.

He finished the suit.

Peter didn’t waste any time. He shucked off the clothes he wore, and put the suit on. First the pants, then the shirt. He then pulled on the boots, and made sure the seem line wasn’t noticeable. He did the same for the gloves, placing the web-shooters on his wrists right after. Then finally, the mask.

He twisted his torso back and forth, and stretched out his hands and arms, even lightly jogged in place shortly, to see how it felt.

Movement caught his attention in the corner of his eye. When he quickly snapped his gaze in that direction, he stilled at the sight of his reflection in the full length mirror in the bedroom.

Spider-Man. In a new suit. He stood a bit straighter and got a better look at it as a whole. He smiled to himself involuntarily, hands going to his hips.

“Not too shabby,” he said to himself.

It was much better than the first ever suit he made, and he realized as he looked at it some more that he’d unconsciously took inspiration from the other Peters’ suits.

It wasn’t perfect. He wanted to find a way to make the eyes move. He’d yet to get Karen back online. It needed a built in heating component before it got too cold. Maybe his web-shooters could be altered to blend in with this new suit better. But it was still a suit; homemade and his, and it settled something akin to normalcy within him. 

He looked to the bedroom window before checking his web-shooters.

He didn’t have a lot of webs left.

…

“…Ah, screw it.”

+++

Peter left the safe house through the bedroom window, clad in the Spider-Man suit; he brought his backpack with him, stuffing it with clothes and shoes just in case. Luckily for him, the bedroom’s window had no cameras aimed at it. In fact, it seemed to be in a blind spot. It was probably why this specific apartment was made into a safe house in the first place. 

Also luckily, no one was in the alley it led to, and he carefully shut the window before crawling up the wall. He made sure to stay in the shadows the best he could with it being daytime.

Then, he was off to find a good, tall building to start swinging off of.

Peter ran across the roofs of buildings. He jumped over gaps with ease. He crawled and scuttled up walls — or even ran up them.

A group of pigeons got startled after he accidentally landed too close to them for comfort after flipping from one roof to the next. He called out an apology to them — “Whoops. Sorry, birdies!” — and felt himself smile, the sounds of the wings bringing back a sense of familiarity.

He didn’t stop until he found a good building to start swinging from.

That building just so happened to be the Wayne Enterprise skyscraper.

He jumped from the building beside it, and crawled the rest of the distance up to the very top. When he got to his destination, he crouched on the edge and stared out at the expanse of the city.

Gotham wasn’t New York. Far from it. It was grim and dark and rough in a way Peter never realized a city could be. And yet as he stared at the afternoon sun-kissed city from his perch on the tallest building, he couldn’t help but be reminded of home. Hell, the roof of the WE building had a fence built around it just like the Empire State Building did.

A pang went through his chest.

Peter ignored it in favor of focusing on whoever followed him up there. The same person who’d been following him for a good few minutes or so now.

It wasn’t whoever, or whatever, had been on the roof that other night. His spider-sense didn’t screech of danger. It hummed like it did with the other vigilantes of Gotham he’s encountered so far, so he just let it happen when he first noticed it.

He looked over his shoulder and looked directly at where his spider-sense said the person was. He didn’t see anyone, but a heartbeat picked up speed. His head tilted a little in amusement, mouth quirking into a smile.

“Is someone up here with me, or am I being stalked by a ghost?” he called out. “Because, like, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case. Gotham seems like the type of city to be haunted. Or cursed.” He turned around and sat normally, legs lightly swinging back and forth.

Between one blink and the next, a person appeared clad in a yellow and black vigilante suit. The helmet/cowl thing had points at the top like Batman’s, albeit smaller, and the section around the eyes were black while the rest was yellow; the bottom half of the vigilante’s face was exposed, showing dark skin. The symbol on the chest was a white bat outlined with black.

If Peter remembered correctly, this was Signal.

He leaned forward a little. And if the anxious uptick in Signal’s heartbeat was anything to go by, it probably looked a bit precarious. “Whoa! How’d you do that? Do you have cloaking tech, or are you a meta? Or are you an actual ghost? But– wait, if you are a meta, how are you working in Gotham? I heard Batman has a no-meta rule, or something.”

The barrage of questions took the other vigilante by surprise. He recovered quickly, though. “How about I answer once you get down from there,” said Signal. “It’s dangerous.”

“No, thanks. I’m good up here.”

“It’s not safe, kid.”

Peter snorted. “For you, maybe. Spiders tend to like heights. Also, don’t call me kid. I’d bet the last of my money we’re about the same age.”

Signal shifted his feet some. “Hold on. Spiders? Are you Spiderman?”

Peter blinked. “Depends on who’s asking. Are you Casper?”

“Name’s Signal, actually, and no, I’m not a ghost,” he told him. “Batman’s asking about you. It’s not often a new wannabe vigilante pops up without him knowing about it first.”

Wannabe vigilante? Peter actually felt a tiny bit offended by that. He wasn’t a wannabe. He didn’t go through everything so far to be labeled as that.

“Okay, first off: I’ve been at this gig for a while now. Just because you’ve never heard of me, doesn’t mean I’m a wannabe vigilante,” Peter said. “Two: is there, or is there not a no-meta rule? ‘Cause I’m getting mixed signals here — pun totally intended, by the way. You seem to be one, but if the Big Bad Bat is trying to hunt me down…”

“Damn, alright.” He held up his hands placatingly. “Veteran vigilante, then. I’ll take your word for it.”

Peter tilted his head. “And the rule?”

“A rumor. We don’t know how it started. He’s not gonna throw you in Blackgate or Arkham just because you got powers.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Peter had no idea what those two places were. He probably should.

“I’m a meta, too. My powers just revolve around light, or lack of it. And I’m gonna wager and guess and say you have spider powers, Spiderman?”

“It’s Spider-Man, actually,” Peter automatically corrected.

Signal’s mouth parted. “Uh. That… That’s what I said. Spiderman.”

“Ehhh, not really,” Peter said. “It’s Spider-Man, with a dash. I can tell you’re saying it without the dash, and it’s bothering me.”

“Spider…Man?”

“Spider, dash, man.”

“…Spider-Man?”

Peter grinned beneath the mask. He threw his hands up. “Yeah, there we go! Now you got it!”

Signal jerked forward, one hand going out in front of him while the other went to some sort of gun-like thing on his hip. “Whoa! Be careful, man! I told you, it’s dangerous up there.”

“And I told you: I’m good.”

“Just… Please get down. Accidents happen.”

An idea popped into Peter’s head. “Get down? That’s it?”

Signal sighed, tense. “Yes. Please.”

Peter casually shrugged. “Alright.”

He visibly paused. “Really? Just like that?”

“Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’. He smirked. “See ya down there.”

“Thank y– wait.”

Peter leaned back and let gravity take him.

“Wait, no– Spider-Man!”

Wind rushed by as he fell, and he crossed his legs at his ankles and settled his hands behind his head. When Signal looked down through the fenced roof, Peter did a little two-fingered salute, jutting out that same arm a second later.

With a thwip, a web shot off to the closest building, and Peter swung with the movement. He let go at the peak of the swing, flipping before shooting off another web.

“Woohoo!” Peter joyfully shouted.

He passed by a young man out on the balcony of his apartment. The man’s jaw went slack at the sight of Spider-Man, causing an unlit cigarette to fall before he could even use the lighter. Peter waved jovially as he went by. 

It didn’t take long at all for him to get into a rhythm — into the swing of things, heh. Shoot a web; swing; flip. It was exhilarating. A wonderfully welcoming and familiar feeling, something different than how down he’s felt recently.

The movements came naturally — so much so, that it easily slipped his mind that had a limited amount of webbing.

During the peak of a particularly large swing, he went to shoot a web at a corner of a building. The web stopped to short; made it to the invisible halfway mark and stopped. 

Peter pressed both of his web-shooters reflexively. Nothing came out of one, and the other only created a strand a few feet long, far too short to latch onto anything.

“Oh, not good, not good,” he said, voice gradually getting louder as he involuntarily started to yell.

He looked around, trying to spot something to stop his fall. For once, his luck seemed to be good, because there was a stop light underneath him. Unfortunately, the luck stopped there. When he aimed to grab the space between two lights, he missed by a fraction, and he accepted his fate to absolutely eat shit in the road for everyone at the red light and on the sidewalks to see—

Only to have something wrap around his ankle and be swung towards a building.

Peter didn’t question it. He went with the momentum, and with a roll to soften the landing, he made it to the roof of one of the shorter buildings nearby.

He unwrapped what he assumed to be some sort of grapple rope from his ankle just as Signal landed on the roof, too.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Gravity doing what it naturally does.” Peter grinned under his mask and popped to his feet. The grapple snapped back to the gun-like device Signal had in his hand — one of two. “Thanks, by the way.”

“It’s not funny, Spider-Man,” said Signal. “You were falling from a dangerous height. You could have died, man.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Pfft. No way. Would’ve hurt like hell, but I’d live. I’m more durable than most.”

“I’m being serious, man,” said Signal.

“So am I. I’ve fallen into a lake from about one-thousand feet high and survived.”

“And how hurt were you?”

“I wasn’t.”

Signal tilted his head and crossed his arms. “No shit?”

Peter held up his hands. “I’m telling the truth, I swear.” He smirked. “Want a demonstration?”

“No.” He said it so fast, Peter almost didn’t even get to finish the question. Signal shook his head when Peter laughed. “We’ve talked for barely ten minutes and I already know you’re a menace.”

He grinned. “Spider-Menace, some would say.”

That got a chuckle from the yellow-clad vigilante. “They’re right.”

Peter laughed a little himself, but sobered up not too soon after as a thought came to him.

In his universe, Dad’s biological parents died in a horrific trapeze incident; he would bet it happened similarly here, too. It was actually why he used to be scared of heights — why being on top of the Washington Monument freaked him out all that time ago. Being there, with his AcaDec team about to fall to their deaths in an elevator, brought up memories of being told what happened and consequently being scared of that happening to his friends if he was unable to catch the elevator in time.

And with Richard being Nightwing… Of course they took potentially falling from extreme heights seriously. He probably made sure of it.

“Hey, man, listen… I’m sorry for freaking you out back there.” With the way Signal tilted his head, Peter got the sense the other vigilante was raising a brow of disbelief. “…Mostly. Your reaction was funny. But that second time just now was a complete accident. I forgot I was running low on webs.”

“Really?”

Peter nodded.

“Just– Just don’t make a habit of plummeting to your death,” Signal said. He amended it with, “Seemingly.”

“I can promise not to do it purpose.”

Signal sighed. “Good enough for me.” He then motioned to Peter’s wrists. “You said you ran out. I guess that means that…stuff… Your webs? That doesn’t come out of you?”

He laughed, briefly thinking back to the conversation with Peter 2. “No, it doesn’t. Gotta make it the old fashioned way.”

“So you make it yourself? Cool. That’s impressive. You would have to make it strong enough to carry your weight and take on the force of swinging at the same time.”

Peter smiled. “Thanks.” Then, his spider-sense flared. Without even thinking, he shot out a hand and caught one the grappling devices Signal threw at him.

“There. Until you can get more webs,” he said.

He stared at it in surprise, and then at Signal. “Whoa, seriously? But–”

Signal shook his head. “Keep it, man. There are more grapple guns where that came from. You need it more than me, right now. I’ll just be extra careful grappling for the rest of my patrol.”

He almost tossed it back. But he did need a way to travel through the city until he made more webs, and having this kept him from being grounded for far too long for his liking.

“Alright. If you’re sure,” said Peter, a bit hesitant. “Thanks. For this and catching me. Saved me from the embarrassment of eating shit in front of everyone.”

Signal laughed. “You’re welcome. Happens to the best of us.” As an after thought, he asked, “Hey, wanna finish patrol with me? Being the dayshift gets lonely sometimes.”

Peter debated in his head shortly. “Spiders are known to be solitary creatures… And some bats eat spiders…”

Signal smiled. “Technically, I’m a light.”

That pulled out a loud laugh from Peter. “True.” He shrugged. “Alright, sure. It can’t hurt. Just one question.”

“Yeah?”

He lifted the grapple gun. “How the hell does this thing work?”

+++

Dick sat at the table in his apartment’s kitchen, laptop in front of him. The sun was setting outside, Jake was under the table coloring to his heart’s content with their dog, Haley, chewing on a dog toy beside him, Mar’i was in Dick’s line of sight in the living room area as she played with her dolls, and Teresa was in what was now dubbed as her room.

It used to be Mar’i’s, but now she and Jake were sharing a room. It took most of the weekend rearranging everything, and buying new items and such for Teresa — unfortunately, in the two youngest’s minds, excluding a bunk bed for them.

It was admittedly funny witnessing a toddler and a five-year-old attempt to convince him that they should have one. Extra awesome blanket forts had been the most important reasoning. Dick didn’t give into it, though. No bunk beds for Mar’i and Jake until they were older. 

Teresa’s new room wasn’t decorated very much just yet. She had a bed, of course, and all of the important things, but there wasn’t a lot of personalizations just yet. Still, that didn’t deter the pre-teen from seeking alone time in there.

Mar’i and Jake, excited at the idea of a sister and another kid, however much older, being around, constantly vied for her attention. Dick didn’t know if it was because they were tiring her out, or if she was overwhelmed or even unsure of what do to when they were around, but Dick tried to divert their attention from her some way when he got a feeling that she needed some time for personal space.

Dick drummed his fingers against the table. He wondered how Peter would be with Mar’i and Jake… Well, he had met Mar’i before. He helped her down that tree at the park, and she had called him ‘the bloody boy’ because of his injured arm. She still talked about him, actually–

His thoughts came to a halt.

Dick blinked. Wait.

Peter was injured when he helped Mar’i. It completely slipped his mind, but he had been injured. Cass even mentioned it.

In the cave, Teresa had mentioned a gunshot wound on Peter’s arm that he needed checked out, but he had insisted that she imagined it. Alfred even said there wasn’t a wound of any kind there.

That couldn’t have been more than a week between those two instances.

Damn it. Well, it’s a good thing. His abilities healed the GSW within days. Unfortunately, Dick was now wondering why the hell Peter got shot at. Didn’t Teresa mention something about cops? Remembering that kept him from worrying too much.

For cops having been the ones to aim and fire, that meant it hadn’t been Slade to shoot at his kid. Which meant Dick could at least assume Deathstroke didn’t know of Teresa and Peter, and therefore wasn’t the one after them. 

And thank fuck for that. The creepy bastard was obsessed with him enough already. Dick might finally snap and kill Slade if he ever got the dumb idea to try and take any of his kids an apprentice.

His time as Renegade, even though it hadn’t been very long, was something he didn’t like thinking about.

He mentally shook those thoughts away. He didn’t want to dwell on any of it. Slade Wilson was not stalking Teresa and/or Peter. That’s it.

So, who was? Was it the same person who killed Mary Fitzpatrick? That’s been the question ever since Bruce told him about his and Babs’ conversation with Agents Coulson and May.

And he might have an answer.

Dick finally sat up again and stared at his laptop screen. The files for The Court of Owls stared back at him. William Cobb, the other Talons, the Gotham elite who were secretly apart of the ever present Court — those were the people Dick suspected killed Mary Fitzpatrick and wanted Teresa (and Peter, if they knew about him).

Sure, were there other options? Yeah. But for someone to be after his kids specifically? And it wasn’t Deathstroke?

To him, the answer was obvious. His dear old undead great-grandfather wanted someone to replace the Gray Son.

Dick ran a hand through his hair. After a moments thought, he leaned forward and pulled up a protected chat log to message Bruce one-on-one. It read: how likely is it for the court to still be active and us not know?

He didn’t need to wait long for an answer.

batdad: Very. They’re world wide, and we never completely rid Gotham of them. 

Before he could respond, another message came through.

batdad: How likely is it Peter’s universe has a Court?

Dick stared at the question.

A jolt of incredulous anger coursed through him. He snatched his phone from the table and immediately called Bruce. It only rang twice. Dick didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“You better not be insinuating what I think you are.”

Bruce carefully said, “Chum–”

“Holy paranoia, B, you are!” Dick stood, pushing the chair back with a short screech as he did; he closed his laptop, just to make sure none of the kids could see the information on the screen. “He’s your grandson!” He made his way to the kitchen area, and ran a hand over his face. Absentmindedly, he glanced at the timer on the oven and saw there were 15 minutes until the lasagna was done.

“I know, Dick. I’m not saying that I think he’s a Talon–”

“Well, it sure sounds like it–”

“Richard John.” Bruce’s voice was firm and parental.

Dick snapped his mouth closed, jaw tensed.

“Can I please explain without being interrupted?”

His teeth ground together. “…Fine.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, followed by a tired sigh. “Chum, I’m not saying I think he’s an assassin for the Court. I promise. But it is a possibility. I watched the cave security footage. He has faster reflexes than he should — he stopped right after exiting the bathroom before Damian jumped in front of him, as if he knew Damian was there, and grabbed your wrist quicker than he should have. You were behind him. He had no way to even see that. And if the bruise is anything to go by, he likely has enhanced strength, too.”

Dick half heartedly, and a bit petulantly, rolled his eyes. Of course Bruce knew about the bruise without Dick ever mentioning it to him.

“Dick, son, he shouldn’t be able to do any of those things. He doesn’t have the meta gene; I had Tim triple check. But he did find a strange sequence of DNA mixed into his own. It’s…spidery.”

Dick blinked. “I thought his blood had radiation in it?”

“It has both.”

“…Okay,” he breathed out. So, his son from another universe was part spider, and at this point he might as well expect the teen to be the Spider-guy. “And you’ve connected this to the Court, how?”

“I’ve done some research,” Bruce told him. “Some spiders are susceptible to cold temperatures. I went over the cave footage again. It’s not that noticeable, and some areas of the cave are kept heated, but he was reacting more to the cold than Teresa.”

Fast reflexes. Enhanced strength. Sensitivity to cold temps.

“His blood isn’t black, B,” Dick argued. It came off a tad desperate.

He didn’t want Peter to be a Talon. He’d still love him, of course; two of Dick’s siblings were former assassins, one brother was a slightly reformed crime lord, and Dick himself used to be an apprentice for a mercenary. If Peter was some version of a Talon, Dick would have no problem with it. What he did have a problem with, was the Court getting their hands on someone he cared for. The mere thought of it made his gut twist into knots.

“No,” Bruce agreed. “But he comes from a different universe. They could have used a different means to get their desired results.”

Dick leaned heavily against the countertop.

“I don’t want to be right about this, Dick. But there are similarities between a Talon’s abilities and Peter’s, and for now, I don’t think we can ignore that.”

“Do you think they know?”

Bruce paused. “About Peter, or his powers?”

He shook his head to himself and shrugged. “Any of it. I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Bruce spoke carefully and slowly. “I do believe they were the ones responsible for Mary’s death, though. And potentially the reason why Teresa went under the radar once she got to Gotham.”

“Is there any evidence to show she’s had a run-in with them?”

“No. That may be something you have to ask her about directly.”

Dick made sure to lower his voice. “I’m not going to interrogate my daughter, B.”

“That isn’t what I said. Just ask. Soon.”

“I’ll try,” Dick said. “Any word on Peter? Has he used the phone Jay dropped off?”

“No. The tracker on it will turn on once the phone is on, but it hasn’t yet. Barbara caught him on cameras once, and it was at Walmart yesterday. Otherwise, he’s either good at avoiding cameras, or has holed himself away in the safe house.”

“He hasn’t gone to Red Hood for help?”

“Jason hasn’t said anything, so I’m assuming not.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, and felt a headache starting to form. “Dammit. He's really that stubborn?” It was a rhetorical question.

Bruce hummed. “Reminds me of you at that age.”

“What?” Dick dropped his hand. “How?”

He could practically feel the eyebrow raise as Bruce said, “The independence. The stubbornness. You were adamant you could do everything yourself.”

“I wasn’t that bad.” It was a bold face lie. They both knew it.

“Reese’s pieces!” Jake’s happy exclamation caught Dick’s attention immediately. He turned to look, and saw that Jake had crawled halfway out from under the table and was grinning at Teresa, who was just now stepping out of the hallway.

From the living room area, Mar’i gasped. “Reesie!”

Teresa stilled. She blinked a few times, visibly confused. “Um. I don’t have any Reese’s pieces.” Mar’i ran over, and Teresa grunted slightly when the young girl ran into her side for a hug.

Jake huffed childishly. “Nooo. You Reese’s pieces.”

Her brows shot up. “Oh! You gave me a nickname?”

“Yes!”

Dick chuckled. He focused back on the call as Mar’i started tugging on Teresa’s arm, asking her to play with her in the living room. “Hey, B, I’m gonna have to call you back later. It’s almost supper time, anyway.” He glanced to the timer again; 9 minutes.

“That’s fine. Tell the kids I said ‘hey’.”

“I will. Bye.” Then, just to see how he would respond, “I love you, Dad.”

“Hn.” Bruce let out his classic emotionally constipated grunt. He then said, albeit quietly, “…I love you, too, chum.”

Dick laughed lightly. “Bye,” he repeated, and hung up.

“Can it be later?” Teresa was saying to Mar’i. “I’m hungry. I want to eat first.”

Mar’i pouted, but said, “Okay.”

“Who was dat?” Jake asked Dick.

“Grandpa B. He says hey.”

Teresa perked up a little. “Have they talked to Peter?”

Dick frowned, and shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Teresa.”

She became visibly disappointed, and a flash of anger came and went. She attempted to pull away from Mar’i, who still had a grip on her hand, but to no avail. Her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“The lasagna is almost done,” he said, deciding not to draw attention to her shift in mood. “Why don’t you guys help clean up your toys and stuff, and help me get out plates?”

“Wait, who’s Peter?” Mar’i asked. “Did Grandpa B adopted someone?”

Dick chuckled. “No, he didn’t. Peter is just a friend of Teresa’s.”

“Oh. Okay!”

Teresa scowled. “He’s not my friend,” she muttered, and finally pulled herself from Mar’i. “Friends don’t break promises.” She went to the table and crouched down, wordlessly starting to clean up Jake’s coloring book and crayons.

Haley perked up at the sight of her, and got up and walked over. Teresa stopped cleaning to love on the puppy before continuing.

Dick decided to let the conversation die there. “Alright. C’mon, kiddos. We gotta clean your toys up and get plates out.”

+++

Dinner came and went, as did bath time for Mar’i and Jake. Then bedtime crawled near, and before Dick knew it, the two youngsters were asleep in their respective beds after a bedtime story. He quietly shut their door, then faced Teresa’s.

It was shut, too, but light shone from the bottom crack, so he knew she hadn’t gone to bed yet. Dick stepped closer and knocked gently.

A quiet, “Come in,” followed suit.

He opened the door. Teresa sat on her bed, phone in hand.

Dick leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Liking your new phone?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I texted Phil and May earlier.” She paused, fiddling with it as she looked down to her lap. “Thanks for letting me meet up with them the other day. I missed them a lot.”

“Of course. They’re like your family. I wasn’t about to keep you from them.”

Truth be told, it had been something he didn’t want to do — only because it meant revealing his identity to them. Now, though, he was glad he did it. Teresa had been ecstatic at seeing them again, and it also gave Dick the chance to meet them in person to see for himself what they were like. They were good people from what he could tell. Trustworthy. Hopefully nothing happened to change that opinion of them.

Speaking of meeting people, Teresa had also met Kory. Teresa had immediately turned awestruck and shy, but Kory was able to get her to warm up to her rather quickly. Kory stayed the first night Dick and Teresa got back to Blüd, and the following morning she left. It made him wonder how different, exactly, his life would be if they never separated. It had felt…natural.

Through it all — the happiness and the excitement — there was that melancholy and grief and perhaps even anger in Teresa. These past few days, she’s become more subdued. It didn’t surprise him. That didn’t mean he didn’t worry. Because he did.

Teresa’s eyes lowered. She rubbed her thumb against the side of the phone case. “Can- Can I ask you something?” she asked.

His brows lowered a bit. He nodded and stepped further into the room, gently shutting the door and then sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Of course. What is it?”

“Are you gonna try and find who killed Mom?” She didn’t look at him as she asked, but instead kept her eyes firmly on her phone.

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “I will do my best to — the same goes for the others. I can’t guarantee that we will, or that it will happen soon, but we will find out what we can. I promise.”

Her eyes finally looked to him. “The police didn’t find anything.”

He smirked playfully. “Well, they weren’t taught by the world’s greatest detective, were they?”

That got a very tiny smile out of her. She tilted her head curiously. “Is he really the greatest detective?”

“I think so,” Dick said with a nod. “And so do a bunch of other people. But between you and me, Tim could one day take his place. He’s insanely smart.”

At Tim’s name, her face soured.

Dick refrained from sighing.

“I don’t like him,” she said before he could say anything. “Or Damian.”

This time, he did sigh. “Teresa–”

“They let Peter leave!” Her voice rose, both in volume and pitch, and he was quick to gently shush her.

“Shh, careful,” he warned. “Mar’i and Jake are sleeping. We don’t need to wake them up.”

“They let him leave,” she repeated at a lower volume, anger and betrayal in her tone. Her legs fell so she was sitting crisscrossed, and she dropped her phone beside her.

Dick’s mouth thinned. “I know. I’m not happy about it, either, but sometimes… Sometimes to help another person, you need to take a step back, or else you might do more harm than good. I think Damian made the right choice in the long run.” He reached out and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder when she frowned deeply and looked to her lap. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged off his hand, eyes flicking back to him in a glare. “So, what? You’re just gonna sit back and do nothing? You guys are heroes. You’re Nightwing. I thought you were supposed to help others.”

“It’s not that simple, Teresa–”

“It sounds simple to me. Peter needs help. Help him.”

“If he’d let us, we would,” Dick told her. The glare melted away only a little bit. “It really isn’t that simple, sweetheart. I wish it was. Dami gave him a safehouse. As far as we know, he’s been there since Damian caught him trying to leave. He’s only left once to our knowledge. Jason dropped by once, and left a smartphone and a note that said to contact him if Peter needed or wanted help.” He paused, seeing his oldest daughter’s anger become somewhat placated as he talked. “He hasn’t even turned on the phone.

“We can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” he told her gently. “Peter would be here if it were up to me, but that would just make things worse right now. He would most likely run off again. We can offer help, and we are, but we can’t force him to accept it if he doesn’t want it.”

“But what if something real bad happens?” she asked.

“Then we’ll intervene. We aren’t ignoring him, T. We’re giving him space and keeping an eye out. And who knows? Maybe he’ll come to us willingly sooner rather than later.”

At that, she rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Doubt it.”

That caught his interest. He tilted his head curiously. “Why do you say that?”

Teresa shrugged, but still said, “After helping me run from some police officers, I thought we were gonna stick together, then. He didn’t want to. It wasn’t until a few days later right before those explosions happened that we saw each other again. He said something like, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ when explaining why he didn’t want to stick together. Then in the cave he said the reason was that he didn’t want me to get hurt ‘cause of him. That he had shitty luck like that.”

Dick frowned, remembering what Damian had told. He didn’t like that a teenager thought like that — felt like that.

“Maybe one day we can prove his shitty luck wrong,” Dick said, smiling slightly. 

She shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, maybe,” she mumbled. “Still mad at him, though.”

“And Tim and Damian?”

An eyebrow rose, yet she didn’t say anything. Dick still heard the silent, ‘What do you think?’ loud and clear, though; pre-teen attitude and all.

He chuckled. “Alright. Stupid question, huh. I’ll leave you alone now.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “Go to bed soon. Don’t stay up in your phone too late.”

“Okay.”

“I’m staying in tonight, by the way. I only went last night because Kory stayed,” he said. “If you need me I’ll either be in the living room or my room.”

She nodded. “Alright. Goodnight.”

He smiled, one she returned. He outstretched an arm, a silent invitation for a hug if she wanted one. She did. Teresa shifted to her knees and leaned forward, hugging him tight. He placed another kiss on her head. “Goodnight, kiddo. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Dick smiled. He then stood, ruffling her hair before leaving.

Back in his own bedroom, he flopped down into his back on the bed and ran his hands over his face with a stressed groan.

He thought back to what he said to Teresa just moments before: if something bad happened to Peter, or if they knew something was about to, they would intervene. That was a promise. One he intended to keep, no matter how Peter may react to it.

And with The Court of Owls very likely being the ones to stalk them… That promise may come to fruition a lot sooner than believed. Dick honestly felt immense guilt over it. He wanted to respect Peter’s space, but he also wanted to make sure Cobb or any other Talon didn’t get to him.

Dick stared at the ceiling.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his Wonder Twin’s number. He needed to vent, and maybe hear someone’s thoughts on the situation from a person outside of the family.

Thankfully, and unsurprisingly, he didn’t need to wait long. He smiled at her greeting.

“Hey, Donna… Have time to talk?”