Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With bleary eyes and unfocused vision, Peter stared up at the solid gray mass looming above his head, his brain practically jumping through hoops in an attempt to figure out what the hell he was looking at. 

(Concrete? His chest tightened at the very idea, and suddenly his vision clearing was no longer a leisure but a necessity and-

-And there was too much of a breeze for him to be indoors, and as Peter’s vision finally (Finally!) focused, it became startlingly clear that the bleakness looming above him was, in fact, the sky .

So… not concrete.)

“Huh,” was all Peter could manage, only the slightest exhale of a sound, but even that minute movement sent his ribs screaming , and it probably said something about Peter’s mental state that it took pain to snap him out of his daze. Not the unfamiliar sky, or the strange and foreign smell in the air (like metal and ash and cigarettes and the circus? somehow? ), or the fact that his senses were blaring (they always were, nowadays), but that he’s waking up with a new type of pain. 

Peter could admit to himself that he might not have been holding it together very well (And what was it? His life? His mental state? His hopes? How about checking all of the above.), but at the very least (the very minimum), he could control his pain. Or rather, if he didn’t know anything else (where his next meal was coming from, if anyone would ever remember him again ( Don’t go there, Parker! Get a hold of yourself!) , if Jameson would buy his photos that week… then Peter could at least know where every single one of his injuries came from .

For practical purposes, of course.

Not because everything else felt so out of his control that his body was the last thing he felt like he could rely on.

Certainly not. 

Point being, Peter’s ribs were not a sneeze away from broken when he went to bed in his own apartment last night, so the fact that they were now raised some harrowing concerns. Although his sixth sense was going off, it wasn’t any more urgent than usual, so in a rare showing of self care, Peter let himself sink down into his bones and attempted to figure out what the hell had happened. 

Or, at the very least, why his ribs hurt. 

Wiggling his fingers and toes, Peter took stock of his body. He was no more tired and hungry than he had been before going to bed, and most of the aches were his own, except for the pain in his ribs that was growing increasingly more tolerable (as long as he took shallow breaths) and a headache with a bitterly sharp edge that most likely meant a concussion, which, Peter conceded to his inner-self, would explain the blurry vision. 

Moving slowly, Peter moved his head from side to side, testing the state of his neck. No pain flared, just a vague rush of nausea at the movement that practically confirmed the concussion. The texture of the ground that met his temple on the final turn had Peter realizing that while there was no concrete above him, there was some below . The coolness of the ground was soothing against his head, and as much as Peter relished the feeling, it was overtaken by a rush of pure fear .

(Where’s my mask, where’s my mask, where is it!)

Sitting up much too quickly, Peter forced himself to finally take stock of the situation around him as he patted himself down. His findings on both were far from reassuring.

Peter was on top of a building, maybe six stories high, overlooking a city that was most definitely not Queens. Even at its worst, Queens wouldn’t be able to touch the level of disrepair and doom and gloom that this place seemed to just ooze with a ten-foot-pole. The city (or cesspit? that might be a more accurate analysis) looked like nowhere Peter had ever been before, and wasn’t that just great. His findings about what items he actually had on his person were hardly better… which meant that he at least recognized what he’d fallen asleep in. Peter had gone straight back to his apartment (not home… never home ) after another joyous day of feeling miserable for himself, enjoying the library's free computer usage as he applied for jobs he probably wouldn’t get, and haggling Jameson on the price of his Spider-Man photos. He had practically thrown himself into bed, not bothering to change, since he’d planned on heading out on patrol after a few hours of shut-eye.

How plans had changed.

His phone was in one of the back pockets of his jeans, but perhaps the best news (and Thank Thor for paranoia! ) was that Peter had his web shooters on, masquerading as a pair of funky bracelets. Peter also had shoes ( Yay!) and a sweater that he was growing to appreciate with increasing fondness, considering the chill in the air. 

The overall takeaways were as such: Peter was never going to fall asleep without his wallet on him again. Even though it had been uncomfortable to lay on, causing him to throw it carelessly to the side in his disgruntled face plant… this was not a situation that Peter wanted to risk repeating. His phone had survived the unfortunate purging, being safely in his back pocket, while his other pockets revealed a gum wrapper, fifteen cents, and dryer lint.

Wonderful. 

Peter kept all of the trinkets, partially because he felt bad about littering and partially because a horribly possessive part of him urged Peter to gather anything and everything and stockpile it. To be entirely fair to that part of him, Peter was regretting not doing that now. He’d kill for a granola bar. 

His phone was an out of date flip phone, but its unobtrusive size had saved it, so Peter decided the phone was now his most cherished possession. He flipped it open and-

Peter stalled.

What was he going to do with a phone, after all? His contacts included The Bugle, his elderly neighbor that lived in the apartment next door to Peter, whose groceries he helped with occasionally, and… that was it.

Not to say that Peter hadn’t memorized countless other phone numbers (May, most notably, but also MJ, Ned, and Happy. He would have really appreciated a pickup from Happy right about now… the man crossed the world for Peter on a private jet before, after all. That kind of loyalty tends to stick with people.) but considering none of them knew him anymore, calling them would be quite pointless.

Unless… This wasn’t a Peter Parker issue. No, no, no… after all, being transported by someone (some thing?) in his sleep and ending up on the roof of a six story building in the middle of who knows where sounded like quite a Spider-Man type of issue to happen. Which meant that Peter calling him would be totally warranted!

Peter typed the number, held his breath… and then felt like crying when the call got picked up. Before the other person could hang up (he had a tendency to do that whenever Peter - Spider-Man - called and didn’t get to the point fast enough, probably because he could tell that Peter knew more than he was letting on (say, his secret identity! for example) and that made the guy uneasy. Fair enough - Peter also got uneasy about people knowing his secret ID (mostly because the first time ended up going so badly)), Peter let everything out in one big rush, “Hey so, haha, hypothetically what would you do if you woke up somewhere strange, like, say, on top of a building in a city you didn’t recognize at all. That kind of strange. But also the last thing you remember is falling asleep in your bed, but you’re in your civilian ID right now and the only way you see to get down or up is to one) fly or two) jump, but it's also six stories and now that I’m saying this all out loud, how the hell did someone get me up here?” Peter’s voice rose along with his distress, and he fought to lower it, lest he give off the vibe that he’s just a terrified nineteen year old whose been alone for way too long and not the Totally Well Adjusted twenty-some person Daredevil (His lawyer, from Before, Matt Murdock!!) totally thought Spider-Man was.

Daredevil (who hadn’t hung up! Peter could hear him breathing!!!) was taking his sweet time replying, which, fair , Peter had just dumped a very large hypothetical on him, which Daredevil definitely knew wasn’t actually a hypothetical, but Peter needed that little bit of forged distance from reality at the moment. 

Finally, Daredevil responded: “What the fuck?”

Alarmed, Peter pulled back the phone, checked the number once, twice, then a solid three times with the one from his memory, of the number Daredevil had rattled off to him one day six-ish months ago when Peter ( Spider-Man!) had casually dropped in conversation that he would just fix up his bullet wound at his apartment because, “No, seriously, it’s fine, DD. I splurged on this nice little first aid kit recently! I can’t wait to test it out!” Peter’s rapid heartbeat and pained breathing must have been what gave him away, because surely his response was Not-At-All-Worrying. Daredevil had patched Peter up himself (it was too reminiscent of Happy. who knew it was possible to miss someone stitching him up?), and then gave him a burner phone number, and Peter had definitely used it before , so why , pray tell, was that not Daredevil’s voice?

“Haha,” Peter laughed awkwardly, its pitching rising sharply as his anxiety spiked, “Uh… Any chance this isn’t actually your phone and you just happened to pick it up for a friend? A friend that maybe is nearby so I don’t have to repeat my totally hypothetical situation again, because I dunno if I have that sort of emotional willpower right now?”

Sue him. Peter rambles when he’s nervous. 

“Fucking hell - this is my phone, and I want to know how the hell you got ahold of-”

Peter hung up on him.

So Daredevil wasn’t an option. Great. “If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again…’ am I right, or what?” Peter mumbled to himself in a chattery attempt at self assurance. Daredevil didn’t pick up, but Peter knew other people. Totally! Johnny Storm, for example. Maybe Johnny wouldn’t know how exactly to help, but at least he would be a familiar voice? And if anything, Johnny knew a bunch of geniuses who were probably smart enough to figure out where the hell Peter was off of a few landmarks. 

Johnny was technically a friend of Spider-Man’s (because no one was friends with Peter Parker. Not anymore) so Peter hadn’t saved his phone number to this phone, because in the off chance someone got ahold of it, Peter did not want to explain why he had the Human Torch’s contact information. Still, Johnny had given Peter his main line (“ I don’t do burners, Spidey. I’m the one that burns.” The line had been horrible, especially paired with an exaggerated wink, but honestly, Peter could really use that type of humor right now.) so there was no chance that Johnny would have a different phone number, or lost his phone, or would have done anything that would result in the same mess that happened with Daredevil’s number.

As he typed in Johnny’s number, Peter firmly declined three different calls from Fake-DD’s number, and when the call to Johnny went through, Peter made sure to not start spilling his guts about his hypothetical issues. Just, y’know. To be cautious.

“Heyy, Johnny. So, funny story, heard it from a friend, wanted to ask for your thoughts on the matter: now, how alarmed would you be about waking up in a totally different place than where you fell asleep in?”

There. Friend of a friend, totally unsuspicious.

“How different are we talking?”

The voice sounded off , but Peter’s senses weren’t tingling any more than they had been this entire time, and maybe Peter had woken the guy up? so he answered, “Well, I mean, I’m - uhhh, I mean they were on top of a six story high building with no roof access in a city… they’ve never been to before. So. Yeah. Y’know, casual New Yorker moment, am I right? Finding new burrows all the time?” Peter laughed so that he didn’t cry instead.

“Okay, what? Kid-” Peter bristled. He hadn’t been a kid in a long time, and certainly not one that deserved that type of dismissive tone, but his frustration fizzled out at the realization that Johnny would never call him that, and quickly tuned back into what the stranger was saying at that horribly chilling realization.

“-what type of prank this is, but first off, joking about that kind of shit isn’t funny, and two, at least get your states right. This is New Jersey.”

“The hell? First off, I hope you never become a therapist or, I dunno, a first responder or some shit because your ability to tell when someone’s panic is real is really, really bad,” Peter snarked in a blind attempt to hide his complete and total despair, “And I’m not the idiot here: check the area code, jerkwad.”

Before Peter could hang up, the stranger ( who had Johnny’s phone number, who isn’t Johnny, who should be Johnny, why the hell isn’t he Johnny?) responded back quickly with a tone that edged a bit too far into genuine concern for Peter to feel comfortable with, “The number you’re calling from has a Gotham area code. Kid, where are you? You said there was no roof access?”

“Haha, just kidding , you caught me. Wow,” Peter deadpanned, then hung up.

“So that was a total failure,” saying it out loud helped, because those phone calls sure didn’t. In fact, they confirmed the worst sort of panic stricken ideas that had been looming in the space of Peter’s mind in an area that he called “The Irrational Panic Zone.”

The Irrational Panic Zone (Peter almost wanted to trademark it) included thoughts such as: “Everyone actually remembers me but pretends that they don’t because they hate me,” and “I killed my aunt,” and “Your neighbor is actually a spy for Nick Fury because he knows everything and is a horrible, horrible person,” and “It’s your fault Thanos won the first time,” and, most recently, “This is not your universe.”

Y’know. Thoughts that would send him into a totally rational panic at any given moment, so therefore it is irrational to think about them. It all works out. The “IPZ” also sounds like a really cool organization. 

(Mr. Stark would have made the acronym a name. Peter doesn’t want to add salt to his numerous wounds, especially when he thinks about panicking, so he pointedly hadn’t made it a name…

… Maybe he would have liked “Irrational Aversion Neighborhood.” IAN. A simple name, but Mr. Stark probably would have still liked it, if Peter came up with it.

Don’t think about that, don’t think about him, don’t-)

Peter picked up the phone. The newly-dubbed “Caller Number One” had been calling him quite frequently (as had the second, but “Kid” still rankled him in a way that Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to verbalize) and Peter really doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now.

“Yellow,” Peter greets, his voice in a slow drawl, “How may I help you?”

“How the hell did you get this number?”

“May I remind you that you called me?” Peter said lightly, just to be a little shit, standing up and brushing off his jeans. It was going to be morning soon, and it was probably in his best interests to be on the ground in a strange city before the sun rose and highlighted his precarious location. 

The voice on the other side of the line was not amused, and nearly growled , “This is a private phone. You shouldn’t have this number.”

“Well, Caller Number One,” It turns out that Peter’s boldness extends beyond his life in the mask: all he needs is for his face to be hidden, ( Does that make him one of those online bullies they talk about in school? The ones who only grow the balls to say shit because their real identity isn’t out there?) “You kinda screwed yourself over there, because for all I could have known, I could have gotten the number wrong,” (Unlikely. Impossible, actually.) “Or thought it was a burner phone and never called again,” (More likely.) “At the very least I wouldn’t have known how important this phone number is to you,” (Sounding vaguely like a villain threatening a loved one there now, Parker. Maybe time to tone it back a little.) “Anywho. I wasn’t gonna call you back and I can block this number if you want.” 

Peter sandwiched the flip phone between his head and his shoulders, shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers. Since he isn’t sure where he was (what city, what state, what universe-) Peter wants to avoid leaving anything traceable back to him: including, but not limited to, the gum wrapper in his pocket, and his webs. 

Sadly, leaving fingerprints was unavoidable, but considering Peter may not even have an identity here (or anywhere, really, but that’s neither here nor there) it was not one of his primary concerns. Plus, the building was made of concrete and stone, which wouldn’t show obvious fingerprints like glass would. 

“What do you want?”

Peter raised his eyebrows, although Caller Number One couldn’t see it. Maybe he really did sound too supervillain-y at the end there, “I don’t want anything. From you, at least. I could go for a hamburger or even like, a granola bar, but I’m not bargaining with you for your privacy.”

Making his way down the building, Peter tried to make sure the phone stayed snug in its little position. He had decided to keep his shoes on rather than use his feet to stick, so as he lowered himself down the building by his fingertips, Peter winced as he felt the strain on his ( Oh right-) ribs. But it was manageable, and the person on the other side of the line was silent, which, while helpful for the dull headache and his concentration, was not helpful for keeping Peter from spiraling, “So….” Peter drew out the word, he was level with the fourth story now, “Are you gonna… hang up? Or block me? Or something? ‘Cause you’re sending off a lot of mixed signals right now.”

“Why is your voice muffled?”

Eh? Oh. The sweater must be muffling the phone’s audio intake, “Oh, sorry. I’m climbing down the building right now, so the phone is wedged on my shoulder weirdly. My clothes must be-”

“You’re what?! What the hell do you mean you’re climbing down the building -”

“I may have been exaggerating how hypothetical I was earlier?” Peter offered, completely unrepentant, “I mean, you totally knew I was lying: it was super obvious. And I already said that the only two ways down were flying or jumping, and, it might have been kinda implied by my surprise, but I can’t fly and jumping down six stories would suck ass.”

“I- you have a phone?? Why wouldn’t you call 911?”

“How the hell was I supposed to explain how I got up there? Huh? ‘Hey Mr. Police-man and/or Firefighter! I was on top of a building I shouldn’t have been able to get on top of. Please don’t press charges or ask why I was there?’ like c’mon, dude, give me some slack here,” Peter complained, although the relaxing of his shoulders at the muffled grunt of laughter Peter swore he’d heard had the phone slipping, and with a yelp, Peter thanked his quick reflexes for being able to grab the phone before it broke on the ground (although, to be fair, flip phones were nearly indestructible, and he was only two stories up now). With a quick hop and a soft exhale at the landing, Peter put the phone back up to his ear as he began looking around the dank (and dark! and very, very spooky!) alleyway. 

“-lo? Hello? Fuck. Fuck! Hello???”

“Oh, hi!” Peter greeted cheekily, and was met with a heavy exhale of relief, although the stranger quickly snapped, “What the fuck was that?”

“I almost dropped my phone. Or, well, I did . But don’t worry! I caught it!” Peter reassured sunnily, deciding that, at least in this city , he would not ‘check out’ the scary and dark alleyways. Something (that thing being both his sixth sense and his common sense) told him that this was not the time for an adventure, “And then I jumped the rest of the way down. It wasn’t that far. I just think my ribs are, like, maybe-almost-broken, so it hurt more than I was expecting.”

The slew of cursing and swearing and yelling that suddenly barraged its way through the phone had Peter’s concussed brain fighting between Getting rid of the hurting sound or Being alone with his own thoughts , but in the end Peter’s hatred for being yelled at took the reins and made the decision for him. Holding the phone an arm’s length away, Peter made sure to speak loudly, and, with a deceptive amount of sweetness, not-so-politely informed Caller Number One, “I’m not going to stand here and be yelled at, so call again when you feel less angry. Toodles!”

And with that, there is blessed silence (aside from the sounds of the city, but this place is almost eerily quiet compared to New York), and Peter meandered his way down the sidewalk, making a point to look at buildings that surround him and take note of where he's going. The main walkway even this early in the morning still isn’t empty, but it was less busy than Peter anticipated from such a large city. 

(Peter could also definitely tell that there was something going on within the shadows and alleys of this grim looking place.)

As was always best in unknown circumstances when one is potentially in a murder-city, Peter kept his head low as he looked around for a library or maybe shelter…(and was that somebody with a grappling hook swinging across the buildings??? What the hell is this place? ) Peter shook his head, then immediately regretted the movement as nausea welled up within him. Thankfully, Peter is used to concussions ( Thankfully? Wouldn’t it be unfortunately?) , and it only takes a few seconds of deep breathing to beat the sensation back.

( Well Parker, you’re in for it this time Peter thought to himself, lips pressed firmly together as he tries to skirt along the attentions of the city natives. While he does want to ask questions, even looking in their direction has all sorts of alarm bells screeching in Peter's mind. He’s desperate, not stupid, after all.

Whenever this all finally blows up in my face, Peter thought bemusedly, I might just have to rename the IPZ into the IPR: Irrational Panic Region . Zoning laws dictate I can’t keep more than ten world-ending thoughts in one location… and if this is what I think it is…)

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling the gum wrapper crinkle beneath his fingers and the smooth surface of his flip phone. If this is all he has left… Peter hastened his walking speed. A library would be very nice, right about now.

Unfortunately, Parker Luck seemed to be transuniversal.

(If this even was, in fact, another universe. Or subsection of the multiverse or whatever Mister Doctor Stephen-Freaking-Strange would say about this whole mess. All Peter knew was that he’d experienced the multiverse a bit too close for comfort to deny its existence, and the technology that was visible from the barred windows of a tech store looked… outdated, to say the least.

Everything looked like technology one would find in a pre-Iron Man world, before Tony Stark had turned his efforts away from war and onto philanthropy. Even Hammer Industries had far surpassed this level of tech.

… Thinking of Tony definitely didn’t make Peter want to vomit. Totally not. He was a reasonable adult who didn’t dwell on what ifs and self flagellation and the memory of the arc reactor dying and the sound of Tony’s heartbeat stopping.

He didn’t .)

Peter mentally rolled his eyes. As always, things were ten times harder than they needed to be, and now that it was fully daylight (not that the sun poked through the concrete clouds all that much..), Peter gathered his wits about him and started looking for someone (anyone) that didn’t look like they’d gut him on the spot.

Surprisingly, it took a while.

Back in New York (back home) , while it certainly wasn’t a smart idea to approach any Tom, Dick, or Harry and ask for directions, the majority of people would be willing to help, or at least direct some poor lost sap to the nearest information booth. But, surprise, the city with gothic style architecture and way too many gargoyles and a perpetually gloomy sky had unfriendly residents . 

...Peter wasn’t being entirely fair. 

People certainly didn’t look welcoming , by any means, but they hardly looked evil. In fact, neighbors greeted one another warmly, people kissed their partners goodbye at the door, and people weren’t shanking one another at the bus stop. It was the way they looked at him that had Peter pausing. From their perspective, Peter stuck out like a sore thumb, and therefore, they were wary of him. It made sense. 

(It was annoying and made him miss the various street food vendors in New York who always had a kind word for Spider-Man and would give him free food. And the kids who watched him with awe in their eyes. And the elderly people who he walked across the street or carried the groceries for. Or the staunch devotion of those he saved to protesting the Bugle’s tarnishment of his name. Of Spider-Man’s name.

No one protected Peter Parker anymore.)

Eventually, Peter gave up on trying to find someone that didn’t make his senses scream and instead settled on someone who looked like they could beat him up.

It made sense, in his head. Someone intimidating was a lot less likely to feel intimidated by him, and therefore probably less likely to just straight up shoot him? Maybe? Hopefully?

His target: some beefy and built redhead who definitely could bench press his weight. Although his senses screamed danger , it wasn’t directed at him, so much described her potential to be dangerous. So, Peter super casually stopped beside the redhead at the corner of whatever and don’t know avenue as she waited for the flow of early commuter traffic to slow so in order to dodge across the road.

(Cross walks were apparently not in style here.)

“So!” Too loud, Parker! Calm yourself down! “Do you know where the nearest library is?”

Ignored.

Peter tried not to let it sting, continuing on, “‘Cause, haha, I’m new in this city and I don’t know where the hell I am and I don’t have a, like, gps, and everyone looks like they wanna gut me.”

Smooth (not) . But it worked, because out of his peripheral vision he saw her eyes slant toward him, and in a gruffer voice than Peter was expecting, clarified, “That wasn’t a pickup line?”

“Oh! No!” Peter quickly shook his hands in dismissal, which might have been a mistake based on the way her shoulders tensed, but apparently Peter gave off such hopeless vibes that he was deemed unthreatening, “I’m genuinely so lost and would really appreciate directions.

There was a break in the traffic but the person didn’t move, and Peter could have kissed the ground at their feet in gratitude, had that not been, y’know, an insane thing to do. But emotionally. Mentally. He was praising her to the high heavens.

Pointing in a direction Peter would not have gone in, she gave him simple directions, “Keep going four blocks, then turn right. You’ll see the library.”

Screw it, this person was a god (sorry Thor!) and Peter would never be able to repay them for their invaluable assistance.

(Okay so Peter may have picked up a horrible appreciation for melodramatics after dealing with so many corny villains. Sue him: Peter was a corny vigilante in his own right for running with the spider theme for this long. He could recognize that within himself AND simultaneously not find fault in it. Peter was going to run his spider shtick into the ground and no one could stop him.)

“You are wonderful,” Peter thanked, hands posed in prayer, and yeah this person was definitely judging him now, but no matter! Directions in mind and no way to thank the person other than getting out of her hair, Peter backed up in the direction of the library, giving the person a real, genuine smile, “Thank you so much!”

Peter turned around on his heel, narrowly avoiding getting rammed into by another person and stepping into the street in the process. Before he could get hit by the car that was speeding towards him going 20 over the speed limit, Peter danced back onto the sidewalk, a cheerful pep in his step all the while. Parker Luck be damned! Things are going great now!

(Peter didn’t see the way the woman behind him was ready to tackle him out of the road, if need be, or the puzzled look on her face as he walked away.)

...

Things were not going great. 

Locating the library had been easy, as was finding a computer. The library had open computer usage (yay!), and he’d only have to apply for a library card if he wanted to borrow books. That being said: that was about where his luck ran out.

The computers were outdated . Sure, they were completely functional, but the clunky monitors and unsleek designs felt like stepping into another world, pun definitely not intended. While Peter could justify it as the library not having the lot of money to finance better computers, the entire interior of the library was sleek and well maintained, and didn’t tell the story of a place running low on money. Sure, Peter had a flip phone in an age of Stark Phones and hologram technology, but that was because it was cheap and a burner. …Plus, the phone the woman at the corner had been holding - while her case had been scratched up, it was still new . The screen hadn’t had any little scritch marks. As well, she’d been wearing nice clothes - well made stuff. It spoke of wealth, but the phone in their hands had been the rough equivalent to an iPhone eight, as compared to Peter’s world where iPhones were outdated and outclassed by Stark Tech. 

It was all painting an eerie picture and Peter didn’t know how to feel about it. Still, he’d come to the library to figure out what was going on, so settling down at a computer, Peter logged into a guest account and pulled up Google Earth, turning on location tracking with an idle click. 

Peter froze. 

(Shit, shit, shit-)

As Google Earth zoomed into his location, it zeroed in on not New York , but New Jersey. Gotham City, New Jersey.

“Shit.”

Peter pushed away from the computer, running his hands through his too-long hair. He grabbed the hair at the back of his head tightly, unable to look away from the damning sight. A looming dread washed over Peter, and he snapped back to the keyboard, pulling up a new search:

Iron Man - nothing.

Tony Stark - nothing.

Captain America - nothing.

Thor - nothing. Well. Something , but in a purely mythological way. Nothing like the living, breathing person that most definitely exists where Peter is from. 

Avengers - nothing.

Shield - nothing.

“Oh, okay,” there might have been a sob mixed in with his anxiety-filled exhale, but Peter has had almost two years of experience with being totally alone, which has taught him a lot of things… including what places are the best to have lung-heaving, sobbing, screaming breakdowns. 

This was not that type of location. 

Closing his eyes tightly, Peter buried his head in his arms, pushing aside the keyboard in the process.

( Okay Parker. You’ve got this, Peter attempted to reassure himself, You’re in a world where the technology isn’t as advanced because there has never been a Tony Stark to advance it. It's still the same year and date, at least, so that means my time probably matches up with this… world’s.

Peter sucked in oxygen with a fervor, his shaking slowly stabilizing as he forced himself to think about everything logically, The reason why those phone numbers didn’t work is because they are tied to other people. It could be random, or they could be vigilantes similar to my world. That is potentially a stretch but-)

Sitting up, Peter snatched the keyboard and furiously searched up something new:

Superheroes .  

Bingo. He found something

Apparently in this world, while the Avengers didn’t exist… the Justice League did. 

Skimming through a couple of the top articles, Peter gathered that the Justice League served a similar purpose to the Avengers, but included a wider range of people and were more… well. Simply put, they were better . Peter could admit that to himself, privately. The Avengers weren’t really all that back on his earth. Or rather: they were , but compared to the long history of the Justice League, their continued expansion of their ranks, the way pop up groups such as Young Justice or the Titans were only approved by the public once they received League support… It all spoke of a much more official and tight-knit community, a genuine league , as opposed to a couple of people with power who gathered when times were rough. 

As he dove deeper into the subject, Peter genuinely had no clue why this world's tech wasn’t more advanced. They were literal gods and aliens , with intergalactic connections… as well showcased physical proof of heroes having more advanced technology. His dive into the Justice League had led him to a Batman from Gotham - the name only catching Peter's attention because of the realization that Peter was in Gotham . 

(Plus, Bat man. C’mon - the jokes practically wrote themself.)

Pictures of Batman outside of press circumstances were rare and far between, but there were pictures of his vehicle (which was apparently called the Batmobile ) . The vehicle was highly advanced, and based off of the scant few blurry pictures of it (because of the quality of the cameras in this age were shit and the apparent actual rarity of its sighting), Peter could tell that it had countermeasures and tech built into it that outclassed every other car on the market.

And sure , car modifications were a thing, and Peter could maybe think about Batman being a mechanical genius that built his own car, but then Peter tacked on his apparent use of something called Batarangs (maybe the guy’s obsession with bats went a bit too far), which had a variety of usages, plus could create near-instant explosions?

Now things were getting fishy.

Fishy meaning: did heroes ( Or, Peter amended, Vigilantes) regularly have access to higher levels of technology than the average person? It’s obvious that this Batman has to be a wealthy guy, with access to materials that not many people could casually get their hands on, and likely had others creating things for him, to apparently have a Batplane (it wasn’t even funny at this point… just sad) and a Batcycle and be able to afford… outfitting an entire network of other bat or bird related vigilantes???

Peter sat back in his chair, (making a mental note of the fact that Gotham was apparently known for its eccentric collection of themed villains and murderers, with some of the highest crime statistics in the world) and stared. 

(What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Or rather: What the hell happened to put me in this situation?)

Lacking anything else to do (Peter had looked up directions to the nearest shelter and planned to head there for dinner. He needed to be at the place before five, which meant Peter still had a couple of hours to burn.), Peter pulled out his flip phone to check to see if Mystery Caller Number One or Two had tried reaching out again, which: surprise, surprise! They had. The second stranger had stopped spamming Peter’s poor phone after a while, but left a handful of voice messages that Peter deleted without a second thought. Caller Number One had appeared to have taken Peter’s sage advice, because he hadn’t called back right away and ended up waiting for over an hour before calling again.

(And wasn’t that strange? Peter had spent hours in the library. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed, too focused on researching this new universe to even notice. Only now can Peter feel his stomach starting to ache and oh.

Food will be another problem. But Peter is excellent at avoiding what he doesn’t want to address and so he dialed up Caller Number One! not really expecting the guy to answer but-)

“Oh thank god.”

“Eh?” Peter asked, eying the computer with a sort of idle curiosity… paired with a healthy dose of fear about its ability to send him further into a downward spiral of panic. Considering Peter has no idea about how to get back to his own world… call it a hunch , but Peter figured that in all likelihood he’s probably not getting home anytime soon. The fact that “Peter Parker” doesn’t exist in this world… while not abnormal for Peter to experience, is still an annoying fact, so he probably needs to start on creating… well, himself , once again. 

“I’m very purposefully not yelling right now, but I’m going to let you know that I’m sincerely pissed off about you hanging up before.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t know who you are, but whatever you’re doing is reckless-”

“Yep.”

“-irresponsible, and dangerous. Plus illegal-”

“Totally, yeah.”

“-and I’m sounding like the Old Man right now, but whoever you are, go back home . Call someone and go back to your home city. I don’t know what you’ve managed to get yourself into, but it sounds shifty as hell, so call someone-”

“Mhm, mhm, will do.”

“-and you haven’t been listening to a word I said, huh?”

“Oh for sure.”

The voice on the other side groaned and Peter couldn’t hold back his snort of laughter, “Sorry, dude, hate to break it to you, but I was definitely tuning you out.”

“You make it very difficult not to yell.”

“I’ve been told that by many people! Don’t worry, it isn’t just you - ‘cause you have a point and blah, blah, blah - I’m just trying to figure out what my likelihood of success is hacking into the government’s security system and creating a fake ID right now.”

There was silence, and Peter wondered if he’d scared Caller Number One off - a shame, the guy was starting to grow on him - before the most incredulous, “What?” echoed loudly in Peter’s ear.

Wincing, Peter turned down the volume of the phone, “I dunno what you expect of me. From the very little you know about me it's obvious that my life is in complete shambles. I mean, turns out it is very hard to get a state-ID when you technically don’t exist, huh?”

“I know the struggle,” the person over the phone agreed exasperatedly, and Peter emphatically nodded along, even though the person couldn’t see him. See? This person got him !

“I could do it last time because I had a living address and it was just a matter of hacking the systems and re-proving the fact that I exist. But now? I have nothing. It's a catch-22: I need a job to be able to afford housing, but to legally get a job I need an ID. Plus I don’t have my social security number or birth certificate… I mean, they just simply don’t exist.”

The person on the other phone laughed, although it was humorless and dry, “Are you sure you don’t know who I am?”

Peter hummed, “Yeah, I totally thought this was Daredevil. I have no clue who you are.”

“I wish I could express to you how much I understand what you’re going through right now,” the person exhaled heavily through his nose, “I hope I’m wrong but… you don’t have anyone to call, do you?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to laugh humorlessly, “Apparently, you are the person I could call. But… we both know how well that has worked out for me. Bright side: there was a recent revision of the New Jersey law regarding getting an ID. If I get a note from a social worker confirming that I am , in fact, homeless, then that works instead of a permanent address.”

“Doesn’t mean much if you don’t have the Six Points.”

“So helpful, you are,” Peter snarked, before taking a deep breath, “Sorry. I’m on edge. I should be able to forge those, though. At least the birth certificate part. As for a social security number… Maybe I can say I lost everything and am now applying to get another original copy thingy sent to me? I mean I did lose everything, so that's not a lie…” Peter trailed off, opening more and more tabs as the person on the other side offered what assistance they could. Eventually, Peter’s eyes flickered down to the corner of the monitor and yelped, “Oh! Shit! I need to get going before I’m late for dinner at the shelter.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty strict about that.”

“Sage advice,” Peter joked, easily wiping the search history on the computer and then logging off, “Anyway, Imma head off. Talk to you later.”

It was instinctive, on Peter’s part. It was just a casual goodbye - what he did ( used to do) at the end of nearly every phone call - but it had them both freezing up, “Uh,” Peter said, ever so eloquently, “I mean-”

“Yeah,” The stranger was just as awkward, if not worse than Peter with his own halting words, “Talk later.”

For the first time ever (in the history of their three whole conversations), the stranger hung up first, and something within Peter settled at the idea that maybe, just maybe , he isn’t as alone in this world as he thought.

(Of course, in the end, that was just a pipe dream. Peter was alone, in every sense of the word.

He was lonely, most of all.)

The shelter was nice.

Peter didn’t have much of an opinion on the place - although that could be because he was utterly exhausted. His ribs were nearly healed after a day of sitting at the library and the ache and cottony feeling of his concussion had faded into a dull thud, thus sapping most of his energy with it. The shelter had dinner, which Peter was thankfully on time for, and then, tucked up on his little cot in the corner of the room (as close to an exit as he could manage, the only thing he could do to calm his raging paranoia) Peter put his head under the blanket he had been given and cried.

They were quiet tears - loud only to Peter because of his enhanced hearing - a silent sort of violent sobbing and shaking that would have had May up in an instant. May always knew when Peter needed her: he had jokingly thought of it as her Aunt-tingle.  

And god did that hurt . Never again could Peter protest against her calling his sixth sense his “Peter-tingle,” never again would she hold him close and pat his hair and tell Peter it was okay . 

May was his last living relative, and With great power comes great responsibility but Peter was a kid when she died. It had been nearly two years ago - nearly two years of being so horribly lonely and lost and Peter still hadn’t managed to create a real life for himself. Everywhere he turned there was something , some one , that made his heart leap into his throat and shake him to the core like he had just lost them yesterday.

That was the funny thing about grief: as much as people liked to say that there were stages, or emphasize its non-linearity, there was still that expectation of learning how to move on. Peter wasn’t ready to move on. It was all he could do to simply acknowledge the fact that losing May hurt yesterday, and the day before that, and today, and it would still hurt again tomorrow. There hadn’t been stages, no denial of her death or bargaining for a change. All there had been was a white-hot-rage at the godforsaken man who had murdered her, and once the rage had dried up, what remained was a sharp and constant ache that kept him from ever getting his footing. And perhaps, in some world, Peter would have been okay, eventually. But grief doesn’t quite process the same way when MJ looks through him and he remembers kissing her.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

If Peter Parker died in his home universe, then he would die just as lived: forgotten. No one would grieve his disappearance. No one would put flowers on his grave - if he even had one. Because if Peter Parker dropped off the face of the earth all that would be left behind was an empty apartment he didn’t have the stomach to fill, a lego figurine, and a homemade Spider-Man costume hidden in his closet. If Peter ever found a way back home… no. And that’s the other thing, huh? Peter could never return home, because Home, capital H , was May’s cooking and inside jokes with Ned and holding MJ’s hand and bothering Happy with too many phone calls.

Home was looking at that Lego figurine and knowing that Ned had the rest of the set. 

Home was MJ’s necklace that she wore even though it was broken because he - because Peter - gave it to her. Home was his “I survived my trip to NYC” t-shirt because even though the memory of how he got it was crummy, it was still the beginning of Peter’s realization that he was more than just the suit. Home was Ned hacking Peter’s Stark-suit and laughing at the stupid amount of protocols Tony had managed to shove into the thing. Home was home, and Peter would never be able to go back there again.

Maybe his best friend would look at his Lego Death Star and wonder where Emperor Palpatine was, but then dismiss it a second later. Peter had been a massive part of Ned’s life - just like Ned had been to Peter - but any trace of their relationship had been wiped clean by a cold and sterile magic spell. Instead of a cherished figurine, perhaps Palpatine was simply a toy lost to time, or the vacuum cleaner.

(In the end, there was no longer a Death Star to look at. It had been destroyed in Happy’s condo.

… A lot of things had been destroyed in Happy’s condo. 

MJ’s necklace! Peter’s subconscious urged him to remember, but after two years of reaching for straws and hoping and watching them leave , one by one… Peter couldn’t handle hoping.

Couldn’t - wouldn’t - let himself be hurt like that again.)

And so, Peter mourned them. Mourned that what could have been’s and the what ifs’ and everything that comes with planning out his life with people who no longer knew him, in any sense of the word. Peter welcomed the loss, because at least that meant that they mattered to him. At least that meant that he could still hold onto them, in whatever form they manifested in. 

May gave him her heart: his want (not need , never need ) to help people.

(Because helping someone in need should never be a chore or a task to check off. It is something that one must do with every fiber of their being… in the fragile existence that is a person’s life , there is no room for carelessness or nonchalance… May had taught him this, before the damning words (With great power comes great responsibility!) had ever left her dying lips.

So really… her final words were more a reminder. A reminder to uphold their code… a code that, in Peter’s opinion, was the most righteous one of all.)

MJ… She gave him the ability to laugh at himself. To not take himself so seriously even when it feels like the world is crumbling beneath his feet.

( “I like drawing people in distress.”

Peter could have filled hundreds of pages for her.)

And Ned… he gave Peter everything. He was the best friend anyone could ask for: his Guy In The Chair, his companion, his brother.

Happy’s loss hurt too, in a different way than Ned and MJ. His loss felt most similar to May’s… for if she was like his mother, then Happy was the closest person Peter ever had to a father .

(Even if Tony tried to give Peter everything… he was never a father. Not his father. Happy was always there, though. He listened to every voicemail, read every text, and flew halfway across the world in an instant. 

And even when May… when she… Happy never blamed Peter. Never blamed anyone but himself, for not being there, when all he’s ever done is be there.)

And now, here lies Peter Parker, curled up on a cot in a homeless shelter so incredibly far from home… in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar universe, filled with unfriendly faces, and Peter couldn’t stop crying. Not because of the loss , for Peter truly had nothing to lose, but because he couldn’t help but feel so incredibly relieved . 

There must be something wrong with him, because despite everything , Peter cried in relief that he hadn’t seen a single Iron Man memorial or an Avenger’s themed burger joint this entire day.

He didn’t have to look his landlord in the face and tell her he just moved to New York - “That’s why I never have anyone over, thanks for your concern.” He doesn’t have to meet anyone’s expectations, be someone… be better than what he truly is.

Because in the end, as much as it rankled him when Caller Number Two said it, Peter still feels like a kid inside. He already lost five years of his life to being blipped - five years of history and living and time that he just. Lost.

Things would be hard in Gotham. Obviously. It was an entirely new… universe . There were no post-returning-snap government shutdowns or chaos that let Peter forge a new identity for himself with relative ease, even years later. There were no vigilantes that Spider-Man had gained a rapport with that he could call in for help if times grew really tough. It would be messy, complicated… yet even as the entire day had gone from weird way to wake up to multiversal crisis??? , doing nothing but piling more and more stress upon Peter’s shoulders… he never saw the bookstore that he’d gone to on his first date with MJ. He never saw someone he used to go to school with walk by like he wasn’t even there. He didn’t go back to an empty apartment that should be, by all means, filled with capital-H-Home types of things.

Maybe , Peter thought, I can make a life here.

Hence the tears and the guilt and the grief, because was Peter allowed to move on? Was he allowed to… to leave it all behind? Leave all the bad things in the past? 

Peter was The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man! after all, and wasn’t he letting Queens - his people - down if he didn’t fight tooth and nail to get back to them? 

( Them . Because maybe if his apartment wasn’t home, then the rooftops and nightlife and vigilante team-ups were .

(Was he allowed to have that?)

Because even though Peter Parker had been forgotten, Spider-Man hadn’t, and looking back on it, Peter hadn’t been appreciating Johnny or Daredevil or Deadpool as much as he really should have been. Their friendship was what kept him going, and now Peter sat here sobbing about how he had nothing to go back to and-

And he had a whole city .

Huh.

What did a meager apartment mean compared to that?)

Peter wiped his eyes with the cuff of his sweater, checking his pockets for his fifteen cents, gum wrapper, lint, and cellphone, and felt like laughing out loud, in between the silent sobs that wracked his body as he crashed and burned.

He was so stupid , huh?

He’d even said it before: that Peter was more than the suit. More than the mask. But that meant also that the mask was more than just Spider-Man.

Spider-Man is Peter Parker, after all.

So maybe… just maybe… there was something (some one . maybe even multiple someones) waiting for him.

(No. Not even maybe… they were. 

Because Peter has weekly movie nights with Johnny and has been learning hand-to-hand from Daredevil for the past year and has a favorite rooftop to eat fast food with Deadpool on.

And maybe they weren’t MJ and Ned and May and Happy… but Peter cared about them. 

Whichever identity they were a part of - Peter Parker or Spider-Man - Peter was (contrary to his own belief, apparently) both of them.

They were him, and he was them, and Peter… may actually have a home after all.)

Maybe Peter’s grave ( hypothetical grave) wouldn’t be flowerless. Deadpool did have a fondness for elaborate bouquets, after all. 

But maybe - just maybe - Peter should try to get back before they start worrying. 

(He wouldn’t wish grief upon anyone, and, truly thinking about it…

They… would all grieve for him… just as he would mourn them.

And Peter can’t lose anyone else.)

So Spider-Man may be in an alternate universe! 

He trusted his friends (if - when - he gets back, maybe his family???) to take care of Queens while Spider-Man was away, and really… isn’t that all a teenage vigilante can ask for?

(Daredevil would probably beg to differ. He was apparently of the opinion that Peter deserved more than a lonesome first-aid kit and nights without backup.

…

May would have liked him.

(May did like him - Matt Murdock, that is.

And if Matt could be both Daredevil and Matt Murdock in Peter’s mind… then Peter could be Spider-Man, too.

He could have friends, too.))

Somehow, things weren’t magically better after Peter’s wonderful epiphany. In fact, he felt even worse after realizing that he actually did want to go home , and not be stranded in a brand-fucking-new universe.

Go figure. 

Waking up gasping for breath, covered in his own tears and sweat, Peter felt more refreshed than ever! Not patrolling had helped with conserving the energy he had gained from the dinner the previous night, which then was able to be put toward erasing the last remaining aches in Peter’s ribs as well as soothe the last dredges of his concussion. Overall, Peter was feeling rested, relaxed, and ready for the day!

(Nearly all of that may have been a lie Peter told himself just to gain the energy to get off of his cot. No matter: his ribs and concussion had been healed, and even if Peter felt like something died in his mouth (and heart, but that was more of a long term issue), he still forced himself to stand up.)

Folding up his cot like he saw others around him doing, Peter noted the drawstring bag he had been given the night before when checking into the shelter. Noticing a new face, they had supplied him with what they called, “The Basics,” but Peter had yet to look in the bag yet, too caught up in, well, everything to even care. 

The shelter volunteers were dragging out the tables for breakfast while Peter and the others who had spent the night moved cots off to the side. Peter was mostly just following the lead of those around him, but eventually, the tables were set up, and he took a seat at the far end of one of the few empty ones, and checked inside the bag.

It ended up including much of stuff Peter and May had given out in the past after coming back from the blip: toothbrush, toothpaste, a reusable water bottle (already filled!), a small first aid kit, two pairs of gloves, socks, a couple of granola bars and packages of crackers, a small emergency aluminum blanket and some hand warmers, and a small flashlight.  It was, all in all, very well stocked up. The drawstring bag was bulging from the amount of stuff that was in it, and Peter made a note to prioritize getting a better backpack to put it all in. Something that would be less easy for someone to snatch and run with.

That, however, was a task for when Peter had money, though, of which he currently had… oh right, fifteen cents. 

What a joy.

...

Breakfast was nice. 

(Peter couldn’t think of any other word to describe it. He was being fed. The food was free and edible and Peter appreciated the volunteers' work, even if he could have put away a breakfast triple the size of this meal. But that was more of a him thing, since the breakfast was a normal size for any normal person.)

Nutrition was going to be Peter’s top issue: he needed a job , and he needed one yesterday in order to be able to afford the amount of calories he had to pack away on a regular basis. After having read more about Gotham the previous day, and experiencing the residents general suspiciousness, Peter had an inkling that his worries about needing an ID might end up being… less of an issue that he anticipated. 

That's not to say Peter was going to delve into a life of illegal activities! No-sir-ee! That was not his plan! But… In a world that is going to work against him (Although, it isn’t so much him the world is working against (as in, cross-universal travelers) but the people who fight to survive poverty and homelessness in general. The systems put in place by the government keep people in a perpetual cycle of homelessness and financial instability, and work against a lot of marginalized groups, such as LGBTQ+ teens and racial minorities. But Peter’s point still stands: in a country that won’t help its people live ) then it is up to the citizens and those who are struggling to find ways to make things work. 

And? If the solution happens to be getting a job illegally (due to his lack of ID)?... Well then Peter has to eat somehow . 

(It wasn’t just a New Jersey issue - it was an issue the whole United States faced, but it was also a problem no one could really understand but those who have been forced to live with it. And for those people? They were focused on living . No one chooses this life. It is nearly impossible to protest and petition and bring attention to one’s cause when there are more pressing survival issues to face: such as where one’s next meal is coming from.

May had tried to make a difference. She had made a difference. Peter… Peter is realizing now that he hasn’t tried. He’s been utterly complacent… and the guilt of that indisputable fact burns . Peter has known food insecurity - with May and after - and has known homelessness before (when the blipped all came back… it was chaos) but it had been a common thing throughout the entirety of Peter’s world. He and May weren’t the only ones without a home - it was half of the freaking population . And so it hadn’t sunk in as much - because Peter may have been homeless before but the entire world had turned their attention to the issue, and he had benefited from it.

That’s not to say that the poverty and housing crisis had been fixed in Peter’s world, and he couldn’t exactly feel guilty about the laws of an entirely different universe (as much as his subconscious wanted to be)… but in the end, Peter had failed to recognize the daily neighborhood issues a significant percentage of the population faced. 

Peter had once wondered how he could be the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man without a neighbor hood to protect, but really, in the end, it's the neigh bors who were - are - the important ones.)

Peter began eating quicker, tuning out the chattering of the people around him, when he was broken out of his single-minded focus by someone sitting down beside him.

The face was unfamiliar (Duh, Parker) but still smiled widely at him, “Hey there!” the person greeted, although they didn’t really seem to expect an answer, based on the way they instantly turned to their food without waiting for a reply.

Ha! Peter lived to surprise! So, swallowing his bite, Peter turned to face the person, “Hello.”

The stranger's eyebrows lifted, “Hey, hey, he speaks! Some of the others down the table,” the man gestured to a group of people sitting at the end of the long cafeteria-style table Peter had been sitting at, “We were trying to get your attention, but couldn’t tell if you were focused on your food or just shy.”

“And if I had been shy?”

“Well then I guess I would have eaten breakfast in silence!”

Peter smiled. He liked the man, with his exuberant personality, “Good thing I’m not shy, then.”

The man laughed, “The name is Nic! You new here?” It was phrased like a question but Peter knew it was a statement, “Is it that obvious?” Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “I… I ended up kinda being dumped here yesterday. Don’t really know the low-down of Gotham yet.”

Nodding sagely, Nic thumped his fist on the table, “I’ll help you out-” “Peter.” “-Peter,” the man continued, “Ol’ Nic has tons of Gotham City know-hows! C’mon, scooch down to the end of the table. Me ‘n my friends’ll help you out.”

Something akin to hope bloomed in Peter’s chest, “Ah, thanks!”

Breakfast was good . 

The company was kind, and Peter’s danger sense had dulled down to the tiniest whisper. He smiled more in that singular breakfast than Peter could remember smiling in the past few weeks , and it surprised him more than his companions when Peter laughed , the sound rusty and unnatural and Peter wanted to cry . His companions just laughed along with him, smiled, and didn’t ask questions, but answered all of his. 

Finding out that the shelter didn’t offer lunch was mildly disappointing, but it did create a reason for Peter to stay out the whole day to get his bearings. Saying goodbye was harder than Peter thought it would be, but Nic just waved and said, “See’ya around!” and everything felt right .

The first couple hours of the morning proved unfruitful when it came to job searching (as expected) but after taking Nic’s advice about offering to do labor in some of the residential neighborhoods (apparently, despite Gothamites general distrust for the world, they were still like people from any other place and preferred to pay other people to do their manual labor), Peter managed to earn some money by trimming peoples hedgings or cleaning brush and other menial lawn work. Due to his enhanced nature, Peter was able to finish any job given to him quickly, and by the time three in the afternoon rolled around, Peter had managed a solid sum of $77 after doing work for five different people. At the last house, the person inside - a sweet older woman - even gave Peter a sandwich after he finished working, which he appreciated greatly, and decided to call it a day for working, figuring he could go back to the library and begin work on forging a birth certificate. 

Aside from narrowly avoiding getting his bag snatched by employing a combination of his sixth sense paired with an ungraceful shuffle to the side, Peter hadn’t run into any trouble for the entire day - a very nice change of pace, in his opinion.

Idly, as Peter walked down the sidewalk, he wondered who else would answer if he called the other numbers he had memorized. 

(If Daredevil’s number had been some helpful guy (if gruff, which, to be fair, did suit Daredevil’s personality), and Johnny had been someone cheerful who had been vaguely willing to play along with what he thought to be a joke in the beginning… )

So there were some baseline similarities. Maybe they weren’t vigilantes in this world (although maybe they were? Peter didn’t have enough data to make an accurate hypothesis), but their roles and temperaments in relation to Peter’s life were somewhat similar.

… No way it would be that easy.

Peter felt the smooth cover of the flip phone in his pocket, and thought of the two numbers he had programmed in.

...

It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Notes:

https://www.northjersey.com/story/news/2022/04/20/nj-homeless-resources-id-process-vital-services/6878211001/

here is an article i found very interesting about homelessnes in new jersey. please read it! its super informative.
also, even though this is fiction, i do not want to be insensitive in any way, so PLEASE call me out on ANYTHING in the comments. i have never experienced anything like what Peter is going through in this fic, and i know that will likely show. i am attempting to do the best i can, but please let me know how i can be better. <3

if peters revelation felt fast its because it was ;)

but also keep in mind he is ALSO just now having this revelation of like HEY??? MAYBE I DO MATTER???? OUTSIDE OF BEING PETER??? nearly two years after the events from no way home, so like maybe its not so rushed

also this fic was going to be just a fun little wrong number crack fic but HERE WE ARE 10k words later???? i didn't know how to end it (or if i was gonna make another chapter? i think i have to now) so sorry if it felt rushed or off. i also didn't really proofread it that well, so plz let me know of any horrible mistakes that impair the reading process!

also! guess who peters been chatting with????
please leave comments!

Chapter Text

When May died, Peter had thought that he’d lost everything . In that singular moment , Peter had been so sure that this was the absolute worst life could offer.

Then MJ almost fell to her death, and he stood corrected: there so much more to lose than Peter ever thought there could be.

And then he lost it all. For real this time.

Strange’s spell was supposed to get rid of all traces of Peter Parker, after all. Not only was he gone socially , he was also gone in every other sense of the word. The trust fund Tony had put together (and then never got rid of, even after Titan and the “I don’t feel so good, Mr. Stark!” fiasco), Peter’s own savings, all of May’s personal savings… 

If it hadn’t been absolutely crippling, and Peter hadn’t been losing his mind at the time, he would have been impressed at the extent to which Doctor Strange’s spell had worked. As it was, however, Peter had been too caught up in cursing the fact that “erasing himself from existence” truly meant everything was gone, or mixed around, or something . 

Peter hadn’t tried to gain access to Tony’s money, in the aftermath (it felt… perverse. hacking into a dead man’s company accounts for cash), and although he’d almost had half a mind to try to leach out some of “May’s” savings (which had expanded to include all of Peter’s money, as well), he inevitably deciding against it when he saw that the money was going towards maintaining the community center May had been working at, under Happy’s careful supervision.

That left Peter with the money remaining in the apartment, which, after a round of heartbreaking goodbyes and eventually-broken promises at the Statue of Liberty, Peter had luckily had the sense to make that his first stop.

(His home . Peter would give anything to go back to those times. Simpler times.)

His entire brain had been scrambled , but the reality of the situation had yet to fully sink in, so Peter actually managed to fill up an entire bin of clothes and toiletries and anything else he could think to bring. There wasn’t time or room to grab every treasure, and he’d even been erased from pictures. Still, Peter grabbed a photo that he knew originally included both him and May. If Peter unfocused his eyes enough, it was almost like he could see himself in the space next to her. 

It was enough.

(It had to be.)

The Lego figurine had also quickly gone in the bin, along with a file that contained Peter’s records and information, such as his birth certificate and social security number. The papers had almost seemed… translucent … when Peter found them. Like they weren’t quite solid or even there (like they were being phased out of existence) , and Peter wouldn’t have been able to find them had he not known where the records were - in the exact folder and everything. Otherwise, the file would have appeared empty. It was only because Peter knew that they were supposed to be there that the papers were even tangible. It was another reminder of Peter’s… nonexistence … but he grabbed them anyway, and beneath his hands they seemed to solidify . At least enough for him to grab them. 

Peter has also grabbed every bit of cash that had been within the apartment, feeling horribly guilty as he raided May’s not-so-secret hiding place. 

She would forgive him. Hell, she’d probably tell him to pawn off her jewelry, but that felt icky to Peter’s morals, so hopefully May would forgive him for that.)

As Peter slid out the window, he watched as his bedroom wavered before his eyes, and suddenly even Peter couldn’t tell if what he was looking at was his childhood bedroom or simply a guest room. Focusing on it gave Peter a headache, and it was only when he unfocused his eyes that Peter could sort of see the truth behind the illusion. 

There was an uneasy feeling in Peter’s chest - a certainty that as soon as he turned his back on the scene, every trace of him within his own home would truly be gone. That would solidify as this universe’s New Truth, just like Peter’s Old Truth had solidified under his hands.

But the only path now available to him was in the opposite direction of home, so Peter left it all behind, fleeing the scene like a guilty criminal after practically robbing his childhood home. As he swung away, Peter felt the binds of the Spider-Man suit loosening, and it was only then that Peter was slammed with the full force of what Strange’s spell meant. 

Tony’s Spider-Suit no longer recognized him, and was therefore deactivating.

Peter almost dropped his swing, and found himself incredibly grateful for Past-Peter’s insistence on retaining his version of the web shooters - not Tony’s newfangled version that was integrated within the suit. That would have sucked to plummet 20 stories and die because his own innovation forgot who he was. 

Luckily the web shooters weren’t sentient in any way.

The very same web shooters now hung casually around Peter’s wrists in his everyday life, smooth and tight to his skin. Aerodynamic. Still, their weight (More of a metaphorical weight than physical one . Nothing was really heavy for Peter anymore in his civilian life. It was only when he was, say, holding together ferries or lifting up buildings that Peter felt his muscles burn.) was a comforting one. It was the closest thing Peter could associate to safety and freedom . 

Feeling bolstered by their weight now, Peter pulled the flip phone from his pocket and dialed the second programmed number. Lifting the phone to his ear, Peter let his feet guide him toward the library while his senses watched his back, allowing Peter to fully focus on the phone call.

“Hello! Sherry speaking, editor of the Gotham Glazer, how may I help you?”

Momentarily surprised, Peter took a moment to respond. It wasn’t normally an editor’s job to field phone calls. He had seen some of the Gotham Glazer’s articles the previous day, and although they never caught up to places like the Gotham Gazette or the Gotham Times in terms of readers, Peter still hadn’t thought it would be this bad, “Hi, Sherry, my name is Peter. I’m looking for a job.”

“Oh! We aren’t hiring right now, though.”

Humming, Peter figured screw it , and decided to seize the moment, “I’m a photographer, and noticed when looking through your articles online that, no offense, a lot of the photos are shit. No one is going to want to pick up your paper or click on your online articles when the front cover photo is a bury photo of maybe- Batman or maybe a black sheet.”

“I- I’m sorry?” Sherry’s voice was incredulous, and once again Peter felt like an asshole bully on the phone. This was not going to become a habit.

“Sorry,” Peter sighed, “That was rude. Look, if your company is willing to lend me a camera, I’ll take photos tonight and then bring them in tomorrow. I can work freelance, or something. I just need cash, and I promise that you won’t regret it.”

Sherry stayed quiet, and the guilt was starting to overwhelm Peter before the woman laughed . Peter definitely made some confused sound, because Sherry took pity on him, “Huh. I’ve never had someone brave enough to say that to my face before,” and what????

“I’ll be frank with you, Peter. The Glazer is running low on staff, because, just as you said, our photos are shit. Doesn’t matter how good our pieces are if no one looks at them. So here’s the deal,” Sherry paused, and Peter waited with an eager breath, “I’ll be generous and give you two nights, since I know the Bats aren’t active every night. If you can bring in even one mildly in-focus picture of any of that crew, you have a job.”

“Do you have a camera I could use?” Peter wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Sure, for a normal person asking such a task (such as tracking down some of the apparently most elusive vigilantes of all time) would be nearly impossible. Luckily, Peter had some experience with climbing buildings and some handy dandy senses that could lead him right to the danger. Except this time, it wouldn’t be to fight! Instead, Peter was about to become the Bat-Paparazzi. 

(Okay, that might be an overstatement, but from how few clear photos there were of some of the Bat Crew (aside from JL press moments, because those didn’t count ), Peter figured that any photography of them could be considered paparazzi-esque. 

“Yep. Come by our building and grab it sometime today,” Sherry then rattled off an address and hung up when she was sure Peter had it down.

Peter closed his phone, let out a breath, and then physically restrained himself from cheering out loud like he wanted to. It was probably not a good idea to throw his hands wildly around and yell when the people around him were already looking at him strangely for his horribly giddy smile. 

The library could wait! Peter had a new mission now: find the Gotham Glazer, buy a good backpack with the money he’d made from his work earlier this morning, then dart back to the shelter for dinner. Unfortunately, the Bats being nighttime vigilantes would put a damper on Peter’s ability to sleep someone safe and comfortable (because, shortly after dinner, the doors closed, and whoever was in or out of the shelter was stuck there for the remainder of the night), but it could work out if Peter did sort of an alternating day thing??? maybe?? one night going out and then one staying in? at least until Peter could afford a more permanent place to sleep?

(Once again, guilt welled up inside of Peter. He wanted to return back to his home dimension . He did! He’d had a whole breakdown over it, afterall. But it was also hard to undo two years worth (or, if Peter was being honest, his entire vigilante career's worth) of separating Peter Parker and Spider-Man to an excessive degree in one night. But Peter was trying - genuinely trying - to want to go back home ( could it be home? is he allowed to have a home? is it really possible for Peter to be allowed to want this-?) , and it was a start . Additionally, Peter had no clues about how he ended up in this dimension, and for him to be able to reasonably investigate that, Peter needed Spider-Man.

(Did he? No one knew who Peter Parker was in this world, and Peter wasn’t planning on staying so-

But it was smarter to keep his identity hidden, at least so that if the reception to Spider-Man/Peter-Man went badly he could still hide out during the day. Also it felt icky - too reminiscent of Beck and his horrible little video, and the whole reason why Peter got into the spellcasting mess to begin with. 

So. Secret identity it was!)

He needed to be able to use his powers freely, and without worrying about his body just straight up collapsing due to malnutrition and exhaustion. Hence: the long game! Getting a job and a semi-steady-ish flow of income (at least enough to eat regularly!) was the first step. After that was figuring out how to make Spider-Man work. Because fuck it. Peter may have made fun of Big Bat for sticking too hard to his schtick, but Peter felt like he was very reasonably stuck in his own schtick! Bit by a spider = spider abilities = Spider-Man. It all made sense. Now, unless Batman had been bitten by a radioactive bat who also had a penchant for naming everything after bats, Peter honestly saw no reason to compare their schticks together!

(Okay, that one sounded weird.)

But Peter’s point still stood!!! Maybe he couldn’t pull out the sewing machine, but like, a halloween mask and thin gloves to cover his fingers (and also maybe like a black t-shirt and pants? because, not to cramp Batman’s style, but with the whole gothic doom and gloom Gotham had going on… Peter hated to admit it, but the man had the right idea with his color scheme. he still couldn’t get behind the excessive bat-themed stuff though.)) would probably be enough to hide his identity.

Finding the Glazer ended up being relatively easy (if a long walk). Walking into the front office, a woman with sharp nails and a sharper stare met him, sitting casually at what would be a receptionist's desk. Peter knew on the spot, however, that this woman was not a receptionist, and hedged a tentative, “Uhh, are you Sherry? I’m Peter.”

The woman stood, brushing invisible dust off of her slacks, “Correct.” Stopping in front of him, Peter watched her take in his state: clothes that had obviously been slept in, his semi-greasy and unwashed hair, the way Peter clung to his drawstring bag like a lifeline, and something seemed to soften in her, “Look, kid,” and Peter tensed up impossibly tight, his eyes shuttering from tentative hope to utter blankness , while his hands clenched the precious bag tighter as he attempted to not snap at his new boss. Sherry took it in stride, correcting herself in the next breath, “Peter. I get that you need a job, but this isn’t a pity party either. I need a real photographer.”

Breathing out through his nose, Peter fought to get a handle on his emotions, beating back the instinctive anger, “And I’m not trying to bullshit my way into a job I can’t handle. You said you’d give me two nights - let me at least try before you dismiss me outright.”

Sherry rubbed her forehead, and while she seemed to be weighing the thought in her mind, Peter couldn’t help but notice she didn’t question if he was underage. Sherry didn’t seem like the type to be chill with child labor, so it was quite a surprise, especially after always being mistaken for younger than he actually was back in high school.

(Well , Peter mused, No one has asked me that since May died. Maybe I finally look my age?

(Or maybe I look too exhausted to be a teen anymore. I certainly feel that way.))

“Alright,” Sherry finally agreed, handing over the camera case that had been hanging over her shoulder, “You break it, you buy it. And I will figure out a way to get that money back. Two nights. Don’t disappoint. Or do - but return the camera, at least.”

Peter could work with that.

One $10.88 (plus tax!) backpack later, Peter debated webbing the backpack to his sweater. It was a fleeting thought, but still one that he might have taken a bit too seriously. There was still some time before Peter needed to be back at the shelter for dinner, so he decided to test out the new camera, lest he be struggling to figure it out as the action was occurring. Peter needed his fingers to know where the buttons were now in the daylight, so capturing the shot was instinctive when the time came. 

The Glazer had been a decent hike away, and Peter remembered passing a park on the way. A park would be a good, inconspicuous place to take pictures. Much less likely to get him yelled at by people who didn’t like him swinging around a camera, even though people would always be more interesting subjects to Peter than still life. People came alive in front of the lens, Peter noticed. Or maybe it was that he could notice.

The bite had enhanced all of Peter’s senses - vision, hearing, smell… all of them were leaps and bounds above normal.

(Although it was hard for Peter to compare. Pre-bite he had been… well, he’d been an asthmatic nerd who needed some pretty intense glasses. It was difficult to differentiate between what Peter should be seeing versus what he was actually seeing (or hearing, or smelling, or sensing) because of that. Because surely people couldn’t hear the exact words of a conversation being held two floors above them, but it also felt impossible that other people didn’t notice when Peter could hear up to the fourth floor.)

But because of that enhancement , Peter tended to take in too much of a person when he looked at them. Their smell told him where they’d been, what they’d eaten, and he could hear their heartbeats race when they lied, or slow in contentment and peace. He could see the minute widening of someone’s eyes, the tension they held within themselves, or whether a person’s relaxation was pretend or real. All of those tiny signs screamed at him, and oftentimes it distracted Peter from what a person was intentionally trying to project, the movements so big and bold that it was like they were moving in slow motion - or not even moving at all. Like when Tony had gone in for a hug, at the end. Peter didn’t know it was coming - sure he had been coming closer , but Peter was too focused on the way Tony’s heartbeat had increased, a sharp contrast to his adrenaline which stalled . He smelt of dirt and blood and dust and Titan (somehow, even years later. maybe Tony had never stopped carrying Titan around with him) and heard the waver in Tony’s breathing. He saw him swallow roughly, and all those miniscule movements had so completely reassured Peter that he was wanted, that Tony’s hug had been entirely unexpected. Unseen. Unnoticed, until it was upon him. Unnecessary, because in the end, Peter knew exactly how Tony felt without the man ever having to intentionally move a finger.

Still. It had been appreciated. And Tony had needed it.

But behind a camera? Peter could only see to the level that the camera could capture, and so all the tiny details and microexpressions and minute wavers vanished. People were suddenly Big Movements! and Action! and Surprising! It was exhilarating , and Peter had never known how much photography meant to him until he’d been so overwhelmed with absolutely everything that the narrow view of the camera became his everything.

Taking pictures had begun as a way to get easy money, and ended as a release that Peter so desperately needed. 

All that being said: a leaf on the ground did not inspire the same sort of awe. 

Trust him: this was the second leaf picture and already Peter wanted to rip his hair out. Maybe he could throw a stick or something? and then try to capture the shot on the stick’s descent? because still shots - while helpful for getting to know the camera - wouldn’t help when Peter needed to adjust for motion and movement .

And then Peter saw her. 

She was movement in the best way possible - at its most raw and emotional form, and Peter had never wanted to take someone’s photo so badly. Peter may or may not have been staring (he had) but it was barely for like two seconds max before the girl’s head was snapping over. Peter just. Stared helplessly. He attempted to mouth a hello but it got stuck in his throat, and Peter ended up moving his hands in the smallest darting motions while he finally got his face to do something that wasn’t whatever helpless expression it had been before. Maybe Peter’s smile was way too weak and wavery, but Peter didn’t know how to say “I promise I wasn’t staring to be a creep” and “I promise I didn’t take your picture I just want to really badly” and “Body language is the most beautiful thing ever and you’ve perfected it.”

Y’know. Casual things.

But she understood , Peter knew she did, because her eyebrows quirked together thoughtfully, and the way she checked to the side (maybe she came to the park with someone?) spoke of someone reassuring themself that a current situation was in control before taking on a new task and oh. She was going to come over, she was coming over now, and Peter was so incredibly unprepared. 

She settled in front of him, a few feet away, and the gentleness (superimposed against her inherent grace and elegance and strength) in her stance (like approaching a startled animal) had Peter settling back into his skin. There wasn’t a need to talk. It simply became irrelevant. She cocked her head to the side, a question. One that had Peter lifting the camera in his hands slightly, a wry smile paired with a shrug of his shoulders. 

A pause, and the person in front of him seemed to come to a decision, “Don’t post them,” Was her request, and then, like an afterthought, “Cass.”

“Peter. I won’t. Would never.”

And that was enough , because then she was Action! and Grace! and Perfect! and Peter is taking pictures, he’s moving. She’s dancing - ballet - and he’s dancing too, albeit in a different form. Something inside of him laughs freely, and he can tell it is within Cass , too. Her spine has softened its posture from the defensive form it had taken - no, not taken. The defensive form that was natural and learned - and her strength and courage took the form of playfulness, and spoke of letting go of a seriousness that had been weighing over her since perhaps forever.

The weight would come back, it always did, Peter knew. But for a moment it was gone - for both of them , it was gone - and that was enough.

Although Peter loved photography for the distance it gave him - it was impossible to feel that distance with Cass. Not when her body language felt so natural, when she read him just as easily. It took three minutes. Maybe four. And then together, Peter felt their energies simmer down, and Cass approached. Without a word, Peter changed the camera’s mode to be able to show her the photos he took. Cass looked at them from his side as he tilted the digital screen to her, and while normally with a stranger that would be too close, too familiar, too much , with Cass, it felt as natural as breathing. He flicked through them, and even though Peter knew the pictures were good, suddenly it felt vital that she liked them. Peter’s gaze flickered to the side as he finished going through the pictures, and then Cass patted his shoulder. The anxiety uncurled from within Peter, and he smiled softly back at her. His finger hovered over the “Delete” button - a question - and Cass shook her head, “I want them.”

Speaking almost felt awkward now; Peter was so entrenched within his sense that it took a moment to pull himself away, “Do you have an email? I can download them onto the computer and send them to you tomorrow.”

Shifting her weight onto her toes in a pleased rocking sensation, Cass rattled off an email address, which Peter made sure to ingrain into his memory. 

…

He felt looser. Less wound up, less on the brink. Cass didn’t remind Peter of anyone he’d ever met before - there were no ghosts hanging over her shoulders. It would be impossible for them to; her movements were all Cass , all perfect understanding and genuine care. For anyone not adept in reading - in not speaking in - body language, Cass would be closed off. Harsh lines and radiated confidence that would have people backing off in a heartbeat.

Peter could read her heart , though. Like she could read his . 

Even if Peter never saw her again, this meeting was worth every second a hundredfold over. There was peace within his soul . 

If Peter wanted to delude himself (he did want to - it happened to be a frequent urge of his) then he would say that Cass looked lighter too. A sort of peace that comes with being totally understood, and understanding completely, in turn. There was no room for deception or confusion within the honest lines of someone’s inherent self.

Breathing felt easier. 

Dinner was wonderful .

Still riding on the high of taking pictures, Peter let down his guard as he joined Nic and his friends for dinner. They ended up being very fun to talk to, and something in Peter had exploded in nostalgia (the bittersweet-but-happy kind, not the gut-wrenchingly-terrible kind, which was a novel experience, and one Peter wouldn’t mind repeating) when they had waved him over cheerfully, uncaring of their noise and who turned to look at them.

(It reminded him of Ned and MJ, but also Deadpool and Johnny (although those two weren’t at the same time! that probably would have been a horrible train wreck). It was also novel seeing spaces where Peter Parker’s and Spider-Man’s lives interconnected - their joint experiences. Peter hadn’t thought there to be anything that could link those two faces together (besides, well, him ), and it felt weird… but also so good … to feel comfortable with the idea that both aspects could coexist inside of him as a real person .

… Comfortable might have been an overstatement. It was more like… Peter didn’t immediately reject the idea. But! Progress was progress!)

Before going out, though, Peter wanted to do something about… well, himself. The shelter did have showers, after all, and they were open in the hour period between when dinner started and when the shelter closed down completely for the night. Peter knew he looked dirty (he felt dirty) and was in desperate need of one. Nic had also informed him that the shelter had a clothing donation box, which Peter raided (read: politely asked one of the volunteers the location of, and then took the bare minimum of what he required) before going to the shower, not wanting to put dirty clothes back on. 

The box ended up being a good resource, with Peter snagging a pair of sweats that were around his size and a Wonder Woman t-shirt. There was a solid looking jacket, black and sturdy, and Peter almost felt guilty taking it for himself, but between his cold sensitivity and his newfound job of taking pictures of practically invisible vigilantes, Peter decided to grab it. 

(Peter pushed away the voice in his head that told him that he shouldn’t feel guilty for taking what he needs - that he is in just as much of a shitty situation as everyone else here.)

Showering was a relief. 

For seven minutes, Peter felt like it was almost possible to scrub away every bad thing that had ever happened to him. The water was lukewarm and the soap (he’d found it at the bottom of his drawstring bag!) irritated his nose, and it was the best shower Peter had ever had. After getting out and getting dressed in his new clothes, Peter felt like a new man, ready to take on the world! 

Or, at least, take some pictures. 

Nic had been very alarmed to see Peter start to dodge out of the shelter, and stopped him, “Hey hey, man. Where y’going?” 

Adjusting the straps on his new backpack, and clicking closed the strap across his chest, Peter shrugged, “Got a job. Need to be out at night ‘cause of it.”

“The night is dangerous, Pete. Don’t… don’t take any risks, alright? Sure, there’s all the Bats, but you can’t rely on them,” Nic seemed intent on making sure Peter knew of the danger that could potentially await him, and Peter tried to give the guy a reassuring smile. Nic couldn’t be much older than Peter, and here he was, all concerned for Peter’s safety, “Promise I’ll be smart, Nic. No jumping into danger for me!”

Still visibly uneasy, Nic just nodded his head, “Y’gonna be back for breakfast?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“We’ll watch for you. Stay safe.”

The camera Sherry had lent him was a truly unfortunate level of bulky and cumbersome to use. Peter didn’t know whether to attribute that to the general outdatedness of the technology, Sherry not trusting him with an expensive and nice camera, or the Glazer just not being able to afford a better one. He could probably point at any one of those reasons and be right, but that was neither here nor there. 

Other than the fact that he would be right no matter what, which was both here and there.

Still, the weight of the camera rested heavily against his chest, making Peter hyper aware of its presence. He genuinely couldn’t afford to break the thing. It wasn’t night quite yet - the shelter closed at five-thirty, meaning that it hadn’t grown dark out yet. Or, at least night-dark. The daytime was still just as gloomy and sad and depressing as ever. That at least gave him time to try to puzzle out where the best location to take photos would be. 

(Peter hadn’t had to worry about that part back in New York. Spider-Man would be wherever he was needed when it came to photos. The whole job at the Bugle took startlingly little effort on Peter’s part, but Jameson didn’t know that, so honestly, Peter really figured his salary could have been significantly better. 

There was no horrible guilt and self hatred tied along with that particular whim of his. Funny how Peter’s moral compass worked. 

Not too funny, though. Sad, really, considering it was more of a self-flagellation type thing and less of an actual moral compass, but luckily for the world, a lot of things made Peter feel guilty, thus preventing a potential super villain from ever arising!

…

That, and while Peter had grown to appreciate some solid melodramatic monologues, he, personally, couldn’t picture himself going through the whole spiel, which would make his evil schemes and machinations a lot more difficult for some poor vigilante sap like current-Peter to stop. And that made Peter feel guilty! 

Circular reasoning it may be, but that didn’t take away from the inherent truth of the matter.

It just meant that Peter had way too much time to think about this sort of stuff.)

… Trying to think about where to stake out just ended up in distraction after distraction. In the end, Peter decided to just “wing it” (HA! ‘Cause of the apparent obsession with winged creatures this city had???) and bank on his senses noticing where the most danger was, and then (Sorry, Nic) running head first into it.

But! Peter would stop an unsafe distance away and take photos! not get himself involved at all!

Maybe. Depends. Probably. Most likely , because Peter didn’t have a mask and would be staying high up, but then again, Parker Luck was apparently transuniversal, so who says he doesn’t accidentally end up becoming a pawn to some caped villain’s plan and then accidentally punching through Batman, because no one knows about his strength, or would ever begin to expect it.

Haha. Peter needed to stop joking about these types of things. Because then they seemed actually not-impossible, and Peter did not need that type of pressure. 

With time to burn and a growing need to eat , Peter decided to say fuck it and spent his last remaining daylight hours scrounging up some food.

Although…

Peter dug into the pocket of his sweats, debated, forgot why he was even debating, and then called the most street savvy and knowledgeable person he knew: Black Widow.

Just kidding. Peter doesn’t know her number. And also she’s probably still dead. 

(The “probably” comes from the apparent tendency superheroes have to come back from the dead. Peter included! Although that was more of a blip-based circumstance, rather than his own epic revival scene.)

But Peter does know one Deadpool (sometimes unfortunately) who happens to know the best places to eat! Plus, this was a great way to get some more information on how the numbers correlate across dimensions - or if they even do. It could potentially just be a coincidence. 

The issue with anyone potentially Deadpool-associate, though, is the very likely chance for Peter to just get horrible confused. He might be better off with calling Tony’s number, or something, and getting a genius?

No, no, no. Tony had no concept of subtly or what it would be like to be in Peter’s situation. 

But.

But.

And oh god, this was a horrible idea, but it was also so, so funny, and Peter dialed the number before he could reconsider. 

And then it picked up, and was Peter feeling giddy???  

“Hello, Wayne Manor. Alfred speaking,” and what the hell was that. Why did Fake Nick Fury’s number (aka, professional pain-in-the-ass and masquerading master who knew too much and also didn’t know how to leave Peter alone) lead to Wayne Manor . 

“Oh, uh, hey! You don’t know me, I was wondering if Mr. Wayne was in? I have a very important question for him,” Peter lied through his teeth. So far, he hadn’t learned anything about the actual identities of the people on the other side of the call - just personalities - and this felt both like cheating and a spectacular research breakthrough. 

The person on the other side of the phone paused, which, alright. Peter imagined this was a pretty strange call. Also, who had landlines anymore? Why didn’t this Wayne-dude just own a cellphone? Talk about bizarre . The guy certainly had enough money for it. Eventually, Alfred resumed speaking, “Apologies, but this is a private line. If you can give me a name and number, I can see if Master Bruce could call you back at a later date?”

As if , Peter held back a snort, if the guy is anything like Fake-Ass-Fury, then he’s going to try to figure out who I am. And even if he’s not, no way is the guy gonna call me back with any good intentions.

“No thanks, I’ll just ask you my question instead: where do you recommend going for food handouts? I know of the shelter, and then I can also ask some Mom and Pop stores and blah, blah, blah. But I was curious about your - well, Mr. Wayne’s, I guess - opinion,” Peter really was turning into a ballsy online bully. This poor old man. But questions are questions and food is food, and if Alfred doesn’t have an answer, Peter’s just going to call Not-Daredevil (who was undoubtedly the best option, but alas, Peter has never been one to make things easy for himself). 

(Peter also already knows the best thing he can do in this situation: that’s why he’s presently walking towards a more well off area of the city known for its cafes and restaurants and bars. This current game of call roulette is more of a sort of fun way to talk and tease people (Peter is never going to beat the bully allegations), and also might end up being his best way home, if he can figure out if there is a transuniversal-connection, and if so, what that might be. 

The fact that the call forwarded to Wayne Manor? If there was indeed a connection, it was hinting at a truly massive one.)

Surprisingly, Peter wasn’t immediately hung up on, “The Wayne Foundation sponsors many initiatives to help the homeless in Gotham City. You might try going to one of the soup kitchens - I am unsure of your location, but ask a volunteer at the shelter: they will tell you where to go.” The man’s posh British accent didn’t even sound annoyed . He just relayed the information seamlessly and easily, as if he often got these types of questions. Maybe he did. He probably didn’t, “Oh! Thank you so much, Sir. I truly appreciate your help!”

“Of course. Now, may I inquire how you got this number?”

"Uh. No thank you. But thank you. But also no. Goodbye!”

Bruce Wayne pushed his chair back, the three people inhabiting the room letting out a joint sigh of relief as the call disconnected. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, already relaying the… frankly bizarre conversation, despite how potentially high stakes it could have been… through his head, in an attempt to figure out what information the stranger had accidentally let slip.

“That was a risky choice,” Bruce’s son, Damian Wayne, remarked, “What if the person knew they were calling Batman? Or thinking they were calling one of us in costume? That could have revealed our identities.”

“I trust Jason and Dick. They both said they got calls from that same number before, and that the person didn’t know who they were.” Dick was in Blüdhaven, as usual, and Jason wasn’t staying at the manor at the moment, but when Dick reported getting an alarming call from someone with a Gotham and Gotham-adjacent area code in the Batchat, Jason had begrudgingly mentioned that he’d also gotten a call from the number, and, as best he figured, it was someone who’d gotten caught up in some type of shit - magical, mob, or otherwise. Dick had been relieved to know that the “Kid” had gotten down from the building safely, to which Jason had scoffed, “Sure, safe . The guy nearly gave me a heart attack with the stunts he was pulling.” 

Jason hadn’t elaborated, and none of them had asked him to. Gotham was busy enough as it was with its general crime rate, not counting the fact that some of the rogues had escaped recently after a nice six month stretch of most of them being locked up. So far all had been quiet, but they’d been working non-stop to try and get a handle on the situation. If things started going south fast, Dick had mentioned that he was just a call away. Other than that, it was all hands on deck. The mysterious caller had slipped through the cracks of their attention, but clearly, Bruce looked at the computer, the damning phone call blinking cheerily, that could no longer last. Once was coincidence, twice was maybe Dick’s personal phone number got leaked along with the coincidence, and three times (especially when the third was Batman’s personal line ) was no coincidence at all.

“Tim, you’re on this,” Bruce directed, taking a glance at the young man. He’d broken his arm two months ago and had been benched from field work until it healed. Tim had busied himself with working on the more detective oriented tasks from the Batcave, and going through unclosed police cases, but he’d been getting antsy, “See if you can call this number, or trace it, or… well, you know what to do. Try to figure out who this person is, and how they’ve gotten ahold of our numbers.”

Nodding, Tim seemed to immediately lose himself in thought, his mind already on his newly assigned case. Satisfied, Bruce turned back to Damian, “Eat. Then get ready for patrol tonight.”

Rooftops were not an uncommon place for Peter to be. A nighttime rooftop escapade? A casual Tuesday (and every day) occurrence for him. But doing it in civilian clothes as Peter Parker? Now that was something new! 

“Y’know what they say,” Peter muttered under his breath, adjusting the collar of his coat to block out the chill, “Variety is the spice of life and blah, blah, blah.” After the sun set on a very successful mini adventure (Which included: one box stuffed with old pastries that had been about to be thrown out and a styrofoam box of pasta! (And, weirdly enough, a maybe-job offer from a club??? But that could be focused on some other time.)), Peter had sneakily made his way up to the rooftops. As opposed to his last time on a rooftop in Gotham, though, Peter was not nearly as close to the ground. Perched atop the flat roof of one of Gotham’s multiple towering buildings, Peter kept himself carefully concealed within the shadows. Being found by one of the Bats could go in a multitude of ways - ranging anywhere from intense questioning as to how the hell he got up here, to ruining his chances to get a good picture. One of those would be absolutely terrible, and the other would result in an annoying conversation that Peter would dodge out of by maybe throwing himself off the building (and then using his webshooters!!! of course!!!), but hopefully neither would occur. 

Still, Peter had to be near that Bats for either of those to happen, so, blanking out his mind, Peter focused deeply on what he could hear . After the bite, Peter’s hearing had improved so far past the normal human threshold, but it was after meeting Daredevil , and learning how to hone in on the sounds surrounding him, that Peter’s range (and, more importantly, his understanding of what he was hearing) improved drastically. 

Ultimately, Peter knew that the average night didn’t normally contain cool crime fighting. It was simple stuff, most of the time. A mugging, break-in, purse thief, or a resident asshole making trouble… that tended to make up the majority of a vigilante’s nightlife. While Gotham still had one of the highest crime rates in the country, not every night would be filled with some Villain of the Week or big scheme. As well, just after sunset was typically not when the Big Things happened (at least in New York, and while it could be different here… Peter was doubtful of that being the case), so there would likely be a few hours before things started getting exciting. Or deadly. Or both! Hopefully only the first, though. Focusing his hearing and letting his sixth sense hum just under his skin, Peter dug into the pastry box to pass the time.

(The pasta had been demolished near-instantly. It was very good.)

Eventually, Peter’s patience paid off, when, ten minutes before eleven, his danger-sense went haywire. 

Checking that his backpack and camera were securely attached to his body, Peter neatly sprinted across the roof, staying in the shadows all the while, and with one easy leap, crossed the distance between the roofs, his run not even pausing as he landed. Light work, really. Although Peter kept his pace at something that was still possible by a normal person (Or, at least, he’s pretty sure it’s relatively normal. It was hard to judge anything when pre-bite-Peter had been a little dork .), the rush of wind against his face and the unconscious adrenaline rush he got from crossing the city’s skyline (even though it wasn’t his city) felt good . It felt like home , and for once, Peter didn’t try to deny himself of that thought.  

Following his gut feeting, Peter traveled across the city, occasionally having to use his sticky fingers as the height of the buildings decreased the further he traveled from the more central part of Gotham, “I’m never taking my webshooters for granted again,” Peter grumbled under his breath on one such occasion, before there was a flare of awareness to his left that had Peter launching himself off the side of the building and down a four story drop, rolling around the camera protectively and leaping to his feet. Crossing the building in a few strides, Peter flattened himself against the side of a roof access point and held his breath. 

Although Peter didn’t hear anyone land, he could tell that someone else joined him on the roof a few seconds later. Luckily, they didn’t know that he was there, having darted out of view before they could see him. Peter may have crushed all of his packs of crackers in his haste to get out of sight, but it was totally worth it to avoid the attention. The person eventually made their first noise, and considering no one else (well, besides Peter ) was on the roof with him, it was easy to conclude the guy was speaking into a com, “I’m in position. Robin?” A tinny voice on the other side answered, “Affirmative.”

And wow that voice sounded young! Peter knew that Batman had a history of kiddy sidekicks… but to hear some kids' voices in person? (or, well, across a com-set, but still- )... it felt gross to Peter. Too child-solider-y for him, personally . Too reminiscent of his own way-too-early start, and Peter knew how that turned out for him: fear of concrete above his head, fear of suffocation… trauma from watching way-too-many loved ones die, a constant anticipation and paranoia about the rug being pulled out from under him at any given moment… Peter knew he was fucked. In many ways, but mostly about his mental health. And just… uck . The whole situation felt wrong and weird , but Peter couldn’t exactly point at Batman and tell him all that to his face, so he settled with mentally telling the guy (and also chiding himself about making assumptions when he isn’t aware of the full situation), and securing his hands around the camera, ready to snap a picture, should the moment arise. 

“Remember, you only have twenty minutes to find the bomb Two-Face planted before it goes off at 11:22, and takes out the Twin Piers loading dock along with it. I’ll track down Two-Face and put a stop to him - do not engage if you find him first. Keep me updated on any changes on your situation,” Batman waited for an affirmative, and after getting one, he went radio silent after a quick, “Going in now.”

There was the sound of a grappling gun, and then Peter could feel Batman’s presence leaving the building. Lifting the camera to his eye, Peter settled Batman within his viewfinder and clicked , the perfect silhouette of his bat-winged cape and cowl illuminated by the lights from the harbor. It was a good photo. A great photo, even. It would be more than enough to satisfy Sherry. And yet Peter found himself waiting until Batman was out of sight, then slipping down the side of the building and heading towards Gotham Harbor. It wasn’t necessary. In fact, it was quite risky. But knowing that pictures of Batman fighting would both save the Glazer and give Peter a secure job? (Knowing that there was a bomb planted in the Harbor and that people were currently risking their lives to save the place?) …

What was Peter expected to do? Leave???

Yes. But. Well. 

(Maybe Parker Luck couldn’t take all of the credit for everything bad that happened in Peter’s life. 

After all, if Peter’s shitty luck was transuniversal, then so was his tendency to get himself into trouble.

Oh well, Peter shrugged internally, darting from shadow to shadow, tracking the feeling of doom doom doom across the dockyard, I guess I was due for some excitement, sooner or later. )

--

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Peter chanted inside his head, not daring to make a single sound even as his heart felt like it was going to pump out of his chest, I’m going to be able to write a firsthand account of Batman fighting Two-Face after this. Whoever that is. I didn’t read that far. 

Crouching around the corner of a shipping container, Peter watched as Batman single handedly faced down Two-Face (And wow that name was horribly on-the-nose. Did the guy choose it himself? Peter hoped so. Otherwise it would be a really mean thing for the media to just start calling him, even if it was accurate) and half a dozen henchmen. It was exactly half a dozen, too (two, haha) . This guy really had a fixation. Did everyone in Gotham have such a hardcore schtick? 

Batman had his bats, Two-Face had… the number two??? Joker had clowns…

(Maybe Peter would need to check the copyright status of Spider-Shticks in Gotham. This lot didn’t seem like the type to share .)

Anyway!!! Not the point. The fight appeared to be a pretty rinse and repeat event, similar to what Peter normally dealt with, and Batman didn’t really appear concerned so much as Righteously Upset! so Peter wasn’t too worried about his safety. Plus, with his danger-sense dying down to more of a dull thrum (as opposed to the raging alarm it started out as), Peter figured that victory was well within reach.

Two-Face was monologuing (boring!), half of the half-a-dozen goons were down (captured in a series of very exciting action shots!), but oh no! Batman was caught in a tricky situation! (Peter would have thought, had his senses not so much as stirred ). Flanked by two gun-holding-goons, Batman faced Two-Face head-on as the villain dramatically held up the two detonators for the two bombs he placed, threatening Batman that if he moved the Twin Piers would go up in smoke, along with the two dozen hostages that were being stored inside a shipping container alongside one of the bombs. However shall Batman get out of this situation???

Apparently whether or not Two-Face would follow through with his threats at 11:22 (it was currently 11:21) would be decided by a coin toss (and really???? All this work just to leave it to chance?????) . Peter shifted his weight to the side, making sure that Robin, who had a Batarang aimed at Two-Face’s hands (and the detonators), was in frame, and watched as the boy and Batman froze, not realizing that there was a second bomb and hostages. 

(Luckily for them, Peter happened to have found the bomb first (or, rather, his hearing picked up the sound of people crying, which happened to be a pretty good directional guide) and after breaking the lock and opening the door in time with the hostages throwing themselves against it, he played a very stressful game of wire-roulette where he cut the wires that didn’t make his danger sense scream. Normally Peter would have handled that in a much more professional manner, but sue him, he didn’t want to miss the action.

And maybe that would alarm the Bats more than simply being photographed, but above all Peter helped the people. He couldn’t just leave them there , and he certainly didn’t feel comfortable crouching beside a shipping container with an active bomb inside of it . )

No matter. They didn’t know that, and Peter watched Robin calculate then re-calculate his throw as Two-Face moved both detonators to one hand, pulling out his coin with the other. Then, murmuring something in the com-set to Batman, and in a move that was pure synchronized beauty, they threw their Batarangs at once. Robin’s throw knocked the detonators out of Two-Face’s hands just as Batman’s pinged the coin off-course, and Peter had the photo . He had the photo , and in a much more horrible synchrony, two gunshots echoed out, but Batman had pushed one of the guns away and Robin had thrown a second Batarang at the other, so neither shot hit, and with the Robin joining the fray with a frankly brutal efficiency (yet still managing to be non-lethal) the remaining half of the half-a-dozen henchmen went down hard , and Two-Face was subsequently captured.

It played out like an old thirty minute TV show (with ads, so more like twenty-two minutes) about superheroes, with everything being perfectly wrapped up just in time, with just the right amount of stakes. 

This was the perfect news story. 

Peter fled the scene quite quickly after that. He did take one last photo, though: one of Two-Face tied up as Batman and Robin stood triumphantly in front of him, interrogating him about where the second bomb and the hostages were located. 

Good triumphs evil once more, Peter noted wryly.

The next morning, in the midst of what should have been a peaceful breakfast, Tim stormed into the dining room in a frenzy, eyes wild and scattered, “Have you seen the news?” He demanded, and when Bruce, Damian, and Alfred didn’t immediately answer, he shook his head, “Look at your phones. I just saw it - Babs sent the link.”

To Bruce, he thrust his phone in the man’s face. Alfred came to look over Bruce’s shoulder as he read the headline:

Gotham Glazer -

“Two-Face Takedown at Twin-Piers! Tandem Throws by the Dynamic Duo!”  

Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter

The article then continued to outline - in way too much detail - exactly what he and Damian had done the night before - right down to the twenty-second minute. The most damning part of the article, however, was the headline picture: a startlingly clear photo capturing both Batman flanked by goons and Robin in the shadows, their arms both raised after releasing their throws, the two Batarangs just making contact with their targets. It was a perfect photo, and Bruce didn’t know that someone had been there . He knew the exact angle that view would be from, too. It was right beside the storage container that Two-Face had claimed held the hostages - hostages that he and Damian had found hiding further away from the fighting. Hostages who said that they had forced the container doors open themselves, and who didn’t know how the bomb had been diffused. Someone had tentatively mentioned that they were told to run , but none of them knew who the first person to say it was, since the word had quickly been repeated by them all, either externally or internally. Bruce had dismissed it - thought that perhaps the container wasn’t properly closed, since the lock had been mangled. That they truly had been able to force the doors open. That the second bomb wasn’t active because Two-Face wasn’t stupid enough to have an active bomb right next to where they were fighting .

And maybe . But maybe not. And Bruce wasn’t known for letting “ maybe’s” stick around in his line of work, even if the intentions were benign. 

Pulling up the “Batchat” - a name coined by Steph - Bruce quickly skimmed what everyone else had been saying.

Babs: Gotham Glazer: “Two-Face Take…

Babs: Guys…

Steph: wtf??? how did they get such a good pic of b and rob?

Babs: It’s the Glazer, too. They are known for having bad pics, and were prob going to close down soon

Dick: B never lets anyone get that close for a pic. and all the details of the mission… no one shud know that much about whats going on

Tim: wth that was last night? O??? what do u know?

Babs: It was just posted this morning. At the end there is an author’s note that Rite herself wasnt there - it was the photographer, who is a trusted source and wishes to remain anonymous for safety reasons. Said that the subscription version of the article would include more photos of the fight. Rite runs a legit business - no dirt on her anywhere. Don’t see why it wud start now, even if the business was going downhill.

Steph: but since no one else was there no one can prove the photos r real

Babs: Nope. Several people confirmed that they were taken hostage and can confirm part of the story. Dad doesn’t even know this much about the whole thing - said the article was more informative than any normal police report they ever have about stuff relating to B.

Dick: damn. someone rlly managed to sneak past both B and Dami. 

Tim: i dont think b or d knows. im going to show them now

…

Tim: This is Bruce. We now have two different people who know too much: the caller and the photographer. The photographer doesn’t seem malicious - it was a highly complimentary article that will likely result in positive sentiment towards us. I don’t see any nefarious reasoning behind their actions. They are most likely looking for cash, but they are putting themselves at risk being on-site at a crime scene. As for the caller, continue to beware of them. If any of you manage to get further information on either person, share it immediately. Caller: medium priority. Photographer: low. High priority is still capturing the Arkham escapees.

Steph: ofc ofc

Dick: doubt there will be anything in blud but ill be sure to let u know if stuff starts getting weird here

Damian: I do not believe that a normal person could have managed to sneak past my attention. Whoever this is should have a higher priority.

Babs: I'll keep an eye out. Might reach out to the Gotham Glazer, but if their photographer wants to be anon I doubt Rite will spill.

Jason: I’m still pretty sure that the caller is someone down on their luck and in need of help. The photographer on the other hand is suspicious. I’ll keep an eye out during my patrol.

Peter sneezed, and Nic looked up at him sympathetically. Peter would have thought the guy was going to pat his shoulder if he hadn't been across the table, “I hope y’didn’t catch a cold last night when y’were out.”

“I dunno,” Peter sniffled, “Don’t think so, at least. It ended up being a pretty productive night, though. Oh!” He turned to the group, “I forgot to mention: I got this job offer from some lounge place. Ice themed, or something. Dunno if I’ll end up taking it - have an interview today - but I thought it was funny that I might end up being nocturnal like the Bats!”

Nic’s friends all laughed and wished him luck at the interview, although Nic remained concerned. When Peter cocked his head at the other man, questioning, the guy just sighed, “I worry about ya, Pete. Just… stay safe, ‘kay? Don’t get in over y’head. It’s easy to do that in Gotham. Take it from me.”

Chapter Text

Apparently, freelance photography paid a lot better in Gotham than it did in New York. Granted, it could be because (as in, it 100% was the case but Peter’s ego didn’t want to take that sort of hit) Batman photos were worth more than ( sob ) Spider-Man photos. 

But also, Peter had made Spider-Man into an easily accessible resource for himself. Batman, however, had done the opposite. But Batman also obviously had a shit ton of money and didn’t need to worry about paying the bills.

Peter didn’t have to worry about paying bills either, but for the opposite reason. 

Point being , even though the Glazer was tight on money, Sherry had been more than willing to pay up. 

The whole spiel ending up being very satisfying. Sherry had been the first one to arrive at the Glazer at a sharp five in the morning, and may have almost maced Peter when he accidentally startled her.

“What the hell are you doing here? ” Sherry nearly shouted, scowl rivaling Batman’s in its ferocity.

Holding the camera out like a shield (even though Peter would rather die again than have it get destroyed), Peter quickly jumped to justify his presence, “Sorry! Sorry! I got the pictures you wanted. And I’m mega-tight on money, so like, please look at them! Sorry again, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Sherry sniffed as she attempted to regain her composure, and unlocked the building, “It’s alright. Let’s go look at these miraculous photos of yours, then. Don’t expect to pull one over me, though. I can tell the difference between real and fake, and a blurry photo of someone in the dark will not be good enough.”

The first photo alone (the backlit Batman swing, which Peter personally liked because of the artsy vibe, but knew wasn’t great for news stories due to it not showcasing any exciting action), Sherry had been willing to pay two hundred dollars for, claiming she didn’t need to see any others since that was front page material. Peter had scoffed, “C’mon, this is the least exciting one,” and Sherry sat right back down. Peter then proceeded to flick through the rest of the photos, and Sherry’s jaw dropped lower and lower with each one. The shining star of them all was (surprise, surprise) the moment Two-Face had been disarmed, and Peter may have nearly cried in relief when it came out even better than he’d hoped for. In the end, she’d decided to buy every single one of the Batman photos, giving him a hundred dollars straight from her wallet in order to get her hands on them sooner, with a promised three hundred later. Peter also officially had a “job” - although it was still technically freelance work - with them agreeing on two hundred dollars per collection of photos in the future, unless it was an absolute showstopper and included multiple of the Bats and Rogues: hence the Two-Face Takedown! photo being worth two hundred dollars on its own. All in cash. Sherry had been pretty amenable to any of Peter’s requests as long as he agreed to only provide the Glazer with photos. He’d even been able to weasel a better camera out of her, although he kept the cheap one, too, as it had the pictures of Cass on them.

(And they did have better cameras on site!! Sherry admitted to giving him a cheap one just in case he ran off with it!!! Peter loved being right.)

He’d also relayed the entirety of the night's events to Sherry (minus his impossible roof climbing, and citing his knowledge of their movements as a lucky guess. Sherry didn’t question it.), enabling her to write up an article on the spot. Peter had been thinking about how the article could be written for the past couple hours as he waited for the Glazer to open, so much of the wording ended up being Peter’s own, and although he refused to be quoted on the article, Sherry insisted on citing him as a source - “For my own writer’s integrity.”

Overall: Peter was riding on cloud nine. He would have a solid (ish) source of income as long as he could continue taking good photos of the Batcrew (…and great. Batman infected him with his horrible naming practices. Batcrew . Christ Almighty, kill Peter now before he gets worse), which was the best Peter could have asked for. As well, being four hundred dollars richer (once Sherry gave him the rest of the money. which. well. she appeared to be a pretty standup person, but who knows) put Peter in a very good position, as he could now… still not rent an apartment! But he could at least… buy lunch? For a few days?

Because now this is where things get tricky ( as if they hadn’t been this whole time) . Peter had $165 and some change on him - the $77 from his short stint of manual labor, minus the $10.88 (plus tax!) backpack, and then the $100 from Sherry, with a promised three hundred on the way. If, impossibly enough, Peter could get at least one cluster of photos for the Glazer a week, that would be at least two hundred a week, if there wasn’t a showstopper. But - it would be difficult to rely on that alone as a source of income, as he could simply get unlucky with his timing, nothing exciting may happen that kicks off his danger-sense, or the photos could simply turn out blurry. As well, the more often Peter took photos of the vigilantes, the more alert they would be, which didn’t bode well for Peter’s anonymity. Photography wasn’t a guaranteed paycheck. At best, Peter could probably rely on two clusters a month (and Sherry had made it clear that she didn’t expect him to come in every night with photos - just when he managed to get good ones), which would put four hundred dollars in his pocket a month. A shitty apartment in a shittier neighborhood probably ran two hundred dollars a month minimum. Maybe more if Peter had to pay them to Look The Other Way for his lack of identification and potentially incriminating hours of activity. So, that might end up with him potentially forking out three (maybe - hopefully - not four) hundred dollars a month for a studio or something, leaving… potentially nothing for everything else . Totally doable.

Not.

Peter’s paid for an apartment before. He’s lived on his own, and while housing in New York is significantly more expensive than in Gotham (unless he’s looking at the high end places here… which Peter is most definitely not ), the fundamentals were still pretty much the same: life is best (or at least not impossible) when housing cost 50% or less than the total income Peter brought in. Ideally, according to most websites, it should be 30%, but HA - Peter wasn’t made of money! Now. Had Peter been able to manage that on a freelance photographer's salary back in New York while also being paid pennies? No. That is why Peter did other things for money - found odd jobs, picked up a day shift at a restaurant, et cetera, et cetera: he’s made his point. He’d have to do the same thing in this universe.

Because , even though this job might pay more per photo, the Bats were not an easily accessible resource.

(Peter would have been too powerful if it was… A shame. He supposed it was this universe's trade off: more money per picture but less pictures, as opposed to home , where pictures were easy to come across, but he wasn’t paid as well for them. Law of supply and demand and fricken equilibrium prices!!! strikes once more!! Peter’s true arch nemesis.)

Which led Peter to his next conclusion: he needs another job. A day job, perhaps, if he wishes to be able to move freely at night.

Unless…

Unless!!

Peter nodded to himself as he made his way to the shelter for breakfast and to assure Nic that he is, in fact, still alive and well. 

Because the fact is: moving freely at night would always be impossible with the Bats around. For once in his life, Peter’s movements might be more free during the day… where instead of forty million vigilantes, there was only one daytime hero: Signal. 

And. Well. Peter’s gotta respect that. One dude against the world? Or, well, Gotham City , not necessarily the world , but hell, Gotham is so chaotic that Peter didn’t see much of a difference. Signal is one person facing up against a massive city like Gotham during the day, which is most admirable and very confusing, ‘cause like… why did none of the other previously mentioned forty million vigilantes decide to skip out on the graveyard shift and see the sun? 

As admirable and ballsy this Signal fellow is, he is, as previously mentioned, one (count it: ONE!!!) whole guy . And Peter can probably avoid him and help with the daytime shift at the same time as Spider-Man. It's the least he could do - really. Gotham probably didn’t need another nighttime masked weirdo. The day, however? Watch out, world! Here comes Peter! 

But… not yet. 

First , he needs that job - a night job , perhaps - to free up his day for illegal vigilante activities. 

Fun!

And so that was what brought Peter here: standing in front of the Iceberg Lounge, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, feeling cleaner than he had in days and yet still being horribly outclassed by the fine establishment in front of him. During breakfast he’d expressed the fact that he’d like to wash his clothes, and asked if there was a laundromat nearby. Nic had scoffed at him, rolling his eyes, “Pete, lemme tell you something fun: Big-Bucks Wayne sponsors this shelter, and pretty much all the other philanthropy shit in this city. He’s outfitted them all: washing machines and dryers are down the hall from the bathrooms.” 

Peter vigilantly (haha) watched as his two outfits went through the washing machine and then the dryer, sitting in his boxers and feeling horribly exposed in the process. Still, he wanted to wash everything he possibly could, and the handful of other people doing the exact same thing reassured him that he wasn’t being a total weirdo.\

Speaking of (thinking of?) weird: the thing about having a healing factor (and Peter swears this train of thought is , in fact, relevant) is that despite all of the hardship Peter has gone through - despite all of the injuries and broken bones and bruises and bullet wounds he’s obtained - none of it ever sticks . Nothing lasts. In his own mind, Peter is riddled in scars and stories, hence the feeling of being utterly exposed . It feels impossible that people can’t see the marks of violence that mar his body, despite them no longer physically being there. So when Peter enters the laundry room and no one bats an eye, his first thought is, “Oh, I guess scars aren’t that uncommon in Gotham,” followed quickly by, “Parker, you dolt, remember??”

But Peter never remembered - not when he can remember every injury that should have killed him in startling detail. Not when he feels the constant ache in his bones and in his limbs, not when he can trace the lines of visually unmarred skin and remember the claw marks the Vulture had left on him. Not when he can feel the phantom ache in his arms from holding that ferry together. 

But Peter digresses. 

(Sometimes he wishes his scars lasted. Sure, their non-existence might make his civilian life a helluva lot easier, but Peter longs for a day where there was physical proof of all that he has endured . Sometimes, on Peter’s worst days, it feels like all the bullshit that has happened to him was just in his imagination. That his life hadn’t really been that bad - no injuries lasted, after all!!! - but it was, in fact, that bad. Peter did go through hell. And sometimes he wishes that other people knew that, too, instead of seeing some smooth skinned boy who's never faced a single hardship.

Because he wasn’t .)

The important thing, however, was that Peter was blessedly clean , and that maybe-hopefully the Iceberg Lounge was actually super-duper desperate to hire anyone, and they’d look past the fact that Peter was carrying his entire livelihood on his back and also didn’t have an ID. 

Y’know, little things that prevented most of impoverished America from being able to find reliable work. 

Haha. 

Anyway-

Peter approached the door to the Lounge, but before he could even knock , the door opened, and an intimidatingly tall man greeted him. Or, rather, looked him up and down, gruffly questioned, “You here for the job?” in the deepest voice imaginable , to which Peter nodded quickly, tightening his grip on his backpack straps. 

“Head over to the tables. We’ll conduct the interview there,” the man (and he needed a nickname. Peter, personally, felt like he embodied the name Big Boy, and so he was christened thus) instructed, moving to the side so Peter could pass by, While Big Boy was intimidating as all get out (for a normal person ), Peter’s danger sense didn’t so much as twitch at his presence, and worse case scenario, he’d be able to take Big Boy in a fight, especially since Peter couldn’t sense anyone else in the building. Sliding right by, Peter took in the dining hall. 

Which. Was nice. Sort of. 

Peter’s eyes traced the crinkle in the tablecloth as he sat down, at the vague layer of dust on the unlit candle set in the center of the table. While Peter personally thought that the restaurant was very nice, for the real upper class, this place would be almost shabby . It had everything available to make it something truly posh and way-too-expensive for Peter to even look at, but the tiny details spoke of either carelessness or an overall lack of experienced oversight.

Or, at least, Peter would assume . He’d never been to a super nice restaurant (or late-night-lounge? or nightclub??? or whatever this place was supposed to be-) like the Iceberg Lounge before, but the whole vibe still felt off. He couldn’t imagine someone like Tony Stark frequenting this place (okay so maybe Tony was a weird rich person to reference, considering his inclination for burgers and small donut shops, but still. Tony would have never had a fancy dinner here, so the point still stood!!!), or, god forbid, someone like T’Challa. A King certainly deserved more than dusty candle holders and wrinkled tablecloths. 

Big Boy cleared his throat, and Peter became awkwardly aware that he’d been staring at the little flaws of the Lounge with a very judgemental look. Ducking his head for a moment, Peter gathered his wits about him and made eye contact with a prize-winning smile, “My apologies, you have my attention.” 

He tried to summon his inner Karen. Not the I-Want-To-Speak-To-Your-Manager kind - the Helpful-AI-Assistant type of Karen. 

(He missed her.)

It must have worked (or maybe Big Boy wanted Peter to be judgmental of the (mild) disarray???) because his shoulders relaxed, and he seemed ( seemed , HA! as if Peter had any doubt about Big Boy’s feelings - it felt practically impossible to be, with how loud his expressions were) pleased, “What’s your name?”

“Ben,” Peter answered, like a liar, something in his gut telling him to do so. That something, of course, potentially-maybe-definitely being the gun that rested comfortably at Big Boy’s side. 

Okay, so obviously the Iceberg Lounge was some kind of front. It was too nice of an establishment in too much of a crime ridden area, and even though Big Boy didn’t spark Peter’s danger sense, that didn’t mean that the place wasn’t dangerous .

…

Peter didn’t think that he really cared. As long as he wasn’t personally asked to do anything illegal, then really , wasn’t he just taking money from whatever asshole ran this place? 

(Peter should probably look into who owns the Lounge, before he gets all cocky. 

Or not. Peter felt pretty comfortable with handling whatever ended up coming his way.)

“Describe yourself, Ben. Experience, skills… anything else you think is important for me to know,” Big Boy asked (ordered), leaning back in his own chair as he stared Peter down. Undeterred, Peter pursed his lips, pretending to think about the question, “Well, I have had experience with being a waiter before. I’m in need of a job, and I believe that the Iceberg Lounge is someplace where I can be successful and useful while working.” 

Peter nodded to himself, making sure to project a face and posture that was entirely unconcerned with the gun, that seemed aware of what happened behind closed doors, “I’ll be honest, Sir, there are a couple of things keeping me from getting a… professional job, but I want to keep my hands… clean . I’m simply looking for a steady flow of income and a job with straightforward requirements.”

The interviewer's entire demeanor shifted , and the little goblin in Peter’s mind twiddled its fingers with a barely restrained glee, having successfully hit the nail on the head in one go, “You need this job?” Big Boy’s voice edged on something that would have been scary had Peter not faced worse threats before, and also had the slope of his smirk not edged too far away from viciousness and into the realm of piqued interest, “Yes, Sir.”

“Sometimes, Ben, the… customers … get rowdy. We have a strict no weapons policy inside the dining area… an’ sometimes they don’t always follow those rules.” 

Peter pretended to be thoughtful, “Well, I do have some experience in martial arts. I’m sturdier than I look, Sir. If I’m allowed to get physical and actively engage the… rowdy customers … then I can assure you, I’ll take care of any situation that may arise.”

“And you’ve been a waiter before?” Peter nodded in confirmation, “Good. You’d’ve probably had the job even if you didn’t say you had experience . Got enough folks on staff that can break up a tussle , not enough with real restaurant experience. So, Ben,” Big Boy nodded to himself, “You have yourself a job. Now let's talk about shifts-”

Walking out of the Iceberg Lounge, Peter didn’t even care if the interviewer (who had never given his name) saw him: he fistbumped triumphantly on the sidewalk, and strutted away beaming and employed!!!!  

(Illegally.

But still employed!!!!!)

Peter was on what Big Boy had called a “Trial Basis” for employment - meaning that they needed to make sure he would be able to handle himself and “fit in” at the Lounge. Which: reasonable. After a two week period, Peter, if nothing went wrong, would be an official employee, and begin being paid the full extent of his paycheck.

Speaking of paychecks!!!!-

Peter had a paycheck!!!

Official employment would come with a salary of $32.00 an hour (a number which had Peter gawking , but apparently was so high because it included hazard pay for dealing with customers that could potentially consist of Gotham’s most infamous rogues). There was also a possibility for a bonus if someone disarmed or handled an issue with minimal fuss and no injuries on the part of other customers. According to Big Boy, any injuries obtained by the “rowdy customer” in the process of subduing them were excused and could not result in legal action being filed against whoever did it, because there was a warning on the door about what could happen if someone caused a fuss.

So that was cool. Sort of. (Ish.)

The trial pay was 50% of the official pay, which, while a steep decrease, was still reliable money and a fuckton more than what Peter made being a waiter back in New York.

(Guess crime does pay.)

Immediately after his mega-successful interview, Peter beelined to the Gotham Library. He’d promised to send Cass the pictures he took of her and he intended to follow through with it. 

The first time Peter had gone to the library he’d been swamped in a feeling of existential dread and panic. This time, he only dipped his toes into those feelings - which tended to align with Peter’s constant state of being, so really that meant that he was totally fine - and could properly take in the library this time. 

It was gorgeous. The gothic architecture that made up the entirety of Gotham’s vibe , while overall pretty tacky in Peter’s opinion, really worked in the library’s case. The pretty redhead (who???? set off his danger-sense like no regular civilian ever did??? but Peter promptly ignored it) at the front desk greeted Peter as he walked in. Like the smooth legend he absolutely was, Peter tripped over his own feet and garbled out an unintelligible response and pretended he didn’t notice her trying not to laugh. Y’know. Normal things for Peter. Totally not extremely embarrassing and making him want to die (even more so than normal). No-sir-ee. 

Peter hid himself in the back of the library. 

Downloading the pictures off of the camera was easy, as was putting them all in a file to send to Cass. He didn’t have any photo editing software available to him, so Peter hoped she liked the raw versions. Personally, Peter thought that they looked great, but he was also probably biased and prideful about his art. 

What ended up being difficult was deciding how to send the pictures. Like, obviously through email - duh - but Peter didn’t know if he should just include the photos, or send a note too, or ask if maybe Cass was maybe a goddess sent to Earth to prove that humans are inherently inferior for requiring words to express half as much as she does with a single shoulder tilt- 

Decisions, decisions…

In the end, Peter simply attached the file and wrote out a simple message, hitting send before he could overthink it too much. 

Now… Peter should probably research the Iceberg Lounge. 

Hi Cass, here are the photos! I hope you like them :) 

I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I wanted to thank you for everything. Yesterday felt like a breath of fresh air.

-Peter

…

Cass: Sent an image attachment

Steph: omg omg omg????? 

Steph: u look so good omg? when did u get prof pics taken???

Dick: those are very good cass!! 

Bruce: Very nice. I can have them printed.

Cass: Not a professional picture - I met a guy in the park yesterday.

Damian: Is that why you disappeared for a few minutes? I saw you leave, but did not follow since Titus wanted to play fetch.

Cass: Yes. He knows body language like I do. He is my friend now.

Steph: i wanna meet him if u like him !!!! can he take my pics 2???

Cass: Maybe.

Peter’s new position started right away. Surprisingly (or, actually, unsurprisingly??? If this was supposed to be some big-shot-baddy’s above-ground business?), the Iceberg Lounge followed along with typical US nightclub regulations, despite New Jersey law technically not requiring it. That meant the club closed at two in the morning, coinciding with the last call for alcohol. Opening at six in the afternoon, the Iceberg Lounge served both the late night crowd as well as elegant and opulent dinners to a more refined one earlier on in the evening. The switch over from extravagant dining to a more nightclub-esque scene occurred at around ten, which is also when the first shift for workers ended. 

Monday through Wednesday, Peter worked the first shift, while on Friday and Saturday, he’d been assigned to the club-shift. As far as Peter could tell, Friday and Saturday were when the rowdier patrons tended to show up, meaning that his late night shifts were pretty much just a test to see if he could handle himself. Depending on which shift he had - first or second - Peter also needed to arrive or stay for an extra half hour to either set up or clean up, which all made sense to him. That meant that in one week Peter would work twenty-two (and a half!) hours, which would be guaranteed $720 a week (once he made it past the first two trial weeks, and started making the official salary amount).

(And that amount wasn’t even counting what money Peter could be making for stopping incidents from happening!! Which Peter - or Ben - happened to be very good at .

OH!!! And tips!!!)

The only the slightest bit fraudulent (haha, whoops ) part came down to how Peter was paid, because he didn’t have an identity that could be paid above-board. But when Peter had expressed those concerns during the interview, Big Boy had just told him to not worry about it , which is such a terrifying concept for a definite-mobster to be talking about. 

So. That's fun.

But at the very least, things seemed to be turning up. There was hope .

For Peter, at least.

Gotham , on the other hand, had found itself to be a tricky situation.

Apparently - and, surprise, surprise!!! - when a massive fucking prison break happens and half of Gotham’s very! volatile! villains! (“ A triple-V catastrophe,” Peter solemnly muttered to himself) escape, that tends to create some issues . While all had been quiet in the first few weeks of their escape (an event that preceded Peter’s own arrival to Gotham), Two-Face had only been the beginning of a long series of attacks.

But, well, that is a problem for the night crew. 

Peter, however? He had the day shift. 

About two and a half weeks into his job at the Iceberg Lounge (which was half a week into being paid the official amount, after Peter passed his trial run with flying colors!!! and really (sidebar time!) the place wasn’t that bad. Sure, on days when Peter had the first shift he had to sprint from the shelter where he ate dinner with Nic’s crowd (Nic himself was almost a rare sight nowadays. While he showed up with some regularity at the beginning of Peter’s time at the shelter, he’d started showing up less and less. Peter hoped he was alright) to his job in order to be on time… but that was all totally fine), Peter was jogging to his Wednesday shift when his danger-sense pinged . On a scale from banana-tossed-at-his-face to Green-Goblin-is-about-to-fuck-shit-up, it registared as a solid 2 (don’t question the scale!) so Peter decided to just let it happen. The danger was aimed toward him , after all, not anyone else.

Barely restraining himself from looking around, and pretending to be oblivious, Peter couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck was setting off his internal alarms, despite his blaise nature about it. It was barely 5:20 on a Wednesday evening . Which, in New York, wouldn’t have been entirely abnormal , as most crime tended to occur (statistically speaking) between four and seven in the afternoon. In Gotham , though???

Peter mentally shrugged. He pushed his confusion out of his mind - remembered that Gotham had a daytime hero for a reason (Go Signal!) - and let himself be grabbed (but seriously what the hell?? The area wasn’t even deserted for Thor’s sake - at least make sure there aren’t any witnesses, idiot!!) by thick hands that snatched at his backpack and pulled him into an alley. 

Being entirely honest, if Mx. Snatcher hadn’t immediately let go of Peter’s bag (in favor of slamming him against the wall and pressing the meat of their forearm against his throat, properly cutting off Peter’s airways), he might have broken their hands in a deranged and protective panic over the notion that his backpack was going to taken from him.

Bodily harm, however? Chump change. Peter wanted to see where this was going. 

“You!” 

Normally, Peter would have cheekily responded, “Me!” but whomp-whom p he was currently in the process of being suffocated. Thankfully his face must have said it, because Mx. Snatcher slammed him against the wall again (Peter thanked Thor that he splurged on a better camera case. The two cameras were practically locked in a safe , whose sharp edges stabbed into Peter’s back at the rough treatment), “You’re going to tell me all you know about the Penguin!”

Okay, pause . There were two ways to play this. One was to be honest and say he didn’t know anything about anybody, and the other was to be a little shit and maybe have a murder attempt on his hands (towards him, of course). Peter weakly clawed at the person’s arm, trying to convey the message, “ You fucker I can’t speak if I’m choking,” to which the idiot thankfully understood.

While Peter was not , in fact, out of breath or weak, he played his part beautifully (in his opinion), his enhanced hearing picking up the sound of someone else approaching, “Well, a group of penguins - when on land, and only on land, mind you - is called a waddle. In the water they’re called a raft!” Mx. Snatcher tried to grab at Peter again, but he slid to side in a movement that was all teenage gangly limbs and accidental success, “Some penguins can also launch themselves like nine feet in the air coming out of the water,” a trip over his own feet in an attempt to stand up straighter has Peter ducking right under Mx. Snatcher’s fist, “Hey, hey, question for you: what do you call a penguin in the desert?” Mx. Snatcher had just enough time to growl out, “The hell?-” before they dropped like a rock, the new person looming behind them. Retracting their fist and turning towards the handful of hopeless goons that had been watching, Peter noted that they were wearing a domino mask with their hood pulled up, as if they had just haphazardly thrown together a temporary disguise. The dude was built like a brick shithouse, which made sense for why Mx. Snatcher dropped like they did: the guy probably punched like a powerhouse!

Peter looked down at Mx. Snatcher’s body, completely ignoring the rest of their lackeys as Brick Shithouse laid into them, “You didn’t even try to answer the joke, asshole,” Peter nudged their body with his foot, hands absently tightening the straps of his backpack, “The answer is lost , by the way . ” 

Snickering to himself, he squatted down beside Mx. Snatcher and checked their pulse, even though he could hear their heartbeat. The pulse just confirmed what Peter was hearing: the person was knocked out cold, but still alive. Yay!

“What’d they want with you?” Brick Shithouse demanded, and in the distant corner of Peter’s mind he noted that the guy had torn through the lackeys like they were paper . When Peter didn’t answer right away, he swore, hand moving to run his hands through his hair before realizing that would disrupt his hood, which somehow (???) had not moved in the entire scuffle. Or maybe it had - Peter hadn’t really been watching, afterall, too busy mentally berating himself for his idiocracy. 

“Hey, Pete. C’mon, give me anything here,” Peter blinked, looking up at Brick Shithouse, “Ah. Um, sorry, what was the question?”

“What did they want with you?” The guy was being pretty patient for how airy Peter was acting, so he decided to throw the fella a bone, “Oh, um, they wanted to know about my… employer? I dunno. The person who owns the place I work at.”

“Which is?” Seriously: angel in disguise here, guys.

After a momentary consideration, Peter figured that he trusted Brick Shithouse enough to share, “I work at the Iceberg Lounge as a waiter,” shrugging, he purposefully looked around BS (Brick Shithouse) to avoid reading too much into the guy’s responding facial expression. He already heard the sharp intake of breath, which pretty much summed up the response that any sane person would have to that sort of comment, “But, sorry to the poor schmucks you conked out, I know absolutely nothing about anything that's not, well, being a waiter . I’m just there for the good pay, y’know?” Peter hadn’t felt the need to defend his actions in a long while. It was both a nostalgic and annoying sentiment. 

BS stared. Or, at least, Peter was pretty sure the guy was staring, what with the whole… unblinking domino mask vibe he had going on, “Okay, lemme get this straight,” and wow he was pissed off , “Y’have a job working in a lounge openly owned by one of Gotham’s most notable crime lords , which frequently hosts other criminals and assholes who tend to get trigger happy at the slightest inconvenience???”

Well, when put that way-

But Peter was undeterred, “Weapons are left at the door,” he offered, and if anything, that seemed to frustrate BS more . Good to know Peter’s charm hadn’t faded over the years, “And like, I’ve been working there for a bit now and it’s been pretty chill. People actually tip really well, and because of the constant addition of hazard pay, I’m making bank .”

“You-” BS seemed like he wanted to yell very loudly, but Peter looked down at his nonexistent watch, “Ah, look at the time. I better get going, or I’m going to be late for my shift. Thanks for the save!” Before BS could say anything else, Peter took off sprinting , making sure to remain just within the capabilities of a normal human, but still much too fast for BS to catch up with. The guy’s composition was more suited towards being a tank as opposed to running like his life depended on it. 

Lucky for Peter , he had experience in both!! 

Peter was only a few minutes past his designated 5:30 check in, but his coworkers didn't say anything about it, having found out quickly that Peter was the only one of them with any prior experience working in a restaurant. Maybe not a place this opulent, but if nothing else, Peter’s always been spectacular at bullshitting with the best of them.

It was only once his shift was over that Peter let himself be angry. 

Or annoyed. It took a lot to make Peter angry nowadays. 

Not important - Peter was disappointed in himself. He’d been delaying Spider-Man, claiming that it wouldn’t be a sustainable practice while still being without a home - that he just needed more time , and then he could continue acting as a vigilante once more. 

But crime didn’t wait - and even though these weren’t his people, no one deserved to be afraid to walk down the street on a Wednesday afternoon for fear of being snatched into an alley. The Bats did a lot during the night - Peter didn’t deny that - but in the day, Signal was alone , and sometimes… sometimes people needed a lot more help than just having someone to fight crime . That’s what was so important about the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man: he didn’t just make people feel safe… he made them feel important . It didn’t matter if it was carrying someone’s groceries, offering math assistance to some middle schooler crying over their homework, shooing away bullies, or getting cats from trees. Every single action was neighborly . And with every neighborly action Spider-Man… no - with every neighborly action Peter did, the less afraid others were to be neighborly themselves. Laughing together over his Fail Compilation on YouTube, pleasant conversations with neighbors they’d never thought to talk to before, watching out for their youngest residents… it made every drop of blood, every bullet wound, every graze that Peter ever obtained worth it .

And Peter knew he was allowed to be selfish - MJ and May and Ned (and later Johnny) had attempted to drill that into his head over and over again - but being Spider-Man? It didn’t - he couldn’t - have room for selfishness. It was one thing to take a break in New York, when his turf would be safe in the meantime due to the constant effort he put into maintaining its peace… but Gotham? Not only was it selfish of Peter to try to pretend like crime wasn’t happening, it was cruel.

Sure, waiting to get back onto his feet was a smart idea. That part, at least, wasn’t selfish - not in the least. It was practical . But what Peter was doing? Justifying his own inaction and turning a blind eye to the real and present issues Gotham was facing? That wasn’t herolike - that was being a shitty person .

So Peter ducked into a grocery store that was thankfully still open at a little past ten at the night, browsing the shelves until he found all that he needed.

The cashier definitely thought he was planning a burglary, or was at least a little strange, as he unloaded his cart (consisting of, just to list a few: rope, metal rods, a Minecraft hoodie with a zip up face, zip ties, and a bunch of socks and thin gloves), but since he (sadly) forked over the cash to pay for it all, she simply wished him a good night and moved on with her life. 

Or maybe it was just a Gotham thing, considering she didn’t even make a face - even to Peter’s hypersensitive eyes - at his collection. What a brave soul. Peter would have judged him hard in her position. Maybe. Or maybe not. Probably not, actually, considering this was a Walmart.

On nights when he worked, Peter obviously wasn’t able to sleep at the shelter. It was unfortunate, but that's just how the cookie crumbles! or some shit. What he had ended up doing on those nights was wedging himself in the corner of some random dilapidated roof ( with a roof access!!!). The little blanket given to him by the shelter ended up being a lifesaver when it came to comfort, but what really saved him was that the weather had been blissfully mild so far. Winter was soon approaching, though (and with winter came the two year anniversary of May and Peter Parker’s deaths), but Peter just needed to finish this first week of post-trial period working and get his weekly paycheck. After that, he would be able to afford a (very shitty) apartment. There had only been one time when someone else had stumbled across him snoozing on a roof… but Peter wasn’t exactly keen on repeating the experience.

It had been a normal-ish night about a week ago, when it happened.

It, of course, being Peter’s unwelcome visitor. 

It wasn’t like Peter didn’t know that during the night a swarm of bat-themed vigilantes invaded Gotham’s rooftops and alleyways. He’d quite literally taken a picture of such an occurrence, and had partaken in the joys of swinging through cities and fighting crime himself. No, no, it's just that Peter is stupid and likes to ignore the fact that it was highly likely for some Bat to stumble across him because of his cute little “Fuck it, we ball,” mentality. 

No more fucking it. No more balling. Not after Peter aggressively and damn near violently woke up to the sound of someone landing on his abandoned rooftop. Like, what the hell, dude? Can’t a guy get some sleep in a mega sketchy location in peace ? But alas, no dice. 

The person landed in a run, damn near booking it to the corner where Peter had been (un)comfortably curled up, and when Peter apparently had the audacity to mumble, “D’fuck?” the guy’s - no, wait thats a kid… oh fuck that was Robin!!! - body language turned ten shades of bewildered, “You ignoramus, get up! This building is under attack!” 

Robin thankfully didn’t immediately start grabbing at Peter, which was a good thing, because half-asleep Peter tended to not really know his own strength, and might break Robin’s little kiddo hands in what might have been a simple attempt to gently bat them away, “But there are stairs??” Peter offered, sitting up anyway and folding his blanket neatly. Something obviously had the kid upset, and Peter figured he’d go along with it. Someone was talking to Robin in his earpiece, which he pretended not to be able to hear.

“Robin, report: is the building evacuated yet?”

Which, whoops, that happened to be a voice Peter recognized - she sounded like the nice redheaded librarian from the last time Peter went to the Gotham Library - but Peter was really good (an expert even!) at pretending he doesn’t know people that he totally does know , so that accidental information drop would be totally fine and kept under wraps.

(Hopefully. Maybe.)

But aside from the fact that Peter’s danger-sense was screaming at him, and every hair on his arms was standing upright… he seriously had no idea what the hell was going-

Shooting to his feet and flinging the blanket into the air, Peter shoved Robin to the side. The kid tried to stand his ground - startlingly alert and aware of Peter’s movements, even when they should have been unexpected - but he had no chance against Peter’s super strength, of which he allowed the slightest bit to seep through. Bowling both of them over, Peter kept his head down, trying to avoid giving Robin a good look at his face. Peter had managed to move them out of the way just in time, a spray of bullets decorating the area where the vigilante once stood, ripping Peter’s blanket to shreds ( nooooo!) in the process. He didn’t need to look to see it was just some low level goon (wearing a Joker mask???), and darting to his feet, Peter momentarily let his instincts kick over, ignoring the shout of protest from Robin, approaching the goon on fast feet. Like a baseball player sliding home, Peter used his momentum to skid down and under the gun as the guy reloaded, taking out his knees and bringing him to the ground. 

Thanking Thor that Peter had the foresight (or the paranoia) to grab his backpack in a firm hold before moving, thus saving it from being both a) riddled with bullet holes and b) left behind as Peter leapt off of the building. 

Poor Robin was definitely going to have a hard time explaining that one to the big boss, but by the time he arrived at the edge (and wow , that kid was fast!), Peter was already out of sight - but thankfully not dead on the concrete, thus alleviating Robin of the potential guilt of driving a guy to leap off a building in a more splatty style. 

In a truly stupid fashion, Peter circled around and brought out the camera, taking a few snapshots through broken windows of the furiously fighting Batman and the one-and-only Joker! 

The totally real Joker!

But unlike with Two-Face, Joker happened to be a lot more prepared. There was no epic-takedown photo this time. Instead, there was only a super-dramatic photo of the Joker in the process of throwing down a gas bomb, with Batman’s hands outstretched towards the villain as if to stop him. Batman didn’t quite manage to stop him in time, but did have a breathing-thingy on him, which enabled him to continue the fight. As the gas wafted towards the window, Peter dropped down a few stories. It was just in time too as a goddamn clown helicopter (clown-copter???) almost smashed into the side of the building. There would be no possible way for Peter to remain out of sight of all parties then, so settling for snapping a few pictures from below, Peter stayed where he was. Although the angle was awkward, Peter did manage to get a few of the Joker leaping out of the window and into the clown-copter, and a truly spectacular one of Batman dangling from the clown-copter, having been able to attach a grappling hook to its bottom. With no way to follow, Peter dropped down to the ground and focused on fleeing the premises.

Gotham Glazer -

“Batman versus the Joker - A Constant Game of Back and Forth That Spells Tragedy for the Citizens of Gotham!”

Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter

“Father, I believe I know who took the photos.”

All heads swiveled to Damian, and he attempted (no , succeeded , Damian can never fail at anyth-) to maintain a confident facade. In a moment of rare cooperativeness (aka: the effect of Alfred’s heavy handed disappointment), a not-insignificant portion of the Bat-Crew had gathered for a Sunday dinner. Early, of course - because come Sunday evening , there would be more bats flooding the street than usual. 

Jason frowned, pointing his fork at Damian, “Eh? Y’talking about the new pictures the Glazer had?” Damian sniffed, “Of course, Todd, what else would I be talking about?”

“'Cause when it came out a few days ago, y’didn’t say anything,” Jason grumbled, and when Damian didn’t respond right away, impatiently gestured, “Well then, out with it, c’mon I’m curious.”

“Well, I was in charge of evacuating the building, and I… did not include something in my report.”

(“I cannot show how unsure I am. Let me come out with the full truth, and let them see why I made the choices I did!” Damian thought to himself, setting his jaw stubbornly.

His mother said the movement always made him look like his father .)

Father raised his eyebrows, but surprisingly, didn’t say anything, letting Damian continue. Or, maybe not surprisingly. Richard was , after all, giving Father the stink eye, as if daring him to interrupt, “On the roof, there was a person. Male, I believe. I did not see his face, but he knew I was on the rooftop before my feet had even touched down, and I know that I did not make a sound. He seemed completely unaware of the Joker’s invasion of the building - a perfect profile of a homeless teen - yet also…” Damian hesitated, hating to admit to his own moment of weakness, but the need to share the truth had him throwing his pride to the wind, “He pushed me out of the way of an attack that likely would have likely resulted in my death. I do not believe he was hit by any of the bullets either. He then crossed the distance between us and the shooter… far too quickly. He took out the perpetrator, and then jumped off the roof.”

Richard inhaled quickly, and everyone at the table seemed to tense. Father could no longer hold his silence, “You reported that the building had been abandoned, and we found no casualties. You’re saying someone jumped off of the building, and no one found their body?” His voice was stern - gruff - but had an underlying note of confusion , which is the only reason why Damian felt comfortable continuing his explanation.

Damian shook his head, frowning “No, that’s why I didn’t mention it before. Because I… when I arrived at the edge, the man was gone . There was no fire escape, no ledge, and he was not on any other side of the building. I didn’t arrive at the ledge more than seven seconds after he jumped, but he had completely vanished. The only thing I found was… a piece of what looked like a spider’s web, but the sample I took disappeared by the time we arrived at the Cave.” 

Damian stared hard at his plate, as if it would provide him with answers, “I was not sure… how to explain it at the time, especially considering I lacked proof of my encounter, so I omitted it from my report. I had no way to prove what I saw - and the only evidence vanished from my possession within hours. I went back to the building the next day - I wanted to see the bullet marks from where the shots missed me - and they were not there … I thought I might have been exposed to something - some hallucinatory chemical - which is why I requested a blood panel be done soon after. But nothing came back, and I felt as if I was going crazy - imagining a presence where there was none - until the photos showed up.”

Looking up near-desperately, Damian turned to each of his family members , ”Someone was there - this mysterious photographer - and I do not think he is human. Or, at the very least, he is enhanced, and both fast and strong. I didn’t- I did not know what to do, so I feigned ignorance and waited until we were all gathered to share my… hypothesis. ”

The family went silent. Damian stirred in his seat after a few minutes, which seemed to draw Father out of his own mind, “Next time, report everything that happens, even if it does not seem feasible,” he lectured, but then imperceptibly softened, “But I understand your hesitance. Thank you for your insight - this is the best clue we’ve gotten so far.”

“This all sounds like some meta on the loose, which could explain their disappearing act,” Steph spoke up for the first time, leaning on her fist, “But what I’m stuck on is… how did the bullet marks just disappear?”

(“Aye, Ben, whatcha doing?” Peter’s coworker, who had introduced himself proudly as Mace, but Peter suspected of being a Mark , at most, asked. Looking up from his self-appointed task, Peter gestured towards the floor in the kitchen, a now-smooth concrete, “Cook kept complaining about the cracks in the concrete tripping him up, so I got a concrete patching compound to fix it!” It was the end up Peter’s Friday night shift, merely a few days after the Joker incident, and he’d decided to patch up the floor as a surprise for the older man who called himself The Cook - a name taken after his newfound profession. 

“That’s a real nice thing for you to do!” 

Peter shrugged, “I had some on hand.”)

But Peter digresses. While someone may have only stumbled across him once so far , that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again , which made Saturday all the more exciting. This Saturday - as in today-Saturday! - would mark the end of Peter’s first full week working at the Iceberg Lounge, which, in turn, also means that he gets paid!!! 

While Sherry did end up delivering on the promised three hundred dollars, and another two hundred for the Batman v. Joker pictures from a week ago, something in Peter’s gut told him to wait until he received his first paycheck to get an apartment. This time, that something was probably nothing more than Peter’s own anxiety (the non-spider-one) about apartment hunting and the need for a sense of financial stability before committing to renting an apartment.

All Peter needed was a quiet and peaceful Saturday shift to round off his week, so he could then spend Sunday starting on an apartment hunting spree (and he might just have the perfect idea for how to do that!).

Of course, Parker Luck dictates that Peter’s “quiet and peaceful Saturday shift” was doomed from the start.

His shift began easily enough, which should have been a sign that things were going to go downhill fast, but fuck it , Peter was trying to be optimistic for once in his life! It went as such, like it always did: patrons want bread for the table, Peter gets bread for the table. They want a refill, oop! look again, Peter already handled drink refills before they could even think about wanting one. Patron wants him to put on a silly little hat and do a dance, well golly gee!- 

Peter’s made his point. 

But about an hour into his shift, Bruce Wayne (yes, the Bruce Wayne! - billionaire-and-adopter-extraordinaire!) rolled up to the Lounge in a car that cost more than Peter’s entire existence, disrupting his easygoing flow. Without hesitation, he hands his keys to the valet and opens the passenger door for one of the most elegant and gorgeous women Peter’s ever seen, and his danger-sense pricks as they strut into the building. 

Thankfully, Peter isn’t their waiter. It’s Mace , and while Mace may have a silly name, he’s shaped up dramatically in the time Peter’s been employed, growing to be a true example of Proper Customer Service(™) under Peter’s guidance. The rich-folk will be fine, and even as they continue to loiter later into the night - even passing the midnight marker - Peter doesn’t really concern himself with them, despite feeling their eyes on his back on several occasions. But as midnight ticks over to nearly one, a sharp sense of doom travels down Peter’s spine, and a new car pulls up to the front of the restaurant. 

Every molecule of Peter knows that this is shaping up to be Bad News , but there isn’t much he can do about it aside from attempting to mentally prepare himself for any possibility. When none other than the Joker spills out of the car, Peter’s dream for an easy night is properly shattered, and he makes sure to be the one to greet them at the door, shooting a look towards one of his other coworkers that said “Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.”

The tension drained out of his six foot something, well-built coworker, (who the staff called Big Ben. Of course, Peter had soon been dubbed Little Ben , which is…whatever, he supposes) and Peter knows he’s definitely just screwed himself over.

Alas, there is nothing more for him to do other than greet the Joker and Co. (which turns out to just be some poor schmucks he’s dragging along for shits and giggles) and politely ask if they’ve removed all of their weapons, to which the Joker - miraculously! - doesn’t immediately try to murder him for. Great. Peter would rather have an outright murder attempt on his hands than some shittily drawn out long game. But still, the guy hadn’t technically broken the Lounge rules yet, and the Penguin, annoyingly enough, tended to get along with the jerkwad, so Peter led the clown crew to a table - on the opposite side of the room from the more civilian brand of patrons, although most of them had left (lucky ducks) before the midnight marker - and began praying. 

Brucey-boy and his partner (who Mace had called Ms. Kyle - Peter called her out of his league) had stayed, however, and Peter really didn’t want to get sued for allowing a patron to be injured on-site. So he kept his ears tuned towards the table for any sign that chaos was brewing, catching onto a few very interesting snippets of conversation:

“So, boys!” The Joker cackled, somehow managing to keep his voice low at the same time, “Ol’ ‘Crow’s got big plans a week from today, alright? My job is to keep Bats away from it while he does the deed.”

“Oi, boss! What’re we doin’ ‘ere then? Shouldn’t we be preparing some jokes for the Big Bat?”

This time, the Joker’s cackle didn’t stay quiet, ringing out throughout the restaurant, “Why!” and Peter didn’t need enhanced hearing to hear him now , nor a danger-sense to tell this whole scene was about to go tits-up, “This party is about to ge-”

“Hello, can I help you with anything else?” Peter interrupted, and he both felt and heard the entire restaurant go silent as the Joker turned to look at him, smile twitching, hand at his waist. Before the Joker could even respond, Peter continued on, “Maybe you would like to see the desert menu?”

The Joker’s smile turned less maniacal and more feral, and his hand twitched. Peter pretended not to notice, “Eyy, boy, didn’t anyone ever tell you to mind your own business?” Peter smiled his patented Customer Service smile, “Sir, my job is to meet a patron’s every need. Do you need the desert menu? Or perhaps the drink menu?” 

“What I need is a new server!” And the Joker’s hand moved - to draw out his gun, most obviously - but before it could even be fully drawn Peter’s hand was moving, and the Joker’s years of experience in utilizing firearms was simply no match for Peter’s sixth sense and finely honed reflexes. C’ mon , Peter’s been doing this for years now, too. The Joker started laughing, and Peter’s own smile never budged. Perhaps this was a form of insanity, too, “You’ve done it now - boys, get ‘em!” But the poor losers were about as aware as rocks, and Mace and Big Ben knew how to handle punks. With one on each, the losers were subdued near instantly, and before the Joker could think of his next move, Peter moved around him, grabbing his arm and twisting , pushing the clown to the ground and firmly keeping him there, one of his feet pinning down his free hand. Try as he might, the Joker couldn’t budge Peter (Joker: 0 Super Strength: 1). There was a wiggling sensation in Peter’s mind that told him “This isn’t over!” and as he turned to look at the entire crowd (oh great , people were videoing-) , his spine zipped when his gaze locked on a seemingly innocent patron sitting nearby to the Joker’s table, and cocked his head. The fellow must have known he was caught and been unnerved by it - he must have been inexperienced with guns, too - because the first shot went wide and only grazed Peter’s side rather than digging into his gut. There was no second shot, because in a move that was inspired purely by the Two-Face Takedown!, Peter nabbed a knife off of the Joker’s abandoned table and threw it with a deadly aim. 

Or, it would have been deadly, had Peter’s intention been to kill. Instead, it simply knocked the gun out of the man’s hand, and he was soon being swooped up by Cook, who had heard the commotion and came running. The gunman was blabbering - something about his kids and family being threatened if he didn’t - but Peter wasn’t really listening. That was a Police-Level task. The Joker was murmuring something about Crows and Gas and Water (whoops! Peter might have slammed him into the ground too hard!) but Peter paid him no mind either, “Has anyone called the cops?” Peter questioned the room in a faint voice, firmly ignoring the growing wet patch at his side. He hoped getting a replacement uniform was free, because the blood was not going to be coming out of that white shirt. 

It was none other than Bruce Wayne who recovered from his shock first (although Peter had a sneaking suspicion the guy hadn’t been shocked into stillness, but rather uncomfortably forced to remain idle), “Police are on their way,” he reported, even as he hustled his way across the restaurant, dainty little napkin in hand. He pressed it against Peter’s side, forehead wrinkling in concern. That, at least, wasn’t faked, “You knew he had a gun?” It wasn’t really a question, and as Peter used his free hand (his knife throwing hand!) to hold the little cloth firmly in place, he still clarified, “Which gun?”

That must have answered Mr. Wayne’s question, because he simply bent down to the Joker’s level and felt for his pulse. The answer he found in the clown’s heartbeat must have been satisfactory, because some of the tightness in his shoulders fell away, although he was still much too wound up for a supposed lazy and relaxed billionaire. 

No matter, Peter was losing quite a good amount of blood - a fact that had gone unnoticed by about no one - but Peter didn’t trust the Lounge’s handcuffs to be able to hold the Joker (even a dazed and concussed one) so despite encouragement from his coworkers, supervisor, and fricken Bruce Wayne , Peter stayed resolute, only requesting that Mace bring out a thicker towel. 

Really , the bleeding wasn’t even that bad. Peter had been on the receiving side of much , much worse in the past. He was pretty sure half of the reactions were only at the extent that they were because of the man Peter had pinned beneath his foot. A civilian had just taken down the Joker , after all, gotten shot in the process, and still remained perfectly calm and collected enough to disarm a gunman without even flinching. 

It was, all in all, a pretty miraculous event. 

…

If Peter hadn’t been moonlighting as a vigilante for the past… dunno: five plus years!!! And had super strength and enhanced senses too, on top of a sixth sense that let him know when danger was coming. 

So, not that impressive for Peter - his skills had actually gotten rusty if he hadn’t figured out about the presence of the gunman until much later - but for a civilian? Peter was basically like a fucking superhero to them. Great. This better not stay trending on the internet for too long, because it was undoubtedly going to make the news.

Peter tried not to roll his eyes. 

Thankfully the police and an ambulance showed up pretty quickly - someone must have called the police right at the start for them to have made it so soon - so Peter was soon relieved of his self-appointed Joker-holding duties by some specialty-made police restraints. The medics attempted to whisk Peter away as well, but he’d refused, stating he only needed on-site attention. He could not afford a hospital visit - both because it would be all too easy to find out about Peter’s nonexistence AND (more importantly) because they would probably try to keep him overnight, and come morning when the bullet wound (it was barely even a graze, after all) disappeared, it would open up too many questions that Peter really didn’t want to answer.

So in the back of the ambulance Peter peeled off his work shirt and let the professionals clean the wound. It didn’t even really need stitches - more so just needed to be properly bandaged. In a show of true companionship and care, Mace solemnly promised to “Burn all the fabric with your blood on it,” before being ushered away by an apologetic Big Ben for making Peter take care of the Joker. Mace’s offer was met with an enthusiastic thanks, and Big Ben’s apology with a smile - genuine, this time, not the horribly fake one from before - waving away his words with a, “Nah, it’s okay. I knew what I was signing up for.”

Peter’s nonchalance set them both at ease. Being interrogated (or was it interviewed?) by the police was easy too, but Peter’s anxiety ramped upwards when Mr. Wayne appeared. The crinkle in his forehead had not gone away, but instead appeared to have gotten worse since he last saw the guy merely a few minutes ago, “Why hasn’t the ambulance left yet? He needs proper medical attention,” he demanded, talking right over Peter’s head, to which Peter rolled his eyes, “Why don’t you ask him that question?” he snarked, figuring fuck it , he’s off company time by now - he’s allowed to be rude to the patrons, “But for your information, it is because I do not want to go to the hospital.”

“Why? The Wayne Foundation can take care of your medical costs, if that is the concern,” Peter waved the guy’s words away, “Nah, that's not it. Well, like, it is , but not really. I just don’t see the need to go. It might not cost me money, Mr. Wayne, but staying the night at the hospital would screw me over more than it could ever help.”

“At least let me drive you home,” he offered, and wow he sounded like a dad. Peter almost felt bad about denying the (rich, successful, privileged - yeah nevermind about that whole thing about feeling bad thing-) fella, “I don’t have a home, Mr. Wayne. I stay the night at the shelter when I’m not working, and when I am, I find a bench until morning.”

(Probably best to not mention sleeping on rooftops, if any one of Peter’s multitude of theories ended up being correct.

One of which included Batman being Bruce Wayne’s sugarbaby. It was improbable, sure, but Peter refused to take it back.)

Mr. Wayne looked like someone pissed in his cereal, but Peter paid him no mind, simply hopping to his feet once the medic said she was done, unmindful of her hasty warnings about not straining himself, “Thanks for the treatment! Feel free to bill the Wayne Foundation if that was supposed to cost me something!” Peter tossed over his shoulder, balling up the bloody shirt in his hands. Mace would have a fun time burning it. Police were swarming the scene, but goddamnit, Peter’s backpack was in there! So he tossed the shirt to Mace, who was being interrogated/interviewed, much to the man’s delight, and mindlessly slipped past the police when they weren’t looking. Inside the Lounge was a pretty exciting sight - a colony of Bats had invaded the Penguin’s Lounge! Peter recognized Robin on sight, and the tall guy next to him must be Red Hood - an assumption based largely on his aptly named red helmet . Which, actually, screw Peter’s early comment because that is not , in fact, a hood!!!! But whatever. The third person had Peter actually pausing in his tracks because, well: that’s Cass. 

Peter can say whatever he wants about the other people - can pretend to be as blind as he wants - but Cass was Cass , and even though not an inch of her face was shown, he knew her as instinctively as he knew how to breathe. Cass knew that he knew, too. She wasn’t surprised - more relieved to see him up and about and hmm- now wasn’t that strange? How three of the Batcrew had managed to show up nearly at once? If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say they’d been waiting , and oops . 

Cass was here. Right. And she knew what Peter was thinking before he even thought it, so it became a silent stalemate of staring until Red Hood and Robin - who were arguing amongst themselves - noticed they no longer had Cass’s (Peter didn’t know her vigilante name. He imagined that was because she was too good to be seen and discovered in her work.) attention. Those two didn’t know what they knew. How could they, after all?

Red Hood transformed into a den mother before Peter’s eyes - if he could tear them away from Cass, that is - and snapped to attention, “You! You shouldn’t be here, this is an active crime scene, and you were injured!” Robin looked at Red Hood like he’d grown a second head. 

“I, uh,” Talking felt unimportant - irrelevant - but Peter made himself do it anyway, “Backpack. My backpack is in the Employee Room, and hospitals can kiss my ass.”

(Goodbye Filter, Peter will miss you!)

“Y’were shot-”

“Barely!”

Red Hood definitely wanted to strangle Peter, “ Still shot! And shirtless, were y’ walking out front like that? Fuckin’ hell, the paps are gonna eat this shit up-”

As Red Hood bemoaned Peter’s lack of common sense, Peter waved goodbye to Cass - who really didn’t want him to leave, not until she could check on his injury herself and make sure he was alright - and then booked it.  

“-like really, did y’seriously think- what?? Y’ motherfucker!-”

Bye bitch: Peter out . 

That night the Batcave, Bruce called an emergency meeting. He filled everyone in - which included both Dick and Barbara on a call line, as well as an in-person Steph and Duke - on the events of that night, still in his formal suit, completed with bloodsoaked sleeves. Blood that belonged to a civilian who had taken down the Joker by himself . 

Sure, two other waiters had taken care of the Joker’s henchmen, but the kid himself - Ben - had single-handedly defeated the actual Joker after the clown had escaped Batman just a week prior, and then disarmed a gunman in a move that felt pervasively similar to Bruce’s own techniques. Feats that then went on to include outmaneuvering Jason, Damian, and Cass after getting shot and refusing hospital treatment.

It all felt wrong.  

The air was abuzz with confused and nervous energy and hummed curiosities, but one voice silenced them all.

“He knows my identity.”

Every head whipped around to face Cass, who looked thoughtful, and not at all concerned like she should have been. 

“Wh- what?” Tim spluttered incredulously, “ How?”

“That’s Peter.

“No, that’s Ben,” Bruce corrected slowly, sort of understanding what Cassandra meant but still wanting to hear her say it. 

“Maybe he said Ben, but that’s Peter, who took the pictures of me. My friend. He knows me and I know him, and he knows that .”

Barbara frowned, “So Cass’s friend and the guy Jason saved in the alleyway are the same person, then?”

Because right - it had been Jason who insisted that they check out the Iceberg Lounge for any concerning activity, citing a run-in with one of the employees as the reason why. 

Cass glared playfully at Jason, “He was my friend first , though. We exchange emails. ”

“Hmph.”

“We… need to figure out how much this Peter knows,” Tim grumbled, which Bruce conceded to with a nod, “Agreed. It seems like the list of people who know too much keeps increasing - first that caller, then the photographer - who might be a meta - and then this Peter kid, who knows Cass’s identity, and may very well know ours too.”

A solemn silence filled the cave, heavy with the weight of that implication. Like a prisoner headed to the gallows, the vigilantes felt as though a metaphorical noose was being drawn around their secret identities. A sense of helplessness permeated the air - for what could they do when there was nothing to be done?

… Unless-

“We are not interrogating my friend.”

Gotham Glazer

“Saturday Special! Joker Thwarted: Teen Saves the Day - Exclusive Interview with Ben Jones-Watson!”

Article Written by Sherry Rite

P-

I can not believe that you do not have a favorite dance. I can teach you.

Also, want to come over for dinner? My family would like to meet you, and Steph loves your photos.

-C

C- 

I have no rhythm, but I can try. And sure, what day? Tell Steph I can bring my camera and that I’m excited to meet her after hearing so much.

FYI: I eat a lot.

-P

Chapter Text

The plan, as they always tended to start out, was simple: don’t fuck up.

Plan B, created at the recognition that obviously he was going to fuck up, was a lot more realistic: fuck up, but still work it out anyway.

It , of course, was getting an apartment. ( No, it wasn’t the ever looming threat that angering the Joker and drawing attention to his civilian self would probably result in issues later on (most likely violent ones). Certainly not. Peter definitely didn’t absolutely hate seeing his own picture ( unmasked !!!) online. 

The silver lining was that by agreeing to give Sherry an interview, he could better control the spread of information. By throwing out the red herring of his name and little irrelevant snippets of personal information, it would hopefully heed off most of the vague curiosity felt by the public. Plus, anything that got the Glazer more subscriptions and viewership would benefit him in the long run, so it had been dubbed a worthy (if anxiety-inducing) risk. )

Apparently, Peter’s little stunt with the Joker - despite the Penguin being on semi-good terms with the asshole - had garnered some rather positive attention to him amd the Iceberg Lounge. According to Gotham’s (really freaking weird) standards, it didn’t matter so much that a gun had been pulled at the Iceberg Lounge so much as the fact that Peter had stopped it before it could get out of hand. That sense of security had people - civilians - lining up outside of the Lounge the very next day, before it even opened, to proclaim their appreciation. In a show of good grace - which also garnered public appreciation - Peter had been given the week off to “recover” (nevermind the fact that he’d healed overnight), and was still being paid while doing so. 

Letting Sunday and Monday pass - and going back to his don’t fuck it up plan for getting an apartment - Peter had only started to seriously look for a solution to his housing situation on Tuesday. It had only taken a brief skimming of local ads online (and an email reply to Cass agreeing to meet her family??????) at the library for Peter to realize: yeah, that wasn’t going to work. 

That’s where “The Plan” came in. So far, the phone numbers from Peter’s home-world had matched up to a similar sort of situation in his present universe: the job at the Glazer and the Bugle , Daredevil and Caller Number One both being secret softies with external anger issues, Fake-Ass-Fury and (in a dramatic twist for Peter’s naming practices!) an English butler named Alfred… okay so maybe Peter didn’t totally understand the connections, but his point still stood: there was something that tied the two together. Maybe. 

It was a working hypothesis. 

But it was still worth a shot, at least, to try and see if another phone number could save him from this sticky situation. 

Now, there were two choices. On one hand: call Peter’s landlord and see what other (probably) shitty landlord Peter got hooked up with ( if his hypothesis was true) OR - and this was a wild one! - Aunt May.

Peter’s mind unhelpfully screeched! to a halt. He… hadn’t thought about that as an option until his (unhelpful! rude! sentimental!) mind tossed that idea out there. It was a possibility - one that Peter was more willing to think about now than he had been at the beginning of this unexpected adventure - but something in him still balked at the idea. Peter wasn’t quite ready to face… anything about that. Being let down by who May’s number now belonged to, the person not answering… or maybe worst of all, them sounding like his May, but not knowing him . 

Shady landlord it was!

Maybe one day (and wasn’t that interesting… a month ago he’d have never even considered trying to call May) he would do it. For now, Peter punched his (ex?) landlord’s digits into his little flip phone and prayed to not fuck up “The Plan” - which, in this context meant, not letting whoever this person was know who Peter was. Time for secret identity number… uh… was this three? Maybe? That is, if being a photographer counted as a secret identity. Peter was inclined to say no , but then again he was marked as an “Anonymous Submitter” soooo….

The phone picked up, and Peter shut off that rambly train of thought, “Hello!” Peter greeted cheerfully, then, going out on a limb, followed up with a very bold, “You have apartments for rental, yeah?”

If someone’s breathing could be mistrustful, this person had it nailed . A low, throaty (ew!) exhale later, and the person started speaking, “So what if I do?” And damn that was a deep voice. Feminine, with a hardcore rasp that would be epic in a rock band - if it was real. Whoever was on the other end of the line was projecting their voice a lot deeper and raspier than what is really was. But also - what???

“Well, if you do, I’d like to rent one?” Peter didn’t know why he phrased it like a question. Maybe it's because that is such a weird response to him asking about apartment rentals. “So what?” - well! Peter wanted to rent it! He’d already mentioned that-

“Who sent ya?” Who sent- How the hell was this a practical business model! “Look, I’m wanting a place on the down low - and the person who sent me wants to stay that way too,” Perfectly vague: Daredevil would be proud, “So do you have a place or not? Cash payment.”

The lure of cash was a powerful one. Rock’n’Roll Granny rattled off an address - one so out of the way that Peter had to look up the street on Google Maps - and told him to “Come alone.”

If Peter got murdered by a shady Granny with bad business practices he would be so embarrassed.

 Peter cleared his history then logged off of the computer, waving Goodbye! to the red-head at the counter (a perfect representation of someone who definitely didn’t know anything about another person’s secret vigilante activities!), and exited the library. 

The place Peter now stood in front of was… decidedly not an apartment. In fact, it looked more like a sort-of rundown suburban house. Rock’n’Roll Granny, on the other hand, was about what Peter had pictured - white hair, evil little eyes, a love for money - only about a food shorter. She was around five- nothing and one of the most insane people Peter had ever met. Opening the door with a gun in hand, Granny gave Peter a once-over, took in his wet-cat vibe (of course it had started raining as Peter was walking over), and apparently he must have passed a test, because she let him inside with only the faintest amount of grumbling.

Apparently, the newly re-nicknamed Gun Grandma did not, in fact, have apartments for rental (which, well, was obvious now ), hence her being absolutely confused and (rightfully) suspicious of Peter over the phone. Instead, she was genuinely just some old lady who had gotten a super suspicious phone call, and had been ready to “take care of” any suspicious fellow (maybe that wasn’t normal-) who’d been given her contact information - a landline she hadn’t shared the phone number of since the nineties. 

What Gun Granny did have, however, was a basement that her knees couldn’t handle the stairs to go down to, and a nose that hated the smell of must wafting into her living area from the unlived in space. In a broad and sweeping character assessment that was based pretty much purely on Peter looking like a drowned and pathetic rat (Gun Granny’s words exactly), she’d decided to not rain down judgment day, and instead offered Peter her basement. The catch? He’d clean the basement (reasonable), be in charge of getting groceries for both of them (she’d only pay for hers - also reasonable), and make himself scarce on Thursday nights (something she did not explain, but had Peter wondering about the legality of, especially from a gun-toting and bizarre grandmother such as herself). He’d also pay a hundred dollars a month for use of the space, and would need to pay for all of his stuff, too. In return, Peter would have free run of the kitchen (as long as he didn’t use her groceries) and its appliances, and the ability to come in and out whenever, as long as he wasn’t loud when she was sleeping. The basement was also closed off with a door, which Gun Granny had told Peter he could change the locks on if he wished - either way, she wasn’t going down there.

It was a really freaking strange situation. It was also better than Peter could have ever anticipated. Sure, his new housemate was literally crazy for allowing him to be there (and had Peter wondering once more about any ulterior motives from her …) but whatever. Peter would take it. He’d also take his valuables along with him whenever he left, but clothes and the like could be left here, which would lighten the load of his backpack.

Not that it was heavy. But it would be less cumbersome, and would give Peter the space to store his vigilante gear inside (after it was, well, made ). 

The basement had a bathroom and a bedroom - and miraculously! - an old computer. The thing was old even by this world's standards - not just Peter’s more advanced ones - but Peter was pretty sure he could soup up the computer to run at a much better rate with a couple of spare parts. 

And wow , it felt crazy to be able to even consider doing something as fun as improving an old computer - to have the money to even dance with the idea of doing so. Gun Granny only requiring a hundred a month was two hundred dollars less than what Peter was expecting, and would give him a lot more wiggle room regarding his money.

Gun Granny had only asked a few (far too few!!) questions.

“Now, who was it that actually gave you my number, luv?” The posh Australian accent kept throwing Peter off. It was a stark contrast from the deep and raspy voice she’d been projecting on the phone, but Peter supposed he would also be suspicious of strange calls where there were normally none. 

“Would you believe me if I said that I guessed it?” The raised eyebrow was a resounding No , and Peter shrugged helplessly, unsure of how to play this, “I dialed the wrong number for an apartment listing. I was a few digits off - my flip phone keypad is really small.”

“Why lie and say you guessed it?” Good question, Peter doesn’t know , “I- I don’t know, Ma’am.” 

“Why are you attempting to stay off the radar?” 

This one was easy, “It’s not so much that I’m trying to stay off the radar, but rather, I don’t have the ability to legally get an apartment due to… a couple of reasons. The primary one being lack of identification.” Gun Granny huffed, “No criminal record?” 

Peter shook his head, “No, Ma’am. A fire burnt all of my records back in New York, and I unexpectedly found myself in Gotham without any money. I’ve managed to get a job, but I can’t legally get an apartment for myself.”

Gun Granny’s fingers twitched like she expected a cigarette to be between them, “Alright then, luv. You can stay. There are a few rules, however…”

And that was that. Somehow. 

For once in Peter’s life, “The Plan” worked: he called, he came, he conquered. Caesar would be proud. (That probably shouldn’t be his goal, considering the guy was, well… stabbed quite viciously. But! He was on top of the world for a little while there. Peter could be the same.)

Moving into Gun Granny’s (Granny Gun’s?) basement ended up being pretty anticlimactic. He went back to the shelter that night to inform the volunteers and Nic’s crowd - which! surprise, surprise! Nic was there! - that he probably wouldn’t be coming back. 

Sitting down at the table with Nic and his - really, they were Peter’s friends now, too - companions, Peter grinned cheerfully. The group thankfully either didn’t look at the news or didn’t care, because they never asked Peter about the Joker incident. Or maybe they couldn’t see his face well enough in the pictures that had gone around. Who knows - either way, it was a relief to not have to explain to them the fake name, the suspicious job, and his abnormal ability to take down some asshole villain. 

“What happened?” Nic asked pretty much immediately, clocking Peter’s pleased expression in seconds. 

“You won’t be seeing me around here anymore, hopefully,” Peter announced, and now the rest of the table was looking at him, “I managed to snag a stable job, and I found some housing today. I didn’t want to just vanish, though.” When Nic vanished for nearly a week, Peter had been wrecked worry, despite the rest of the group telling him it wasn’t a big deal. When Nic came back, Peter had barely restrained himself from shaking the older guy, or maybe smothering him in attention to make sure he wasn’t hurt. Sue him . Peter had lost way too many people in his life. After that, Nic had told Peter that if he was ever going to leave again for an extended period, he’d find some way to tell him. Now that Peter was the one leaving, it would be hypocritical of him to just disappear. Nic looked happy for him, and said as much, with only the slightest tinge of anxiety in his voice, “Nice job, Pete. Y’did good.” Out of all the people in the group, Nic was the only one who definitely knew about the Joker. Peter was nearly positive about that, especially with the way Nic had been nearly frantic in his questioning of Peter the day after it happened (weirdly, it was even before the articles about the events at the Iceberg Lounge had even dropped). Peter had dodged the questions, avoided the well-meaning steel grip that wanted to drag him to the free clinic, and promised hand-over-heart that he really, truly , was alright. 

The point being, Nic was most definitely doubtful about Peter’s opinion on what was considered “safe” and “alright,” so Peter tried not to take it to heart when he heard the anxiety in his voice. He was trying to be supportive, at least, which Peter appreciated. 

A round of congratulations circled the table, and then the conversation flowed normally, if slightly aimed to make Peter laugh as much as possible. It felt… warm. Safe. Happy. When dinner was over, and Peter mentioned that he was going to head over to his new location, Nic pulled him to the side, “Hey, Pete,” There was an undercurrent of urgency, probably hidden even to Nic himself, that had Peter piling his full attention onto him, “Be safe, okay? If anything goes wrong - ever - call this number. I’ll answer, promise. Hell, not even if something is wrong. Just. Just call , okay?” Nic handed Peter a little scrap of paper - pushed it into his hands, really - and Peter clenched down on it, a strange sense of urgency in the air that was entirely his own, this time, “Okay. I will. I… I promise.”

And strangely, Peter felt like he meant it. That he wasn’t just lying to reassure Nic. The little scrap of paper in his hands felt like it weighed five tons, weighing down his side. The care - genuine care - in Nic’s eyes (like that of a brother … like that of Ned . Endlessly supportive. Careful. Cautious. Protective .) had Peter reminiscent of a better time. It had him wanting to latch onto this proffered achor like an unmoored ship lost at sea.

But.

But he couldn't. 

(Why? The voice inside Peter’s mind wanted to scream, Why can’t we latch on?

And Peter didn’t have an answer for that.)

“Thank you.” 

They didn’t hug. Peter’s gaze dropped down to his tightly clenched fist, “Thank you,” he repeated. 

And then Peter left. It was all he could do.

(Walking back to Granny Gun’s house, Peter unfolded the little scrap of paper and huh . That number… was a little more familiar than Peter was expecting.)

So… maybe he wasn’t going directly back to Granny Gun’s house. There were some things he needed to pick up, after all. A quick stop to two different stores provided Peter with all he needed: cleaning supplies, a couple groceries (all stuff loaded with preservatives and that he could store in the basement without fear of it rotting), and - there were the items that required a separate store - a heavy duty deadbolt (for the inside of the door) and different type of handle that only he would have the key to. It wasn’t that he doubted Granny Gun’s truthfulness about her ability to climb stairs - the woman looked to be pushing ninety, after all - but having a secure door would do wonders for Peter’s own sanity.

When Peter arrived back at the house, Granny Gun was perched in the living room watching TV on an old bulky setup. She seemed pleased enough, though, yelling at Jeopardy , so Peter left her to it and headed down the steps to his new place.

While it wasn’t moldy or too nasty, Peter could smell just as well as Granny Gun the stench of must and general unuse. He set about cleaning the place first, an artificial lemon filled the air - barely better, but still an improvement. He did a deep clean, using his sharp nose and eyes to track down any hint of dust or dirt or mildew that remained. The sheets were dubbed clean, and nothing about the room screamed murder scene! so as the hours rolled by, Peter still hearing the Jeopardy music alongside his upstairs neighbor complaining about the “Goddamn idiots!” he figured now was as good a time as any to install his new security. 

It didn’t take long - necessity had demanded that Peter become at least semi-familiar with basic tools and home-repair - and as he slid the deadbolt closed (then immediately reopened the door because the artificial lemon was downright nauseating in an enclosed space) something settled beneath Peter’s skin that he hadn’t known was thrumming. 

It wasn’t midnight yet, and as Peter crawled into his own bed (wow. just… wow…), he allowed his mind to wander. Particularly, he let ot wander towards his goals for tomorrow, as foolish and naive as they might be.

It was about time for Spider-Man to make his reappearance.

Well. Sort of. 

Maybe more “man” than “spider.” 

Actually, there was no “spider” at all, considering Peter was wearing one of those Minecraft creeper hoodies with a zip-up face, with a ski-mask underneath “just in case.” He may also be running around in only socks and gloves, and overall looking probably more than a little crazy. 

Actually, scratch that: definitely crazy.

It was also daytime, too, which made his fun little get-up all the more exciting. The doom and gloom of Gotham’s night decreased marginally during the day (the gothic architecture did NOT help!!!) but Peter also wasn’t really trying to hide. Far from it, in fact. He wanted people to recognize his stupid little costume - to see someone visibly doing things to make Gotham better . 

Of course, Gotham being, well, Gotham , someone strutting around in a weird-ass outfit meant either one of two things: Bat or Rouge, both of which often brought along pain and/or misery and/or financial loss, so Peter couldn’t blame civilians for staying clear. 

The first day - Wednesday - Peter wasn’t expecting much. He had to be practical. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day!

(In this sense, Rome was a metaphor for trust.

…He really had to stop it with the Ancient Roman references.)

Peter ended up catching someone’s loose dog, halting a purse thief, de-escalating a mugging, and helping change a person’s tire ( after chasing off a much-less well meaning tire helper). In the afternoon - right before he was going to clock out - Peter spotted someone attempting to heave a giant trash bag into a dumpster, and dropped down to help out. After almost getting tased (rightfully so! he scared the living crap out of the poor person!), Peter managed to calm down the situation and heaved the bag into the dumpster easily. 

“Oh,” was all the young woman said at first, staring into Peter’s meshy masked eyes, “Thanks, I guess.” Peter shrugged, “No problem.”

She looked up at the three store buildings that surrounded the alleyway she’d been standing in, “How did you-” 

Peter was already gone by the time she looked back down.

It was annoying to not be able to use webs. Annoying, but not detrimental. Peter’s superior strength enabled him to be able to fashion a type of grappling hook by bending the steel pipes he had purchased from Walmart not too long ago, then attaching his little monstrosity to a rope. It didn’t work as well as his webs, and he couldn’t swing from them, but by throwing the grappling hook onto higher ledges (once again taking advantage of his enhanced strength) he could swing over to a neighboring building, or rappel down from a taller one. For the most part, Peter generally just relied on his parkour skills and sticky hands and feet to move around, and for his danger-sense to guide him towards trouble. If there wasn’t trouble, however, Peter just watched and listened and waited, and helped where he could. 

At the end of his day, Peter grabbed his backpack from where he had (nervewrackingly) hidden it away on the top of a random building in a corner, thankful that he had decided on a black one. He’d lost too many backpacks in the streets of New York to feel safe. It had been another very anxiety-inducing moment to decide to hide the money in a now-empty can of soup (Peter’s breakfast) taped to the underside of his bed. Perhaps not the best hiding place, but it was all Peter had at the moment. It was better than taking it along with and risking it getting stolen along with his backpack.
(For some reason that Peter couldn’t quite explain (he blamed the paranoia) he kept the original fifteen cents and gum wrapper on him. It felt important. Plus the lint. Peter didn’t transfer that between pockets, though. It just stayed in his jeans pocket. It felt a bit too weird to be clinging onto lint, even as Peter staunchly refused to remove it.

Oh. And, of course, his flip phone.)

Having his own computer once more was a genuine lifesaver. For one, it made emailing Cass a lot easier, and two, it made researching this universe a lot less, well, horrible . When he’d been in the library there was always this little wiggling thought in the back of his mind that the librarian would be able to see his search history, or that someone would come up behind him and ask why he was searching up the origin of the Justice League or the economic reports of Wayne Enterprises.

Going back to point one, though, after a long night (wait, no, correction: Peter had been out and about during the day this time) of running (ish) around Gotham, it felt nice to just sit down and check his email.

P-

Do not worry about food. There will be a lot. 

Steph is excited about your camera. My other siblings will also be there. Does Thursday work? Short notice, sorry.

C-

C-

Thursday is perfect. Address?

Can’t wait to meet them. You’ve only mentioned Steph by name so far, so I am excited to put stories to faces and names.

-P

Cass would get back to him eventually. Even though worry about meeting her family tomorrow (especially considering this offer came after he saw her in costume and instantly recognized her) gnawed its way down Peter’s spine, he decided to simply ignore the issue in favor of passing the fuck out. 

After a shower.

And then it was bedtime. Hopefully no exciting Bat-shit happened tonight, because Peter would not be there.

As expected, Peter woke up the next morning to an address ( holy fuck that was Wayne Manor???) in his email, which resulted in him sending back a singular thumbs up and then shutting down the computer. 

Breakfast. Breakfast would make this better! Peter’s fingers itched to move, but his groceries consisted of soup cans, crackers, bread, and beef jerky. Not exactly sustainable in the long run, especially considering Peter was now actively burning calories and potentially needing to expend excess energy to heal injuries, but he’d been eating pretty consistently the past few weeks (working at the Iceberg Lounge helped, too, since Cook would make up a little to-go bag ( little being a gross underestimation ) for him, on top of breakfast and dinner) so there was a little bit of wiggle room for time. Peter could honestly afford groceries now. What held him back was the vice grip of possessiveness on every single item that he’s managed to obtain in this world, which included every dollar bill he earned. 

But. But Peter’s fingers twitched aggressively, and he wanted to punch down a wall, and that meant that making something would help . He couldn’t use concrete crushing strength on a circuit board, on an egg, on a desk. A certain amount of caution and care had to thread its way through his hands, and as their tremors subsided, so did the shakiness in his heart.

In order for that to happen , though, there first had to be breakfast. Granny Gun was already in the kitchen when Peter emerged, standing impatiently in front of the coffee maker. When she turned her (surprisingly steady) glare onto him when he just stood off to the side watching, Peter tentatively spoke up, “Would you maybe want me to make breakfast? For you? I don’t have the ingredients so it can just be for you and, uh. Yeah.” 

Her face wrinkled up even further, “That was a grammatical mess, luv. ‘May I make breakfast for you.’ Try again,” she corrected. Peter obliged, “May I please make breakfast for you?”

Granny Gun pondered, considered, frowned, then nodded, “Yes. I like all types of breakfast food, and drink my coffee black.” She then took a seat at the two person table wedged in the corner of the room, watching Peter with an eagle eye as he rummaged through the cabinets. 

Soon, the ingredients for pancakes were laid out across the counter, and when the first sniff of the cooking batter hit the pan, Granny Gun huffed in the corner, “Make enough for two,” she ordered, and Peter beamed despite himself. 

They weren’t his best pancakes. But they were still delicious and the tremors in Peter’s hands had steadied after grabbing the first egg. Breakfast was silent save for when Peter offered to pay for the groceries he’d used. Granny Gun just held up a hand in response, “No, luv. This is better…” she paused, and Peter kept his eyes trained to his plate, giving her all the time she needed, “This is good,” is what she settled on, “I appreciate it. Thank you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” It was an amending of the rules from the first day, despite it being only two nights that he’d spent in the house. If Peter had to guess, he’d say that she was lonely, not that the old woman would ever admit it. If he had to make another guess, Peter would say that she also hadn’t had a home cooked meal in a while. Peter could relate, and so they ate in peaceful silence for much longer than it would reasonably take a person to eat breakfast. 

Neither commented on it.

After breakfast, Granny Gun reminded Peter that Thursday nights he needed to make himself scarce before leaving (likely to watch Jeopardy) , which had Peter’s initial reason for panic crashing over his head once more.

Washing the dishes was a perfectly mindless task, and one he took to with a vigor.

The issue , at its core, stemmed from Peter remembering his thoughts about Batman when he first arrived in Gotham: that the guy certainly had to be wealthy to be able to afford… well, fuck, all of the shit that he had. 

And who, after all, was the richest person in Gotham? With, coincidentally (NOT!), a boat load of kids and a company that came out with some of the more advanced tech in this world…

And where had Fake-Ass-Fury’s phone number led, if not to Wayne Manor , to a butler whose cadence and intonations remarkably resembled one Bruce Wayne at the Iceberg Lounge, who didn’t hesitate to get his hands bloody, who didn’t flinch at the sight of a gun despite having every reason to. Then there was the way those three vigilantes were at the Lounge before the police had even arrived… and the massive guy in an alleyway who knew his name , despite Peter never introducing himself.

Peter stilled. Bruce Wayne, who hadn’t hesitated to get his hands bloody. Bruce Wayne, who left the scene with his suit still on: Peter’s blood still on the sleeves. Mace couldn’t burn that bit of fabric. 

And suddenly, every what if slammed into Peter at once: a horrible, terrifying fear that he’d been discovered before he’d even begun. A fear of what his blood might reveal. A fear that seized his lungs, seized them tightly , and made breathing feel impossible. 

What if Wayne sees the differences in Peter’s blood - how unhuman, how unnatural it was. 

What if Wayne tries to identify his DNA.

What if he finds no answers.

What if he does .

If Daredevil and Johnny and Fake-Ass-Fury have their phone number counterparts in this universe, who's to say it doesn’t go further? It should be genetically impossible - it's damn near unreasonable - but Peter isn’t thinking about reason and feasibility right now. 

What if they know - and they had to, if Cass shared anything at all - that he isn’t Ben Jones-Watson. That he’s Peter - no last name - but also no one that matches his face (oh god , pictures of his face were online-) exists.

What if the Wayne Foundation keeps better track then they claim to. If they know where Peter has slept, where he has stayed, what-

What if, what if, what if.

But . But-

But what if-

What if this world’s tech, in all its ancient glory, fails him . If it isn’t capable of analyzing Peter's blood. Stark tech hadn’t been able to, not at first. Not until Peter told Stark what to look for. Blood. Blood said a lot , true. It said everything, in fact, but it also said so much that without a big neon sign pointing Look Here!!! it could very feasibly be quite difficult to see what , exactly, was wrong. Was different .

Sure, Peter’s blood wouldn't be normal , but that can be explained away by radiation exposure or some other unfortunate backstory that wasn’t necessarily, “I got bit by this funky lil spider and now I’m sticky.”

Fuck, Peter couldn’t breathe. He was grabbing the plate too hard - he knew he was grabbing it too hard - but the monotony of the motion and the pressure from Granny Gun’s presence in just the next room forced Peter to finish washing the dishes. Once he was done, however? Peter brushed his teeth with enough force applied to the handle that it shattered in his hands (the head of the toothbrush was carefully placed on the edge of the sink while the rest went in the garbage), and then he was gone , skirting out of the house feeling like there was a fire nipping at his heels. It all felt too much - too overwhelming - and maybe it wasn’t just the Wayne-blood-identity mess. Maybe he hadn’t been over at a friend's house in two years and it felt too much like Ned or MJ.

(That was a lie. Peter’s been over the Baxter Building (masked, of course) for movie marathons with Johnny, and once or twice (or ten times) had been roped into game nights or family dinner alongside the rest of the Fantastic Four.

But that was also Spider-Man . And Spider-Man was a lot braver than Peter Parker. 

Spider-Man was a lot more wanted than Peter Parker, and-

(No, no, no, no, A voice that sounded suspiciously like May soothed in the back of his mind, physically beating back those thoughts with a broom. May had that sort of magical ability to make all of Peter’s problems feel like they could be brushed away like a clump of dirt or a spec of dust.)

-and it felt different-yet-the-same, and maybe Peter also felt guilty for being excited. For making a friend when there were friends waiting for him back home. When he’d been planning on going to family game night with the Fantastic Four ( with Johnny and Ben and Sue and Mister Reed (Peter was so used to calling him Mister Fantastic in the field that dropping the “Mister” felt like sacrilege, much to Mister Reed’s dismay), because they were more than just a superhero team: they were- ) the day after he’d been initially fallen to his bed back in his home universe in a disgruntled heap and woken up elsewhere .

Peter was certain that his absence had been noted almost immediately because of that. Because he was going to be missed . And does… Does Peter deserve to feel happy about a “Dinner with the family” when his family (...maybe not quite yet. But they could have been. Could be .) was waiting for him?

The answer to that question evaded him.)

It probably said a lot (in a negative connotation) about Peter that when he “came to,” he was on a rooftop. In a hopefully-not-a-red-flag-in-disguise-sort-of-way (Peter apparently had a lot those, according to the book on mental health that Sue had shoved into his hands on their second meeting), the feeling of being so high up - of seeing the world unfold out in front of him in its infinite and endless glory - was grounding in a way that cooking or coding or building could never match up to. The higher Peter got, the more he felt like he could breathe . In a way, back in New York, it had been the moment where the line - the chasm - between Peter Parker and Spider-Man had been thinnest. Spider-Man could never be as low as Peter Parker inside an empty apartment or feeling pathetic in the library, and Peter Parker could never fly on webs or protect a city like Spider-Man. What both could do, however, was enjoy a view. They - and that separation between the two, most definitely, was one of those secret red-flags-in-disguise (although this one wasn’t really disguised) - were most nearly one, in those moments. Spider-Man could reach heights no one else could, and Peter Parker could sit there, perched on the edge of a roof, on a balcony, on a ledge, and watch the world exist below him. 

And so in times of crisis - when Peter’s mind was running far too fast for him to handle and everything seems insurmountable - Peter gravitates upwards. Higher than his thoughts, higher than his troubles: high enough that no one can reach him.

Or, well, almost everyone. 

“Hey there.” Peter didn’t startle. Even if he hadn’t heard the person arrive - hadn’t sensed a presence behind him - the voice was too gentle to be scared of. It was nervous, too, “How are you doing?” 

Peter shrugged, “I’m okay now.” 

The person behind Peter was hesitating, “Can I sit with you?”

“Sure.”

There was movement beside Peter on the ledge, someone sitting down, and for the first time since he’d become aware, Peter tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there. Must have been a while, though, since the sun had moved enough to be noon, rather than morning. The building Peter was perched on was tall - tall enough that he could actually see where the tips of the buildings met the sky: this man-made horizon.

The person sitting beside Peter was probably high school age. Much older than Peter when he’d first started this gig, but still young in a way that felt too raw, “Signal, right?” Peter clarified, taking in the bright yellow suit and the telling bat splayed across his chest. 

Yellow wasn’t the right descriptor: it was golden. Golden and black and striking. He looked like a hero, more so than his nightstalking counterparts. 

“Yeah. What’s your name?”

“Peter,” the name slipped out of his mouth, but Peter couldn’t find it within himself to regret it. Ben belonged to the Iceberg Lounge, Anonymous Submitter to the Glazer, and he was someone to all of the people he’d called. Maybe he’d be “Masked Menace” once more to the public when his neon getup gathered some traction. He was unnamed to Granny Gun, just as she was nameless to him.

But Peter was Peter at the shelter. He was Peter in his head. And, as of now, he was Peter to Signal.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Signal greeted steadily, and Peter smiled - genuine - before returning his gaze to the horizon, “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

The silence didn’t last long. Signal was good at projecting confidence and calmness, but Peter could hear his heart jackhammering in his chest. He wondered why.

“So, what brought you up here?”

And Peter considered. He genuinely did. But this was also someone who was younger than Peter, and who didn’t need Peter complaining about his existential crisis, “I like the view,” is what he settled on, eventually, “It makes me feel calm. Like the world slows down enough for me to catch up.”

He’d puzzled Signal, but the jackknifing slowed down. Steadied a bit, “Anything in particular drive you up here?” 

“What a strange question,” is the first thing Peter thinks. The second is, “Oh, wait, fuck-” and Peter turns quickly to face Signal, lifting his hands up in a placating way, “Shit, dude, it’s not like that.”

Peter thinks that Signal would be raising an eyebrow if he wasn’t wearing a helmet. As it was, the guy was very purposefully tilting his head to the side to show his confusion, “And what would ‘that’ be?” It wasn’t judgemental. If anything, Peter would say he was genuinely confused, “I’m not gonna jump. That wasn’t - fucking hell - I’m genuinely up here for the view.” 

As if to prove a point, Peter turned to the side and rustled through his bag - pretended to not notice Signal tensing up, as if preparing for Peter to either slip off the ledge or pull out some weapon of mass destruction - grabbing his camera case. Peter took it out ever-so-carefully, quickly placing the band over his neck so that any accidentally un-sticky fingers wouldn’t result in the camera plummeting to its death. 

“See?” Peter held up the camera, as if trying to drill it into the hero’s head that Peter was not considering taking a leap, “Photographer. Well, sorta. It’s more of a hobby. I like…” now Peter was hesitating, but the sight of the kid in front of him - who Peter had accidentally given a heart attack - had him refocusing, and pushing aside his own comfort, “I like to ‘chase’ views, I guess. I keep on thinking that maybe one day, I’ll get the photo, y’know? Or, well, I guess you don’t know,” Peter amended, “But it’s never enough. My best photo can always be one-upped.”

Signal opened his mouth, as if to placate Peter, but stopped when Peter smiled. Not with his mouth, but with his eyes, the corner of them folding into the start of a wrinkle, even though Peter was still young. It looked like how he remembered Uncle Ben’s eye smile - the crinkling at the corners. It had always felt so… kind, when Uncle Ben smiled. Like nothing could ever go wrong.

May had the same eye crinkles, too, when she was bleeding out. So incredibly kind. It’s a horrible memory and yet when he recalls her face, Peter doesn’t feel scared anymore.

Maybe one day, someone can look at his eyes - at the crinkle - and know he’s smiled enough to develop them. Maybe one day, he can be as good as them .

“I like that about photography,” Peter wasn’t really talking about photography anymore. Well, he was , but also not , “I mean, if there is always something better out there waiting - something more - than I better never stop taking pictures, right?”

And Signal… Signal did something amazing. He settled , sinking into his own bones, and turned his own gaze to the horizon, “It is a pretty view,” he agreed. 

They sat there for a while. Peter only took one photo. He silently pulled the strap from around his neck and handed it to Signal. The hero wouldn’t let the camera fall. 

Looking at the picture, Signal was quiet. He looked up and down a few times, from screen to view, and Peter swore he heard a sniffle, “How’d you manage to make Gotham look so kind?”

Peter took back the camera, packed it away, and shrugged, “I dunno. I think it’s always been kind, eh? Maybe it just… takes fresh eyes.”

Eventually, Signal had to leave - had to get back to keeping the city safe - and Peter waved at him from three feet away from the ledge of the roof, with the promise to climb back down. The hero trusted him - believed him - but didn’t want to take any safety risks. Peter understood. He’d never want someone to feel like they had his blood on their hands.

So he climbed down the stairs even though he could have swung down, even though he could have put on his hoodie and gone on a patrol of his own, even though the idea of him falling felt laughable. 

But Peter knew how it felt to be the one in the mask. To meet someone - see someone doing okay - and then he leaves and the next day they are dead. Or injured. Or a villain. 

Maybe that’s another reason for Peter to never become a villain. It would let down Signal.

It seemed like as good a reason as any.

In honor of Signal, Peter even kept his green hoodie inside in his bag, forgoing the second hopefully-not-a-red-flag self-soothing action that he partakes in. Which, of course, was crime fighting.

But what Peter wouldn’t do, however, was ignore shouting from one of Gotham’s numerous alleyways. Zeroing in on the sound, Peter picked up his speed, dodging around pedestrians and nearly rocketing into the alley. Now, Peter wasn’t stupid. He didn’t barge into the scenario - that could put any civilians caught up in the mess at risk - but waited right around the corner, peaking only when his danger-sense snagged into a lull.

It looked to be a normal snatch ‘n grab. Luckily no guns - just a lanky young dude who looked like a sneeze could blow him away being held at knifepoint by two assholes. The guy was shaking in his boots as he protested handing over his laptop - that he needed it for college - but the perps were unrepentant. The one closest to the guy swung the knife out in a posturing sort of intimidation (it was working), and Peter took the opportunity. To differentiate, Peter named them all in his head; there was Computer Boy, Posturing Asshole, and Short Asshole. It all felt very fitting. Peter grabbed the lid off of a trashcan and whistled, feeling very much like a generic brand Captain America, “Hey, douchebag!” Computer Boy looked like he was about to piss his pants, but got the unspoken message to back off when both assholes turned to Peter. Turns out the little fucker was fast on the uptake.

That’s good, at least. 

In a very Captain America-esque way, Peter threw the lid like a frisbee, nailing Posturing Asshole in the gut, causing her to double over. Four short strides later Peter was in her space, picking up the trash can lid on the way and using it to redirect Posturing Asshole’s knife away from Peter’s body. He grabbed her wrist in a vice grip, twisting it so that she let go of the knife. It clattered loudly on the ground, but even then it was still overshadowed by Posturing Asshole’s groans of pain from the metal lid to the gut. One down, one to go, and Peter was slipping out of the way before he could be sliced by Short Asshole. It was almost nothing to redirect their hit as well, then slammed them against the wall. Peter’s danger sense sparked again - almost like an absentminded thought - before his hearing picked up on it. It, of course, being the sound of Computer Boy seemingly finding his balls at the worst possible moment. Posturing Asshole had started to get up - barely, Peter would have finished the fight before she could have done anything - and apparently that set Computer Boy off, causing the bastard to jump into the fray holding a pipe that would definitely do more harm than good. Peter let go of Short Asshole and stepped between Pants-Pissing Computer Boy and Posturing Asshole, who had been seconds away from getting her skull smashed in by a pipe if Peter hadn’t caught it, “Go home ,” Peter bit out, as gently as possible, to Computer Boy, and Peter’s danger-sense rang out again. Thinking Computer Boy was about to start something else Peter focused his entire attention on this truly unfortunate college student when a dull pain rippled through his calf and up his leg. Looking down, it seemed that Posturing Asshole had managed to get ahold of her knife again and promptly decided to stab Peter in the leg with it. 

“Jerkwad, I just kept you from getting brained,” Peter complained as finally ( halleluyah !) Computer Boy left. It only took a few swift movements after that to have both Assholes unconscious and zip-tied. It only took a few more minutes to call the police and report a mugging, with the two perps being tied up, and a pretty accurate (if Peter did say so himself, which he DOES) description of Computer Boy. 

Not one to stick around for the police to show up, Peter used Short Asshole’s (actually kinda nice) sweatshirt - and that's another thing!!! Who mugged people in a “Gotham State” sweatshirt??? - to mop up the blood in the alleyway, and then (mournfully, because it really was a nice sweatshirt) ripped off the sleeve to staunch the blood flow in Peter’s goddamn stab wound .

Peter knew the Roman Empire references were going to bite him in the ass. Or rather: stab him in the leg.

It all felt very fitting. 

It also felt very annoying , because like, what the fuck asshole, these were Peter’s nice jeans that he arrived in Gotham in, and he was going to a fricken billionaires - as in, he was literally on his way to Wayne Manor in this exact current moment! - for dinner and didn’t have another pair of pants to change into, because he left his sweatpants back at Granny Gun’s, and there really wasn’t time to take the detour.

So, here Peter was, an annoyingly long walk later (a solid two hours - it was ten to four in the afternoon), at the big ol’ doors of Wayne-freaking-Manor , wearing his nice sweater and a pair of jeans that had also actually not been too shabby before the goddamn stab wound in his calf. There was only the slightest bit of dark red staining around the entrance hole, though, and Short Asshole’s sweatshirt sleeve was wrapped around the wound underneath his pant leg. Thank god for straight leg pant style and MJ, who swore she would murder him if he ever wore skinny jeans. 

Peter took her threat seriously to this day . He wasn’t entirely sure that MJ - even though she has no memory of that promise - wouldn’t show up somehow with the intention to kill him if he wore skinny jeans. Sometimes he debated - because then, hey, maybe he could see her - but then the fear of Peter-Two’s best-friend-turned-villain story sort of sneaks its way into the back of Peter’s mind, and he dismisses the idea of tempting fate in that manner. 

He does that just by existing , after all.

Point being , Peter hoped that these folks don’t notice the cute little bloodstain on his jeans or maybe Peter’s minor limp (hey, wounds didn’t bother him - that doesn’t mean they don’t affect his ability to move). He also hopes they can just look past the backpack and don’t ask to search it. 

(Peter had no idea if that was a thing rich people did.)

Because if they did, then they’d find a couple hundred dollars, half a dozen granola bars, and a crumpled up green hoodie and a strangely high amount of gloves and socks, and also - potentially the most incriminating - a balled up bloody sweatshirt, sans one sleeve. 

(Peter was hoping he could wash out the bloodstains (he was really good at that!) and sew back on the sleeve once this was all over.)

According to Peter’s flip phone, he was roughly ten minutes early - even with his accidental delay - for once in his life. There was a momentary debate about waiting, but Peter figured that even if this family wasn’t somehow (hahahaha) heavily related to Batman, cameras out front weren’t abnormal. So Peter knocked, debated about whether he should have done that and if ringing the doorbell now would be embarrassing, when the door swung open. 

A gentleman who Peter would be hesitant to describe as anything other than distinguished greeted him, “Hello, welcome to Wayne Manor. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, the butler.”

And. Well. Alright then.

“Thank you, Sir. It’s an honor to be invited into your home. I’m Peter.”

“Alfred, please,” Mister Pennyworth (hell would freeze over before Peter would drop the Mister . It was even more unlikely than Peter dropping the Mister in front of Reed’s name, which had a 0.00% likelihood of ever happening) opened the door wider, so that Peter could walk inside. He did, immediately toeing off his shoes. May and Ben had been firm on that - no shoes in the house! - and it felt even more important in such an opulent (because holy fuck this place was big!!) manor. Alfred lightly cleared his throat, “Mister Peter, there is no need. I can clean any mess.”

Peter’s head whipped around, incredulous, “Uh, but Sir, the floors are freshly cleaned, and I’ve walked all over Gotham in these shoes. It’s so totally not cool of me to track dirt and dust inside. Unless socks bother you more, then I can put my shoes back on, but these socks are clean, I promise. Brand new, actually.” Peter was rambling. If he wanted to delude himself, he’d say that Alfred looked almost fond, “Well then, thank you for your consideration Mister Peter. I have no issues with socks.”

Nodding decisively, as if this was the end-all-be-all, Peter neatly lined up his shoes beside the door - where there were no other shoes to be seen , these heathens! - and allowed himself to extend his attention past the entryway, where he could hear multiple heartbeats. Cocking his head in that direction, Peter puffed out a half-laugh, lightly saying, “I’m not going to run away if I meet more than one person at a time.”

Then Cass is cheerfully slipping around the corner, unrepentant, with a few others sheepishly at her back. Most notably is Bruce Wayne himself, although he doesn’t look sheepish. Peter thinks that emotion would look completely out of place on him. Wonky.

“Well,” When no one immediately said anything (Peter got the feeling that he was being studied, and restrained the urge to hide his injured leg. Where would he hide it? Exactly. Hence why the urge was being restrained), Peter took charge, “You probably overheard my name, but I’m Peter.”

“Not Ben?” And ha! Sucks to suck, Wayne, Peter already been preparing his answers the entire walk over, “Ah, no Sir. Ben, uhm - Benjamin, actually - is my middle name.”

“Oh?” And that oh was a silent demand for an explanation, but Peter had run through this song and dance too many times to be intimidated. If Wayne wanted answers, then he could ask the questions. 

Peter shrugged, “Yep.”

It was a challenge. How could it be anything else? But it was an innocent one - not one based in distaste or anger or defiance - and Wayne knew that, “Why did you go by Ben, then?”
Now Peter would answer, and he leveled Wayne with a look , “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, right? The Iceberg Lounge is a front for some bit- uhhh,” Peter backpedaled, it felt rude to curse, “For some jerkwad crime lord. It feels pretty dumb to give him my first name. My coworkers didn’t give their real names either: I’m surrounded by a Mace and a Cook and a Big Ben. Granted,” Peter waved his hand in a so-so gesture, “That’s probably for a different reason, but my point still stands.” 

Cass blinks, and somehow that’s enough to draw Peter’s attention to her, “You knew?” Snorting, Peter bites back the snarky comments he could make, “Um. Yeah. Tablecloths were wrinkly, silverware was wonky, the guy who met me for my interview was literally armed,” he listed out the reason on his fingers, and doesn’t mind when Alfred shoos them into a sitting room so they aren’t just loitering in the entryway. Peter sits down comfortably on a loveseat beside a blonde who’s radiating curiosity while Cass is perched on a chair that is obviously hers by the way she drifts to it instinctively, “It's suspicious, to say the least, and then looking up the owner is a simple Google search.” 

“Why work there, then?” Wayne pressed, and Peter raised his hand like he was in school again, “First things first, before you start interrogating me,” Interestingly enough, Cass glared at Wayne when he said that, “Can you please introduce yourselves?”

The blonde beside him jumped at the chance to do so, “I’m Stephanie, but call me Steph. The pictures you took of Cass were gorgeous.” Pleased, Peter nodded along, “Thanks. Cass told me a bit about you. I wouldn’t mind taking your pictures, if you want.” Steph agreed instantly.

The youngest one was next: “Damian Wayne.”

He didn’t offer anything else, and Peter looked at him carefully before venturing, “You have one of the coolest looking dogs I’ve ever seen.” It was true. Peter didn’t know a lot about dog breeds, but the big one at Damian’s feet looked especially fancy.

“Tt. Of course he is,” Damian scoffed, but it was a sentence this time, and Peter took his wins where he could get them.

“Ah, Tim Drake,” His arm was in a brace, but he still held himself like he was ready to fight at any given moment, “I have a quick question. Promise it won’t take long.” 

Peter nodded for him to go along, and Tim leaned forward in his seat, “Jones-Watson?” Something in Peter’s hard shuttered a little, but the reminder didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. He’d panicked when Sherry had asked for a last name - refused to give Parker, and couldn’t think of one on the spot and-

(“If we get married, you’re taking my last name,” MJ announced without preamble, and Peter choked on his water, “What???”

She looked at him like he was the odd one, and hell, maybe he was, “I’m MJ, after all. There is no ‘J’ without Jones, plus Michelle Parker sounds boring. And also too much like your aunt, and while I love your aunt, but I don’t want to have a similar name, ‘cause that feels gross.”

“Fair enough,” Peter had rasped, still reassessing his entire life, “Peter Jones-Watson has a good ring to it. I can be PJ.”

“Never say that again.”

“No, yeah, you’re right, PJ was horrible.”

“You said it again.”

And it had devolved into a tickling fight and them laughing and Peter had been on top of the world-)

-and Jones-Watson had spilled out. Something about seeing it on the front page of a news article had… soothed something in Peter’s heart. An ache of what if and lost chances. And something like that must have run into Peter’s face, because Tim looked ready to back off, “My, ah, girlfriend’s last name. She- she passed away, two years ago. Hated ass- uh. Jerks. Jerks like the Joker, always thinking they can trample over anyone and everyone. Lost her to… to something like that. It was a…” Peter looked at his hands, and a grief filled smile danced across his face, “A tribute, if you will.” Looking up, Peter tried to show Tim that he hadn’t stepped too far, “She’d have loved it.”

The mood had plummeted, and Peter took it upon himself to lift it again, “Your name?” he nodded at a dark haired and handsome man - older than the rest of them, but probably not by too much - and mentally logged the flash of surprise in his eyes, “Richard Grayson. But I go by Dick.” His face was still distraught, as was the rest of the group, and that simply wouldn’t do, “You thought I would recognize you,” Peter noted, “Why?” Dick startled, smiling awkwardly, “I’ve sort of been in the public spotlight since I was a kid, especially in Gotham. It was just surprising, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve only been in Gotham for a couple of weeks now, so that would explain it,” Peter offered, then headed off the expected next question with, “I’m from New York.”

“What brought you to Gotham?” Steph questioned, and Peter flubbed for an answer, “Well, uhm. It was sort of a crazy situation. I don’t think I can really… explain it. At all.”

“Try,” was all Steph responded with, a challenge of her own, and Peter genuinely did try , “Uhh… this building exploded,” In response to their horror, Peter waved his hands frantically, “Not my fault!! This annoying guy had a bomb and blew up my aunt’s boyfriend’s - ex-boyfriend’s? - apartment’s lobby and kinda my aunt too,” Fuck , keep going, “And then there was this whole thing with like, lizards? Or, a lizard. On the Statue of Liberty. Me and my… brothers?” Fuck, Parker, why the hell was that a question, “Had to… catch it. Yeah. And then they… left. Forever. And my aunt’s ex-boyfriend… got amnesia. And a fire destroyed our apartment. And all of my stuff. And now I’m in Gotham.”

Crickets. 

“Haha, just kidding ,” Peter’s voice was strained, “I lived in New York and then I moved here and there is no more to the story.”

(There. That was the perfect thing to throw them off of his trail. What trail? Peter didn’t know, but the influx of information that couldn’t possibly ever mean anything to them would confuse these sneaky little bastards. It also established Peter as an unreliable source, and made any future statements of his inherently unable to be taken at face value, just in case Peter fucks up anywhere.

He had this private moment of success when Cass is exchanging horrified looks with her family, then shoves it to the back of his mind when she looks at him again, searching for the truth.

And, well, it is the truth, and it isn’t, so Cass sees something and Peter only feels a little bit bad, considering she did invite him over to get interrogated.)

This time, Wayne breaks the silence, even his voice strained, “We’ve already met, but I’m Bruce Wayne. I’m relieved to see that you are healing up well. Two others will be joining us later: Jason and Duke. They can introduce themselves more when they arrive.”

The air is stiff. Introductions are over, and everyone hates the world, and Peter is so pleased with himself for throwing off their plans for interrogation. Steph claps her hands (bless her, she definitely regrets asking him that question now), “Okay, Bruce, shoo. We’re going to play games until dinner and hang out with Cass’s new friend and we don’t need a lurker .” 

Bruce was hastened out of the room, and Steph dragged Peter over to sit on the floor, facing a frankly oversized TV. Who needed a TV that big? And this was just in a casual sitting room? Peter internally fretted about his little stab wound bleeding on their carpet.

He was placed in the middle, back against a coffee table, Cass and Steph flanking him on one side, with Tim on the other. Damian and Dick remained on the couch, observing them. Or, Dick observed them, and Damian pretended not to care. 

“Have you ever played Meta Party ?” Peter gaped in abject horror at Tim. He’d yet to research video games in this world, but please, God, Thor, anybody who was listening: please tell him that Mario Party hadn’t been replaced with fucking Meta Party . Kill him now, if that was the case.

Tim took that as a no , and pulled up the game (oh god , it was Mario-) to explain the rules, saying that if he didn’t like it, they could switch games. Damian and Dick decided not to play this round, meaning it was just the four of them, and as Peter settled his hands on the controller and absentmindedly listened to Tim’s explanation, he made a decision:

Peter was going to murder them in this Mario Party wannabe.

(Peter won the entire game in a sweep, causing them to switch to Meta Karriage, which, yes , was a shitty version of Mario Kart, except instead of fun little cartoon fellas it was actual superheroes. The Wayne’s had the eighth addition and nearly all of them fought over who got to be Wonder Woman - including Dick, who had joined, and sans Damian, who smugly claimed Batman - while Peter immediately gravitated towards Plastic Man.

Sue him. It reminded him of Mister Fantastic, and back in his world, there was one specific glitch that could be achieved with Mister Fantastic in the ONE SINGULAR hero based Mario Kart spinoff that had been made. And even then, it was called: Mario Kart: Hero Edition . Not goddamn Meta Karriage , which honestly felt damn-near offensive. 

The entirety of the Wayne crew (save Damian) tried to convince Peter to not pick Plastic Man, which totally clued him into the fact that they did not know about the gitch, or else they would have picked him themselves. 

God, Peter hoped it existed in this universe.

In the first round, Peter manages to use Plastic Man’s parachute ability (which is supposed to make turns sharper, but also has an unintentional slingshot mechanic when in the air) paired with a perfectly placed feather that has his character rocketing more than halfway across the map and into first place, pleased as the cat who got the cream.

They have to stop playing competitive games after that when Damian nearly tries to strangle Peter.)

Tim informed Peter that dinner would be at six-twenty “On the dot” and they had spent nearly two hours playing video games with still no sign of this mysterious Duke or Jason. At six-fifteen, a panting teen slid into the room, “I’m on time!” He proclaimed triumphantly, before freezing at the sight of Peter. 

Unfortunately for Signal - or, well, Duke - Peter recognized him too, but unlike Duke, he gave no hint that he’d ever seen the other before this. 

“Oh, hello! What’s your name? I’m Peter,” he introduced casually, while Duke floundered like a fish, much to the confusion of the rest of his siblings (because they were all siblings, weren’t they. Blood didn’t matter, and even though Peter could sniff out strained relations a mile away (and to think he was only a few feet, at maximum) it didn’t stop them from being family ). To his credit, he recovered rather quickly, “I’m Duke. Uh, Duke… Thomas. You’re Peter? Cass’s Peter?”

Peter just nodded, amused, “Yeah, I guess you can say that. I’m also just Peter-Peter.”

Duke seemed a bit numb, but his “Nice to meet you,” was genuine, so Peter figured it would just take a bit of time. Duke’s arrival signified to the rest of the Wayne’s that it was time to get up and go to the dining room, so Peter trailed after them, gawking at the high ceilings and chandelier and art that cost more than his life. 

At six-nineteen, there was still no sign of this elusive Jason, but none of the others seemed surprised. Cass only offered, “He’ll be here.” 

And sure enough, at six-twenty, the sound of the front door opening reached Peter’s ears, and heavy boots clomped down the hallway. Something felt familiar about that, but nothing could have prepared Peter for what greeted him when Jason walked into the room. 

Dick called out a greeting, but it fizzled out when Peter made a sound like he was choking, openly gaping at Jason . He suddenly felt a pang of kinship with Duke, and marveled at the guy's ability to pull himself together quickly. To be fair, Jason also froze, apparently realizing that Peter knew him.

“You???”  

And for the first time since coming to Gotham, Peter felt totally and completely blindsided and confused .

Chapter Text

Now don’t get it twisted - it wasn’t like surprising things never happened to Peter. Finding out Darth Vadar was Luke Skywalker’s dad, for one, was pretty surprising. Or when May and Ben had gotten Peter the kiddie chemistry set for his birthday he’d been caught completely off-guard. Or when Peter woke up one day with above-perfect vision and abs. Or when he’d walked in on Tony-fucking-Stark having snacks with his aunt. 

But after a while (and this could probably (definitely) be attributed to the whole vigilante thing), surprises become less, well, surprising , and more like “Well fuck I guess this is happening now.” And after a while of that (at least in Peter’s case), he’d eventually found that being surprised is quite tiring . It was just easier to know what was going on at all times, so Peter made a list (and it was really quite an impressive one - dating back years - so it really sucked that if anyone saw it they would definitely think he’d lost it) of anything that had ever surprised him. 

And, well, seeing it all laid out, it was pretty easy to see the sort of patterns that emerged. Peter had come up with a simple list of rules that would help him avoid getting surprised ever again.

1) Memorize voices, because Joe-Smoe who you ran into on Tuesday could easily (and probably will) end up being the next villain of the week, and knowing the backstory of how you probably fucked them over is helpful for knowing why you are now being targeted. That, or it turns out your lawyer is also Daredevil.

That was how Peter had figured out that Nic and the hooded man in the alley (Mr. Brick Shithouse) were one and the same - their voices had matched up perfectly. Plus the hooded man had called Peter “Pete.” No one else called him that. Caller-Number-One’s and the Red Hood also had the same robotically modulated voices, although Caller Number One’s was subtler. Still, the intonation which the two spoke in were pretty similar, so it wasn’t too hard to tie them together.

2) Going back to screwing over Joe-Smoe: keep track of who you apparently fuck over, even if it is as simple as letting a door close on them. Anyone can have a bad day, and they’ll probably take it out on you later. 

It’s why Peter won’t be surprised when the Joker eventually comes for him as Peter Parker . He embarrassed the man pretty badly according to the media.

3) Know what information people should and shouldn’t know. Most likely they know more than you, because you are ill-informed and sad, but it's still good to catch them here if you can. 

Now this one was unfortunately wordy, but also helped clue Peter into the fact that Nic wasn’t just Brick Shithouse, but also the Red Hood and Caller Number One. After all, Nic shouldn’t have known about the events at the Iceberg Lounge so soon, so he must have been there . And knowing that, it wasn’t too difficult to make the leap to the one person that shared his build and whose voices (the voices!!!!) were similar enough. 

4) Don’t be surprised when you don’t know everything, because you never will, and you’ll always be surprised by something even when you think you can’t be: the goal is to not let it affect your concentration.

Easier said than done. 

Because Nic might have been like half the people Peter met in this world, but the fact that he’s also Bruce Wayne’s son??? Or something??? was genuinely quite the shocker. He’d thought that Nic was the real person, who happened to gain Batman’s attention to be given gear. Not… not this.

Peter knew his jaw was gaping unattractively and probably inappropriately for the setting. And maybe he shouldn’t recognize Nic as being Jason - some aspects of him had changed that, looking back on it, must have been hair dye and contacts and some really fucking expensive prosthetic makeup. While Peter had known that Nic’s face wasn’t entirely his face, Peter also hadn’t felt the need to pry into the other man’s business. 

He still didn’t feel the need to pry, but screw it, was this Jason half the people that Peter had been talking to these last few weeks? And not Nic? The distinction, on the surface, was only a name, but deeper down (and Peter was trying desperately to keep those feelings deeper down) there was the sharp sting of betrayal.

“You!!!” Peter spluttered out again, and Nic looked like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but only for a moment. He pulled himself together surprisingly quickly, “Do I know you?” 

Fuck , if Peter had doubts before, he didn’t now. That was the same voice! Peter almost grabbed at his flip phone but then thought better about it, his gut telling himself not to reveal his cards too soon. Flitting his eyes away from Nic briefly, Peter noticed how tense the rest of the family had become in spite of their attempts to hide it. Shit , Peter was going to dig himself into an inescapable hole if he didn’t play this right, “Hey Cass? Can I borrow your phone?” She handed it over with ease, glancing between the both of them curiously. Peter pulled out the scrap of paper that he’d refused to remove from his pocket and heard Nic’s breath catch in his throat, “Recognize this?” Peter asked lightly, punching in the number and then hitting the call button firmly. 

There was a single moment of silence where none of them even twitched, and then a ringing sound started from Nic’s pocket. Peter silently stared at him until he sighed, defeated, pulling out the phone and ending the call when it became apparent that Peter wasn’t going to do so. 

“So… Nic,” Peter grinned only a little bit, because if he didn’t think this was funny then it would start to feel like the person he’d started to see as a brother had lied about his entire existence to Peter (which was hypocritical, Peter knew , but he never claimed to be a saint), “Funny seeing you here.” Peter took his seat  as Nic-Jason grumbled and found his own chair. Wayne, from his seat at the head at the table, was the hardest to read, but he primarily appeared frustrated that he didn't know what was going on. Everyone else openly ranged from curious (Tim), to concerned (Dick), to even gleeful (Steph). 

“What gave me away?” Nic snapped, but it wasn’t as mean as it could have been - more bluster than bite, and everyone knew it. 

“I’m an absolutely brilliant detective and you’re a fool for thinking I wouldn’t recognize you?” Peter offered cheekily, laughing when Nic (Jason! This was Jason!) cursed him out (this was new) and then responded anyway (in typical Nic fashion), “Ha-ha, sure. Real answer?”

Shrugging, Peter responded, “Your shoes - they sounded the same when you walked in. And then seeing them, I’m obviously going to recognize those ratty ass monstrosities with the horrible blood stains. I mean, dude, none of us at the shelter have shoe-money either but like… let them die. They’ve served their time.”

It was a well-hashed out argument - if it could even be called that. It was a line of teasing that their table at the shelter enjoyed bringing out whenever Nic-Jason came clomping in late: 

"We can hear you coming a mile away!”

“Or smell those shoes!”

The Wayne’s were a lot less forgiving of an audience. They looked scandalized. Nic-Jason laughed. The tension broke.

Peter steamrolled on, practically throwing himself backward in his chair in a picture of faux annoyance, “And now here I am, finding out you do probably have shoe money, so now I’m totally lost on why the hell you keep those things!”

“They are good shoes!” 

“They were , until you danced around in someone’s blood in them!” 

“So-” Dick interrupted as Peter and Jason began to gear up, both wearing slightly-too sharp smirks. Their typical lighthearted joking had been thrown out the window for something more hostile. Peter, trying not to show how much Nic being fake affected him, and Jason, who probably felt far too exposed right now, “How do you two know each other?”

Jason huffed, ignoring the question, so Peter answered, “We met at the shelter. I’ve been staying there up until recently, and Nic - or, well, I guess Jason - has been too, occasionally,” Peter cocked his head curiously, rotating his attention back to Jason , “Now that I’m thinking about it, why were you at the shelter?” 

Peter knew, before Jason even opened his mouth, that the answer was going to be some half-truth bullshit. There was a dismissive tilt to his mouth, and the trace humor in his shoulders were lost to a wave of stiffness. It passed over soon enough, but it was still there , and so Peter took the explanation with a grain of salt, “I was… looking for someone. And I didn’t want my real identity to be out there.”

(Because he’s supposed to be dead, right? And Jason was certainly not looking very dead.)

It was easy to accept the lie and nod as if he believed him, so Peter moved on, not willing to stress their rocky relationship. Because the thing was: Jason and Nic - despite being the same person biologically - were… different. Jason was all hard edges and hidden landmines, ready to blow up yet almost aching not to. Nic… well, there hadn’t been a single thing that could rile him up. He had almost been brotherly. Or, well, the type of brother that Peter had seen in the movies. The type that cared, that worried, that still supported him even when his decisions seemed stupid. That would always be there.

It stung a little (a lot) to see that person - the one person that Peter had talked to regularly in this fucking universe - disappear under a harsher layer formed by grit and necessity. Still, it felt impossible to blame Jason for the “death” of Nic - not when “Jason” was built around the persona he must have needed to survive. Maybe Nic - kind, caring, considerate Nic - was the version of Jason that could have been.

But that wasn’t fair.

…It still hurt.

Peter’s attention snapped back to the present, senses tingling, and whipped his head to the side, body already tensing. But it was just Cass, her hand outstretched like she had been going to tap him on the shoulder. Manually forcing his body to relax, Peter smiled at her concerned look, then turned his attention back to the table, “Sorry, what did I miss? Lost in thought.”

Tim had apparently been trying to ask Peter a question, which he repeated patiently, “How long have you been at the shelter?” 

Making a so-so gesture with his hands, Peter hummed under his breath, trying to account for the time and finding his recollection lacking. Trying to hide how much that stressed him out, Peter tried to go for nonchalant, “Maybe like around a month now? Minus a little? I dunno, the days all tend to run together.

There was a noise from the head of the table, and Peter turned in that direction to find that Wayne had grabbed his napkin too-tightly, causing the silverware inside to clang together lightly. It was a rough action for someone as uptight as Wayne ( Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, because calling him Bruce felt too strange and Mister too polite, at least in Peter’s own mind), but he soothed himself quickly, smoothing out the napkin to lay neatly on his lap just as Alfred emerged from the kitchen, carrying the first round of trays. Noticing Peter’s attention on him, Wayne seemed to grasp the opportunity with a weird vigor, “You’re still staying at the shelter?” It should have been a question but it was said like a statement.

“Nope!” Peter said, far too cheerfully, and Jason coughed to hide his laughter, “I actually found somewhere earlier this week!”

“Where?” Wayne’s voice was oddly tight. Peter ignored it.

“It’s a strange story,” Peter warned, but when Wayne didn’t stutter in his tightly focused attention, Peter shrugged,”Alrighty. So there’s this old lady, right? And I accidentally called the wrong number for an apartment listing and called her instead and she was super cryptic. Like instead of telling me I had the wrong number she just gave me an address,” Peter could see Dick’s arm muscles clenching. He was probably gripping his own legs tightly. Tim was over-shredding the chicken on his plate. Duke didn’t try to hide his own concern, watching Peter anxiously, “So I went, obviously.”

Wayne opened his mouth, thought for a second, then closed it, lips pursing tightly, and Peter continued like he hadn’t seen it (like he hadn’t seen any of them), “And she opens the door to her little suburban house toting this shotgun and ready to kill me, but apparently I looked rightly pathetic enough and so now I live in her basement.”

Peter hastened up the end of his story as Alfred placed platters of food near him. Muttering an enthusiastic “Thanks!” he began to load up his plate with a heavy heaping of everything. Fuck it: Peter wasn’t here to make a good impression (although that would be nice). He was here for a free meal and so Cass wouldn’t get blamed for exposing her secret identity, even though it was really more on Peter than it was her. 

“What??” Jason wasn’t as amused as he should have been. Peter thought his story was pretty fucking funny - after all, gun-weilding grandmas weren’t exactly the rage nowadays (or maybe ever?) - so the anger in Jason’s voice felt very misguided. 

In Peter’s humble opinion, of course.

“You- That’s where you’re- You went to-” He spluttered through the start three different sentences, none of them coherent, but Peter just nodded along, too focused on the food, “You bet. And it’s cheap, too!” 

There was a thud from beside Peter - who grabbed a bread roll from the basket in front of when no one was looking and slipped it in his bag (hopefully it wouldn’t smell like blood later from the whole blood soaked sweatshirt, but Peter’s also tasted enough of the stuff from his bloody noses that it probably wouldn’t bother him as much as it should) - as Cass thumped her fist on the table aggressively, “You are foolish.” The three words had more impact than Jason’s anger, but even then, Peter was undeterred, although he nodded his head in agreement, “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.”

“You decided to stay with a stranger-”

“Yep.”

“-Who threatened you-” And wow, the emphasis she placed on the word threatened really made it sound like she was more indignant and frustrated on his behalf rather than just drilling in how reckless he was.

“She definitely did that.”

“-Because it was cheap?”

"I needed a place to stay. She had a basement. We’re both chronically lonely,” Peter shrugged, “I made pancakes this morning for the both of us. It all worked out.”

“But,” Tim butt in, eyes wide and looking genuinely stressed, “You didn’t know that it would work out. Strangers in Gotham can be incredibly dangerous - you can’t just- just do that!”

“I mean. I did. Do it. Plus you all invited me into your home and I’ve only met Cass in person once,” Peter defended, placing another roll onto his plate and then sliding it into his bag when his senses felt a lull in his many observers' attention, “Pot, kettle. Or something. I wasn’t the best at English. If that is even an English topic.” 

“That’s different,” Tim protested. 

“How?”

“It’s Cass.”

“And?”

Peter already knew the answer. Cass was enough of an answer. But he was feeling belligerent and vaguely annoyed that he kept on getting asked questions when all he wanted to do was eat. 

“And… and-” Tim was probably scrambling for ways to justify his claim without revealing what they all already knew.

“ And Cass knows how to read people,” Peter filled in smoothly, answering his own question, “But so do I. There was no real danger. And I’ve been shot before, so like, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

That… was probably not the best line of reasoning to support Peter’s argument. Jason stabbed his chicken extra hard, jaw grinding like he was about to start yelling again. He had a tic there, where the muscle jumped a bit too hard. 

“At the Iceberg Lounge?” The cool voice - unconcerned, more curious than anything - kept Jason from speaking out. Across the table from Peter sat Damian - Robin, who Peter had kept from getting shot the other night - and Peter didn’t like lying to kids.

“That was just a graze,” Peter dismissed, but then hastily backtracked, “But yes. Yes, that was definitely what I was talking about. It hurt a lot,” he tacked on at the end, as if to remind people that he’d just been recently shot so please take it easy with the interrogation! At everyone's collective wince - even Damain’s, although it was more of him glancing down at his plate, refusing to show that he was affected - Peter snatched another bread roll and stuffed it in his bag. 

“Which you didn’t go to the hospital for.” Wayne sounded so incredibly stern that Peter almost wanted to laugh. No one had talked to him like that since Tony, when he’d taken the suit away.

(Look at me now, Tony. Back to the basics, but still Spider-Man. It was never just the suit. It was always me. Why couldn’t you see that?)

“Didn’t feel the need,” Something occurred to Peter, belatedly, that had him wondering just how much of a coincidence it was that Wayne had been at the Iceberg Lounge during Peter’s shift. Eyes sliding over to glance at Jason, Peter held back a frown as he connected the dots. He’d just run into Jason (as Brick Shithouse the alley man) and mentioned working at the Lounge, then the Bat-fucking-Man in civilian form shows up with three other people as backup not too long after. Had Jason been supplying them with information on Peter? If so, how much? 

Fuck , he’d gotten emotionally compromised. Retreat, retreat, retreat, “But anyway. We might as well address the reason you wanted me here.” Considering some people at the table had been looking away in an attempt to give him privacy, his comment brought their attention back to him, even though, in reality, it had never left, “You wanna know what I’m going to do now that I know Cass is like, a superhero or something.” Multiple faces at the table winced at the word superhero , Cass included, and Peter silently apologized. He knew firsthand how that label tended to fit like a too-small coat on a good day. On a bad day… Well. Hopefully today wasn’t a bad day.

Wayne hesitated - it was fabricated, uneasy in a way that fit Wayne awkwardly. Peter had handed the power back to them; this was what they’d been preparing for, after all, “Well… yes. You must imagine that we are… concerned… about what you’ll want for your silence.”

Want. What an interesting word. Peter wanted his old life back. He wanted (maybe. he was trying to want, at least) to go back to his universe. He wanted to not be in pain anymore - to not have countless phantom aches that never seemed to go away. He wanted to know where his next meal was coming from. He wanted his aunt. 

“I don’t want anything. I only recognized Cass because she’s, well, Cass. ”

Cass understood what he meant - because of course she did - and before anyone could try to pry what the hell that meant when Peter didn’t even know how to begin to explain either, she stepped into the conversation, “We understand each other. Easily. It is not like that with the others.” And therein was the core of it: the others. Less so of a fabricated dividing factor and more of a simple, solid truth: body language and all of the nuances (yet astoundingly clear in their plainness) that came with reading it, was not something that could be understood unless one was willing to see in the first place.

Cass could see. Peter could see. Sometimes, when looking at him at the right angle, Peter thinks that Wayne could see, too, if there wasn’t a block in his heart. 

Because to see others' body language for how they are at heart, one must be willing to be read in turn. Peter was a cheater in that regard: this gift, a manufactured one. He could see and read because his eyes and senses and every aspect was attuned to every single microexpression a person could make. It made it easy to lie and hide his own truths.

Cass doesn’t know that, though.

(Peter thinks so, at least.)

She doesn’t know he is a liar at his core. But that’s okay. Because it has to be.

“Because we can read each other, no masks or costumes could hide our identities,” Cass clarified, and suddenly Peter realized that what each and every one of the people in this room were terrified of was that Peter knew their own secret identities.

And, well, he did know, so their fears were totally valid.

Peter slipped another bread roll in his backpack while the table’s attention was on Cass, then lightly coughed to draw it back to him, “I know you don’t trust me. This is about your family, after all,” As annoying and a pain in the ass to deal with as it was, Peter got it , “I’ve had my own fair share of secrets. If,” Peter hesitated, forehead scrunching up in anxiety, “If I share something of my own that I would never… that would ruin me, if it got out… would that make it fair?”

“Not really,” Tim replied plainly, and hey, Peter appreciated the honesty, “Because it’s your life versus the entirety of our family hiding and aiding an illegal vigilante. We have a lot more to lose.”

“And a lot more money to pay for lawyers.”

Steph jumped into the conversation, her grin playful and teasing, “I mean personally, I am totally game to hear what secret you think is an equal exchange for knowing about our resident nightstalking vigilante.”

“Does also being a sort-of nightstalking vigilante also count?” 

And with that, they were hooked .

Obviously Peter wasn’t about to tell them about Spider-Man. One: dumb, two: there was no proof of him in this universe so it would look like a massive lie, three: Peter wanted to crawl out his skin at the idea of it.

“Yeah, I was sorta-kinda part of this organization headed by this rich dude as extra muscle when necessary. This was a couple years ago, though, so I didn’t do too much… hard to take someone like me seriously when I was all star-struck and gangly limbed and idyllic,” Peter explained, gearing up to tell them the massive bold-fucking-faced lie he’d been preparing on the way over. However, all the best lies were grounded in the truth, so he kept the relation to the Avengers sort of similar.

“What sort of organization?” And wow, Jason was ready to murder someone, huh. Hopefully not Peter, “I mean, I mentioned it being sort of like vigilante stuff? Not like all the Bats and stuff here, but smaller things. Or,” Peter hesitated, as if he was trying to explain it, “It was sort of under the table and sort of not. The guy leading it was doing good work, just behind the scenes of his real and legal work. I helped out, when I could. When he’d let me. He didn’t want my blood on his hands. Or anyone's blood, but sometimes that's just the way it ended up,” That’s right. Tony had wanted to just be a dad, in the end. He’d been done with the blood and the death, Peter’s mind unhelpfully added, But he’d risked it all to bring back the dead. Specifically, because of Peter’s death, he’s later found out. In space. When he turned to itty bitty bits of dust and scattered in the wind.

Anyway. 

“I probably didn’t have to join, but I wanted to make a difference. I lost my uncle to violence, and I wanted to be part of any movement that would do something to stop that from ever happening again,” Peter ducked his head, pretending to be embarrassed, but all he had to think about was fucking “Underroos!” which, god, Tony, that had to be the worst nickname ever, and the embarrassment was suddenly very real, “I didn’t realize how much it would cost, in the end. I wouldn’t have changed anything.” Otherwise Peter’s horribly massive guilt complex would have eaten him alive.

(He would just change everything, if it was possible. Not Peter’s choice to be a hero… but fix all the carnage that had wrecked his world.)

Dick was so incredibly gentle when he spoke up. Later, Peter would wonder if he was using his “comforting a traumatized civilian” voice, but it wouldn’t rankle like it might have from anyone else. Weird, but, “What did it cost?”

“Ah, everything, I guess. My life sort of horrifically crashed and burned, my house literally burned, and now I’m in Gotham. So maybe I lied early, when I said there wasn’t any more to the story. Sorry, I guess,” Peter very firmly ate his chicken, daring someone to call him out on his bullshit.

Because here’s the thing: Peter was never going to pass as a normal teenage kid. He’d had that chance taken away from him the moment that dumb spider bit him, the moment the world forgot who he was and suddenly being an adult - which had seemed so far away - was big and here. Being forced to grow up too fast meant a lot of things, but most of all, it meant that Peter would never be able to play his life off as normal ever again. He would carry that weight with him - the weight of the life he’s led - until he dies. 

And the Waynes knew it.

There would only be so long that he could fool an entire family of detectives (especially when one could read his every thought and move before he even made them). Considering that Peter had absolutely no intention to reveal his real background - his not quite, let's say, normal status - he needed to give up something that would throw them off his trail. A potentially shady organization indoctrinating teens into crime fighting that crashed and burned? Well, that would certainly explain Peter’s ability to take down the Joker, wouldn’t it? And it would give him a reason for not blinking twice at the Granny Gun, at not flinching when shot, and why he didn’t have an identity. Why he refused to be associated with his old identity.

Sure, it made Peter’s past look about three shades more illegal, but fuck it - vigilantes had been illegal too, so they weren’t any better. There was also something about this family (and perhaps it was Wayne’s tendency to adopt troubled kids at the drop of a hat) that reassured Peter that he could tell him this fake version of his past, and not only would they accept it, they would feel bad for him, and hopefully stop prying. 

Pity tended to be weird like that: it was compromising to feel, itchy to be the source of, and so, so incredibly useful.

No one dared to speak. Silently observing them (even as Peter never stopped adding more food to his plate), Jason’s white knuckle grip on his silverware, Wayne’s massacre of his chicken, Cass’s concerned frown, and all of them radiating some sense of worry , Peter tried not to feel too satisfied that his plan worked. 

Unsurprisingly, even after eating in an awkward silence for a few minutes, Duke asked another question. Honestly, it felt more surprising that they all weren’t jumping to ask follow-up questions, but Peter wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth or whatever, “Wait. How old are you? Like when this was all going down? Because you said a couple years and I didn’t think you were that much older than me.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not. I’m nineteen right now.”

Dick’s fork clattered loudly against his plate, “You mean to tell me,” he began, all types of righteous fury (and damn, it would be uplifting if it wasn’t so necessary) finally bubbling over, “You were in high school? When this shit was happening?”

“More or less, yeah. Freshman year maybe? But things didn’t pick up too much until later on,” Peter dismissed, “The real big stuff happened my junior and senior years, I guess. Well, during my junior and almost all of my senior - I never actually graduated, since I, y’know, had to leave.”

And he still hadn’t graduated in this world, Peter noted, annoyed, attention wandering in the following silence. Taking all those GED courses just to get his high school diploma back in his world was all for naught, if he ended up staying here. Would he have to do them again? Could he be satisfied working as a waiter and photographer for however long he managed to live, or would Peter’s drive for more! overcome him? Ah, but those were existential questions best saved for a later date.

Unlike the last time Peter’s attention wandered, Cass didn’t try to touch him to gain his attention. Instead, she waved a hand in his peripheral vision, and Peter pulled himself out of his musings and back to the present, “Tim can help you with school,” She offered, surprising both Peter and Tim, although Tim gathered his thoughts faster, “Yeah! I can totally help out.” He didn’t even appear to be lying , and Peter vaguely wondered if they would be this gentle with him if he had told them the truth. Probably not.

(But maybe they would, Aunt May’s voice echoed, and Peter could hear the smile in her voice, People are kind, Peter. You just have to let them in.

And. Well. That might be true, but the idea of letting someone in felt more terrifying than traversing universes with the possibility of never being able to return home.

(Aunt May wouldn’t be very happy to hear that. She’d always believed in the people, even when it led to her death. With great power comes great responsibility . 

It also, apparently, led to trust issues.))

“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t flunk out, just never got the opportunity to finish,” Peter allowed a small, proud smile to slip onto his face, “I was gonna go to MIT. Got in and everything.”

“What were you going to study?” And here Wayne comes with the million dollar question! Congratulations, he was the one to ask the orphaned (although they didn’t know that) high school drop out about the details of his once-upon-a-time dreams.

…

Peter was feeling oddly spiteful. But only a little bit, because he answered anyway, “Ah, probably biophysics? And biochemistry?” Although it was phrased like a question - with the air of uncertainty - in reality Peter used to dream about going to college and had practically planned the whole thing out years in advance. 

Alas. Here he was, “I’ve dabbled a bit in engineering,” like his web shooters and fixing Alternate Doc Ock’s control over his mechanical limbs, “But I wouldn’t get a degree in it - it's more of a side hobby. At least - when I have the ability to do so.” AKA: the space, money, and materials. The Fantastic Four’s lab had been very nice to play around in.

Peter’s most recent feat of some bastardized “engineering” (if it could be even called that) was his modge-podged together grappling hook. It didn’t mean much compared to the fabrication of his Spider-Man suit or building the mechanisms to reverse the alternate universes’ villains or even the other countless little gadgets and gizmos (aka bombs and chemical warfare tools) that he’d had to dismantle from whatever scheme he came across in the two years after the world forgot him, where for some fucking reason , people with access to weapons of minorly massive descruction came crawling out of the wood shed at every turn. 

5) Always assume that there is some massive weapon that could destroy New York (or at the very least, a building) at hand, and that he will have to stop it with seconds remaining. Don’t even assume, actually: expect it. Because then when, on some magical day, there isn’t an imminent time crunch looming over his head, it will be like a vacation. This is especially true with getting involved with the Fantastic Four, because apparently geniuses like Mister Fantastic are like a magnet for genius villains. One would think they’d pick fights with, say, literally anyone else, rather than one of the few people who can rival their intelligence. (But maybe that just proves that Mister Fantastic is smarter than them, so whatever.)

In front of him, Damian unconsciously reached out for a bread roll, frowning when his hand didn’t touch anything. Peter very firmly ignored it.

“Do you have any experience with coding? That’s what I enjoy the most,” Tim asked, and Peter lit up , “One of my old friends,” Peter’s heart didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would when mentioning Ned. In fact, he felt warm , “Is way better than I am at coding and programming, but I’d say that I’m no slouch.”

And from there, the dinner got easier. There was no longer an air of interrogation hanging over him, or worry about what Cass’s family might think of him. Certainly they couldn’t trust him, no matter how real their smiles seemed to look, but they seemed to - at the very least - believe him when he said that he’d never tell a soul about Cass’s secret. 

Dining with the Wayne’s was different eating with the Fantastic Four. With Johnny on one side, Mister Reed and Sue at the heads, and Ben across from them, it felt familial . It felt like Peter was one of them . It might have been because, despite the secrets between them (one of the primary ones being Peter’s civilian identity) there still wasn’t a need to hide. 

(Sort of. Peter wasn’t exactly telling them about how he caused a multiversal clashing and the forgetting and the spells. But he told them about May and his Ben, without naming names. About his high school friends. About his time with the Avengers.) 

He could be himself with them. Or, the self that was Spider-Man : the vigilante, which tended to make up the vast majority of Peter’s essence these past two years. Even if he let things slip on accident, they never used that information to dig into Peter’s personal life. They just accepted it and moved on.

With the Waynes it was different. There were more secrets, more lies, more things Peter had to pretend not to know or notice, all while they were trying to discern what every little movement of his meant. They were trying to uncover his secrets, while in his world, Johnny only ever playfully joked about wanting to know Peter’s civilian identity.

(If - when - Peter got back, he was going to meet Johnny and tell him. Tell him everything. Who Peter was, what had happened. 

Johnny would understand. (Right?) Or at least, he would listen. He wouldn’t judge. In all likelihood, he’d laugh at Peter and tell him “You worry too much!” and Peter would pretend like his heart wasn’t trying to jackhammer its way out of his chest from anxiety.)

6) When working with other superheroes frequently, accept that you’ll get attached. You’ll try to not - say that it is just a professional relationship - but then you’re having family game night, getting takeout, asking about legal drama just to hear them speak… And one day you’ll realize you have a family again and it’ll be the scariest moment of your life. 

But there were also similarities. Jason’s presence - while acutely different from Nic - still felt brotherly . He was so attuned to Cass’s body language that her feelings - her sense of companionship toward him - were impossible to remain hidden. Duke seemed at ease, too, and Tim had been eager to engage in a conversation about anything under the sun when it came to picking Peter’s brain on science and math. They were all (save for Cass) closed off, but it still felt like an olive branch. An offering of peace: of a possibility that maybe, one day, Peter might really know them, if he was willing to take that first plunge into being known.

He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but Peter wasn’t as sure of that as he might have once been. After all, everything outside of simply making it through the day felt impossible when he first arrived in this universe. And now Peter was sure - was positive - that he could feel safe revealing his identity to Johnny. That he could tell the Fantastic Four and nothing would change, except now he wouldn’t have to keep the mask rolled up to his nose at dinner, and maybe they would make fun of his mask hair. That didn’t happen before this misadventure. It probably would have never happened, and Peter Parker would die unknown and unloved while Spider-Man was mourned by people he’d never realized truly cared about him.

(But Peter Parker would have been loved, because he is Spider-Man.

He is. )

Eventually - impossibly - Peter felt full . He stopped sampling more of every dish and sat back, and on some silent cue, Alfred emerged from the kitchen, sweeping away plates in with an elegance that Peter had never associated with taking away dishes before. 

(Maybe he’d get better tips at the Iceberg Lounge if he moved like that?)

Desert was brought out and Peter managed to find the space to eat more. By now, Peter had been at the Wayne’s for hours: dinner started at six-twenty, but now, as Peter ate the final bite of his delicious pie, it was nearing eight thirty.

“I should probably head out,” Peter offered, setting down his fork with a note of finality, “It’s getting late.”

The responses were immediate:

“No fucking way I’m letting y’walk back now! I’ll drive.”

“Alfred can drive you.”

“No.”

“I can drive you.”

“It’s so late! Just have a sleepover at thi- ouch! ”

Peter blinked, watching Steph rub her side where she’d been elbowed by Tim, “ Unfortunately , we have some business to attend to tonight, so some of us won’t be here. You’re welcome to take a room, though.”

“No thanks?” It came out like a question, and Peter hastened to correct it, “I mean, no thank you. I appreciate the offers, but I can walk back just fine. I mean, I walked here, after all.”

Wayne cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. He’d been silent throughout the majority of dinner, only speaking up to ask the odd question here and there, prying in the way the other questions weren’t, with a strange urgency hidden behind his eyes, “It is much too late to walk back. Please, I must insist on Alfred driving you. Or, as Dick and Jason offered, so can they.”

Placing his foot down, Peter very firmly shook his head, “No, Sir. I can walk.”

“With that limp?” Damian had, for the most part, stayed silent, preferring to watch what was going on and input the occasional snarky comment, much like any other young teen boy. Peter had paid him no mind, just letting him say what he wanted. Turns out that was a mistake. All heads turned to Damian, and Peter silently prayed for the kid to stop talking. No dice, “You must have walked the whole way here on it. That won’t heal an injury.” The kid sniffed haughtily, and in any other scenario Peter might have felt warmed by the idea that the kid seemed to actually care about whether Peter was injured, and this was his way of showing it, but it was really fucking inconvenient right now.

Standing up swiftly, Peter laughed lightly. All of them could probably tell it was forced, “Well, I was just shot not that long ago, so I’m not walking at my best, but-” he hastened to add, seeing half a dozen indignant faces open their mouths, “I’m fine. Just stiff. Walking feels good.”

Peter grabbed his bag (which he had hastily zipped in his urgency to get out of here ) and swung it over his shoulders, a movement he belatedly realized was probably too smooth considering he’d just gotten shot less than a week before. He waved (why the fuck did he wave????) and started backing up, “I’ll see myself out then - bye! Thanks for dinner!” And Peter was speed walking his way to the door, ignoring everyone else, when he was stopped in his tracks, jolting backward. Jason had sprung to his feet and managed to grab the strap of Peter’s backpack, which he quickly let go of (probably remembering how possessive Peter was over the thing from his time as Nic ), “You are bleeding.” It was said slowly, in a rough (and angry?) way, and Peter would have been pissing his pants if he wasn’t nineteen years old and had already been taking care of his own stab wounds for years, thank you very much .

“Yep!” No point in denying, and Peter would have laughed at the baffled expression on his face, had a deep rooted sense of paranoia and claustrophobia not been closing in on him the longer he stayed now that he’d been found out , “And I’m taking care of it. It’s my stab wound, after all. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not-” Jason cut himself off, breathing heavily through his nose, “Y’need to get that taken care of. Professionally. Or let Alfred do it.”

“Hard pass, no thanks-”

“-No option,” Wayne cut in, his large bulk blocking Peter’s exit, and now he was really feeling the claustrophobia. 

7) Something will trigger you: those feelings of panic you thought you left behind. It isn't fucking fair but that's life, so get up and keep going. Spider-Man always, always gets back up.

“I don’t trust you , okay?” Peter snarked, words sharper than he intended them to be, if the way Wayne seemed to almost flinch back was any indication. Peter took the moment of weakness as an opportunity, darting forward in a sprint and dodging underneath Wayne’s arms, which outstretched just a moment too late. 

Once he was past the big guy, all it took were a few easily memorized turns and Peter was snatching his shoes (not bothering to put them on) and booking it. 

Shouts and protests followed behind Peter, but even with a stab wound in his leg, they couldn’t keep up. Maybe Peter should have added being a cross country runner to his fake backstory. The thought - despite the probably bad impression this was leaving - had Peter grinning maniacally. The claustrophobia slipped away underneath the open night sky and as the adrenaline kicked in, and yeah, maybe he’d have to write an apology email to Cass, but Peter had also not felt this light since he came to this universe. 

Of course a simple interrogative dinner ends up with me sprinting away, Peter thought wryly, and that simple thought ended up being his breaking point. Peter threw back his head and laughed: boyish, youthful, and happy .

(When had he last allowed himself to be happy?)

Alfred had heard a commotion coming from the dining hall, but elected to ignore it, figuring his charges would be able to manage themselves well. When the commotion grew louder and more distant - towards the door - he sighed to himself, and followed. Gathering out on the front steps of Wayne Manor was the entirety of Alfred’s charges, and looking past them, he saw a figure growing increasingly smaller as they fled the premises.

“What could you all have said to get him to run away that quickly?” Alfred remarked, lightly scolding. The young man had been taking the interrogation well - as if he knew exactly what they were doing - yet still managed to direct their attention elsewhere and keep many of his secrets from being revealed. Alfred knew that his charges would soon be itching with the realization that they came away knowing far less about Peter than they had hoped too. Cass, at least, would be pleased and proud. As would Jason.

“I just mentioned his limp,” Damian grumbled angrily, although it was more internally directed, “I didn’t think he’d leave.”

“It’s okay, Damian. If Bruce,” Dick glared at the man, “Hadn’t tried to block him in, we probably could have solved the problem and gotten him medical treatment.”

Alfred tried not to frown when many of his charges swiftly devolved into petty bickering to hide their frustrations, knowing that someone like Peter (who could have easily been one of them: alone, struggling, wanting to help others) didn’t want (or couldn’t accept) their help. 

Duke was trying to tell them all something about meeting Peter earlier in the day while Jason and Dick ripped into Bruce, while Steph and Cass were simultaneously bombarding Jason with questions about how he knew Peter.

Only Damian and Alfred remained out of the commotion. As Alfred watched, Damian went to the edge of the steps and picked something up. Incredibly, it looked like one of the bread rolls he’d just served for dinner. He could only see the side of the boy’s face, but Alfred could lip read among the best of them:

“I knew no one else grabbed bread.”

Which was strange, because the bread basket had been empty when Alfred had retrieved it, and there had been roughly twenty rolls in there.

Chapter Text

Obviously, Peter was followed.

It would have been more surprising if he hadn’t been followed, honestly, what with the duel life Wayne and his crew of children (plus an English butler) lived. Really, it would have been negligent of them to not try and follow him. Try being the key word: Peter had already shaken off two tails.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t horribly annoying, especially since Thursday nights - as per Granny Gun’s rules - meant the house was “off limits.” Seeing as it was a Thursday night, the shelter had already closed, and there were about half-a-dozen nightstalking vigilantes swarming Gotham on the hunt for crime and for Peter… It meant that Peter was in quite a pickle. Sort of.

He’d lost his most recent tail a few minutes ago, and could probably stay well off of their radar for the rest of the night with relative ease. But… well… where was the fun in that? 

In a show of miraculously shitty decision making, Peter mentally shrugged, figuring fuck it , let’s do this. It would be, at the very least, an interesting test to see how they would handle Peter’s stab wound. Peter placed relatively even bets on any of three options: a) forget that they, as a random vigilante and definitely not someone who had been adopted by Bruce Wayne, would not, in fact, know about a civilian’s itsy-bitsy stab wound, and subsequently blow their cover in the process, b) pretend to not notice but still watch over him annoyingly carefully (If one goddamn person treats Peter like he’s made of glass and could break any moment, Peter will curb stomp them into next week), or c) pretend to not notice at first and then “suddenly” realize with differing levels of shock. Peter wasn’t sure about who Steph’s vigilante persona was, but he could easily see her throwing up her hands in faux shock with a, “Whaaaat is that? A stab wound!!!” in a completely unconvincing tone of voice. Damian - Robin - would point it out with the same almost-concerned-deadpan that he’d had at dinner. Everyone else was somewhere in the middle of those two on the broad spectrum of Potential Reactions to Peter’s Not-Even-A-Big-Deal, Itsy-Bitsy, Baby Stab Wound (trademark pending). 

Mentally resigning himself to a night without photos, Peter left his momentary shelter and started walking in a random direction. Someone would find him soon enough.

As much as Peter pretended to be annoyed, having company for a night didn’t sound bad . In fact, losing out on some potential photo opportunities and gaining someone to hopefully talk to (or tease) seemed like a relatively even exchange, especially when factoring in the fact that accepting the tail’s presence would mean that Peter didn’t have to worry about actually being stalked all night by previously mentioned nightstalking vigilantes. It would also prevent Cass from worrying. Her worry felt too much like Ned’s worry, which Peter had always tried to avoid at all costs back then , in the old days of Spider-Man. Peter was only scared a little by the similarity of the feelings. 

Quietly, Peter wondered who would pick up if he called Ned. If he called MJ, May, or Happy. Even Tony’s number briefly crossed Peter’s mind. The thought - the idea - of doing so no longer seemed as distant as it once was. The fact that Johnny’s number had been Dick Grayson (and Peter only recognized this now, in hindsight, looking back on the voice of the Caller Number Two - a person he hadn’t thought much about) was… disappointing. And for those four… Peter was terrified of being… of hearing someone else’s voice on the other side of those numbers. 

Not that there was anything wrong with Dick Grayson! Just… he wasn’t Johnny . It was that singular phone call that confused Peter the most about the phone numbers. Daredevil and Nic - Jason, that’s Jason! - made sense. They just… did . It felt right. Fake Ass Fury and Bruce Wayne (because even if it was Alfred on the phone that one time - which Peter doubts, having heard his real voice in person now - it had still been a call directed to Wayne Manor ) also made sense: both were people that were too much in-the-know for Peter’s comfort that also annoyed him to death with just how much they knew, and how much more they wanted to know about him . J. Jonah Jameson being Sherry? The connection was obvious. The same thing for Peter’s old landlord and Granny Gun: they both provided him with a place to stay.

But Johnny Storm - Peter’s Johnny? - being Dick Grayson? Peter would have honestly expected Cass over him . Maybe there was something that connected the two. Maybe . Maybe there was some fun loving nature that connected them. But for now? It felt wrong . The connection wasn’t right , and something itched under Peter’s skin at the thought of those two somehow being… the same.

It was because of that - because of that fear (because that’s what Peter felt: pure and total fear ) of being disappointed, of calling someone that meant… everything… and then getting a stranger in response? - that Peter hadn’t dared to call.

He wouldn’t dare tonight, either, not with all of the Bats out and about - not with the apparent connection the phone numbers had with that family. It would be too risky, and for some reason, Peter didn’t want to be associated with the caller. He wanted to be able to call up Caller Number One and have Jason-Nic-Caller-Number-One treat him like the perfect stranger he’d always been. Wonderful anonymity: Peter loved it in every universe.

But perhaps… perhaps facing that fear (accepting the disappointment, should it come (and it would, of course, because no one could ever be his Ned, his MJ, his May… his anyone, frankly)) would start the healing that Peter has always been far too afraid to face.

That breakdown, however, was meant for another night. Tonight, there were Bats overhead and alert, and Peter had no place to sleep nor the wish to test his luck with his ability to stay hidden while taking pictures with them all on such high alert. Tonight, Peter felt like being foolish and silly… tonight , he didn’t want to be Spider-Man, with quips and jokes and bones that didn’t ache because they couldn’t . 

Tonight, Peter just wanted to be Peter .

(This is the first time he’s truly wanted that in…. a long while.)

Instead of taking to the rooftops, where the line between Peter and Spider-Man was the thinnest, Peter went to the place where Peter Parker reigned firmly supreme: the sidewalks. It was late at night, but Gotham was a city that never slept, much like New York. There were eyes on his back as he walked into a coffee shop, but Peter didn’t flinch from them. He didn’t flinch away from the returning presence and feeling of someone above, and let them follow him. Peter even pretended - very graciously, in Peter’s mind - to not know that there was someone following him. He played this game for a while, not trying to lose his tail but also not going anywhere. Eventually, Peter began to wonder why the person never left - that if by them following Peter there were other people being neglected.

(Because Spider-Man never really left Peter Parker. 

Or rather - because Peter Parker had always been Spider-Man.)

And so Peter deviated from his circular route, meandering around until his danger sense tugged, and like always (at least, when it came to the safety of other people. When it was his safety, Peter had developed the unfortunate habit of ignoring the warning) Peter followed. His tail left him, and a few minutes the tugging subsided, and Peter began to wander again. This happened three more times before Peter’s shadow dropped down behind him (unsurprising, the poor shadow’s heartbeat had been growing increasingly erratic as Peter wandered towards larger and larger tugging sensations), “Hey!” They greeted with faux cheerfulness. Or maybe it was real. It sounded sort of real, but also panicked and pissed and frustrated, so Peter couldn’t tell if the person was actually happy to see him or if they were just ready for the chase to end. 

Peter didn’t turn around, only pausing to let the shadow catch up with him until they were shoulder-to-shoulder, and then continued on in his “random” direction. This tug felt pretty big, and Peter wondered if Red Robin - the slick cowl and multitude of belts gave it away; it was very accurate to a handful of different Twitter threads descriptions - would be able to handle it alone. He seemed pretty confident and prepared, so Peter kept walking. He couldn’t ignore the danger, after all.

“Hi,” Peter greeted, chirpy despite the late time. It was probably the caffeine, “What’s up?”

“It isn’t safe to walk alone at night,” the vigilante scolded, “Especially in Gotham, even if this part of town is safer. Go home.”

(This is the safe part of town??? He wondered incredulously, trying so very hard not to pull a face.)

Peter hummed, debating on how much he should share, and turned left at the next intersection. The tugging got stronger, “Can’t. The place I’m staying at isn’t available to me Thursday nights. I mean, walking around has to be safer than staying in one place, right?” 

If Peter had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have heard Red Robin’s under-his-breath complaint. Alas, Peter’s ears weren’t quite normal , and so it was very easy to hear the, “Not when you beeline towards danger!” But Peter wasn’t supposed to be able to hear the complaint, and so he adjusted course, making another turn, and waited until Red Robin finally answered him. Oddly enough, he sounded hesitant, “There are people who’d be willing to help you. Friends.” Peter wanted to scoff, but settled for a shrug, “Maybe.”

Red Robin looked like he wanted to say more, but unfortunately for him, the tugging had grown into a full on torrent as Peter rounded the last corner, and someone slammed into his chest. 

Following some random teen in Gotham - a city that Tim knew like the back of his hand - should not be this difficult. Honestly, it would have been embarrassing had Damian, in an act of kindness, interrupted Tim’s grumble of self-flagellation with an annoyed huff over the coms: 

“Red Robin, stop acting ridiculous. This isn’t just a normal teen - we all saw the footage from Father’s hidden camera at the Iceberg Lounge. He is more skilled than any of us are giving him credit for. Plus, he already outmaneuvered Nightwing and Spoiler.” 

It didn’t stop Tim’s pride from stinging, but his annoyance at his own failure faded… until it was transferred to be an annoyance targeted at Peter.

“I don’t get it,” Tim relayed across the coms, where the rest of his family had insisted on being kept in the loop when it became apparent that the only person Peter hadn’t noticed following him was Tim. Bruce hadn’t even been able to find him in the first place, “This is the fourth - I don’t even know what to call them. Problems? Situations? Issues? I dunno - that he’s walked towards.” Already there had been a young girl who had gotten separated from her parents, two muggings, and a knife fight. Like a magnet, Peter seemed drawn to each of them, and Tim had raced ahead to take care of the problem before Peter could stumble across it. Considering Tim hadn’t been out in a while - having been just recently cleared for active duty now that his arm was healed - it was more than he had been expecting to handle, although the strain was still light. After the fourth time, though, Tim’s heart couldn’t take the stress anymore and he dropped down behind Peter to convince him to go home. Peter, who… didn’t flinch. In fact, Peter seemed entirely unsurprised and… had he known that Tim was following him? It should be impossible…

But whatever. There wasn’t time for that now. Tim needed to convince Peter to go the fuck inside - even if it was to his crazy gun wielding landlord - and stop wandering into trouble. And then trouble, quite literally, ran into them. 

A body, hurtling at full speeds, slammed into Peter before Tim even realized what was going on. The force would have barreled any of them over - barring Bruce or Jason - but Peter only rocked back slightly on his heels and brought up his hands, very pointedly not touching the person. The person - a girl, maybe their age or a little younger - screamed in fright. Tim’s vigilante instincts jolted him into action (as did the commotion over the com-line, having heard the scream), but it looked like Peter’s (good person instincts?) kicked in first, “Hey, hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter soothed, his arms up and out, not resting at his sides and very clearly empty, “My bad. It’s alright, no one is going to hurt you.” 

The girl’s breathing was erratic - panicked - and she pushed away from Peter violently, yanking pepper spray out of her bag and brandishing it with wild eyes. Her hands were shaking. Tim didn't know what was going on - what had started this - and doubted Peter did either. Common sense and years of experience told Tim to de-escalate the situation himself, but his gut told him to keep his hands visible, palm out, letting the girl feel in control of the situation, and let Peter take the lead. Peter stayed perfectly still, “I'm sorry,” he repeated, “We aren't part of whatever you're running from, I promise. Red Robin here is a whole ass vigilante… that's kinda his thing: protecting the people. And my aunt would be turning in her grave if I went around scaring people for any reason.” 

Her hands steadied, and grabbed the can tighter. She knew how to use it, and wouldn’t hesitate to. Tim wondered if Peter was about to get a faceful of pepper spray. He certainly seemed prepared for that possibility and didn’t shy away from it, “Your aunt?” She questioned, and her voice trembled. She was terrified.

“Yep! Aunt May - the kindest person you’ll ever meet. Couldn’t ask for a better role model than her,” Peter shared easily, and Tim wondered if it was the most honest thing he’d said all night. The girl also seemed to calm at the easy exchange of information, and peered closer at Peter, “Wait- wait. You’re… are you the person from the news? That took down the Joker?” 

Peter’s smile was tight. Anxious, but truthful, “Yeah. I’m not looking forward to when that comes back to bite me in the ass, but what else could I do? He was threatening people.” Something about Peter’s phrasing  - the way he made it sound like an obvious conclusion: the Joker was there, and so Peter had to act - settled something that had been flurrying under the girl’s skin. Something that Red Robin’s presence hadn’t managed to convey, despite being a well known vigilante within Gotham. She didn’t lower the pepper spray, but it was no longer a threat to them.

Peter’s eyes flickered past her momentarily - the first time his attention had left her since she’d ran into his chest - something both Tim and the girl noticed, if the tightening of her hands on the can was any indication, “What’s your name?” Peter questioned lightly, as if nothing was wrong.

“...Allie.”

“Okay, Allie. There were some assholes following you, right?”

Allie nodded, and Tim wondered how the hell Peter knew that.

“Don’t worry. Red Robin is a professional ass kicker, and I’m no slouch myself. Stay behind me, okay? You’re safe. No matter what happens. I promise,” the levity in Peter’s tone made his words sound like an oath. Allie heard it too, and finally lowered the pepper spray. Right as she did so, a thunderstorm of footsteps rushed around the corner (how had Peter known?) and right before Tim leapt into the fray, he watched as Peter’s lanky frame seemed to… grow. Not literally - not like Bane - but he straightened his back and steadied his shoulders, and Peter may not have been the tallest person around but his presence filled the alleyway despite that. Belatedly, as Tim threw himself into the fight, he realized that Peter had been keeping himself small for the entirety of the night. During dinner, he had seemed almost helpless and hopelessly unfortunate, like a kid (like how he’d described himself to be when his gun wielding landlord had decided to take him in - something he had shared with a wry twist of his mouth), and Tim hadn’t been surprised that Jason’s protective instincts had kicked in upon meeting Peter. He’d been small when he’d been telling them of his maybe-true-and-maybe-not backstory of working in some shady “organization.” When he’d managed to convince them all - wholly and thoroughly - of his ability to keep Cass’s secret. He’d even been small when strolling down the alleyway, nearly running into trouble far too many times while Tim acted like a guardian angel from above. And then he’d been small and gentle when Allie was terrified, running from danger and then faced with possibly finding it in front of her. 

Peter had been, for who knows how long, keeping himself small and gentle. An unfortunate soul who’d been extremely unlucky in his life, yet still kept going anyway. 

Yet- Tim swung his bo staff low, knocking several people off of their feet, -When his objective went from being safe to providing safety , he’d changed in an instant. Peter had become the person that Allie needed the most in both situations. Had he been doing that for them , too?

(Which one was the real Peter?

Were any of them?

Just who was this guy???)

There was something wrong with the people Red Robin was fighting. They didn’t move naturally - more like a zombie hoard than a gang of people or even a gaggle of stupid goons - and the roaring of his danger sense didn’t subside even as Red Robin took down more and more. The frown on the vigilante’s face meant that he, too, had realized something was wrong. 

“Allie,” Peter kept his voice even so as to not panic her more, “Why were they following you?”

Allie’s fingers tightened their grip on Peter’s forearm, which she had latched onto right as Red Robin had sprinted away from them, drawing his weapon and yelling at them to stay back. Had he been a normal person, her nails might have even drawn blood, “I don’t know ,” her voice cracked on the last word, although she was being very brave. Peter told her as much, and her fingers dug into his arm even further, “I’m not a kid.”

“Sorry.”

“S'okay. I kinda wanted to hear that. And… I’ve been getting these notes. Calling me Alice, asking about… about rabbits and tea parties and other things. I’ve been ignoring them. Or- or trying to , I guess… But tonight all those… people were waiting for me outside of work when I got off today. And. And they’re weird, right? ‘Cause I’m not that fast of a runner but I can outrun them, even if they keep catching up.”

‘Alice’ like from Alice in Wonderland? Peter frowned to himself, “You’re right. And good job on staying away so-” There you are!

On its own, Peter’s hand shot out, catching something that had been thrown in his direction. Both he and Allie took a second to comprehend what had just happened. The thing Peter caught was slim, metal, and hissing- Peter yelped, tossing it into the air in a flash of panic, like a hot potato. Time seemed to slow, and Peter took the moment to notice an open metal trash can off to his right. In a move reminiscent of a volleyball spike, Peter slapped away the canister and it crashed directly into the trash can with the loudest clang! known to man. “Fucking hell, ” Peter gasped out, sprinting over to slam the lid on the trash can as the gas started spilling out of the canister. Applying some of his strength, Peter bent the middle lid down over the edges, much like one would tinfoil over a pan. Some of the gas would probably still leak out, but the danger of that particular object had faded.

Danger still hung heavy in the air, though, as a voice rang out at the end of the alleyway, crawling down Peter’s spine in twisted rhymes: 

“You think you are so witty, see

But you, silly boy, are no match for me!” 

The person cackled like a madman, stepping out of the shadows.

(Okay. Pause. What the fuck. What is this dude’s schtick? Leprechauns? Rhyming ?)

“Uhh,” Is all Peter responded with.

“Alice, my dear, there is no need to fear, 

I, your hero: the Mad Hatter, is here!

This fool interrupted my ingenious scheme,

Where you would run far, far away from that unruly team,

And into my strong arms, my sweet and lovely embrace,

Then I, the hero! Would gain the adoration of your kind face.”

(Oh… it really was Alice in Wonderland. 

What a creep!!!)

Red Robin was shouting something (“Fuck, stay back! Don’t let him touch you!”) , but it didn’t really matter what it was. Something had to be done - this creepo-asshole-perv had done enough harm already, making Allie fear for her life and causing her to look like that. 

(Like when MJ was falling off of the fucking Statue of Liberty. Like how Peter knows he looked when he was dying, crumbling to dust. Like how Mysterio - how Beck - had looked when he’d been faking his fear of Peter, right before sharing his identity with-)

She shouldn’t be afraid. Nobody should ever be afraid to walk home.

(Walk home like how Ben should have been able to do, on his last day.)

The Mad Hatter didn’t take another step toward Allie, who he had been slowly approaching, a creepy smile firmly in place, with every rhyming line. He couldn’t: Peter body slammed him, going low and tackling hard . Allie had (unfortunately for Peter, but quite funny in the Mad Hatter’s case) reacted at the same time, spraying her pepper spray generously. At least, until she realized Peter had also been caught in the spray. 

Daredevil might not have been impressed by that tackle, but Deadpool would have loved it. He probably would have actually joined in, if Peter was being honest.

(Scratch that, he would have definitely joined in.)

Instinctively, Peter’s hands rubbed at his eyes as he climbed to his feet, and they came away wet from tears. He was crying.

Not because of the memory, though. Pepper spray just fucking sucked ass .

“Shit!” Allie’s voice rang out the clearest, but Peter focused past that for the moment. The feeling of danger in the air had faded, and listening closely, Peter could hear the slow heartbeat of the Mad Hatter. He was unconscious, but not dead. 

“Hey, hey, uh- fuck, I dunno you’re name. Are you okay?” Allie’s voice was closer now, concerned, and Peter’s own vigilante instincts kicked in: reassure the civilian and laugh, “I’m fine. You got me good, but it’s no big deal.”

“Peter!” Red Robin’s voice swiftly approached Peter’s side. He couldn’t see much and just nodded in Red Robin’s general direction, “Yum!” 

“What? Fuck , did you get hit with anything? Drugs, gas, weapons?”

“Nothing, nevermind. Don’t worry about it. And no, nothing other than Allie’s pepper spray.”

“Yeah!” Now that her creepy stalker was unconscious on the ground, the real Allie started to peek out a little, and she seemed to be someone energetic and cheerful, if a bit vindictive, “This dude, like, caught the gas thingy that douche threw at us and then immediately tackled him! Hat-Dude’s head kinda conked against the wall and now he’s…” Allie gentured toward his prone body, “Yeah.”

Red Robin must have crouched down by the creep, because his sharp intake of breath came from lower than it had been. Speaking quietly into his com-set, Peter pretended not to be listening in as Allie poured water from her water bottle onto some tissues from her backpack for Peter to wipe his face with.

“He’s gonna take our job at this point.”

“What?” That was Wayne’s - Batman’s - voice.

“Took out the Mad Hatter before I could, since I was busy with the mind controlled helpers and my backup took too long.”

“You’re in one of the least patrolled areas of Gotham - crime rarely happens there, and everyone else’s patrol routes are very far away from you. The Mad Hatter must have planned it out that way, so that no one would have realized what was going on until the poor girl vanished,” The intelligent voice (paired with the faint sound of a clicking keyboard in the background) sounded like the badass librarian, “Fortunately, you were in the area.”

“I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t been following Peter.”

Wayne spoke up again, “We need more information about Peter.”

“What the hell are y’insinuating ‘bout Pete?” Jason’s voice was like acid, on the cusp of spilling into a very real anger

Red Robin seemed to be ignoring his com-set now, lost in his own murmurings, “This is now two of the biggest Gotham criminals and he’s just…”

“-Hey, Red Robin?” Peter interrupted, pulling out his flip phone, “Imma call the police, ‘kay? Nice job on taking all of them down.”

“Wait, but you were the one-” Allie started, and Peter turned his unseeing eyes toward her. Keeping his voice perfectly friendly, Peter emphasized his words once more, “Red Robin took all of them down. I’ve been pepper sprayed this whole time. Didn’t see shit - so certainly no reason for my name to end up in the newspapers again.”

“Ohhh,” Allie nodded her head, “Yeah, totally. I accidentally sprayed you with my pepper spray right off the bat - heh -” Peter snorted with her while Red Robin made a vaguely confused sound at their laughter, “And then Red Robin took care of it all.”

“Right, Red?” In sync, Peter and Allie turned to face Red Robin, one face squinting and pinched while the other guided a red tipped nail across her throat threateningly. 

Red Robin agreed, and the police arrived soon enough, taking the Mad Hatter into custody while an ambulance helped clear out Peter’s eyes and comforted the victims. 

In the middle of it all - as Allie was explaining the situation to her very concerned girlfriend, who was driving over (like a maniac, if the honking Peter could hear over the line was any indication) to take Allie to her house while Allie’s was checked cameras or any other creepy shit, and while Red Robin was explaining the situation to a silver haired man in a tan trench coat - Peter slipped away.

(But not before taking a few pictures of the scene: most notably, the trenchcoat man and Red Robin shaking hands, with the Mad Hatter being guided into an armored van that was perfectly framed between their bodies.

Perhaps not an action shot, but a pretty good picture none-the-less, if Peter wanted to toot his own horn. And, considering that he snapped the picture through half-blurry vision, he would be tooting it, thank you very much. )

Gotham Glazer -

“Red Robin Soars in to Stop the Mad Hatter: Gordon Knows All!”

Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter

“What the fuck! How the hell were they there again??”

Steph, amidst the chaos of several generations of Robins’ exclamations of shock, examined the photo closely, brows furrowing in contemplation.

Cass, who sat beside her, only smiled widely, and sent off the email she’d been writing:

P-

Glad the stab wound wasn’t that bad. Thank you for telling me about it.

Sorry again about the interrogation. Want to do dinner again? Next Thursday? 

You could stay the night.

-C

For the next week, life was pretty normal. Or, well, normal enough for Peter. He’d gone back to work and the Iceberg Lounge was quiet (except for the fact that patrons now either asked for his autograph or made strange and ominous comments about clowns coming to get revenge. Which… was super weird). Peter’s “Daytime Spider-Man Adventures” were also going well. He handled the occasionally little petty crime but mostly just offered a helping hand to the community. Peter’s favorite part of his day, however, was making breakfast for him andd Granny Gun every morning. 

It was nice.

The day after the Interrogation Party, when Peter came back to his little basement home, he arrived to an absolute mess on the ground floor. At his incredulous look, Granny Gun had croaked out, “Bingo night got wild. Turned into strip bingo and beer pong with the bingo balls when we all decided that bingo was boring as fuck.”

And. Well. Peter didn’t really want to know more than that, and completely understood why Thursday nights were Off-Limits; it was more for Peter’s own safety and sanity that he had to flee the premises than there was a risk of Peter reporting any illegal activities being overseen by his landlord, as he had originally thought was the case. 

Was this what Peter had to look forward to with aging? 

Him and Johnny going ham-wild, playing strip bingo and beer pong? Peter’s metabolism burning through the alcohol like its water and Johnny setting himself on fire to get rid of his clothes? Maybe Deadpool (Can Peter call him Wade? Is he allowed to be friendly like that?) would want to join them. He would probably quickly steer them off course and into doing something borderline illegal and Daredevil (Matt. That’s Matt. Can Peter really do this?) would pretend to have some moral high ground about the situation but then be just as crazy - if not more so - than the rest of them. Perhaps Matt could convince Jessica Jones and Luke Cage to join them (Jessica and Luke) and by then none of them could give Peter grief for being the youngest again because he’ll be able to call them ancient and old and it’ll mean something.

(Can Peter really want this?

Is it allowed? To hope for this sort of future?

Will any of them even be allowed to grow old ? Their line of work was a deadly one. Sooner or later, something was bound to steal someone else away from Peter.

(Would it happen because he wasn’t there to save them? Would Peter go back to his universe and find Johnny dead, and a missed phone call that had been begging for backup? Would Peter have accidentally left his (best friend?) to die? Would the Fantastic Four blame him? ( No. Peter can admit, in the quietest and most hidden parts of his mind, that he knows they wouldn’t blame him. No . Sue would wrap him up in a hug and Ben would pat his back and Mister Reed would try to be strong for them all but his eyes would show everything.))

But… but can Peter even go home to begin with?)

As the days slipped by, Peter found himself reaching for his flip phone more and more. He… he was ready to be brave. One night, a week and a bit after dinner with the Waynes (and after a polite refusal and call for a rain check on dinner - Peter wasn’t quite ready to deal with all of that again) Peter called up a number he hadn’t touched for weeks. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Was the first thing Peter heard when the phone picked up after only two rings, “You’re alive.”

“Why hello there, Caller Number One.”

“ Caller Number- Well fuck y’too! You called me first, remember that, twerp?”

“Yeah but I thought you were my lawyer friend and then you weren’t and what can I say? I latch onto comedy in times of grave distress.”

“Y’ were pretty distressed,” Caller Number One (because it feels wrong to think about him being Jason-Nic-Traitor-Brother or someone totally different than a being that stood for complete anonymity) admitted, “Does it mean y’re distressed again if y’re calling again?”

And, thinking about now, yeah , Peter was feeling pretty chaotic inside, “I’ve been thinking about all my friends dying because I’m not there to save them,” Peter admitted, “And then I realized even more recently that I actually wanna be able to grow old, so I’m sort of having a crisis at the moment. Which I didn’t really know was happening until right now, so now I kinda wanna cry.”

There was silence and then, “Wow , brat. Y’know I had been kidding before but it sounds like y’really needed to get that off of your chest.”

Peter’s laugh sounded more like a sob as it ripped its way out of his throat, “Yeah,” he hiccuped, “I think I did too. I… I need someone to tell me that it’ll be okay, I think.”

The response was immediate. “ You, ” and Caller Number One enunciated the word clearly for once, instead of it slurring into his other words, “Are going to be alright. It may not seem like it now, but things will pick up one day. When y’least expect it, the people that care about y’will pick y’right up by the scruff of y’re neck and drag y’to better days. They won’t let y’stay in the dark forever.”

Peter wanted to cry. He was crying, silent little tears that dripped down his cheeks and made everything feel horrible and almost-alright at the same time. “ Okay ,” Peter felt so small, sitting alone on this bed that wasn’t his in a house that didn’t feel like a home, but that he was grateful for all the same. Taking a deep breath in, Peter pictured exhaling out all of his fears, and while in the end it didn’t erase them, it made living in the moment easier, “Okay,” Peter said again, stronger this time, and Peter could hear the huffed smile from Caller Number One-Nic-Jason-Traitor-Brother-Friend- Safety ’s end. 

“I’m going to be alright.”

“Fuck yeah, y’re.”

There was silence, and then Caller Number One cleared his throat, “Now, mind tellin’ me where y’are and who y’are?”

“Hard pass.”

“Figures.”

Yeah. Peter was going to be alright.

Maybe now... he could be brave enough for the other call. The one that had been making his fingers itch all week. The one that...

One of the many that Peter was afraid to make.

That night, a moonless sky shone over Gotham. Had the moon even been out, it still would not have been seen, covered by the perpetual clouds and gloom. Like always (although he would never let them know of this) Alfred would stay awake until all of his charges either came home to him or arrived safely at their own homes. That did not mean that Alfred would laze around in the meanwhile, however. He’d been burning the midnight oil , so-to-speak, for the past several decades, both with Martha and Thomas Wayne, then with Bruce, and then for this new gaggle of children.

Food preparation, cleaning, worrying: Alfred did it all during the night as well as during the day. But the more tedious of tasks could be saved until after the sun had set, and the children (for Bruce would always be a child in Alfred’s mind. His child, to be exact, while the other children were Bruce’s and Alfred’s) had all flown the coop to go save Gotham at the expense of their childhoods.

(Or had their childhoods been taken from them first, because of Gotham’s cruelty, and now they sought to defend others from that same fate?)

Alfred busied himself with folding laundry instead of pondering that thought too hard. It was only because of the endless chores that came with maintaining the upkeep of such a large manor that Alfred could stay sane in these trying times. These trying years. Decades. Lifetime. 

If risking one’s life for the betterment of others was certainly the pinnacle of selflessness, then Alfred is inclined to believe that what he does - perpetually picking up the pieces and stitching them back together after another selfless hero is broken down - is the picture of insanity. After all: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

And, like Alfred mentioned before, he has been doing this for decades.

Alfred’s own phone rang - the ancient thing he always kept at his side, in case his children should need him. He didn’t hesitate to pick it up.

“Alfred speaking, who is this?”

“Oh, hey. Uhm, is this Wayne Manor?”

“While I am employed at Wayne Manor, this is in fact my personal phone. How may I help you? Did you intend to reach Wayne Manor?”

The person on the other side of the phone was quiet for a while, and vaguely, Alfred could hear sniffling, “No. I called who I wanted to. Are you happy?”

“Happy? Why, I suppose I am. I do not have reason to be otherwise, I think.”

“Uhm. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Are you?”

“Huh?”

“Are you happy?”

“N-no. I don’t think so. I’m trying, though.”

“That’s good, lad. Trying is,” Insanity, “All we can ever do, after all. Even when it seems hopeless or futile.”

“Y-yeah. I… I agree. I don’t wanna give up. I want to keep going. I want -”

“You want?” Alfred prompted, laundry forgotten as he sat down in the large chair in Bruce’s bedroom. This used to be Thomas and Martha’s room. This was Thomas’s chair. Bruce refuses to sit in it, refuses to throw it away. And so Alfred sits here instead, and pretends that he forgot the one time Bruce referred to it as Alfred’s chair . 

“I want- I think I want… to go home.”

“Oh, lad…” Alfred floundered for what to say, but the person on the other end of the call waited patiently, although the sniffles had devolved into sobs, “I’m sure… your home wants you too.”

“They do,” Alfred was momentarily surprised by the conviction in the lad’s voice, “I know they do. I know they… That they love me. I just… don’t know how to get back.”

“You will find a way.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You are welcome…” Alfred hesitated, “Peter.”

There was a sharp inhale from Peter’s side of the phone, “Uhm, I don’t know-”

“I may be old but my hearing hasn’t faded yet,” Alfred chuckled lightly, “Do not worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Secrets, as in plural?”

Alfred smiled serenely, although he knows that Peter cannot see it, “They are all safe with me. Always have been, and always will be.” 

“You really are like happy, huh?”

How odd, for someone to sound so broken yet so fond at once, “Pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just. Something from my home, that’s all.”

Chapter Text

“Spider-Menace Gone from New York: The End of an Era!”

When it first became apparent that Spider-Man disappeared (vanished, went kaput , with radio silence on all fronts), J. Jonah Jameson had been ecstatic. He’d preached endlessly about how the vanishing of Spider-Man was the end of an era: that the reign of costumed freaks would soon be over, now that their so-called “ringleader” was gone. At first, people agreed with him. Not the everyday person, of course, who walked and lived alongside Spider-Man, but the people who lived above it all. Or, stupidly enough, people who didn’t even live in New York. Jameson brought on countless people and so-called experts who recited statistic after statistic trying to prove that Spider-Man had been the cause of the rise in costumed criminals and “freaks.”

The Avengers (or, what was left of them) stayed quiet, too, which the news and media took to be approval of Spider-Man’s “sudden retirement” (their code phrase for “probable death” because even the news wasn’t heartless enough to celebrate a man’s death. or maybe they were, but they knew better than to do so, unless they wanted the backlash of all backlashes from the real living people of New York.) despite them never actually saying so. 

“The Rhino Robs the Bank of America! Where is Spider-Man?”

Then, as the days stretched into weeks, which became a month and then more, even Jameson had to admit - which he did so over a live broadcast - that the loss of Spider-Man cut deeper than anyone could have ever anticipated. That he could have ever anticipated. Because while Jameson was a lot of things, he at least knew when to admit his own mistakes. After the Rhino robs the fourth bank within two short weeks, Jameson transformed his soapbox of slander into one of genuine news , covering the rising crime rate and asking the question every New Yorker was wondering: where is Spider-Man?

“Six Years of Spider-Man: Our Favorite Spidey Moments”

Of course, those who knew Spider-Man as more than just the mask realized he was gone before anyone else.  

The first people to notice Spider-Man’s disappearance (that something had gone utterly wrong ) had been the Fantastic Four. Spider-Man missed out on family game night, after all. And maybe - maybe - there might have been an excuse. A reason why he’d flaked. Why Spider-Man no-showed. So they weren’t worried - or, at least, they claimed to not be worried, yet no games were played that night, despite it being a weekly tradition for their family even when Spider-Man wasn’t there -  but still kept their phones beside them. Just in case. 

Just in case.

It soon became apparent, however, that something had gone dreadfully wrong.

Because Spider-Man might be flakey at times: might be habitually late because of a ridiculously over packed schedule (although that tended to not be the case these past two or so years (according to Johnny, at least)) or forget a date or get sidetracked doing one of his numerous civilian jobs or by fighting some villain of the week or petty thief… but Spider-Man didn’t ignore people. He didn’t ignore texts for days on end, and he would always, always , apologize if he genuinely screwed up and missed a meeting or a hang out or anything that had people relying on him. Expecting him.

So when phone calls went unanswered, when no apologies were made…

And it wasn’t about the apology - not really. Not at all, even. What was important was knowing that Spider-Man was safe and alive and okay , and then maybe an apology would be nice, just for worrying them when it turned out to be nothing (please, please , let it be nothing!).

“Fire in Queens Kills Two People”

When a fire broke out in Queen - in Spider-Man’s turf (in his neighborhood ) - and people actually died…

It struck all of New York that Spider-Man was really gone. 

( Gone . Johnny prayed to anything - anyone - that would listen that this wasn’t a permanent sort of gone . Gone like Stark, gone like the Widow. Gone like far too many people in Spider-Man’s life must be, because Johnny knows his best friend - knows him like no other - and the grief held in Spider-Man’s shoulders was far too heavy a burden for one person to bear alone. 

Yet, somehow, Spider-Man bore it. Unrelentingly. Bravely. Stubbornly , because would it kill the guy to ask for help???

“So please,” Johnny begged, silently, out loud, under his breath, between every heartbeat, “Don’t be gone for good. Just for this little while. Please. Please don’t leave - not yet, not now. ”

Not ever, if Johnny was allowed to be greedy (and oh could he be greedy), but he’d take what he could reach for now and then ask for more later. Another minute, then an hour, then a day, a week, a year, a lifetime.

(Was it possessive to want to claim every second?))

“The Human Torch Spotted in Queens Helping Rescue a Cat from a Tree: What do the Heroes Know About Spider-Man’s Disappearance?”

And no one knew what to do. 

The Fantastic Four sent out feelers, scrolled through the Spider-Spotter Twitter every other hour, and watched over Queens in Spider-Man’s absence.

“A Tribute to Spider-Man”

The second person - although technically the fifth, since the first had been the entirety of Fantastic Four - to notice Spider-Man was gone had been Deadpool (“Wade, call me Wade, Spidey.”) after Spidey had failed to meet up with him for their normal Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays (a trademark, according to Deadpool, pending) which consisted of them eating way too much fast food in the early Thursday morning - barring any complications regarding villainy, misfit, tomfoolery, or hijinks.  

But that specific Thursday had been quiet on all fronts. Wade checked. There hadn’t been any major or minor crimes that would keep Spidey from meeting up with him, and he hadn’t called either to back out like he normally would have had something come up in his civilian life. Instead, Spidey was just… gone.

And so when Johnny Storm landed beside Wade on the second Spider-Man-less Thursday, he stood up from his precarious perch, feeling achy in a weird internal way - not from food poisoning or his guts being in the wrong place or his guts being an entirely different room - and asked, “What do we do?”

Johnny didn’t know the answer when Spider-Man first disappeared, and he still didn’t have an answer now. 

Wade graciously (eagerly, even, for they all wanted proof that Spidey was okay as fast as possible) sent out feelers of his own, which were much less legal than the Fantastic Four’s but were also exactly what they - the “Find-Spidey-Squad” - needed.

Wade also called Daredevil.

“Deadpool seen Alongside the Fantastic Four: Trouble in New York?”

Daredevil - Matt - was a special kind of fearsome when provoked. “The voice of logic” Wade’s left ass-cheek , because that guy knew how to get Shit Done and get it done well , while also being utterly immoral and unethical in the same breath. Perhaps it was that sort of fierceness that drove a respectable lawyer to do disrespectful things in the dead of night, wearing a mask of the devil and smiling like one, too.

But even he couldn’t find Spidey.

And if Matt- fucking- Murdock can’t find someone, then they’re truly all fucked.

“Increasing Number of Information Brokers being Arrested in New York: All Claim that the Devil Found Them”

They made a group chat. It went unnamed. Spidey had always been the one to come up with the names of stuff. Not group chats, but everything else.

Spidey didn’t have a smartphone, after all - just an old ratty flip phone that they’d all seen him treat with a desperate sort of delicacy, despite the damn thing being practically unbreakable - so there was never a reason to have a group chat before. Spidey would call if he needed them.

Which… was rarely ever. But then again, even if he did need them, Spidey would have to be held at gunpoint and threatened with death to even bother with trying to reach out. Which had happened. He’d been shot. The only reason anyone ever found out about that incident is because Spidey had canceled Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays , and when Wade had demanded an explanation, Spidey meandered around the truth while not exactly telling a lie either, which then, obviously , led to Wade breaking into police records. Honestly, it was the most reasonable next step when it came to Spidey. The bitch didn’t have a life anywhere else. Upon finding a bragging statement to the police from some petty-ish (they weren’t really petty - the dude was actually some semi-big-time crook who’d managed to get the jump on Spidey - but Wade was petty, so let him be mean , damnit) criminal bragging about shooting “The Spider-Man!” because the punk had been too proud to call for backup when given the opportunity. The asshole had in the middle of gleefully retelling the story of roughing up Spider-Man to the other inmates when Wade had unexpectedly “dropped in” and “roughed him up a little” in return. And also broken some (read: many) bones. 

All’s fair in love and messing with Spider-Man. The rat had apparently gassed Spidey and been in the process of threatening a child, no fucking wonder the ass could get some hits in.

Point being , Spidey never called anyone ever and so they - meaning, all the people who care about Spidey - call him instead. Everyone except for Wade has gotten really good at pretending not to notice how surprised and awestruck Spidey seemed every time someone wanted to see him outside of (and even in) a “work setting,” as Spidey always called it.

(“Work setting” Wade’s right ass-cheek. Spidey always got all righteously indignant when someone calls being a vigilante a duty or a job . Told this one rookie, once upon a time, to “Get the fuck out of here, then, if you’re just gonna treat this shit like a job. These are people’s lives . Not a statistic, or a chore, or a task . It’s an honor to be trusted. Don’t treat it like a goddamn ball and chain, because otherwise you’ll sink , with innocent people strung along with you.”

Even the veteran vigilantes felt cowed in the face of Spidey’s disappointed face, of his shame at being associated with people who treat being a vigilante - who treat helping people - like a sort of twisted obligation.

Spidey was The Veteran, though, so it made sense. Maybe most of the vigilantes who roamed New York were older than him age-wise, but Spideys been doing this shit for six years now. There was this look he has in his plastic covered eyes - the way he holds himself like he’s sixty and tired and not someone who should have still been a kid , by all means - that told a story… no, that told a truth none of them could bear.

But it was his truth - his history - and he bore it all the same.)

“Growing Number of Vigilantes Spotted in Queens: the Punisher Claims they are ‘Here to do their Part’ in a Brief Exchange with Reporter Betty Brant”

Alas: back to the group chat.

It existed. And as the days and weeks wore on, it grew. There were group chat offshoots . There were offshoots of offshoots . There were Twitter communities and conspiracy theories and civilians and neighbors all asking the same question: Where the hell was Spider-Man?

No one had an answer. 

Then, Spider-Man showed up.

He was a kid. An honest-to-god kid, wearing a Spider-Man suit that bore way-too-close of a resemblance to the way Spidey had sewn his own bright spandex monstrosity, but in a tasteful black and red that screamed stealth and had fucking built in knee and elbow pads .

A kid. 

A kid who, upon being cornered by three Big Fucking Names in the vigilante and hero community (namely: Deadpool, the Human Torch, and Daredevil) squared up his shoulders and said, without any prompting, “Someone has to do it.”

“What it Means to be Neighborly: Interviews with People Spider-Man has Saved”

The Human Torch was glaring at him. Him , Miles Morales. Him , Spider-Man (sort of). Him , who’d never really done this before. Him , who’d heard Spidey tell stupid stories about the Human Torch burning his own clothes off far too many times.

Miles - he was Spider-Man , after all! - took a deep breath. He could do this.

“What?” His voice cracked. Miles wanted to dive into the Earth and bury himself alive.

“Why are you dressed like that ? And who are you? ” The Human Torch questioned harshly, and Miles really wanted Deadpool to stop thumbing the gun at his hip. 

Acting dumb would get Miles nowhere, and so he answered with the truth instead, in spite of everything Spidey had ever told him, “Spider- uh. Man. Spidey . No wait.”

They were on a rooftop. If the Human Torch wasn’t capable of flight and Deadpool wasn’t a dead shot , Miles might have entertained the idea of trying to run away, “Okay, starting over. I’m Spider-Man, but I’m not Spidey . Y’know?”

Of course they know , Morales! Get it together!

“And Spidey’s been, uh, training me. Or, he was. Took me under his wing. I got bit like him. I’m- I’m like him, with the freaky spider and the powers and the extra senses and the-” They get it, Morales, stop stalling! “And yeah. I haven’t had my powers for too long, so he’s been teaching me about how to use them. So far, I’ve only gone out on patrol with him, and I’ve been delegated to the lookout but. But. Y’know. Someone has to be Spider-Man. So I’ll be him.”

Daredevil visibly bristled and Miles backtracked, “Not- not him- him. I can’t ever be Spidey. But I can be Spider-Man and I can protect Spidey’s neighborhood and. And I can’t just stand by. Not anymore. I promised Spidey I would be smart about this - he… he always got nervous about me doing stuff on my own when I’m still so new but never stopped me either, just… just supported me and watched out for me and was there , somehow, even when he didn’t have to be. And I don’t wanna believe he’s gone but if he is gone then someone has to be Spider-Man. The city… The city needs Spider-Man. And I’m not him, but I’m the closest one to it. There’s no greater honor than being Spider-Man - than helping people, than being… being trusted to do the right thing - and I can’t let… I can’t let his teaching go to waste. I refuse to let that happen.”

Somehow, despite having a full mask, Deadpool’s face showed the most emotion. Or maybe Miles was finally starting to see what Spidey always talked about - how he could see too much , too closely - because Deadpool looked absolutely stricken . But still, he laughed despite his obvious discomfort and dropped his hand from the gun, then threw his arm around Mile’s shoulders, “Alrighty then, Spider-Man.”

One of Deadpool’s arms entirely drowned Mile’s frame, and even with his enhanced strength it felt difficult to stay upright under the overbearing weight. The pressure. The expectations . Miles wasn’t sure if he was talking about the physical force of Deadpool’s arm anymore, although it was certainly heavy and unbalancing. 

(How did Spidey ever manage it?)

Daredevil looked away with a scoff, although he didn’t rebuke Miles for his wandering tongue and presumptuous statements. It felt like approval, almost, if only because of the potentially fond curve of Daredevil’s mouth. 

The Human Torch stayed blank, although he did nod once, “Okay. You’re Spider-Man. But if we’re gonna let Spidey’s kid run around the city then you’re sure as hell going to have backup. You got a phone? I’ll put in all our numbers.”

When Miles handed over his smart phone with the contacts app open, the Human Torch stilled. He held the phone like it was a bomb, murmured something about flip phones and burners and naivety . He looked closer at Miles, and it felt like he could see under the mask, somehow, “You don’t mind being called a kid?” 

Shrugging, Miles scrunched up his nose, “I mean, I dunno. I’m younger than you so I guess I’m a kid. You aren’t wrong . Why should I have a problem with it?”

The three older heroes or vigilantes or veterans or something (Spidey had tried to explain the difference - tried to explain how the difference meant something to some people - but Miles hadn’t gotten it . He still didn’t get a lot of the things that Spidey had been trying to prepare him for, but that just meant that Spidey had to get home faster, so he could help Miles understand one day.) looked at one another with a dawning sort of realization. 

“Kid,” Daredevil tested out the word (remembered calling Spidey that, over a year ago, and had watched a concrete wall get destroyed mere seconds after), “Spidey hasn’t been teaching you how to be Spider-Man.”

“Eh?” Miles reared back. Or, well, he would have, had Deadpool not been right there , “No! He has! He trusts me with Spider-Man, I promise! I- I- He has to have trusted me!” 

“Easy,” Deadpool soothed, his softer tone at odds with his domineering personality and form and the filth which usually sprung from his mouth, “Red’s bad with words. It ain’t that Spidey doesn’t trust you. He does. But the fact is he really wasn’t teaching you how to be like him, but rather…”

Daredevil picked up from where Deadpool trailed off, the mercenary lost in thought, “He’s trying to keep you from ending up like him. Spidey… seems like he wants you to be better.”

“Better?” Miles echoed. Impossible. No one could be better at being Spider-Man than Spider-Man!

“Better,” The Human Torch affirmed, and some life seemed to spark back in him, “Because our Spidey’s a kind one. For him, being Spider-Man made being a kid impossible. Made it feel stifling. He wants better for you. So we’re all gonna do right by him. We’ll keep you safe, kid. We’ll make sure you can be the Spider-Man that Spidey wants you to be.”

And. Well. Miles wasn’t one to turn away help when freely offered. Wasn’t one to feel ashamed about asking for help - not when Spidey had always made it so abundantly clear that no question was ever a stupid question, that no confusion or necessity should ever go unaddressed - in the first place either. 

“Thanks! I really appreciate it!”

Miles hesitated, bit his lip, and contemplated, “You- you don’t know Spidey outta mask, right?”

The lack of an answer was an answer in and of itself. 

“Would- would knowing it help?”

Three sets of eyes whipped around to stare intently at Miles, and he tried not to shrink back under the pressure, “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“You know?” The Human Torch’s bare face - something that had been plastered on gossip magazines and channels and been the face of some modeling agency or another since forever - had never looked so real . So honest. So desperate.

“Sorta. He- he made me promise not to look him up, and didn’t tell me his name, but he gave me his address in case of emergencies. And I know his face outside of the mask, ‘cause I’d knock on the window to get his attention and he’d always answer if he was in. I never went inside, except for once when-” Miles coughed, interrupting himself forcefully, “But yeah. I know where he lives. I looked for him there - I’ve gone every other day in case he shows up - but nothing. Maybe you can find more than me. I wasn’t sure if it was right to- to pry. And figure out who he is, since he made me promise and all. But this has gone on for too long, and his landlord is getting mad. I know ‘cause I went on the door side, too, to knock and stuff, and there was an eviction notice set for next week. Which is another reason why I’m out - I was hoping you’d find me. Because… Because I think there would be nothing worse for Spidey to come back to than his home being gone.”

“I’ll take care of it,” The Human Torch offered instantly, “Don’t worry. But I want to see Spidey’s place first. So-” and now the man was uncertain, all his intensity flying out of him, “So lead the way.”

“Spider-Man Gone from New York: The End of an Era [Revised]”

“You really are like Happy, huh?”

Peter’s own words bounced around in his head. 

He had yet to hang up the phone, and even though it felt like grasping at straws, Peter wouldn’t - couldn’t - let this phone call slip through his fingers. This opportunity .

“What makes you happy?” And now, Peter wasn’t talking about his Happy. Instead, Peter meant the emotion. He meant happiness as in something that is joyful and wonderful and kind. 

Alfred’s response was immediate, answering with a soft puff of laughter, “Cleaning dirty floors.”

“What? Why?”

“In the beginning of my working at Wayne Manor, cleaning the floors didn’t strike me in any certain way,” Alfred’s calm voice felt like settling into bed, with May reading him a bedtime story after a nightmare, a soothing hand running through his hair and never ever judging, “Cleaning was simply a task, and one that had to be done. However, when the late Mister and Missus Wayne were still alive, and when Master Bruce was still a boy, they would never take off their shoes after coming inside. So they would track mud and dirt and whatnot all throughout the manor, and I would have to clean it.”

Alfred fell silent for a moment, contemplative, “After the Mister and Missus Wayne passed, there was so much less to clean. Master Bruce didn’t leave at first, or do much of anything anymore, and so there were no longer any outdoor messes on the bottom of his shoes being tracked inside. I never again saw the dirty scuffs from Missus Wayne’s heels or the point of Mister Wayne’s shoe on freshly cleaned floors. I had less to do, sure, yet it was only because a tragic loss had made it so. But then,” Alfred’s voice turned fond, “Master Bruce brought Master Dick into our household. And suddenly the floors were dirty again. That child!” It was said scoldingly, but there was not a single regretful note in Alfred’s voice, “He could dirty up a house like no other. The manor was alive once more, with new shoe prints - big and little, side by side - and I felt happy.” 

Sighing, Alfred’s voice was both longing and the tiniest bit mournful, “As the manor goes through stages of dirty and clean floors, I find myself happiest whenever there is a mess. That means the manor is alive and full of the children’s voices - that I will never find myself utterly alone , and nor will they.”

“Oh.”

What else was there to say? Oh . 

“What makes you happy, lad?” Alfred asked in return. A tightness and dark sort of growth that had been festering in Peter’s chest laid loose its tight grip, and Peter could breathe again, “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. 

It felt safe to admit such a truth with Alfred. It would have been safe with Happy, unquestionably. And so Peter trusts his gut and his senses, lets himself feel vulnerable. Alfred does not disappoint, “That’s quite alright, lad. There is no need to point to one specific thing that provides you with happiness. It can be a lot of things all together, or nothing specific at all, or anything and everything in between.”

What a vague outline 

Yet - 

“Then I think… yeah,” Peter gathered some courage, smiling just a little bit, “I think it’s somewhere between everything and nothing.”

Wade would roll his eyes at that answer and say something snarky back. Johnny would teasingly call him a poet. Jason wouldn’t say anything. All of those would be enough. 

Happy would say-

No. Alfred said:

“That’s a wonderful place to start, and a wonderful place to end, if need be. When asking a question about happiness, it is our hearts and souls that know the answer - not our minds. Be patient. Your answer will come.”

“Thanks.”

“No,” Alfred replied honestly, “Thank you .”

Breakfast with Granny Gun was, as normal, quiet, save for the clinking of silverware and sound of the coffee maker. Granny Gun, bold and uncowed by most common social conventions, liked quiet breakfasts. At least, Peter was pretty sure she did. The old lady was actually pretty difficult to get a read on, if Peter was being honest. But she seemed most at ease when neither of them talked, save for the quiet, “Thank you, luv,” that she always offered upon finishing her food and standing up. 

Peter felt useful. He quite liked the feeling of being useful: of being appreciated.

It felt good.

After breakfast, Peter grabbed his gear bag, hid his money and cameras, and headed out for the day, shouting a goodbye to Granny Gun as he left. It should have been rude - it would be rude with anyone else - but that’s just how they worked. The rare times she’d leave the house, Granny Gun would yell “I’m leavin’! Don’t burn my house down!” - so in return Peter had started shouting, upon leaving the house himself, “I’m leaving! Don’t burn your house down!”

Even if Peter wasn’t Peter , he still would be able to hear the loud, cackling laughter that overtook the old lady every time Peter left. The first time she’d laughed, Granny Gun had stumbled into a heaving and wet coughing fit, throat unused to laughing. Peter had waited outside the house, ears straining, to make sure that she’d be alright before leaving. Since then, the coughing fits afterward had gotten less frequent, and the scrape of her voice was starting to disappear. Granny Gun got used to laughing again, and sometimes that felt like Peter’s proudest accomplishment in this world.

This time, Granny Gun didn’t cough. Her laugh echoed throughout the empty halls and semi-barren rooms, and Peter wondered what would happen to her if he managed to go home. The thought hurt, and so Peter didn’t linger on it, instead focusing his attention on his original intention for leaving the house: some daytime vigilante work. 

As usual, Peter didn’t set out with any specific intentions. In spite of his previous promises (both to himself and- and his friends) to stop being so impulsive and actually plan things through… Peter had no intention of actually doing so. Why would he? Because having a plan meant that Peter’s anxiety and feelings of helplessness didn’t skyrocket the moment he had the tiniest bit of downtime? Ha! Funny. 

So Peter - who was definitely not growing increasingly concerned with every patrol that his sporadic route and lack of consistency would make people feel uncared for if he didn’t show up regularly - did as he normally did: followed his danger sense and, in moments when he could sense no danger, listened closely to the voices of the people around him.

The residents of Gotham didn’t exactly trust him, not really, but they’d at least gotten used to the sight of a strange person in a zip up Minecraft hoodie going around and helping people for free, so slowly and steadily, they started asking for help. 

“Hey, green-boy! Gimme a hand with moving my couch, eh?”

“Mista Green! My cat got out. Can y’find him?”

“Hey! Hey! Help me throw this bag away!”

“Oi, weirdo, can ya hold up my car while I change the tire? Forgot my jack.”

They’d seen his odd exertions of strength from time to time, seen his seemingly limitless upper weight limit - knew that he could pack a punch bigger than what should be physically possible - and therefore adjusted their needs accordingly. For the most part, Peter lifted heavy things in the downtime between his danger sense pinging. Moved junk, helped fix flat tires, lifted anything that needed to be lifted. It was all in a day's work and nothing too strenuous, so Peter said Sure and Of course and Happy to help! every time. And he was - happy to help, that is. Sometimes (more frequently than Peter expected) folks tried to give him money for helping out. An old grandmother who he’d helped carry groceries for tried to give him a five dollar bill. A frazzled couple, worn and harrowed by the stress of taking care of a new infant, tried to pay him twenty dollars for entertaining their seven year old and four year old from across the street (Peter wouldn’t dare approach someone else’s kids without a parent’s permission! May had drilled that into him: that the only thing more dangerous than an actual criminal, in a parents mind, was strangers near their children.) as he pantomimed different animals and they gleefully guessed what they were for upwards of thirty minutes, while the exhausted mother took a nap and the father rocked the infant on the steps on their brownstone, watching his two other children with keen, but soft, eyes. 

A stressed college student tried to give Peter her cakepop after she nearly dropped her coffee and Peter caught the cup for her. A father sobbed in Peter’s arms after Peter sprinted into the road and grabbed the man’s young daughter from where she’d wandered into the middle of the street and nearly got hit by a car in the process. He’d tried to offer money, a meal, anything , but Peter just shook his head and smiled, even though he knew the man couldn’t see it, “I’m just being neighborly,” is all Peter offered, patting the daughter on the head while she giggled at his silly outfit. 

Over the course of a few weeks, Peter managed to build up a sort of reputation . 

“Did ya hear? Miss Green was seen down by the docks yesterday - one of the metal cargo containers fell while being transported and she caught it. Saved a dock worker from being crushed.”

"Y’hear about Mister Green? Saw him at the Bronskey’s for half the afternoon yesterday babysitting their kids. Mrs. Bronskey tried to pay him for it but he waved her off. What a good lad.”

“Have you seen the news! Mista Green’s on TV! He’s all bloody!”

It - “it” being Peter’s growing reputation and stature among the everyday people of Gotham - all culminated in something in what was afterwards deemed “The Wayne Enterprises Fire.” The name, of course, comes from the fact that Wayne Enterprises had been, quite literally, on fire .

Peter - or Mister/Miss/Mista Green, as people have taken to calling him, for some reason (certainly not because of his bright green Minecraft creeper hoodie… certainly not that…) - had been helping an elderly man with his groceries (always old people and groceries, huh? well, if it was neighborly-) when his danger sense started blaring at him. As in a red alert, red alert, things are about to go to fucking shit so get moving Parker! type of blaring. So far, Peter had refrained from using his webs - grappling hooks and superb strength were one thing, but his webs? Peter feared those would bring too much attention his way, and make him far too noticeable. Plus, even though technically Peter had the money to buy the necessary materials to make more webs, he didn’t really have the whole… lab to do so in, nor could he get rid of the white-knuckle possessive grip his heart had on everything he owned. To swing on his webs was to leave the webs behind, and there was nothing Peter could afford to leave behind. 

But! 

But the danger was imminent and deadly , and lives were at stake, so unthinkingly (even if he had been thinking, Peter still would have done the same exact thing) Peter scanned the area for someone who didn’t make his gut sink inside of him and handed the kind (if a wee bit cranky) old man’s groceries to them, “Please make sure he gets home safe with those! I’m trusting you!” and then extended his arm, shot the web, and swung . Gasps followed Peter down the street as he gained height and speed. Muscle memory took over, and it was like Peter had never stopped flying. The webshooters were in perfect condition (Peter always checked them every morning, and did whatever maintenance was necessary with the few tools he had, since Peter couldn’t afford to have his webshooters not be in perfect condition) and suddenly Spider-Man was back in action. 

Peter swung around though Gotham, letting the tugging in his gut (it was almost nauseating, how strong this feeling of danger was) guide him. Wayne Enterprises came into sight and Peter’s senses subsequently screamed at him right as a shockwave and blast of fire and heat tore through the side of the building on one of the top floors. 

But Spider-Man was back in action - was in action, currently - so Peter barely paused in his swing, only aimed his next web higher as a course correction. Peter’s split second assessment of the building guesstimated it to be roughly fifty stories tall, with the explosion located on the second floor from the top. It had been a blast outward, thankfully, rather than inward, which might have killed a lot more people and destabilized the building even further. There was a gaping hole in the side of the building because of the explosion, partially destroying the floors directly above and below the originating floor, too. The buildings wouldn’t fall, but evacuation was mandatory, and would need to be carried out swiftly.

Fires tend to cause a lot of issues, after all.

Firefighters and emergency services should be arriving soon, Peter thought to himself, landing lightly on the floor that the explosion originated on through the new doorway, ears straining for the sounds of life on his current floor and the two surrounding him. He’d focus his evacuation on the current floor he was on, Peter decided, seeing as it was the place most dramatically affected by both the explosion and subsequent fire

The smoke was heavy already and the heat soaked through Peter’s layers, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate. There were lives on the line. As he was entering the building, something else was going out through the hole made by the explosion, but Peter knew he couldn’t pay any mind to that. Someone had likely broken into Wayne Enterprises and made a very flashy escape, but whatever they were doing would have to be handled at a later date. There were people dying here - he could hear them dying - and that took a far greater precedence. 

Fuck . He couldn’t prioritize the dead, not yet, if there were in fact dead bodies in the area most central to the explosion. While the bomb had created a hole - and a hasty exit - out the side of the building, its location of origin was further in than Peter anticipated, making the damages far more extensive than he’d originally thought. He couldn't hear any signs of life near the origin of the blast. He couldn’t save them. Not yet. Not when the living were still here. The building's alarms were blaring - Evacuate the building! Evacuate the building! Evacuate the building! - and he could hear people doing so farther away. Luckily, it seemed the floor Peter was on had been largely labs or for research and development, and it had been lunch time, too, which meant there weren’t as many people caught in the blast as there could have-!

As gently as he could, Peter grabbed the body of a woman. He could hear her heartbeat. There was another person nearby. Labmates, probably, or at least close coworkers, most likely skipping lunch to work on a breakthrough. Peter didn’t have enough hands. He manhandled the other person onto his back and kept going. There were more. Peter ripped doors off their hinges, tore the legs off of desks, and dragged a morbidly long sled of bodies behind him. There were nine people. All unconscious. One died. 

Peter kept going, following the sound of thunderous footsteps, and finally - finally - burst into the emergency stairwell. People from this floor and the one above that had been away from the blast were flooding down - there were offices further up, more people further up, Peter gathered, and thanked fuck that the blast hadn’t been centralized there instead.

Someone noticed him. They cried out, “Oh god!” 

Peter’s voice stayed steady. Firm. In control, “These people need medical attention! If you’re capable, grab someone and go . There are more people still stuck. I’ll get them.”

A man - broad shouldered, strong, capable - had been directing the people down the stairs, trying to keep them calm and in order and keeping wannabe heroes from the destroyed floor. He kept them from heading into the blaze and killing themselves in the process. He was saving their lives. He looked at Peter - at the blood and smoke that coated Peter’s jacket, at the green that still shone past the grime - and barked, “I’ll take care of this! Keep evacuating!” 

Nothing else needed to be said, so Peter went back (the blaze spread slower than it would have in an office setting, thankfully, with the labs linoleum floors and empty spaces) and found more people. He brought them back to the stairwell for evacuation. The air was thick with smoke and the broad shouldered man now had a rebreather. He gave one to Peter, and Peter didn’t hesitate to unzip the hood of his jacket and pull his ski mask up over his mouth, sucking in the oxygen slowly despite how his lungs screamed. 

“The undamaged sides of these top three floors should be clear.”

Peter nodded. He left. He came back. More bodies. More were dead than alive this time, but at least there were some who still lived. The man wasn’t there, but firefighters were, and some took the victims while others braved the spreading blaze with Peter, and it was easier now. He could locate the people that were alive better than the firefighters. He could move the rubble that crushed them. He could give the bodies - the people - to the firefighters and then keep going. Peter’s hands were burnt. Blistered. His socks had melted and stuck to the skin on the bottom of his feet. Peter wanted to rip off the ski mask, but it was somewhat protecting his skin.

Peter went back. The man was there again. He said, “I cleared the floor above this, and the firefighters got the floor below. This one clear?”

“Yes,” Peter lied, “Go down. I’ll be right behind you.”

The man was suspicious, protested, “I’ll be behind you . Go first.” 

So Peter moved before the man could, hit before the man could, and the broad shouldered soldier slumped into Peter’s arms, who handed him off to a firefighter, “I’m going to get the bodies closest to the blast. You all get out of here.”

They protested. Peter left anyway, and knew they wouldn’t follow.

The news that night ran warning after warning about triggering content and blurred out half of it in the process. Still, the image of a person in a once-green Minecraft hoodie lowering themself to the ground from a fifty plus story descent, a carefully woven net filled with dead bodies held tightly in one hand while the other left a bloody trail down the side of the building, paired gruesomely with bloody footprints on either side of the trail, could never be entirely censored. Nor would it ever be forgotten.

A middle aged man who, for the first time today, helped a stranger with their groceries swore to himself to always help those around him as he watched Mister Green’s feet touch the ground. He made a promise to be neighborly. To be kind. The half rolled up ski mask couldn’t hide Mister Green’s wince. Burns blistered this stranger on his television, and somehow they didn’t fall down. They looked around, noticed the camera, and stared dead into it despite the distance. The middle aged man felt a chill run up his spine, a shiver down to his very essence, and only now Mister Green swayed, then crumpled, a pile of limbs that only now all were realizing were not only charred and destroyed, but youthful and slim.  

No one caught Mister Green before he hit the ground with a crack that could be heard even over the television, too shocked by his retrieval of the bodies of the dead - people who would have been mourned with caskets forever empty - and his strength to even comprehend the idea that perhaps, just maybe, this hero could fall too.

The news stations called him a mysterious wannabe Batman. The police called him a hero who saved the lives of over thirty people, and whose actions had brought back the bodies of nearly every person who had been caught in the blast. The wealthy called him charming. The people of Gotham called him Mister Green, their neighbor. 

Chapter Text

The muffled thump of a body hitting the ground resounded deep within every person present at the scene, and even into the souls and hearts of the anxious viewers watching at home, although the microphones had not picked up the noise. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath; even the news anchor, who had never before let the silence stretch while she was on air, couldn’t manage a single gasp. As the hero - for truly, powers or not, famous or not, this person had to be a hero - fell, it was as if the world fell with them. 

Joan had been inside the building when it exploded. One of her friends - Mirabelle - worked as a lab assistant on one of those top floors. Always bragged about her beautiful view. Always worked hard - had always worked so goddamn hard - in an attempt to prove that she was destined to be someone more than… And Mirabelle always - always - forgot to eat lunch. Joan, who had a comfortable desk job with a cubical on one of the lower floors and who never forgot to eat her lunch, normally brought something up to Mirabelle. Something healthy and maybe a coffee, even though it was later in the day. They’d chat while they ate in the break room, safely away from the mechanical experiments that Mirabelle adored. Joan was looking forward to playfully dragging her friend away from her lab, cajoling her with promises of dessert and treats alongside a hardy meal that Joan made herself this morning. Mirabelle would gripe and groan and grin, and give in instantly. 

It was supposed to be another normal day. Like yesterday had been, and the day before, and the day before that. Joan had been walking down the hallway towards Mirabelle’s lab - like always - when her ears started ringing and she was blinking her eyes open painfully even though she didn’t remember closing them. Or being on the floor. Things blurred, after that, dizziness from her close proximity to what Joan only later discovered to be a hastily made exit by some pyromaniac asshole. The jerk had broken into Wayne Enterprises then made his escape after stealing the blueprints for a highly complex and efficient energy source invented by one of Wayne Enterprise’s lab assistants “under the radar.” Wayne Enterprises would later release that information regretfully, saying they didn’t know how such inventions could be created under their noses, how they would “Do better” to heighten security and make sure “Such dangerous creations remain out of the hands of those who aim to do harm.” The news would also later assume that the asshole - and maybe even the inventor, it was oh-so-slyly implied - intended to use the designs to charge up another city (or perhaps world, if the asshole was feeling particularly ambitious, which they often do) ending disaster. 

Joan knew exactly what plans they were talking about. Had heard Mirabelle detail them nearly every day over lunch for the past year. Had listened to her friend gripe about her supervisor not taking her seriously. Had comforted her friend when, less than a month ago, Mirabelle vented about her supervisor, despite not being willing to support her new clean energy source proposal to the board, wanted to be given the plans anyway. To see them again. To be allowed to take pictures. Had supported her friend when Mirabelle firmly refused. Had, two days before the explosion, driven Mirabelle home after her dear friend expressed a worry about being watched .

And maybe all of the pieces Joan collected - at a later date, of course - would join together in her mind to form a horrible conspiracy that she knew no one would take seriously. Because if Mirabelle’s supervisor disappeared without a trace, then who's to say such an esteemed and philanthropic (because of course he’d been a good person. Of course.) researcher hadn’t been vaporized by the blast, just like poor, poor Mirabelle, who died on the spot when her labs were exploded. No body, no voice , left to mention who might have stolen the designs, aside from the sole text she’d sent to Joan - unseen until later, later, later - that said “Someone was in my office. Stole my blueprints.”

Because it was Joan who had told Wayne Enterprises what had been stolen. Somehow, though, everyone seemed to miss the tiny, insignificant detail that the “dangerous energy generator” had been, in fact, a clean energy generator, one which Mirabelle dreamed of one day having mass produced and shared with the world, to create a cleaner and better planet. Mirabelle wanted to do better . She would have done better .

Ha! Dangerous. As if. It wasn’t Mirabelle’s fault that she was brilliant - that her clean energy generator happened to be capable of - surprise surprise! - generating energy for inventions made with evil intentions just as well as those made for good.

But, of course, this would all happen later .

Right now, though, Joan didn’t know the why or how , only the what , and even that understanding was shaky at best. There had been someone - slim and shorter than her, even without her heels, which had been lost somewhere between walking down the hallway and the shockwave of explosive force and flames and fire - present in her memories, if only for a moment. 

Or perhaps it was longer than a moment. Time felt as though it had yet to resume: as if it had been put on pause the moment Joan blinked into a vague awareness on the floor.

But there had been someone . Greenish, maybe, and silent. Dedicated. Joan hadn’t had the strength to stand and so he’d picked her up in a fireman carry, perhaps thinking her unconscious - for all she knows, she might have been, with how far away the moment seems to be now, how distant the memory feels, as though it were a dream - but still ever-so-gentle. Then things moved again, sped up, or perhaps Joan fell deeper into unconsciousness, because for the second time in far too short of a period, Joan blinked into her own awareness once more.

There was a blanket around her shoulders, and her throat and head felt like thousands of needles were stabbing into them. Everything around her was either doubled or tripled, and Joan wanted to hurl - might have - if there hadn’t been an oxygen mask strapped to her face. Time slowed or maybe stopped or maybe rushed forward once more - and Joan was truly tried of not knowing when she was existing - because first there was the noise and chaos and then there wasn’t: a horrible silence that amplified the ringing in her ears. 

She tried to see what was going on, but the firm hands of the paramedic kept her still. He’d been there for a while, his voice and actions serious and professional even as his face showed blatant fear, terror, and - oddly enough - a sort of wonder. He’d said, “You have a concussion and inhaled a lot of smoke, and will have a lot of soreness, but other than that you should be alright. You should still go to the hospital,” and Joan had nodded her consent then paused, croaked out, “Wait, my friend. She was on that floor too. I need to wait for her,” and the paramedic’s face grew grimmer, but still, he nodded and moved to another person without protest. 

Gotham was kinda like that. A lot of people, after being through something like this - some sort of otherworldly horror that shouldn’t ever happen to people yet was somehow a semi-normal time Gotham, barring the fact that the explosion happened during the day - would refuse to go to the hospital. Or they’d wait and watch and hope to see a rare Bat, or they’d wait and pray that the people they cared about would also be okay. Then maybe they could go to the hospital together, instead of parting with one of them in a body bag.

Joan was the latter and she was content to wait, until the silence fell and the world sounded like a tomb. The paramedic protested when Joan pushed against his hands again, but still allowed her to move, the oxygen mask having been removed a few minutes prior. Joan circled the side of the building and followed everyone’s gaze - up, up, up - and had any potential noise she could have made swallowed alongside them.

Someone - maybe green, once upon a time - and slim and shorter than her even with Joan’s bare feet, was crawling down the side of the sheer faced building, leaving a trail of blood behind him while one hand held (carefully, carefully) a bag of death.

No. That wasn’t fair. A bag full of the dead.

The someone made sure the bodies landed softly on the ground but was much less gentle with their own descent, feet slapping against the rough concrete with a firmness that made Joan wince. They, too, had bare feet, although the socks that once adorned them had melted into the skin and flesh, a horrific burning smell wafting from them. Even if Joan wanted to know what her savior looked like, she wouldn’t have been able to, the synthetic cloth of the mask having also melted, looking as though it had melded to their skin and seeped into the very essence of their being. It looked disgusting.

It looked painful .

And then the person collapsed, head knocking against the concrete with a sound that made Joan want to puke, the soft thud of the rest of their body falling not much better.

No one moved. No one breathed. Then someone was screaming “ Paramedic! Help! Help!” Joan’s throat constricted even further and she realized it was her own voice screaming: ragged and hoarse and unrecognizable. The sounds of her own screams were paired with the sounds of bare feet hitting the ground. Joan couldn’t hear them past the ringing in her ears, but she knew they were hers nonetheless, because the figure in maybe-once-green (slim, shorter, young- ) was growing closer. 

On a whim, Joan and Mirabelle had taken a first aid class together. They’d become CPR certified and everything. The paramedics were right around the corner but Joan didn’t even pause before feeling for a pulse and, upon finding none, began chest compressions. Began life-saving CPR on the person who’d saved Joan’s colleagues, friends, acquaintances, and those unknown to her but who might have been always unknown to her instead of in the hospital. Even for those that did die, this person had returned them safely. They’d done their best and now Joan would do hers. 

Two breaths. The fabric smelt like something rotten against burnt flesh. The chest compressions continued. The next two breaths were unneeded, a handful of paramedics arriving and placing an oxygen mask on the person’s face, another replacing Joan at their side. The man Joan had almost begun to think of as her paramedic put a blanket back over her shoulders, hid her face from the camera, and reassured Joan quietly that she did a good thing as she retched and heaved off to the side. The paramedic provided her with anonymity from the crowd while Joan emptied her stomach, the smell of burnt skin forever ingrained in her memory.

Later , Joan would receive an email from Wayne Enterprises apologizing for the incident and offering heavy financial recompense. At that time, Mirabelle’s invention had yet to have been called dangerous and Wayne Enterprises had yet to claim that they will do better , and so Joan quietly accepted the money and didn’t quit out of respect to Mirabelle, who had loved her work, even with her shitty supervisor. But then it became even later , and Mirabelle’s hard work - her good work - was bad-mouthed while the inventor herself was never named, and Joan would quit her job at Wayne Enterprises the very next day.

That night, however, after being checked out at the hospital and told she could go home as long as she promised to, “Take it easy,” Joan would drink herself sick even when it burned her throat, because Mirabelle didn’t even have a body to be found. Incinerated on the spot. And Joan could do nothing about it, because she was just an office nobody.

That night, Joan’s neighbor knocked on the door of her apartment - a young twenty-something woman fresh out of college and fifteen years Joan’s junior - would knock on the door wearing something definitely green and familiar. The young woman was taller than Joan, even in her slippers, with wide eyes and colorful hair and said, “I know sorry doesn’t help, but. But. But we’re neighbors. I made a casserole. Want some?”

And Joan, drunk and sad and mourning and pissed, nodded after a little while.

“I think I’d like that.”

There was something strapped to Peter’s face. Breathing hurt for some reason. Not in a panic-attack way, which Peter was intimately familiar with, but in a “taking a breath physically hurt” way. The source was, obviously, the thing strapped to Peter’s face in spite of the fact that his danger sense wasn’t actually going off even the slightest amount. But. But something was on his face and Peter sort of felt like he was dying again, just a little bit, similar-but-not-really to the time when his lungs once found themselves in a constant loop of disintegrating and knitting themselves back together.

Peter knew (vaguely, sort of, not really) that he wasn’t actually dying.

That did not, however, mean that he could restrain the violent instinct to rip away the mask. There were hands on him, feather light, trying to keep Peter from tearing the mask off his face, but they couldn’t stop him. Distantly, Peter remembered to reign in his strength, but one of the people trying to hold him down still reeled away when Peter batted him to the side, a garbled curse leaving their mouth that Peter couldn’t quite make out. 

The mask was gone. Breathing hurt more now, for some reason. Peter opened his eyes to a plain ceiling, not concrete, thank Thor, but still far too close, far to white and endless, and he sat up swiftly, dislodging a second pair of hands in the process. The world presented itself to him in a haze and Peter wrenched himself up and off of the thing was lying on (snapping sounds followed, which Peter would later realize had been the sounds of the straps holding him onto the stretcher breaking, but at the time rang in his head like gunshots), swinging his feet over the side and throwing himself at the doors he could vaguely see through blurry vision. They gave way easily underneath him as Peter ignored his danger sense, which chose now of all times to start blaring - shouts and yells of not-quite-anger (maybe terror instead) following his movements - and Peter was tumbling onto the road. Luckily he curled into a ball before making impact, rolling with the movement rather than becoming a Peter-pancake.

The impact shocked Peter into a greater awareness, fully alert now instead of existing in a dull haze of pain and fading adrenaline. His danger sense flared right as Peter’s momentum began to slow. He listened this time around, rolling to the side before a second vehicle could run him over. Peter’s senses were still screaming at him, but so was the world, and Peter belatedly recognized the sound of sirens. Sirens? Yes, Peter strained his ears, sirens. Almost like an ambulance.

Oh.

Peter would have smacked himself in the head had he been, well, able to move. 

He must have been in an ambulance, and not - haha, whoops, honest mistake really - dying and/or being tortured (well, maybe dying a little, considering he’d been in the ambulance to begin with). And now, rather than in a cozy, anxiety-inducing ambulance, Peter was instead curled up on the side of the road, spine pressed against the wall of the divided highway. It should have been cold. Peter couldn’t feel it. The road should have been rough against his skin, but aside from the white-hot-burning pain of rolling out of a moving vehicle and the general horrificness of his body, Peter couldn’t feel much of anything. 

Whatever: fine. He’d felt worse. He’d died before. This wouldn’t kill him (probably-maybe), but getting hit by a car just might , with how Peter’s body was starting to not hurt with how pain he was in. 

Peter got up. Mentally. Spider-Man always gets back up-! but he couldn’t. Could not make his body move - his fingers barely twitched even as Peter repeated a mantra of get up, get up, get up - despite the fact that he needed to. Had to. Peter wanted to live , goddamnit, he wanted to get up, he needed to go home -

“Hey! Hey!” Hands that Peter couldn’t feel but could see through his barely opened eyes hovered over him, a broad set of shoulders now between Peter and the vehicles that must have stopped because of him, considering it was quiet, “Kid, what the fuck was-” 

Things became a bit fuzzy after that. Peter’s rage at being called a kid felt duller than normal. He kinda did feel like a kid, if Peter was being honest. A kid in a fuckton of pain, who wanted May, who wanted Happy, who wanted… who wanted someone to protect him, for once, instead of him always protecting others. 

Like Daredevil. A month after all that shit went down back in Peter’s universe, he had been crouched on the edge of a building in his Spider-Man suit. It was the first time he’d gone out since… everything, and the sounds and smells and sensations were boxing him in from all sides. Paralyzed by indecision, by panic, by fear - what to do what to do what to do - Peter felt as though he was a singular breeze away from falling forty stories and silencing the overwhelming sensations forever. He didn’t want to. But. But it felt impossible to pull back, to stop , and Peter’s body rocked forward on its own and he was afraid and there was Daredevil, grabbing the back of his homemade suit (Peter made it with his own hands and he was proud but it was lonely in there. He’d tried to call for Karin and she wasn’t … and then-) and pulling Peter down from the edge. 

Daredevil might have been shouting his name. His hero name, of course. Maybe. At least, Peter thought he might have been, because as he was laying against Daredevil’s chest and his - Daredevil’s - heart was racing and his chest was heaving. But Daredevil didn’t get tired like a normal person and it wasn’t that late quite yet, so he must have been shouting something and had yet to catch his breath. Daredevil held him tightly, like he was afraid Peter would lunge away and towards the edge if he let go, and talked to Peter for hours or minutes or some indecipherable amount of time until the world wasn’t choking him with its expectations. All he had to do was “Breathe, y’twerp. Breathe.”

Memory-Peter frowned. No. That wasn’t right. Daredevil had called him Spider-Man that night. He wouldn’t have said twerp and he didn’t have a faint drawl to his words either. Memory-Peter opened sticky and crusty eyes - though not crusty from sleep, but rather from dried blood melted against fabric - to a world that was not his , to people that didn’t know him, but maybe, Peter thought, as he looked up at a red helmet worn atop worried shoulders, “They might want to.”

That was the last thought Peter - memory or real - had for a while.

Finding out that Wayne Enterprises was on fire probably warranted a larger reaction. As always, Tim knew everything first, and sent a message to the Batchat:

Tim: WE attacked. bomb set off on one of the top floors, perp seen leaving on cams, unknown individual entering. eta? mine 25 min

Bruce: I did not go into the office today. Will hurry. 30.

Damian: Father, I can hunt down the perpetrator with ease. ETA 15

Dick: if u leave class so help me god 

Damian: Fine.

Cass: 5

Bruce: Cass, you are closest. Follow after the bomber

Cass: Cannot.

Tim: y?

Cass: Cannot. Going offline.

Duke: In pursuit.

Bruce: Cass, where are you going?

Bruce: Cass. Answer.

Jason had been watching it all go down passively. He didn’t want to be in the Batchat to begin with - there was no way he was getting reeled into this business. But then Cass messaged him privately:

Cass: You have a car B cannot track. Bring it to WE.

“Okay,” Jason murmured under his breath, “Now what the fuck does that mean?”

Jason: Why

Cass: Need you. Please. In suit.

And, well. There wasn’t much Jason could say in response to that other than:

Jason: K

Cass had Jason park the car on the side of the road, anxiously watching the building from the passenger seat.

Jason wasn’t sure what the fuck he was doing. Or supposed to be doing. 

“Why the hell did y’need me?” But, like the last time Jason asked, Cass didn’t answer - just kept staring. Jason hadn’t talked to Cass in person since the semi-disastrous interrogation dinner with Peter, and as he watched her, he couldn’t help but recall the questions everyone had been left with after Peter disappeared. Cass probably wouldn’t answer, but fuck it, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, “I know y’said that Peter,” Cass started, Jason narrowed his eyes. The hell was that about? But still, he continued on with the original question,  “Didn’t know the rest of our identities - just y’rs- but I have a hard time believing that if he can read people like y’can. I know B is suspicious too, and the others have to be, even if they’re all agreeing to take y’r word for it.”

Cass’s eyes danced from the building to Jason, back and forth, before finally settling on him with a weird sense of finality, “Peter recognized me because we are… attuned. And I cannot change the way I move from in the mask to out. The rest of you do . There is a difference. Peter cannot see it. He is not as good as me at reading,” Cass sounded incredibly serious. Jason wanted to believe her but, “Then why did y’steal the blood sample B had?”

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t deny it - Jason might have backed off if she'd denied it - and so he pressed, “B had a blood sample after Pete bled on him at the Iceberg Lounge. Only us ‘n Robin were there. We saw the blood on B’s sleeve. It was obvious he was gonna run it. But the shirt disappeared. Robin wouldn’t have done it. I know that I didn’t. Why?”

“Alfred washed it out when he found it in the cave,” Cass argued calmly, her gaze like stone, “We all know that. Alfred admitted it himself.”

Jason’s brow furrowed as he bit back an instinctive bark of anger, “ We, ” he mocked, “ All know that Alf wouldn’t do that . I dunno how you got him on y’r side but-”

Then Cass’s entire body tensed - visible even to Jason’s untrained eye (at least, in comparison to hers) - and he followed her line of sight directly to a person crawling down the side of the building with a bag of bodies in tow. That, certainly, was a sight to behold. The Batchat was probably filled with a flurry of messages by now demanding why both of them had turned off their locations, but that was exactly why both him and Cass had muted the chat.

The person was descending slowly. Jason gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Under his breath - although he knew that Cass could still hear him - he muttered, “Glad y’did it. Would’ve taken me longer to break in.”

In a moment of weakness that neither would ever mention to anyone, Cass’s shoulders dropped, her voice terribly relieved as she whispered, “...Thank you.”

Then a call came through on Cass’s phone. Both of them jumped, tearing their eyes away from the bizarre spectacle on the side of the building to stare at one another in surprise. The only person Cass (or any of them, really) never muted was - speak of the devil - Alfred. Even on secret missions, Alfred was never muted, because if he was calling then something big and potentially world-ending was going on, and secrecy probably didn’t matter anymore. Cass answered the call after getting over her surprise and put it on speaker, “Alfred.”

“Mn,” Then Alfred rattled off an address not far from where they were now, “For when you pick up the package. I’ll be there.”

Despite Cass’s obvious surprise, she still agreed (one didn’t refuse Alfred, after all), seemingly knowing what he was referencing. 

Jason, however, did not , and he was growing tired of waiting in regards to this random stranger on the side of a building. Even though Cass hadn’t really answered his questions about the mysteries surrounding Peter, he’d have to be content with half-answers and quiet admissions for now, since Cass’s attention had obviously turned toward a different person. Whether or not she’d be more or less willing to answer questions about this other stranger, Jason wasn’t sure (it felt like less, though, since she’d refused to answer why he had to be here earlier), but before he could even try demanding an answer, Cass’s hand shot out, pointing at an ambulance that was rushing away, “He’s in there - follow it!” 

Who , Jason wanted to ask, desperately, but the likelihood of Cass answering his questions when she looked that anxious felt slim to none. At least by following after the ambulance, Jason might actually get some answers, as opposed to interrogating an uncrackable Cass and letting someone(???) get away.

So Jason followed. Whatever - fine - it totally didn’t bother him being left out of the loop. As always. But whatever. It wasn’t like any of them actually trusted-

Jason wallowed in his own thoughts for a few minutes in silence, following the two ambulances that left Wayne Enterprises at breakneck speeds. His self-pitying moment came to a sudden screech, though, alongside the tires of his car as he slammed on his brakes as a body came tumbling out the back of the first speeding ambulance. Luckily there weren’t too many other cars around - just the second ambulance which had been following the first, and Jason swore aloud as he figured that he was about to watch a dead body (because surely that killed them. surely .) get squished by a car too , but the person (what the fuck ) rolled out of the way at the last minute, barely a second after their rolling form had come to a halt. Cass was already out of the car, racing toward the person who should be - probably ten times over by now - dead . Of course, Jason followed. This time, though, it wasn’t because Cass was asking him to, but because of the way his own heart had leapt into his throat. Cass’s hands fluttered over the person’s body, unsure of where to touch ( if she should touch, considering their body looked like one massive open wound), but Jason pushed her to the side. Not rough enough for her to fall, but enough to shock Cass out of her silent panic, “Get the car running. Y’re driving,” Jason instructed. Maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea for Cass to drive in her current state of panic if she hadn’t been, well, a Bat , who could be in the middle of a panic attack and simultaneously dismantle a bomb perfectly.

Well, that might be an exaggeration. But the point still stood. Jason’s own hands hesitated over the prone figure for a moment, “Hey. Hey!” Jason tried to see if they would respond, then murmured under his breath, “Kid. What the fuck was that - why’d y’go flying out the back of the damn ambulance, holy hell.” But on some level, buried within his subconscious mind, Jason deeply understood the panic of waking up somewhere unfamiliar, of being confined and confused and desperate to escape, so his voice was softer than what it could have been. Finally committing, Jason scooped the person up, ignoring the sounds of the paramedics - who’d finally gathered themselves up enough to arrive on the scene - as they shouted at him to release the limp body in his arms. 

They could fuck off. They already lost the person once - obviously they couldn’t be trusted with them again. Jason looked down at the person he was carrying and their eyes fluttered faintly open. Good. There should have been no possible way for this person to survive half of what they’ve forced their body to go through, but somehow, remarkably, they were still alive. 

A rough sound came from the person. At first, Jason thought it was an unconscious noise let out because of the pain, but the person’s eyes were squinted open, their face screwed up in a grimace despite it tearing skin as the melted fabric - which was now cool to the touch, but still plastered against their face - twisted.

“Nmf?” 

Unfortunately, Jason didn’t know what nmf meant, “Eh? What was that?” The person tried again, eyes falling closed entirely, “...Good nic. ”

Fucking hell.

“Goodnight?” Jason repeated, and the person frowned. Maybe Jason should stop asking questions. He slid into the backseat of the car. The door had barely closed before Cass was gassing the vehicle, speeding off far too fast, although Jason didn’t have any complaints as he watched the slow rise and fall of the person’s chest. Far too slow.

Then, the rising and falling was decidedly not slow. Panicked gasps of air escaped through the person’s mouth, undoubtedly aggravating their already sore throat from smoke inhalation. They were shaking, and Jason couldn’t pry their fingers open from where they had curled inward into the palm of their hand, blood beginning to seep from crescent shaped cuts. They choked on a painful sob, a word, a cry, “Daredevil!”

Jason froze. He met Cass’s eyes in the rearview mirror and saw confusion written plainly within them. Alright. This was fine. She didn’t know. Only Jason knew, then. A phone call from weeks ago rattled around in Jason’s mind. It had been his third time talking to some sharp mouthed twerp over the phone through a number that no one should have had access to. A number Jason hadn’t changed, in spite of that.

(“Yeah, I totally thought this was Daredevil. I have no clue who you are.”)

Daredevil. Daredevil . Fuck.

“Breathe, y’twerp,” Jason found himself soothing softly, his tone gentle in a way it hadn’t been since first meeting a different sharp mouthed brat, “Breathe. I’ve got you.” The person stopped breathing. Fuck . Before Jason could truly delve into panic, the person’s body shuddered and their next few breaths evened out, steadying their body and Jason’s heart. 

The not-so-much-of-a-stranger might have been looking at him. Maybe, maybe not, but if they were , it didn’t last for long, falling back into unconsciousness pretty much immediately. That was alright. Jason would watch over him. He’d keep him safe.

The random caller from oh-so-many weeks ago that Jason had been scouring the city for… and here Jason finds him: burnt practically to a crisp, and then almost ran over by an ambulance. Which had been trying to treat him for the aforementioned burns. What else could he expect from the person who had been scaling down the side of a building with his phone sandwiched between his shoulder and head? At the very least, Jason thought, the sight of his mystery caller sticking to the side of the Wayne Enterprises building flashing through his mind, it was good to know that he hadn’t been in any danger from climbing down a much shorter building in much less harrowing circumstances. 

It didn’t help much, but it kept Jason from rotting in his own anxiety.

Cass must know something . Why else would she have insisted on watching and waiting otherwise? Something ugly and possessive reared up inside Jason. It felt like when Cass had proudly mentioned having Peter’s email after meeting once , when Jason had known Peter for longer and still didn’t have a way to contact him. 

(It definitely didn’t sting that Peter had yet to reach out. Certainly not. What a silly thing for Jason to be upset about - if he was actually upset, of course! Which he isn’t. Totally.)

There was no way Cass knew that the limp figure carefully cradled on Jason’s lap was their mystery caller. Jason’s mystery caller. The mystery caller they’d all insisted had nefarious intentions. 

(Ha! Look at the mystery caller now: a hero, saving countless lives out of a burning building, sacrificing himself for the good of others. Bad intentions Jason’s ass. His caller was a hero. He’d refuse to believe otherwise.)

It did raise the question of how Cass knew the mystery caller - the twerp , as Jason had affectionately (although he’d rather die than admit the nickname was affectionate (goddamn brotherly ) in any way, shape, or form) called him in his mind - and their hero identity, but Jason would be fine with not knowing if it meant getting to keep his secret for a little while longer.

Fucking hell. This had all gotten way too damn complicated.

Unfortunately for Jason’s sanity, nothing became clearer upon arriving at the address Alfred had given them. A safehouse, probably, not that Jason had known that Alfred had safehouses. The sting was taken out of it by Cass’s own confused muttering. Good to know Jason hadn’t been the only one left out of the loop. Alfred was waiting for them outside, helping Jason move - fuck , he really needed to figure out this person’s name because calling his mystery caller twerp no longer felt right - his injured passanger out of the car while simultaneously instructing Cass to ditch the vehicle somewhere farther away. 

“Hey,” Jason protested, although it was half-hearted at best. Most of his attention was on the charred little hero in his arms, but it felt wrong to not be at least a little bit upset that his car was being sacrificed in the process, “That’s mine. I paid for it.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Alfred reassured, “Once our brave hero is out of harm's way.”

Jason didn’t protest after that, following Alfred upstairs quickly. After setting his mystery caller down on the waiting cot, Alfred set to work. While Bruce would never let his next little sidekick prance into the field if they couldn’t do simple field medicine (although simple wasn’t really a word that Bruce had in his dictionary), Alfred knew more than simple field medicine and could do a more professional job than any past or present Robins, Batgirls, Signals, and whoever else had been adopted by Bruce (legally or otherwise) that Jason couldn’t remember at the moment. And didn’t care to remember.

Anyway. 

But this … Jason looked at the fabric that had been melded onto skin - or damn near it, in the case of his torso and legs - and listened to how each breath sounded like a war … “Alf. This isn’t something we can treat here. He needs a hospital .” 

Alfred hummed in agreement, “True, but can you imagine him staying at the hospital long enough to get treatment? Or without panicking?” Alfred administered the anesthesia, hands steady even as his voice shook. 

The sight of a small and burnt body rolling out the back of an ambulance and tumbling twenty feet down the road wasn’t something Jason would ever be able to easily forget, “Yeah. I’m just…” Jason trailed off, uncertain, as Alfred carefully set about beginning to remove the melted synthetic fabric. The first piece he pulled away - Jason winced at the sight - the mystery caller started screaming . Both Alfred and Jason startled as the person thrashed, eyes shooting open and looking around wildly. Jason wasn’t sure if the person was actually seeing anything - he certainly wouldn’t be, if Jason had been in his position - but somehow they managed to wrench themselves upward, “Don’t,” he bit out, voice distorted from smoke inhalation, “Fuck, don’t .”

Alfred was calmer than Jason could ever be, “Please, there are third degree burns on your face, hands, and feet. I need to treat them as soon as possible.”

“No. Water.”

Cass, who had just entered the safehouse apartment, heard the request and moved faster than Jason or Alfred would have been able to, ducking into the kitchen and coming back with a full glass of lukewarm water. The person drained it, then asked for more, with something soft to eat, if possible. This time, Jason went to get the water, and found a can of soup in the cupboard (which was again, odd, because Alfred despised canned soup) which he put on the stove, and came back to Cass speaking quietly to Alfred while the mystery caller stared off into the middle distance.

It should be impossible. The injuries he’d obtained from the fire should have him in excruciating pain. The melted synthetic fabric in his skin should make existing feel impossible. That alone would be enough to have Bruce unable to move. But this person had then taken a tumble out the back of a vehicle, rolled down the asphalt, then still had the ability to throw themselves out of the way of another ambulance before it could run him over. He’d passed out after that, sure, but but but he woke up again after Alfred had administered enough anesthetic to down a man twice the scrawny twerps size. 

What the fuck . He must not feel pain, or some otherworldly shit like that, because this should be - and let Jason really emphasize how bewildered he is - fucking impossible .

Peter felt like he’d gotten hit by a train. Or trapped under a collapsed building. Or had his body nearly torn in half from holding a ferry together. Or some other painful thing, but not as bad as disintegrating, despite what his barely-lucid mind might have implied earlier. Plus he couldn’t breathe. It felt like - and no one would ever guess this correlation - like being crushed by a building. Or launched into the upper atmosphere without an oxygen mask. 

It always came back to the building. Thor’s balls , Peter wished he could forget about the building. It hadn’t been the worst thing to happen to him, looking back on years of throwing himself head first into danger with a “swing first ask questions later” mindset, but it had been memorable in a way being thrown through a building fifty-fucking-times just wasn’t . He really had to give it to the Vulture: the guy knew how to make an impact.

Peter laughed at his own joke, but it came out more like a wheeze which set off a massive coughing fit. Ouch . Alfred held out a soft white handkerchief (how incredibly British) for Peter to cough in. It came away red. 

“That’s probably not great,” Peter rasped, and it was just the excuse the Red Hood (or, let’s be entirely honest: Jason ) needed to start going off at him. Mostly ignoring Jason, Peter looked over at Cass to try and figure out how much she knew. She looked pissed. Peter looked away.

Alright then. Cass knew it was him - fine, that was fine - and Alfred probably knew too, because of course he did. Jason must know something , but considering he had yet to call Peter Pete and instead kept calling him twerp (although it sounded borderline affectionate, which meant that maybe Peter’s concussion was worse than he thought) instead, so. 

Weird. In the middle of Jason’s very fatherly lecture, Peter held up a hand. Silence fell. Or more like the noise came to a screeching halt.

“Those people needed help. I helped. Then I thought I had been captured by something. Panicked. Jumped out the ambulance,” Jason had mentioned something along those lines. Peter hadn’t been entirely sure how the events all lined up (like how he got from Wayne Enterprises to a white abyss to a road to here ), so Jason had been very helpful in clarifying what little Peter remembered, despite his goal having been to drill into Peter how reckless he was being, “And you can’t treat my injuries.” Alfred started to protest and Jason reared up for another lecture while Cass looked ready to tackle him. Wonderful. Just wonderful. This is exactly what Peter wanted: another ferry incident, where someone yelled at him after Peter had just been doing his best. Peter was so fucking tired of this bullshit.

The brief dream of being a kid again vanished as Peter remembered what being a kid entailed, “Look,” Peter was probably being too harsh with them, but hell, they weren’t one giant open wound, “I don’t care. Appreciate the effort, but Christ, I’m not going to sit here and be yelled at for saving people’s lives,” Jason reeled back and Cass shot Jason a glare, as if this was his fault alone, “ Or, ” Peter added, “Be looked at like I’m stupid. Or five- fucking -years old. I’m not a goddamn kid , okay? I knew exactly what I was doing going into the building, and I might not have meant to jump out of a moving vehicle, but had I been more aware, I probably would have done the exact same thing .” Peter huffed, coughed, curled in on himself, “ Fuck . I need-”

Food. Water. A safe place to sleep. Wade making jokes about their faces matching. Matt sitting beside him because he worries like an old man. Johnny freaking out like it was his fire that burnt him, even though it wasn’t, and then acting as Peter’s pillow while Peter slipped into a twenty hour coma of healing sleep . Johnny wouldn’t move. Wade wouldn’t have peeling the fabric away. Matt would have dosed him with enough anesthetic. 

And it wasn’t fair to make those comparisons. It wasn’t . They - Jason, Cass, Alfred, who all looked at him with raw concern - didn’t know. Because Peter didn’t tell them. They didn’t know because Peter wasn’t willing to share this part of him with them - was barely willing to share any part with them. They hadn’t done anything wrong, other than not being them , but Peter’s heart still felt like it was being torn to shreds inside his chest as he wanted . 

He wanted so much. But he couldn’t have what he wanted, not right now, and even though Jason had Daredevil’s phone number and Alfred had Happy’s… they weren’t them . That wasn’t their fault. Peter wouldn’t want them to be the same. Jason and Cass and Alfred… they were all their own individual people and that was perfect - Peter wouldn’t have wanted anything different for them, he’d never wanted replacements for those he’d lost - but right now Peter just wanted someone who understood him without him having to explain. Who knew .

The fact that no one in this world knew was no ones fault but Peter’s own, but- but- but-

It wasn’t his fault .

Peter surprised himself at that realization. That he didn’t have an obligation to trust people - to let them into his heart and be privy to his deepest secrets. He didn’t have to let everyone in , but he couldn’t keep everyone out either. Not right now. Not when his life was at stake. Not when they looked at him with concern - genuine concern - and Peter knew that they cared, even if he didn’t know why .

Halfway. Peter could go halfway, “I heal fast. Peeling the fabric off will make it worse for me.”

Peeling the fabric had felt excruciating, actually, but Alfred didn’t need to know that. He might feel bad, which was the last thing Peter wanted. The anesthetic wouldn’t be enough to dull the pain and make removing the fabric bearable, but Peter knew that if he just had forty-eight hours of peace he’d be fine by the end of it. His skin would heal beneath the fabric and push it out on its own, the blisters would smooth over, and once again Peter would looking like nothing bad in the world had ever fucking happened to-

Breathing. Right. Peter needed to do that. He had stopped doing so, somewhere in there, and gasped for air greedily (too greedily, the harsh sucking in of air hurt ) and coughed, more blood spraying from his lips before Peter could stifle it.

The three people watching Peter looked… Peter didn’t look at them. He didn’t want to. 

But then, “Alright,” Alfred acceded, “I trust you. The couch is a pull out. If you wouldn’t mind sleeping here, I’d like to keep an eye on you while you heal, then. Mas- Red Hood,” Alfred corrected with a knowledgeable look, “If you would get the soup before it boils over?” 

Jason left the room. Peter decidedly didn’t look at Alfred or Cass, instead looking at the barren walls. This place felt soulless. It looked a lot like Peter’s apartment. 

…Johnny liked interior decorating.

If, despite the fact that no one aside from Peter slept that night (they ended up granting Peter his wish of sleeping without someone watching over him, having truthfully claimed that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with someone else was there), the pull out couch was empty in the morning, bloodstained sheets gone (not folded - gone )... well, no one was entirely surprised, although their hearts ached at not being trusted, despite understanding and relating in the same breath. They - all the Bats, really - were probably the best suited to understanding Peter’s fears, which wouldn’t vanish in a day. He’d trusted them with something , though, and that, they recognized, had to be enough.

Granny Gun could make a mean chicken noodle soup, Peter found out. She watched him eat carefully, shotgun in hand (it was comforting to know that Peter’s back was protected as he allowed himself to be vulnerable like this) and aimed toward the kitchen entryway. 

“They won’t hunt me down,” Peter had tried to reassure Granny Gun when she first took up her position, ready to shoot anyone who entered. 

“Pff, of course they won’t, luv. I’ll shoot ‘em before they can even try.”

And it really did feel reassuring, despite his initial terror of Granny Gun catching him entering the house at dawn, still a mess of injuries. She’d just looked at him appraisingly, and then: “If I’d known you’d do something this foolish in your silly outfit, I’d have done something about it.”

“You knew?”

“Luv, that green is noticeable , and I’m old, but I'm not blind. ”

When Peter finished eating, Granny Gun jerked her head toward Peter’s room, “I’m keeping guard, don’t worry. You sleep. I’ll keep the leftovers in the fridge. Help yourself to anything.”

Peter felt warm - not the on-fire kind - but warm. Cared for. Safe.

Chapter Text

Truthfully, Peter isn’t entirely sure why Granny Gun has yet to set off a single one of his multitude of mental alarm bells. She definitely should , by all means: Peter’s first meeting with her had been staring down the barrel of her gun, after all. Granny Gun’s phone number had even been attached to Peter’s landlord back home , too, who had been disinterested and strange at best and a downright scumbag at worst. He set off Peter’s internal cacophony of alarm bells. He did so quite frequently, in fact. Yet Granny Gun - although she was just Granny , really, at this point, and Peter’s never had a grandmother before, so he’ll take any opportunity he can to think the term, to say it, to feel the shape of it in his mouth, to feel the care inherent in the familial term - with all of her chaos and weaponry and cursing and probably somewhat illegal Thursday gambling nights, set off none of those alarms. None. 

Certainly, Peter has better reasons to trust Cass and Alfred (and Jason) than his (HIS!!!) gun-wielding-grandmother. Without a doubt, he would have been safe with them, had he stayed. But something in Peter revolted at the notion, had shriveled up inside of him and caused Peter to flee the scene at daybreak like a criminal. He hadn’t meant to be caught by Granny upon re-entering her house, truly, but there hadn’t been a single warning of her presence, and then suddenly she was there, berating him for getting himself into such a mess while simultaneously herding him toward the kitchen, where she then fed him food, called him silly, and guarded his back.

Being safe is an odd concept. Really. It’s weird. Because to be safe is to be “unlikely to be harmed . ” Not impossible to be harmed. Just unlikely . To be safe is to be protected, to be sheltered, to be unlikely to come to harm , and yet in Granny’s kitchen, eating her homemade soup as every inch of his body ached and throbbed (bearable, sure, but only because Peter had learn to bear everything), he felt sheltered. Shielded. Safe , but more than just safe, because there had been, without a doubt in Peter’s mind, absolutely no chance of harm coming to him as long as he remained within those four walls and beside a crazy old lady who, by all means, should not be safe .

Granny felt safe in the way that May felt safe, paired with Deadpool’s mouth and Daredevil’s wit. But that wasn’t exactly fair, because Granny was Granny , not an amalgamation of Peter’s past come to life. 

…The point being that logically, Peter knows he is being illogical. That one can’t be more than safe and that it is impossible to never be at some sort of risk.

Yet, here he was anyway, feeling more-than-safe as can be, three days later, sprawled out on the living room couch watching Jeopardy with Granny. She didn’t quiet her shouts or mild her curses, but simply made room for Peter in her life, in her schedule, in her home . She’s made it Peter’s home, too. She made it home when, on that first day of Peter’s recovery, Granny had knocked on his door in her normal abrasive way, despite having mentioned before that the stairs are difficult for her now, carrying a grocery bag filled with tupperware stuffed to the brim with food and water bottles. 

“Eat up. My cooking isn’t great but you can’t afford to be picky,” She had huffed once Peter managed to drag himself to the door. Had she come bearing anything other than food , Peter might have asked for a word of congratulations for making it to the door in the midst of his hazy existence of pain and exhaustion from healing such extensive wounds. As it was, he had been too busy digging into the meal, mumbling out a quick, “Thanks Granny,” in the process. 

Both of them had frozen. Granny found her words first, “You are welcome… Peter.” 

She didn’t say anything about being Granny, didn’t accept it verbally or address Peter’s accidental slip up - Granny Gun going from a silly nickname in his mind to actually addressing her as such (something as familiar as Granny, even) - but the fond quirk of her lips and her gentle tone of voice (a break from its usual rasp and coarseness) when she said his name was enough. It was acceptance. 

So Peter might have lost everything twice over, but now he had a grandma. It wasn’t really an even trade, but Peter had never had a grandma before, so that was neat. As they watched Jeopardy and the (now cooled but once melted and now meld ed ) plastic-y synthetic fabric was disgustingly ejected right out of Peter’s body by the newly healed skin growing underneath, causing him to shed kinda like a reptile, everything felt right, even though by all means, it probably shouldn’t.

“I swear to fucking God, these fools couldn’t guess their way out of a wet paper bag-!”

And Peter laughed, loud and harsh and choking and ugly and real , a perfect mockery of the first time he heard Granny laugh, and she laughed right back at him as Peter gasped for air and wheezed. Peter’s smile never broke, even as his sore throat ached, even as his laughs made the pain worse.

Things were good.

Perhaps the most surprising thing to arise from the Wayne Enterprises Fire (even above Peter’s rare instance of accepting of a person’s kindness, which is really saying something both about the level of Peter’s surprise and how frequently Peter lets himself be vulnerable, but that is neither here nor there) was that Peter had flooded the news stations in Gotham and social media. His reach even stretched beyond Gotham; apparently he had gotten a special mention in Central City.

Or, well, Mister Green had. It wasn’t entirely unexpected - Peter knew that he would be making quite an impact with that final descent - but… still. Depending on the news channel Peter was either a hero or a freak, with very little range in between, but on social media? Mister Green was a person, and the people adored him. There were theory videos on his powers, accounts from people on the scene, from people he saved, from family members of those who died, along with messages of hope. 

Repost if you want Mx. Green to come back soon!

Drop in if you’ve ever met Mr. Green and tell the story!

Sign this petition to protest the hunt for Mister Green because he’s a meta!

The last one was especially interesting because Peter hadn’t realized that he might be hunted down??? Or something???

There were also edits. 

Thirst traps, specifically. Those tended to be made from videos taken before the fire, thankfully, because apparently the people of Gotham wanted Mister Green’s dumb dick (even in the goddamn Creeper hoodie????) as he lifted a couch over his head with one hand. It was both flattering and utterly horrifying and Peter hated the fact that the edits must be pretty damn popular if even Cass had seen them. That’s how Peter found out about the edits. After two days of huddling up in bed and only leaving to eat, he had woken up on the third day feeling moderately normal (not really) and figured that it was probably time to tell Cass that he was alive. 

She had sent him over twenty emails. In two days. Peter opened up the first one expecting some vicious scolding and was instead greeted with a video of him lifting a car with one hand to a slutty pop song. The nineteen following emails were about the same. Cass said that this was her revenge for him leaving without warning. Peter’s response back contained a few phrases that Peter wouldn’t dare to repeat in front of Aunt May, but that Granny would laugh at, after which he then promptly deleted all of the emails and attempted to wipe the memory from his brain.

The worst part was that the edits were really good . Who knew that people would go absolutely wild for the sliver of skin between the sleeve of his hoodie and his glove? Not Peter, that’s for fucking sure.

The support wasn’t new, exactly. It was in a new form in Gotham , for sure (unless the slutty Spider-Man edits had been kept from Peter???), but the people of New York, Peter allowed himself to concede, did care about him. They, too, got nervous when he wasn’t seen around for a while and posted their well wishes online after a big fight. But that had taken years of work, of being a near-constant presence, of being a freak and a troublemaker and a menace .

Gotham’s near instant support felt just as suspicious as it was relieving . 

In the end, it took five days for Peter to leave the house and start going to work at the Iceberg Lounge again. While he had been healed - more or less - in four, the scars still remained for another day before they, in a move directly opposite of the fabrics' ejection, got pulled back under Peter’s skin, and he is left smooth and new once more. 

Physically, at least. Mentally… in a fun change of pace - and a good fun, too, not the bad kind that Peter tended to dabble (read: live) in - Peter was also doing alright. The fire at Wayne Enterprises and those sorts of injuries weren’t anything new, and so Peter didn’t feel the need to dwell on it too much. Sure, he blamed himself for not realizing what was going on sooner, for the people that died, for the people who lived but still lost anyway, but that sort of guilt wasn’t new, and so Peter grinned and bore it and went to work. There was nothing else he could do, after all.

So Peter went through his shift listening to the early patrons fawn over that darling fellow and the later folks gripe about what another masked weirdo might mean for their business, and felt oddly put at ease by the duality. It is good to not be loved by all. If he was loved by all then that would mean Peter was doing something wrong. He is a-okay with not being loved by Drug Dealer Number Sixty-Five and Drug Lord Number Twenty-Three. Peter’s chill with that. Completely and utterly chill.

The dawn of the sixth day after the fire, Peter finally sent an email to Cass that wasn’t just him protesting the continuous influx of edits and thirst posts. 

C-

Thank you for being there for me. I don’t know what would have happened otherwise.

Sorry I couldn’t stay. I was suffocating.

Please tell Alfred and Jason the same. I am extremely thankful and very sorry.

-P

Peter hit send (like a normal and calm person), turned off his computer (like a normal and calm person), and then launched himself onto his bed (this is also totally normal and Peter will not be accepting criticism, especially from himself).

Eventually, Peter flipped over to be lying on his back and pulled his flip phone out of his pocket. Snapping the thing open and closed mindlessly, Peter debated on his next course of action. Peter was, for once, feeling decently alright. He didn’t like it.

In the end, with the sound of Granny’s snores as soft backdrop to Peter’s enhanced hearing, Peter dialed a number that he hasn’t called in nearly two years, although not for lack of trying. LIke always, regardless of how long it has been since Peter last tried, the numbers come to him easily. Effortlessly. Peter wanted… Well, Peter isn’t entirely sure what he wants from this call. Obviously he wouldn’t reach the intended recipient, but that's alright. Peter had accepted that now. Maybe, in a truly self-detrimental way, the thing that Peter wants the most is for someone to bring him down from this high he is riding on: the high of being cared for and appreciated by the public, of having a home, of things being okay for once. 

Ideally, Peter would have called Tony for such a reality check. 

Peter wasn’t being fair. Tony had tried. Truly, he must have tried. He had to have tried, because Peter couldn’t handle the thought of Tony not trying when Peter had done so much in an attempt to get his mentor to see him. See him: Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man.

But Tony must have tried - he’d mentioned something about wanting to break the cycle, once, after refusing to believe that Peter was seriously onto something with the whole “alien weapons” debacle - because Tony had been there, once or twice, after all. He cleaned up Peter’s messes, made him a suit (while putting far too many protective features into it without including a handbook), and apparently - maybe, possibly, probably not - invented time travel to get Peter back. Not to save the world, but to save Peter , and so he must have tried, because Peter thinks it has to take a special kind of love - however badly shown - to sacrifice one’s life for another. To make a trade like that.

And Peter remembered that last - that first - hug, too. Tony had been desperate. He had to have been. And Peter… Peter had been confused, lost, scared… but he got to work anyway. He helped save the universe anyway. 

But despite all of that - despite Tony being there (ish) and trying to be a mentor (was it enough? to just try?) - Tony had this way of making Peter feel small. Unbelieved. Suspected. 

Because the Vulture - being crushed by a building, the way Peter genuinely thought he might die, not being believed - still echoes in Peter’s mind at the most inopportune moments. Because Tony must have tried, must have cared, but he still took away the suit . Took away that protection - unnecessary as Peter might see it now, but gods above would have been useful then - at a whim. Left Peter at his mercy: to support or not to support, to believe or not to believe. And Tony might not have meant it… might not have realized , but when Peter closes his eyes and thinks of Tony he thinks of someone disappointed in him. 

The worst part, in Peter’s opinion, was the uncertainty of it all. The unanswered questions (“Do you regret it?”) that will never be answered because… Selfishly, Peter thinks it is the uncertainty that hurt the most after Tony died. 

Peter let out a shaky breath, bringing the phone to his ear as it rang. 

Peter didn’t have Tony’s number. He’d always gotten in touch with Tony through Happy. 

( Always . That makes it sound as though Peter ever got in touch with Tony, other than when Tony reached out first , because only he had that ability. Peter wasn’t angry.

...But still. Peter can’t help but think of the new little Spider-Man swinging around New York. How the kid had introduced himself by his name ( “I’m Miles!”) unhesitatingly, like Peter wasn’t an unknown stranger. Like that wasn’t potentially dangerous. And Peter thinks of how easy it had been to give Miles his number and tell him where he lived, even if Peter couldn’t manage to share his name. It had been so fucking easy. Instinctive, really. Because as terrifying as sharing that precious information had been, it was even worse to think about that new little Spidey - to think of Miles - swinging around New York without Peter having provided (not tried to provide , but provid ed) him with the best possible support that Peter could manage. Peter had finally understood Tony and all the fail-safes that had been in his suit as he sewed knee and elbow pads into the Miles’s suit, as he reinforced that stupid thing from the get-go in all the ways Peter had been forced to learn by himself, as he stocked the kid up on so much web fluid so that Miles would never need to worry about running out mid-battle, as he taught the kid how to make his own web fluid so that he wasn’t forever reliant on Peter for handouts. After gaining his own tiny (because god , Miles was so young - too young) protege, Peter both understood Tony better than he ever thought possible, and yet couldn’t . Because how could Peter ever look at his kid and not want to smother him in praise and attention and tell him how good he was doing? How could Tony not have been able to do that with him ? With Peter?

There must have been something wrong with Peter. Yet…

(Yet even so… Peter can’t imagine looking at Miles and not believing him. Or taking anything away, ever, especially the suit, because the suit provided safety. Or leaving Miles with that god awful uncertainty. Because Peter might have vanished like Tony did, but if Peter knows anything - if he had to stand his ground on one singular truth - it is this: Miles knows that Peter trusts him. That none of this was his fault. That Peter is proud of him. And that won’t erase the hurt that’ll come from Peter’s mysterious disappearance, it doesn’t mean that Miles won’t worry that Peter abandoned him. But he will know, Peter is sure, that Miles did nothing wrong.)

But that was all the past.)

So, when the phone picked up, Peter smiled in spite of himself. May would have approved of Peter calling this person, because while they would be unhesitatingly honest with Peter, they wouldn’t make him feel small . They’d just make him feel like Peter.

Of course, it wasn’t MJ’s voice that answered, but it was familiar. 

“Yooo, hey there, random number.”

Peter’s small smile stretched into a grin, biting back an instinctive Hey Steph in favor of saying, “I could say the same about you, other random number.”

“Nah, you called first. That makes you a random number and me an unfortunate victim.”

“Victim!” Peter gasped in mock offense, “Hey there! I’m just a simple person who dials random numbers in their free time. So we’re both random callers.”

“Sure, sure,” Steph drawled sarcastically, “But I’m not the one dialing up random numbers for funzies.”

“I’d recommend it if you’re bored. You wouldn’t believe the people I’ve accidentally called.”

“Oh?” Steph’s curiosity was blatant, “Do tell.”

“Mmm, I’ll tell you one if you answer a question for me,” Peter offered, and to give credit where credit is due, Steph barely paused before answering, “I probably can't answer some things but give it a shot.”

“What do you think about that new masked weirdo running around Gotham?”

Steph was silent for a moment, but when she spoke again her voice had lost its playful edge, “You mean the brave person who rescued all those people from the fire at Wayne Enterprises?”

“Yeah, him. I’m trying to figure out what people think about him. Really, truly think. Because of course online people are gonna follow along with what’s popular-”

“Shut up,” Steph snapped, “Look, I dunno who you are, but that person jumped head first into straight up chaos and saved people’s lives . Their literal lives. The Bats aren’t out during the day, and if they were,” Steph hesitated, and Peter belatedly wondered what Batman and Co.(™) had been doing during the fire, and why not a single one of them had been at the scene, “Well, let's just say it like it is: they weren’t there . That guy? That Mister Green? They were . They were there. And that’s more than anyone else can say, so don’t you fucking dare try to… to!” Steph huffed in frustration, “Just don’t. People are idiots if they think Batman is gonna try to run them out of the city or hunt them down. Or, if he does try,” A dangerous note entered Steph’s voice, “He will find opposition on many, many sides.”

Peter didn’t know how to say thank you after being berated without sounding creepy, but he couldn’t hold back his laugh. It was shaky and sounded more like a sob, but god , “You’re right, you’re right,” Peter conceded easily, “I think I’m just jealous. That people can be brave like that, and here I am: rotting away in my bed.”

Steph snorted, “Of course I’m right. And… I dunno too much about this dude, but it seems like their whole thing is just… helping people. In broad daylight. I think… I think the whole point of this ‘Mister Green’ is just to… to show people that they can be good, too.”

Spider-Man has always been for the little guy, after all.

“Yeah. Now, I promised you an interesting story,” And Peter must have still been healing (he wasn’t) or maybe exhaustion was clouding his judgment (it wasn’t) or maybe Peter was just feeling mischievous (he was), but Peter smiled cheekily to himself, “I called this random number, right, and guess who it turned out to be? A news thingy. Managed to weasel my way into a job as a photographer. You might have seen my pictures: I work for the Gotham Glazer.”

Silence. Dead silence.

Then:

“What the FUCK?!”

Peter hung up.

The second time around, Peter’s uncontrollable laughter didn’t hurt as much. 

Inside Miles there are two spiders: one spider is currently freaking out about the fact that he is leading around three of the most well-known heroes/vigilantes/whatever-they-are in New York and that they were actually following him and Miles wasn’t slowing them down. Like, seriously. Really, if anything they were trying to keep up with him. The Human Torch was carrying Deadpool like a cat under his armpits up above Miles while Daredevil - very reluctantly - was currently riding piggyback with Miles. Glorious days have come and Miles will never forget this moment!

The other spider in Miles wants to curl up and cry because the real Spider-Man is currently missing. It’s very difficult (aka: impossible) to enjoy the moment when the reason why they were following him weighed heavily in Miles’s heart. It was hard to be pleased when the only reason why Miles was even meeting these famed heroes was because Miles’s hero was missing. 

Not to diss Daredevil, Deadpool, and the Human Torch - truly! Miles thinks they’re super cool! … Buuut Spider-Man has them all totally beat. It would be better, in his opinion, to have never met these three (even as Miles is slightly fanboying in his mind) if it meant Spider-Man wasn’t gone .

But, as Spidey always said, “Shit happens. Sometimes you gotta roll with the punches.”  

Or, he would start to say shit then backtrack and say stuff , like Miles hadn’t heard much worse at school already. Like he hadn’t said worse at school already. But whatever. Miles didn’t mind, because Spidey would pat him on the shoulder whenever he gave advice, and the seconds pause and correction meant a few seconds longer of a shoulder pat. 

Miles is pretty sure Spidey doesn’t like physical affection. No, wait, that's not quite right. Spidey doesn’t know how to show physical affection. He’s good at shoulder pats. He’s good at shoulder squeezes. He’s good at high-fives and low-fives and fist-bumps. He’s astoundingly bad, however, at hugs and Miles has never met someone in need of a hug more than Spidey. The guy was a walking, talking, web-slinging mess of affection starved vigilante, so Miles did what he could. He instigated high-fives upon greeting, fist-bumps after a job well done, and worked hard so that Spidey had a reason to pat him on the shoulder in congratulations.

Miles is pretty sure - no, correction, absolutely sure - that Spidey had been getting better about casual contact too. He wasn’t as stiff when patting Miles on the shoulder and even started to put him a playful headlock when Miles sassed him too much. Things had been going well .

That’s why this whole mess was all the more dreadful.

As Miles landed on the fire escape outside of Spidey’s window, he watched as Daredevil carefully broke in while Deadpool tapped his foot impatiently. He didn’t say anything as the four of them piled inside, as the three older heroes froze at the same thing Miles had, once upon a time, frozen at the first time he’d been here.

The emptiness.

The place was practically barren. No decorations, no pictures… nothing. The walls seemed as though they were permanently dirty - though not for Spidey’s lack of trying to clean, based on the scent of cleaning supplies that still hadn’t totally faded even after months had gone by (at least to Miles’s more sensitive nose) - and the room was ice cold. Daredevil moved to turn on the heat but Miles stopped him, “His place doesn’t get heating.”

Daredevil mouthed the words as though he didn’t understand them, “Doesn’t get…?” He repeated, and Miles nodded. After pausing for a second, Miles rolled his mask up to the bridge of his nose, wanting them to be able to at least partly see the expression on his face: the fact that he is just as torn up about it, “Yeah. That time that I was here… when I went inside… I was freezing and he just apologized and gave me his comforter. I was still cold. So-” Miles gestured towards Spidey’s bed, “As a thanks-for-being-my-mentor gift I got him a weighted blanket. Glad to see it's being used. Or. Was,” Miles winced at his own correction, “I was kinda worried that he wouldn’t take it.” It looked like Spidey had also been hoarding up more blankets too, though Miles smugly noted that his gifted blanket was still the coziest.

The Human Torch scoffed, “Kid, he wouldn’t refuse a gift from you. I’ve just met ya and I can already tell that. From us? He wouldn’t dare to take anything. From you, though? I just know that he wouldn’t be able to turn down the puppy dog eyes I just know that you have loaded up under that mask.”

“He accepts my gifts,” Deadpool bragged. Daredevil smacked the backside of Deadpool’s head, “Shut up. You get Spidey food; of course he’s gonna accept.”

“All I’m hearing is that I’m fucking great at gift giving.”

“Go die.”

“ Gasp! You’ll say that in front of Spidey’s kid?! How dare you!” Deadpool put his hands over Miles’s ears. It felt vaguely like he was about to get his neck snapped. Miles didn’t have the heart to tell Deadpool that blocking his ears didn’t mean much for not being able to hear, so he just stayed quiet and pretended. 

From above him, Deadpool lowly muttered, “Spidey might have disappeared from his apartment, right? So it could be dangerous. Don’t let the kid out of your reach or let him touch anything . This whole situation reeks of magic and if we lose the goddamn kid…”

“Spidey will murder us,” the Human Torch finished, and the three heroes all nodded. Raising his voice, Deadpool continued on as he released Miles’s ears, “And don’t you forget it! We gotta set a good example!”

Miles laughed like he hadn’t just eavesdropped on that entire conversation, and stuck like a gnat to Deadpool’s side because he had , “We gonna look around or what?”

The apartment wasn’t big and Spidey didn’t have much, and all of them felt more than a little guilty at the gross invasion of privacy. The most obvious - and most expensive - thing in the apartment was a laptop that had been left open on Spidey’s bed, right beside a Spidey-shaped imprint in the fluffy weighted blanket. When Torchy (Miles thinks that Spidey would have approved of that nickname - it might have even earned him a shoulder pat, and would have definitely gotten a high five) tried to turn on the laptop it was dead, and so he rustled around to find a charger to plug it in. The laptop booted up right away, but as the password screen appeared, Miles and the other vigilantes exchanged awkward glances. Except for Daredevil, who just sort of loitered off to the side. Eventually, Miles ventured, “Sooo…. No one has any guesses?”

“Knowing Spidey,” Torchy sighed, although his voice was incredibly fond, “It’s some random series of numbers that only he would be able to remember.”

“I can try to break into it?” Miles offered, “Then maybe I can restore whatever tabs he was looking at before the laptop died. It might be a clue.” Daredevil shrugged, “I guess it doesn’t hurt. Go ham, kiddo.”

“I’ll need some stuff that’s at my place in order to break in. Is it alright if I take this home with me then? I can message you guys once I’m done.”

No one had any reason to not let Miles try, so they nodded and left the laptop to keep charging while they continued to scour the room. Miles was never more than an arm’s length away from someone else at any given moment. Spidey would have probably approved. Well, approved of the situation aside from the fact that they were rummaging through his apartment. Though, if he had been taken unwillingly, Spidey would understand.

Eventually, Torchy called out, “Found something!” and everyone’s heads snapped around to look at him. He was currently lying flat on his stomach next to Spidey’s bed, reaching underneath it to pull something out. It was a box.

A pretty boring looking cardboard box, but Miles wasn’t willing to write anything off, so he looked over Torchy’s shoulder eagerly as he opened the lid.

For a second, all of them just stared at the contents. Then, they looked at one another (except Daredevil, who was waiting for someone to explain) because, well. Shit . 

Miles knew that he was smart. He was! Spidey said so! And Miles’s grades said so too! 

But, well. What Spidey seemed to be dabbling with was totally beyond him - totally unheard of - and based on the overwhelming silence, Miles could guess that everyone else was also at a loss. 

“What is it?” Daredevil snapped, and Miles found his voice first, “It’s an, uhm. A box of notebooks..”

“ And?? What is in the notebooks?”

“Uh,” Miles looked at the neatly labeled covers as Torchy pulled them out of the box. There had to be more than a dozen notebooks, “I think Spidey was figuring out… or maybe figured out … interdimensional travel. Scientifically. Not… not in a magical way.”

Miles picked up one of the notebooks and skimmed through it, absolutely astounded by the detailed sketches, drawings, theories, and pages upon pages of calculations. He looked at the covers of the other notebooks:

Multiverse Conceptualized

Multiversal Travel Concepts #1-17

Multiverse Travel Concepts #18-26

Multiverse Travel Concept #27

Multiversal Travel Concept #27.1

Aside from the spiral notebooks, there was also a journal. This one didn’t have a title, but as Miles flipped through the pages it appeared to be a documentation of his progress. Progress for what … whether it be the conceptualization of multiversal travel or the actual invention of it… Miles wasn’t sure. The last page was dated around the time Miles assumed Spidey had disappeared, and he read it aloud shakily, almost afraid of what he’ll find:

“Theoretically, I have figured out multidimensional travel. In a more practical application, however, the machine is still unstable. I don’t know if I can handle waiting any longer.

What am I doing? Is this right? Am I going to fuck everything up again? What if things get worse? Can they get worse?”

Miles watched as the Human Torch’s face collapsed in real time. Watched as his entire body collapsed, and he fell to the floor, boneless and pale. Daredevil remained icily calm, but Miles could see the way his hands shook and hear how his breath rattled in his chest. Deadpool clenched and unclenched his fists, seemingly fighting battles within his own mind. 

“So. So he left on his own?” Miles asked the question that was rattling around in all of their heads. But Deadpool grunted, “No. No . I don’t believe that shit. Spidey… Maybe he wasn’t happy ‘n I know he was hiding crap, but he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t just leave. Spidey’s the best and worst kinda hero: the self sacrificing kind. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t up ‘n leave without making sure shit would be fine here.”

“I dunno. Spidey…” Daredevil trailed off, “I just don’t know. I hate this.”

Out of the corner of Miles’s eye, he saw something almost buried in the pile of blankets. Miles edged closer, unnoticed by Spidey’s grieving friends. It was… Spidey’s wallet? Why would he leave his wallet? He only left his wallet when he was in the Spider-Man suit, and as far as everyone was aware, Spidey didn’t vanish while on patrol. In fact, they’d found the Spider-Man suit tucked away in the air vents. 

“Somethings wrong about this whole situation,” Miles murmured, voice cracking over the words, “Deadpool’s right. I know Spidey, even if he would say otherwise. And I know that he wouldn’t just up and leave. Not without introducing me to you three, at the very least. I… Spidey’s a good mentor. He wouldn’t just… leave me hanging. He’s always been good about telling me when he wouldn’t be available for patrol or when I should lay low if something big is going on. He.. he wouldn’t-” 

Someone laid a comforting hand on Miles’s shoulder. It wasn't the Spidey. It wasn't the same. Daredevil squeezed his shoulder lightly before letting go, “You’re right.” His voice sounded stronger this time around, “Something isn’t right about this whole situation. Maybe… maybe, for whatever reason, Spidey wanted to go, but he would have set… if not his own life in order, then at least made sure all the people he cared about would be alright.”

Miles eyed the wallet, then reached out and snatched it up. Something fell out of the wallet and drifted toward the ground. Three sets of eyes snapped to it. The Human Torch reached it first. It was a business card, which he read aloud: “ Big Joe’s Storage Units!”

Deadpool cracked his knuckles ominously (although the ominousness could just come from Deadpool in general, since cracking one’s knuckles wasn’t exactly an odd thing to do), “Let’s go pay Big Joe a visit.”

Yeah no. That one was definitely ominous as hell.

The original plan - one haphazardly made in the few hazy minutes between waking up and actually waking up - was to simply buy another hoodie. It had been a little over a week since the fire at Wayne Enterprises and Peter was ready to go back out. As silly as the hoodie is, it had worked once the first time around (aside from the part where it burnt/melted, but that was in an extreme case so Peter doesn’t really think that’s a valid reason to ditch it), so there was no reason it wouldn’t work again.

Hoodie shopping, Peter decided as he climbed up the stairs to start making breakfast, would be today’s task. 

While eating a delicious meal of eggs, toast, and bacon (Peter had six eggs. Granny had one.), Peter casually mentioned, “After breakfast Imma head to the store. Have any errands you want me to run?” Giving him the stink eye, Granny huffed, “What did you forget? You went grocery shopping yesterday.”

“Well… I figured it was about time to go get another hoodie.”

Granny wadded up her napkin and threw it at Peter’s face. Thankfully it was clean, “You think I am going to let you run around in that crap!?” Peter could only stare at her, “Well, uh… It’s my choice to go do this, so uhm. Yeah?” His words sounded more uncertain than Peter would like, so he repeated himself in a deeper voice, as if that would mean anything, “It’s my choice to go out and help.”

“Yes, yes,” Granny dismissed, waving her hands, “That is not my issue. I am saying that I am not letting you do… whatever it is you do… in that monstrous hoodie.”

“Well, I don’t exactly see another option.”

Granny narrowed her eyes at Peter, glaring at him, “You are making this quite hard. But, impatience is a youthful trait, I suppose. I was going to wrap it, but it seems as though waiting will be quite impossible for you. Look on top of the chair in my room. It’s for you.”

Half of Peter wanted to finish breakfast first just to spite the old lady and show him he can be patient, while the other half went what the hell and figured there was no point in trying to prove anything. She’d already seen him watching a rerun of The Great British Bake Off with far too much interest and enthusiasm. Plus, Peter never had anything to prove to Granny in the first place, so he walked at a totally normal and not at all hasty pace to her room to see what the gift was.

For a moment after opening the door to Granny’s room - one that had always been closed - Peter just looked around in a state of semi-shock because, well, Granny Gun really did like her guns. She had a collection displayed across the entirety of one wall and another gun casually resting beside her bedside table, and for some reason Peter just… accepted it, after his initial surprise, and went over to the chair. Not his problem. Resting in the chair was… “What??” Peter muttered to himself, eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He grabbed the items and hurried into the bathroom, firmly ignoring Granny’s cackles as he did so. 

Unfolding the items - they were clothes - Peter examined the gift in his hands. The first piece was a long sleeved turtleneck that was reinforced with something in a dark green color. The pants - made of the same fabric, but in black - were semi-loose while not being breezy enough to reduce Peter’s aerodynamicness by much. They were similar to footie pajamas (without looking stupid) in that Peter’s feet would be protected more than with socks, but were still thin enough for Peter to be able to stick to surfaces. As Peter was unfolding the pants, two lighter green objects fell onto the floor of the bathroom, and upon picking them up, he realized that they were skin-tight gloves. Sweet. 

The last item, as opposed to the other aerodynamic and flexible gear - yet still strong , much stronger than any normal fabric Peter’s seen - was sturdier. It was a vest - light green, the same shade as the gloves - with a little creeper insignia over where Peter’s heart would be while wearing it. The little creeper was frankly adorable and Peter was instantly attached. There were many pockets in the vest, too, which would be a nice change from his pocketless Spider-Man suit. It wasn’t as sturdy as a bulletproof vest, but it would certainly be able to deflect any short range projectiles or sharp weapons. The vest - had Peter still been in his Spider-Man suit - would have been too bulky. As it was, Peter has been running around fighting crime and doing shit in a hoodie and sweatpants, so honestly anything was an improvement. Plus, Peter tended to be more on the ground nowadays than up high, which meant that Peter was fine with sacrificing his traditional sleek look for increased safety. 

Peter put his new gear (!!!!) on without a second thought. It fit - oddly enough - perfectly, and Peter was not going to think about how Granny knew his measurements or who she must have known in order to get practically military grade gear made in such a stylized way. Nope. He didn’t wanna know. Not. At. All.

When Peter slid into the kitchen, he spread his arms out and turned in a circle while Granny teasingly applauded, “Mn,” She noted, “As I expected. It is much better than that absolutely horrible green monstrosity. I hope you appreciated that I kept the green, since it is quite a signifier for your little hero persona now.” 

Peter grinned. Having a real suit again felt right . Like with his original homemade Spider-Man onesie, Peter couldn’t find it within himself to regret the hoodie. Everyone has to start somewhere, after all, but a real suit… it was different. It felt good .

Granny pulled out something from her pocket. It was black and white and small , and she smirked wryly as she handed it over, “All the caped crews nowadays wear these silly little things.”

In Peter’s hand was a domino mask: the type he’d seen Robin wear, the type that Nightwing wore in the rare photos taken of him… the type this world’s heroes wore. Peter closed his fingers around it gently. It would be easy to wear a domino. To assimilate into the styles of this universe’s heroes. 

But.

But . 

“I’m not a domino kinda guy.”

“...That’s alright, luv. I have something else you can use.”

“Can I help you with that?” Peter offered, coming over to stand by a group of three adults crowded around a truck, “Eh? Nah… that’s- you!!” Peter startled only a little bit as one of the people - an older man - pointed at him in a way that would be aggressive if this wasn’t Gotham, “You! Mista Green! You’re back!” Peter grinned sheepishly, although his smile wasn’t visible under his mask, “Yeah, sorry for not being around for a bit, Mr. McNeil. Are you sure you don’t want help? I can change that flat tire really quickly.”

One of the other people - a woman probably in her late twenties, who Peter knew was Mr. McNeil’s neighbor - shook her head, “No, no. I’m a mechanic, so I can take care of this no problem. And Mike here,” She jutted her thumb towards the last person that Peter didn’t recognize, but was likely another one of Mr. McNeil’s neighbors, “Just went and fetched his tire jack. So we’ll have her up and running in a jiff.”

“It’s good to see you back around,” Mr. McNeil said sincerely, and his two other neighbors hurried to agree, saying, “Yeah! Yer a real brave one. Glad to see that you’re alright!” and “We’ve got this taken care of - you don’t worry about nothing!”

Peter hummed, “Alrighty! Have a great day Mr. McNeil, Ma’am, Sir!” A small chorus of goodbyes followed Peter as he headed off, giving a cheeky two finger salute before ducking around the truck and out of their sight. Continuing down the road, Peter waved hello to the people he’d been getting to know in this area and was pleased to see that for the most part, his help wasn’t necessary, although everyone still seemed happy to see him. Over joyed, almost. So Peter waved back, shook hands, and nodded in appreciation as folks called out their thank you’ s and told him how relieved they were to see him up and about. The whole situation was absolutely bizarre . Peter didn’t understand it, but couldn’t find it within himself to regret his slow meandering either. He wandered for a while, soaking in the pleasant atmosphere, before Peter figured that if this part of Gotham was doing alright, he might as well try out a different area. 

Setting off in a random direction, Peter continued his easy patrol, helping out where he could, although that occurred less now that Peter was getting into a more commercial part of Gotham. Eventually, though, Peter’s danger sense started to tingle, so he followed it, and stopping someone from breaking into a parked car was easy enough. That then led him to catching a purse thief - also easy - and helping retrieve a little kid’s toy from where it had fallen into the gutter, which was less easy and also super gross. Fortunately, the mask he and Granny had fashioned covered his nose and mouth and also filtered the air, so it only looked gross. After his gutter diving adventure, Peter knew that he probably stank, even if he couldn’t smell it, so he stayed away from the more populated areas and instead ventured into Gotham’s back alleyways. 

After a while, Peter’s danger sense twinged - though really, it was less of a twinge and felt more like a bolt of lightning hitting him that was also screaming danger danger you’re about to get fucked! - so, like a good little hero, Peter listened to his instincts and shot a spray of web fluid behind him. The person grunted, then immediately started complaining, “Okay, what gives Mista? I was quiet as a mouse!” Peter turned around to the person that had been following him, passively observing the gun and the hand that were now webbed to the side of the alleyway while the person themself tried in vain to yank their hand away. It would not work, “I have this, like, thingy , that can tell when danger’s coming,” Peter explained, drawing closer. 

“Well,” The stranger was stumped, “That’s unfair.”

“Probably,” Peter admitted. The sense of danger was gone, so Peter thought it would be fine to engage a little bit. Plus, it's not everyday someone tries to shoot Peter (just most days) and the novelty has yet to wear off, “What’s your name? Why’d you try to shoot me?”

The person - a woman, swallowed up in a big trench coat, heavily tinted glasses, and a fedora - shrugged, “Saw ya. Figured, hell, why not? And, as to who I am, I’m none other than…” She pulled off her hat with flourish, then shook off the sunglasses a beat later, “Harley-motherfucking-Quinn!”

Peter offered his hand to shake, just because it felt like the right thing to do, and Harley looked severely unimpressed by the gesture, “Where the fuck am I supposed t’put my hat if I go ‘n shake yer hand?” 

“Fair.” Peter tilted forward, and Harley settled the hat on his head. She then gripped his hand tightly, shaking his hand in a very exaggerated motion, “Nice t’meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too. Sorta. That fact that you were gonna shoot me is kinda hard to get over.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Harley groaned, “Who hasn’t tried to shoot someone before? Or wanted to?” And Peter thought of Quinten Beck and shrugged, “I get where you’re coming from, but also. Like. I was just walking.”

“Eh. Schematics.”

“Not really .”

“Potato, potato.”

“You just said potato the same way twice.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you-” Peter sighed, “Alright. I should probably call the police now since I’m pretty sure Harley Quinn broke out of Arkham a couple months ago.”

“ Really? ” Harley whined, “You’re gonna turn me in? After I almost shot you! I didn’t even fire the gun! And I gave you my hat.”

“It is a very nice hat, Ms. Quinn,” Peter agreed, pulling out his flip phone and dialing 911, “But, y’know. I really can’t just let you go.”

Harley sagged, held up only by the webs around her hand, “Fine, fine, call all you wanna. But! Lemme leave you with a treat!”

Vaguely, Peter’s danger sense flared as she reached inside her coat with her free hand. Harley tossed out a handful of powder directly at Peter’s face before he could stop her. Or, well, to clarify, he didn’t really try to stop her. He just kinda let it happen. The two stared at one another blankly, until the person Peter called started to get impatient and demanded to know what was going on. That shook Peter back into action, “Oh! Hi there. I caught Harley Quinn.”

“You what?!?”

Peter covered the receiver with his hands and muttered to Harley, “How unprofessional.”

She just stared at him slack-jawed. Fucking weird situation, this was.

“Yeah. She’s restrained but I’d recommend being here sooner rather than later. And she also has some power thingy that she just blew on me so maybe watch out for that, ‘cause I dunno what it is.” Peter then rattled off their rough location, dusted some of the powder off the front of his new vest (Peter was not looking forward to washing the suit, which he would probably have to do very carefully considering Harley probably just threw an actual bioweapon at him), and fiddled around with his pockets until he found the zip ties.

“If the powder gets on you will you, like, die?” Peter asked, pausing mid-movement. At last, Harley seemed to collect herself, “Nah, it’s only if you inhale it.”

“Well. I kinda have a whole,” Peter gestured to his face, which didn’t have anything visible beneath the tinted goggle-like eyewear and the full face mask. It ended at Peter's hairline, although his head was currently covered by Harley’s hat, “Face mask and air filtration thing going on. So… sorry that didn’t work.”

“I really wanna hate you.”

“I get that a lot.”

“ Ugh , that’s it. I give up. I can’t hate you. Just stay and chat until the police arrive, though, ‘cause otherwise I’ll get bored and then I’ll figure out how t’escape,” Harley complained. 

And. Well. Peter didn’t have anywhere else to be, so now felt like as good a time as any to ask, “Hey, question. You’re, like, partnered with the Joker, right?”

“Ex- partners,” Harley corrected. Peter nodded, “Sorry, sorry. Ex- partners. Still - do you know what he’s planning right now?”

“Why do you think he’s planning something?” Harley challenged, which wasn’t a no , so Peter continued, “Well, I mean. He got taken down by a waiter. That’s gotta sting. And then-” No, wait, Peter cut himself off, recalling that he’d made sure Red Robin got all the credit for taking down the Mad Hatter. While the villain himself knew differently, Peter wasn’t going to be the one to start rumors, “...Yeahhh…” Peter finished awkwardly. 

Harley wasn’t exactly amused, but she still humored him, “No doubt that asshole is probably scheming something up, but I wouldn’t know what. I’ve partnered with someone new , who doesn’t treat me like shit!”

“Congrats.”

“Aww, thanks! We’re really doing well together. Our anniversary of being partners in crime and in love is coming up soon. I’m looking forward to it, so sorry to say I’ll probably be breaking out of Arkham prettyyy quickly. If she doesn’t break me out first.”

“Understandable, anniversaries are very important.”

“See! You get it!” Harley turned towards the police that were rushing towards them, emphasizing her words, “He gets it!”

As the police took Harley into custody, she broke one arm free and everyone flinched. All she did, however, was wave goodbye to Peter, “Seeya toots!”

“Bye, Ms. Quinn,” Peter waved back, sighing to himself quietly. 

“Call me Harley!” She shouted over her shoulder as she was pushed into the back of the armored van, “Ms. Quinn is so lame!”

Despite himself, Peter laughed. It was soft and small and a pretty stupid thing to laugh at.

(It has been so long since Peter has been able to laugh this freely. That he found something to laugh at on patrol, at something so fucking stupid and ridiculous. At something that probably shouldn’t be making him laugh. It has been so long since Peter’s little laughs haven’t been forced or awkward or done to break the tension. It felt, just a little bit, like coming home.)

The police then started heading towards Peter - not pointing their guns at him but still suspicious - Peter waved his fingers at them in a playful goodbye, mimicking Harley’s tone of voice only slightly , “Seeya!”

Losing the police was - as always, no matter the universe - laughably easy, and so Peter did. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught sight of reflection in the reflective surface of a window, and his smile grew. 

Fuck yeah , Peter was getting paid tonight.

Gotham Glazer -

“Mr. Green back on the Scene: Harley Quinn back in Custody!”  

Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter

Bruce put down his phone. Alone, in the sanctity of his office, he allowed himself to express aloud the thoughts that have been running in his head nonstop since the unexpected emergence of a handful of new players in Gotham:

“What the fuck .”

Chapter Text

In the end, cracking the code for multidimensional travel had been as simple as… well. Nothing. Nothing about it had been simple , not by a long shot, but hacking into Tony Stark’s private servers - now that there was no Tony Stark to notice the minuscule traces Peter left behind - had been easy. Too easy, really, and that felt weird , because Tony’s security wasn’t bad by any means, even without Tony . 

Asking Mister Fantastic about his theories had also been easy, once Peter met him. All theoretical (heavy on the sarcasm) discussion, of course, but fruitful nonetheless. Reed’s ideas tended to be more fantastical and, frankly, out of Peter’s reach, but so were Tony’s, and Peter had found those helpful, if unachievable. 

It was good to know what didn’t work, at least.

After all, Peter doesn’t have multiple millions and billions of dollars to invest in building some sort of time-travel doohickey the size of a baseball court or maybe a small stadium.

Peter does , however, have a coupon for Big Joe’s Storage Units! and a dream of leaving his current universal situation behind.

And so it starts, but not quite in that order. 

Something changed within Peter after he had dared to call MJ’s number in a probably (read: absolutely) masochistic way, and been firmly denied that self-torture by Steph. 

(And wasn’t that connection funny? Steph of all people: someone Peter barely knows. It doesn’t make sense, not for MJ, and yet- )

There are memories and thoughts in Peter’s head that feel unfamiliar and wrong . They’re the desperate thoughts from a desperate man, and Peter doesn’t recognize himself in them, yet they are undoubtedly his . 

But Peter… Did Peter really want to leave New York that badly? He can’t remember feeling that way, feeling so utterly…

Well. Not quite: Peter had felt alone - horribly alone - in New York. He felt unloved, uncared for, and like the distinction between Peter Parker and Spider-Man had been an endless chasm that was as impossible to cross as it was to describe.

(Yet here Peter was, describing that distinction: defining it , even. He couldn’t do that before.)

And suddenly - but not suddenly , because Peter thinks he knew all along that he was changing in Gotham, that there was a chance for change in Gotham - there is a disconnection between those thoughts - between that Peter, the Peter who barely survived in New York and who came to Gotham - and the Peter of right now , because now, impossibly, Peter wants to go home. Now, impossibly, he has a home. He didn’t realize he had home, until now.

(He can deny those feelings - that self - all he wants, can say “I don’t recognize that person” over and over again. But the man in Peter’s memories is the same as the one in the mirror, and Peter thinks he hates it - hates him - just a little bit.)

Going home means that Peter can tell Miles how proud he is of everything Miles stands for. It means he can tell the kid that he deserves more than what Spider-Man can offer, but that Peter won’t ever leave him behind - not intentionally, at least.

He wants to tell Daredevil that the reason Peter never reached out before was because Peter had been terrified of relying on him too much, of having that comfort inevitably ripped away. That, when faced with a horrifyingly new situation, Matt had been the first person Peter reached out to: that all Peter has ever wanted to do is ask for help , he just didn’t know how. 

To tell the Fantastic Four his identity. To tell them that they feel like a home and like a family, and that Peter has been too afraid to accept it - to accept the fact that their arms are open and welcoming - because to accept the warmth means that now they are people he could lose . 

But Peter lost them anyway, ending up an entire universe away.

Peter wants to tell Deadpool that talking shit and chowing down shitt er food with him was sometimes the only reason why Peter could get out of bed in the morning. That the promise of someone kept him going. 

Peter wants to tell Johnny… 

Peter wants to tell Johnny thank you , for making Peter feel normal again. Or, as close to normal as Peter would have ever allowed himself to feel, with the barrier of his mask and the way he kept everyone at arm's length. 

Because Johnny felt like Mj. Like Ned. And he-!

And Johnny felt like he saw Peter, despite the mask. Because despite the divide between Peter Parker and Spider-Man, the line between the two blurred with Johnny. Because Peter could be Peter , the core of himself, with Johnny, and it was freeing and lovely and good .

So. Peter will tell Johnny thank you .

He will. He will . He will give Miles a real hug, not a side one, he will let Wade wrestle him into a headlock and give him a noogie, and he will tell Matt that he makes Peter feel so incredibly safe, and he will tell Reed and Sue and Ben that they feel like family. Like home .

New York - for all its flaws, for all its memories, for all that Peter cannot look at the Statue of Liberty or a certain coffee shop - is home .

And Peter will get back. 

He will. 

There is no other option.

When Peter can’t sleep, he writes in the thin, spiral bound notebooks that he gets for a dollar each at Dollar General. They fill up quickly. Not just the pages of the notebook, but entire notebooks. He writes and writes and writes until his brain is too full of theories and postulates that Peter can’t hear May’s last breaths rasping in his ear, or Happy asking how he knew May at his own aunts fucking grave , or the echos of his own failed promises to Ned and MJ.

Peter bought a notebook. From Walmart. He splurged on a nice one - green, because he’s a sappy fool - and makes himself comfortable on the couch with Granny while she watches Jeopardy and yells at the idiots on screen. At one point, Peter finds himself abandoning the notebook when some idiot can’t answer “A flock of geese” for the category “Three G’s.”

“It’s a gaggle! You fucking idiot!” The notebook is cast aside as Peter facepalms, “No fucking way these shitheads don’t know what a goddamn gaggle is.”

Granny points at the television sagely, definitely not knowing what a gaggle is either, “People these days,” she shook her head, “Know nothing useful anymore.” 

Of course, Peter had to laugh at that one: at the absurd idea that knowing a flock of geese is called a gaggle could ever be considered useful information. And Granny laughs too, when Peter laughs so hard he starts wheezing and can’t catch his breath. 

The notebook is forgotten, for now.

Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13 seems feasible. 

Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13 seems feasible!

Tomorrow is Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays, though, and Peter doesn’t want to alarm Deadpool by showing up scattered-brained and thoughtless after 3 sleepless nights of frantic writing, and that is enough to urge Peter to sleep. 

For now.

“Yellow?”

Maybe it was kinda stupid to answer a phone call on a rooftop, where the wind would muffle Peter’s voice, but whatever.

Called Number Two - aka: Jason, aka: Nic, aka: the Red Hood - had called Peter. For some reason. He normally isn’t the first one to reach out - except for that first day when Peter might have accidentally given the poor guy multiple heart attacks - so Peter hadn’t hesitated to answer the call. But there was no answering voice and Peter vaguely wondered if Jason butt-dialed him or something.

“...”

But Peter could hear the sound of someone breathing, and his hearing was good, sure, but over a phone call he was (almost) like any other average person: he can only hear what the phone speakers manage to pick up.

So Jason must have the phone near his face. Cool cool cool.

Why the hell did he call????

“Yellow???” Peter ventured again, voice rising in pitch alongside his confusion, “Or maybe red? Green? Is ‘ yellow ’ not workin’ for you? Hello??? ” 

Nothing. That should have gotten an exasperated sigh at least , and Peter’s getting worried now, “Okay, seriously though, what’s going on? Are you okay? Hey, hey, c’mon, say something!”

Jason’s breathing was harsh. Not normal. Not an angry sort of harsh, either, but pained - maybe even anxious, “Where are you? C’mon, you’ve got this. I’m really fucking fast, I just need a location-!”

“... The docks… ”

Peter had already stowed his camera away, webbing it to the roof, and silently apologized to Sherry in case the thing somehow managed to break or get stolen before Peter was able to retrieve it. Before Jason’s call, Peter had been roaming the rooftops of Gotham to see if he would get lucky and catch a pic of some Bats in action when his phone had vibrated in his pocket. 

Getting his bearings, Peter pulled the hood of his black hoodie up and over his head, tightening the strings and tying them tightly so that the hood wouldn’t slip off of his face. Hopefully it would be enough to keep his face from being visible, as he’d already been seen web slinging as Mister Green , and Peter’s civilian face would be unfortunately recognizable as the civilian who took down the Joker and who had been at the scene of the Mad Hatter’s takedown. Plus, it would create quite an awkward situation for Peter’s current employment at the Iceberg Lounge, considering that Mister Green had busted a few drug rings recently… ones that had been coincidentally run by patrons who frequent the Lounge.

As Peter readied himself at the edge of the rooftop, doing his customary check of his webshooters, the tiniest ping! of his danger-sense went off. Not so much because of any real danger , but as an alert that Peter had company. Peter didn’t bother turning around - doing so would only reveal his face anyway - as someone landed behind him, the sound of a grappling gun retracting signifying their presence seconds after Peter first sensed them, “Step away from the edge,” Robin’s voice was tight, and Peter kinda hated to do this to him again , but alas: Jason was obviously in some sort of trouble, and Peter didn’t have time to chit-chat. Peter lept, and in the seconds before Peter started swinging, tossed a shout of, “Head to the docks!” over his shoulder. Peter heard Robin’s sharp inhale and the rushing of feet, but by the time Robin reached the edge, Peter was already mid-arc and shooting off another web, navigating the city with an organic ease of mobility that even Batman’s years of grappling hook experience couldn’t mimic. 

As Peter left Robin behind, he heard the kid’s com-set crackle to life as he activated it, although he stayed silent for a beat too long that Peter felt minorly guilty for being the cause of, “...Uh. The Green fellow. He’s-” 

And then Peter was out of range, and he wondered if Robin would put it together - a similar exit as one unremarkable stranger from so many weeks ago, the photos that had appeared the next day, the same movement style as Mister Green - and couldn’t find it within himself to regret his choices. Not if it meant the difference between Jason’s life or his death.

Oddly, or perhaps not, it was Steph’s words which brought Peter the most comfort: 

“People are idiots if they think Batman is gonna try to run them out of the city or hunt them down. Or, if he does try , he will find opposition on many, many sides.”

Regular Ordinary Civilian Peter Parker could rent a storage unit a lot easier than Spider-Man could. 

So he did. 

(The ache Peter felt while doing so obviously meant that this was the right decision. There could be no other reason for hurting the way he does.)

The irony of Jason being at the docks didn’t escape Peter: from where the mystery of a strange photographer began is where that same mystery shall die.

From where he came to blah blah blah dust unto return. Or something. 

(Peter fucking hates dust.)

But Peter doesn’t mind that his secrecy has reached its probably-inevitable end. Mostly. 

(At least, that’s what he tells himself.

After all, it’s quite hard to shake off years and years of having the need for secrecy ingrained within him. As long as the Bats don’t connect Peter to his other personas (of which, Peter realizes only now, he has far too many of), he thinks that he’ll be alright. Because if they know Peter , then that’s one step closer to Granny , and Peter would hate to get into the habit of compromising the people he cares about through the reveal of his civilian identity.

Jason would be alright, though, Peter thinks quietly, in the corner of his mind. Jason would keep Peter’s secret.)

Peter let his gut lead him as he arrived at the docks, up until the moment his gut very decidedly said nonononono fuck NO.

And. Well. If that wasn’t ominous as hell…

The warning was loud enough that Peter should probably listen. He didn’t, of course, and aimed his next swing to latch onto a large crane that was used to move the heavy metal storage containers on and off of freighter ships. As Peter swung over the yard of shipping containers, he scanned the area below for any sign of a red helmet, the smell of blood, or the sound of torture (?) and/or agony (??) and/or dramatic monologuing (???). 

Peter never knew what to expect with Gotham. The city kept him on his toes, to say the… very least. The tiniest, most minuscule amount Peter could say without being dishonest, really. 

No matter. Peter’s danger sense kept up a steady siren of alarm blaring in the back of his mind, but a different - yet not dissimilar - tug in his gut had Peter landing lightly on top of a series of stacked metal containers. Something was here. Keeping low to the surface of the container, Peter closed his eyes and let out a low exhale of air. He let the tug in his stomach pull him, and when Peter opened his eyes, they instantly snapped to his left without any conscious action on Peter’s part. Peter examined the scene for a heartbeat or two (or maybe five, Peter’s heart was beating pretty quickly, after all) before his breath caught. There . A dent in a metal container, roughly the same distance above the ground as a human head. Peter crept closer while still staying semi-hidden far above the scene. There were faint specks of blood on the ground, and the cool air of Gotham’s night had managed to preserve a small trail of wet boot prints, keeping them from evaporating.

The boot prints were very familiar , Peter mentally added, his enhanced eyes tracing the pattern. Based on the orientation of the clues, Peter figured that Jason would have been walking normally - the boot prints were spaced out in an average stride length for someone of Jason’s height and build, and not as though he’d been carefully sneaking around - and crossed through a puddle, where his boot prints left traces for three… maybe four steps, when they suddenly disappeared, their vanishing perfectly aligned with the dented storage container than ran parallel to Jason’s path. He must have been slammed into the side of the container, his helmeted head having gathered enough force to dent the metal, and done by a perpetrator strong enough to create that force. And quiet enough for Jason to not notice, either.

But that seems nearly impossible. Peter knew what people like Jason were like. Once he shed the persona of Nic - and truly, Jason’s ability to act was astounding, since Peter could only tie the two distinctly different personas together because he was, well, Peter - the person that had been unveiled underneath felt entirely different. Sorta. 

Now was not the time to rehash old realizations. 

Point being : Peter knew how people like Jason lived. Hyperaware. Vigilant. Terrified of being caught off guard, and compensating for that terror by never being off guard. 

And Peter looked closer at the footprints, reexamined their stride length, and maybe Jason hadn’t been casually walking on patrol (or, as casual as one could be, when living in a state of hypervigilance learned through necessity). Maybe - just maybe, because now Peter was purely speculating - Peter overestimated Jason’s walking stride. Maybe Jason’s normal walk as though the world will fall out from underneath him if he steps too boldly. Maybe Jason fears every step will be his last, will be a mis step. Maybe Jason wasn’t walking casually , but was instead rushing, his stride extending longer than normal in some sort of haste. 

And maybe, in his haste, Jason’s hypervigilance slipped. And he didn’t notice until too late that someone was lurking, body-checking him and slamming him into the side of a shipping container with enough force to dent the metal, but hopefully not Jason’s skull. But, of course, a slip in vigilance - while potentially catastrophic - is not the end for someone like Jason. There is a spray of blood, angled, Peter notes, in a way that would be impossible for it to be Jason’s blood, if the blow had been struck right after Jason had been rammed into the container. The angle of the spray - thin flecks streaking the ground, and Peter can’t pick up on the scent of iron from this far away, but if he got closer Peter knows that he could - looks like it originated from the perpetrator, their head snapping to the side with a small spray of blood spat from their mouth after Jason must have punched them, his fists strong and steady, even after a slip up.

But those were all assumptions. Not baseless assumptions, of course, and they were enough to tell Peter that Jason was actually in trouble, so that’s all that really mattered.

The fact that the scene remained preserved - especially the wet footprints - meant that whatever happened, had happened recently. Over the phone, Peter had been able to hear Jason’s heavy breathing. Not the wind, which was semi-strong tonight, and would have definitely carried over the phone like it must have from Peter’s end. So they were in some sort of cover. And the breathing hadn’t been echoey, so likely not in a storage container either. Vaguely, Peter remembers seeing an office building - a portable - located in the central area of the dockyard during his first nighttime escapade with Two-Face and his two bombs and his twin piers and probably a dozen other two-themed shitty schtick business. 

It was as good a start as any.

Normally, teens start crappy bands in their parents' garage. 

Alas, Peter doesn’t have parents - or, better yet, his fucking aunt - or a garage. Or a house. Or friends to start a band with. 

But Peter did just spend his first birthday (His eighteenth. There were no eighteen candles shoved into a cupcake and then set on fire in a blaze of glory. No Happy Birthday! texts. No Ned sending him the same shitty Happy Birthday Peter! YouTube video he’d sent for years. It was a tradition, and yesterday, it had been broken.) utterly alone, and gifted himself a fifteen-percent-off storage unit coupon (for the first three months of usage!) for a garage unit that he now plans to build a multiversal transporter in.

It had been eight months since Peter’s life fell apart. Seven months and two weeks since he got his first journal. Six months since he started seriously searching for an answer. Three months since he got close, and one month since the miraculous Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13. Peter wasn’t anywhere near ready to start construction, but he did need to begin the accumulation process for materials.

And the storage unit was proof of Peter’s hope. 

Still, he locked it up for tonight, because Johnny had invited him to the Fantastic Four’s game night even though they had just met a few months ago, and Peter doesn’t have a good enough reason to turn him down.

Fortunately, Peter’s danger sense had stopped nagging him. The big chaotic warning upon entering the dockyard appeared to have been for naught (and Peter knew that wasn’t the case, he knew his body was just trying to keep him safe, but Peter had never been good at listening to warning signs), and he moved through the air smoothly. 

Hopefully, Robin sends Peter’s message to the right people. Cass would be good. She and Jason must get along, if she’d brought him along on Mission: Save Crispy Peter. So Cass. And Red Robin seemed chill and non-judgemental.

Batman himself coming along - which was likely inevitable if Robin took Peter’s warning seriously, but who really knows - probably wouldn’t be for the best, but Peter wasn’t about to touch this family’s issues with a seven foot pole.

Yeesh .

There was someone like Peter. 

Powers-wise, at least. Not anything else, but Peter’s thankful about that (if a bit jealous), because he wouldn’t wish his life on anyone: even his worst enemy.

(Okay maybe on the Green Goblin. Not Osborn himself… just the Green Goblin aspect of things .) 

The kid - Miles - wants to be Peter, though. Or, rather, not Peter, but Spider-Man : he wants to be like Spider-Man , be a hero, and Peter doesn’t know how to tell the kid the truth.

“Spider-Man isn’t a hero. He’s a failure.”

“Spider-Man isn’t someone to look up to. He’s lost every fight that matters, because the real things that matter aren’t decided by a fight.”

“Spider-Man isn’t you . You should be better than him. You have so much potential to be better than him. Don’t waste it on trying to be Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man isn’t good. He’s me.”

But Peter won’t break the kid’s heart like that, and if anything, Spider-Man does have countless tips of the trade and Peter would rather rot in hell and live through that first month of torturous loneliness than have Miles running around New York without everything Peter has to give.

…Peter supposes it is quite fortunate that Miles has such a good family. Otherwise he’d obviously have to take Miles in and the coupon for his sweet sweet fifteen percent off was ending in a month, which would be an increase in living expenses that Peter probably can’t afford. Especially with a kid.

To clarify, Peter thinks to himself as he writes down the most recent progress with his transporter. For some reason, progress has slowed down drastically, I don’t want a kid. I don’t. And he has a family: a great dad, a great mom, a great uncle. I’m just here to make sure he survives long enough to realize how much he has.

Before Peter leaves this universe, he’ll have to make sure to introduce Miles to Daredevil and Johnny. Miles is a bright kid and would benefit from connections to the Fantastic Four. Maybe before Peter leaves, they can all have a game night together. For some reason, Johnny keeps inviting him.

(Peter has yet to refuse.)

He probably won’t introduce Miles to Deadpool, but he can probably ask ‘Pool to look out for the kid. Deadpool’s good like that.

There’s a knock at Peter’s window. It’s tentative, soft. As if unsure if it would be welcome. Peter’s head jolts up at the sound, muscles tensing, and he’s moving before any conscious thought could even enter his mind. No one who would ever show up at a window knows where Peter lives except for Miles , and Peter is at the window in a heartbeat, yanking it upward with such force that the glass shatters under Peter’s fingers. It rains down on Peter’s head and he instantly feels guilty about being so rough, but Miles didn’t even flinch, just watched with wide eyes as the glass shattered down. The broken glass didn’t matter, and Peter doesn’t care how it bites into his feet as he steps closer to the window, “Kid? What’s wrong? Are you injured?” Peter winced at the amount of questions he was pelting Miles with, and took a steadying breath, “C’mon inside, it's freezing out there.”

It’s freezing inside , too, is what Peter doesn’t say, but at least he has a comforter that Miles can use.

“Ah, wait,” Peter stopped Miles before he could crawl inside, “Lemme lay down a towel so you don’t cut yourself on the glass.”

“I- I’ll be fine,” But Peter notices the hiccup in Miles’s words and decides that his kid can’t wait for a towel, so he sweeps aside the glass on the windowsill with his own hands, ignoring how it bites, and knows that he made the soles of Miles’s suit thick and padded enough that the glass won’t hurt his feet. That had been a painful lesson for Peter to learn: a little extra padding on the feet went a long way.

Miles gingerly enters Peter’s apartment, avoids the glass entirely - a smart decision - and tries not to look like he’s obviously ogling the place even as he shakes with cold and something else . 

Peter can’t smell any blood (aside from his own, from where the glass cut his feet), but he can see how tightly wound up and anxious Miles is - but he’d shown up this way, this wasn’t Peter’s fault - and pads into the kitchen quietly. The sting is nothing, “Want some hot chocolate?” 

He might not be able to offer much other than words of advice and tips of the trade, but Peter can at least do this. Miles is shaken, and Peter watches as he yanks off the mask. His eyes are scattered, unfocused, and Peter knows that Miles saw something he wasn’t ready for. Fuck .

But Peter can do this : he can offer hot chocolate, he can play a shitty movie on his laptop, he can listen to Miles or fill the air or sit in silence. Whatever Miles needs: Peter will help. Peter is here .

(The sting on Peter’s feet should be nothing - Peter has faced much worse, after all - but that doesn’t keep them from aching. It is nothing, however, to the heavy hurt in Peter’s heart. Miles is too young for this life, but Peter knows his kid won’t back off. He’s good . He’s so good. And it hurts  to see him living this life, but Miles would be doing it either way. It would be worse , Peter thinks, If I wasn’t here.

At least with Peter here, Miles is safer. He’ll have the opportunity to learn, rather than be tossed into the deep end.

(Peter doesn’t know when that had last been the case. When being with him meant that a person would be safer. Yet, it was undoubtedly true.))

Charging in guns blazing - despite how satisfying it may be to knock out the shitheads who apparently had the bright idea of threatening Jason in a brilliant blaze of glory - was, sadly, not the smart decision. 

Truly an unfortunate circumstance, but alas, Peter was unsure what state Jason would be in - how injured, under duress, blah blah blah: all totally reasonable reasons why not to jump in head first, but Peter had an itch in his fingers and a voice in the back of his head that urged him to rip apart the fucking shitheads who ruined his night.

Peter landed silently on the tin roof of the office (really, he deserves a round of applause for that one, because it is truly an impressive feat) and focused on the voices below him. On top of it being the smarter decision, Peter also felt unnerved by how easily his mind had jumped straight to violence . Waiting it out would give his brain some time to cool down. It had been, Peter supposes, a while since he felt protective over anyone close to him. 

…No . That wasn’t quite true. 

There’d been an incident involving a semi destroyed building, a wounded Daredevil, and some thugs who’d gotten lucky (although not in that order). And when Miles had gotten injured on patrol with Peter, the fuckers who’d done it… probably wouldn’t walk without a limp for the rest of their lives. 

And yeah , Deadpool regenerates, but seeing one of Wade’s pals casually kill him like it was some sort of fucking joke had Peter seeing red and Wade coming back to the beautiful world of the living looking up at New York’s smoggy sky and the fabric of Peter’s suit being torn and stained with blood at his knuckles. 

Deadpool hadn’t asked.

Peter hadn’t offered.

(The asshole, miraculously, but not, because Peter knew exactly how hard he was hitting and how far he could go, survived, so there was very little guilt on Peter’s conscience about the whole situation.)

But that had been different. That wasn’t this: the urge to rip and tear and cause someone to crumble at Peter’s feet.

(Or was it?)

“That little freak should be here soon. Croc, get ready at the door when he comes in.”

Peter wanted to scoff at the (probably) ringleader’s foolishness. Did Batman come through the door? Hell no. Batman probably went through windows , like any self-respecting vigilante. There was a small scuffling sound, and the unknown voice’s laugh was… actually really nasally and lame, if Peter was being honest, “Don’t move, Hood. Or else he’ll get it.”

Pursing his lips, Peter listened closer, counting the sets of heartbeats in the office building.

One: Jason, somewhere directly below Peter.

Two: ‘Croc,’ who was waiting at the door.

Three: The other dude, who was located near the back of the building, but probably within eyesight of both Jason and Croc, assuming there was an open floor plan. Portable buildings tended to be pretty open, so Peter was relatively confident on that front. 

Four: No one. Peter’s own heartbeat, sure, but there wasn’t another living person in the building, which was strange because the ringleader had made it sound as if there was a hostage.

Still, the scuffling had come to a complete stop at the threat, so Jason , at least, believed the threat to be real.

Peter tightened the strings of his hoodie even further, thankful he got a size too big for him, narrowing his worldview down into a tiny hole barely big enough to peek through with both eyes. Hopefully that would be enough. Slinking his feet across the roof as to not make a sound, Peter felt only slightly annoyed that Jason was inside the building, which meant that Peter couldn’t just pick up the portable and shake it around and give the kidnappers inside a totally fun and not at all nauseating and dangerous ride. 

Alas: it is what it is. Peter would have to cope.

Reaching the corner of the building nearest to the door-stalker, Peter stuck his feet to the side of the building and pulled the hoodie up over his hands so that he wouldn’t have to touch the cold metal of the roof. Grabbing a hold of either side of the corner, Peter used the slightest amount of his strength and ripped the entire roof off of the building like the lid of a can of sardines. Or maybe soup. But rectangular. So sardines, Peter thought, as he took in the scene, were certainly a better analogy than a soup can. 

Gotham’s schtick practices had struck once again, as the Croc by the door looked like an actual fucking crocodile, and the weirdo at the other end of the portable looked like a scarecrow, so Peter felt like he could guess with pretty good accuracy what his name would be. 

“Yo,” Peter greeted, as three shocked faces twisted to look at him, with varying degrees of rage, “So you’re an actual crocodile or something?” He asked Croc. 

But apparently Croc was super rude, because he didn’t even try to answer and instead just continued to stare. Peter shrugged, “I think I prefer the lizard version of you.” 

Scarecrow was starting to gather up his wits, and that just wouldn’t do, so Peter balanced himself precariously on the top of the wall like a wrestler on the ropes and patted his elbow, “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Peter hopped up and forward, dropping all his weight onto his elbow and nailing Croc directly in the throat. He dropped like a bag of rocks. Whoops . Peter might have put too much force into that one. There was a click of a gun and Peter was already shooting his web, as he hopped lightly to his feet. The hoodie made it kinda hard to see, but Peter poked his eye out and looked at the Scarecrow. 

He’d managed to knock the gun out of the Scarecrow’s hand, and it was stuck to the wall behind him, although the dude himself remained free. Bummer.

“You- you!” He spluttered, visibly (to Peter, at least) shaken and trying to act brave in spite of it. Admirable if he wasn’t an idiot mass murderer, “Who the hell are you??”

“Woooow,” Peter snarked, striding over to Jason as if he owned the place and snapping with one hand the chains that bound him - ankles, wrists, around his torso - and kept him firmly in place, “You don’t recognize me? Hoodies have kinda been my thing for a while now, y’know.”

Holding up a shaking hand - trembling from both rage, indignation, and a little bit of rightfully placed pants pissing fear - the Scarecrow accused, “ You’re the Green guy!”

Jason looked off , eyes unfocused, and it seemed like whatever he had going on was far more than a concussion. 

“Don’t be risky,” Jason warns, grabbing Peter’s wrist before he can go knock the Scarecrow through the wall of the portable, “‘Crow will-”

“ Crow will do this?” Scarecrow mocks, a syringe pressed against the hostage’s ( hostage??? Since when???) neck taking the place of a gun in the time span that Peter looked away.

Why the hell is his danger sense not going off? This feels like it should be quite a tense situation, after all, and here Peter is: la-de-da-ing his days away.

And!!! Why does the hostage not have a heartbeat? They can’t be dead, because they’re squirming in their bindings, but all Peter can smell is shit, “Who’ve you got there?” Peter casually questioned.

The syringe means something to Jason, even if it doesn’t to Peter, and the grip Jason has on Peter’s wrist gets tighter. It would be enough to break the arm of anyone else. But Jason doesn’t say anything, and Peter’s left in the dark, so he makes light conversation, “Gonna answer my question? Who’s the hostage?”

The Scarecrow laughs (nasally, again , fuck off this guy needs to blow his nose or something it is grossing Peter out ), and grabs onto the bag with his free hand, “None other than the fucker who took down the Joker,” The Scarecrow rips off the bag, “ Ben Jones-Watson.”

Peter stares at his own face, its expression wide-eyed and terrified.

He hears his own incredulous voice ask, “Okay, what the fuck?”

For a while, Peter stops writing as much. He doesn’t think it's a conscious decision, but he notices it on a very horribly special day in November - the day everyone forgot, it's the one year anniversary - and the dates of Peter’s journal entries have been getting farther apart. Peter’s paying for a storage facility (for full fucking price, too) that he rarely uses, has ideas that he doesn’t write down even though he should, and he doesn’t know why .

So Peter is just picking up his pencil, because what better way to spend the anniversary of when Peter’s life fell apart than working on the one thing that’ll put it back together, when his phone rings. 

Peter ignores it.

It rings again.

And again.

And now Peter’s kinda worried, so he picks up his phone and Johnny’s breathless voice comes over the speaker, “Oh thank god- wait , nothing’s wrong don’t worry,” and Peter wonders how Johnny knew that Peter was about to have a heart attack, “I have a surprise for you. Meet me on top of the Baxter Building!”

Peter looks at the notebook, knows that his apartment is still freezing even though he cannot feel it through the warmth of the blanket Miles gifted him, and doesn’t know why he says yes but he can’t think of a reason to say no either. 

(And Johnny takes one look at Peter - with Peter's mask still firmly in place - and his hair bursts into flames.

(That, in and of itself, isn't abnormal. Johnny just tends to... do that, and Peter's long learned to accept it. He has his own quirks that came with being a meta too, after all, so it wouldn't be fair to judge Johnny for... spontaneous human combustion? Or something? Peter doesn't like mint anymore, so he totally gets it. Maybe.)

Johnny runs a hand through his flaming hair to douse it, messing it up in the process, but Peter won’t be the one to tell him that, “Shit, dude. C’mon inside: it’s movie night!”

That wasn’t Johnny’s original plan. He’s in his suit for a reason - Johnny wouldn’t put on his suit just to come up to his own roof - but movies sound good and a warm building sounds good and Johnny sounds good , and Peter ends up falling asleep on Johnny’s shoulder and wakes up there too, Johnny’s head resting on top of his. 

Peter’s mask is untouched. There’s a new blanket over his shoulders, and the television has been turned off. Peter knows he fell asleep during the movie.

He doesn’t feel trapped , either. And-

(He fell asleep on MJ like this once. A little over a year ago. They’d had a movie date and-!)

-Peter sits up like a rocket, knocking his head against Johnny’s quite forcefully in the process. Groaning at the pain, Johnny leans back against the couch, and Peter hops to his feet anxiously, “I- should. I should go.”

Johnny’s not an idiot, he realizes that something went wrong, even if he doesn’t know what, but he just nods, accepting in a way that Peter doesn’t deserve, and Peter goes home and he writes , because he shouldn’t be getting attached. May and MJ and Ned are waiting for him, even if they don’t know it, and- and- and.

And Peter is tired , but he writes. He’s hollow, but he writes. 

Work picks back up again. 

And Peter starts building.)

Jason’s hands, Peter realizes with a disconnected bewilderment, are in the air. He’s saying “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t fucking shoot-”

But all Peter can do is stare at his own face, wearing an expression that Peter would never wear. 

Or, perhaps he did, once upon a time, but then Peter died for four years, and he doesn’t recognize the helpless terror written on his own features. 

The mimic - to give credit where credit is due - is incredibly accurate, but it isn’t Peter , and he’d have thought that Jason would be able to recognize that this whole situation is incredibly off , but Peter can hear Jason’s heart beating much faster than a normal humans should ever beat, recalls the wild look in his eyes, and aims for casual as he asks, “What’s in the syringe?” 

Scarecrow inches the syringe closer to the fake’s neck, and Peter notes that the mimic’s flinch doesn’t look quite as fake this time around. Interesting.

“My patented fear toxin, of course!” Scarecrow brags smugly, “You probably don’t want to see the effects of dose this large, but if you look at yer friend there,” He must be talking about Jason, “You’ll see what a micro dose can do!”

Fuck . Jason doesn’t even seem to register the admission, his entire body tense as he zeros in on the syringe, and Peter feels only a little bit guilty as he starts walking toward the Scarecrow. 

“Hey! What are you doing?!”

“Fuck, Green, get back, Pete’s in danger-!”

“Who the fuck is Pete?” The Scarecrow shouted back, completely caught off guard at Peter’s flippant attitude about his hostage.

But Peter just keeps on going, shrugging casually, “Ehhh, Pete can totally handle that syringe. You should inject it,” Jason grabs onto Peter’s shoulder, grip borderline painful, but he shrugs him off, mentally apologizing, “See what happens. I’m curious.” 

Whoever fake-Peter is, they’re doing a great job acting like a terrified civilian. It would fool any other hero, unless they knew Peter personally. Even then, the Scarecrow probably could have pulled it off, saying he already exposed fake-Peter to the fear toxin.

Unfortunately for this entire scheme, Peter was Peter, so he kept walking, taking his time on purpose and there-!

The Scarecrow was making empty threats - though they were only empty because Peter knew that fake-Peter was in on the whole scheme - jabbing the syringe closer and closer to fake-Peter’s neck and fake-Peter’s fear turned real , but they were a good actor because they didn’t even try to escape the bindings Peter has no doubt were just for show. Still, even good actors weren’t willing to take a syringe of fear toxin to the neck for fun, so when the Scarecrow’s hand swung wider than he intended, aiming straight into fake-Peter, the mimic melted , slipping out of the bindings and reforming a few feet away. 

“Ah. Didn’t realize ‘ ordinary civilian’ Ben Jones-Watson could do that,” Peter intones dryly, and watches as it dawns on the Scarecrow what just happened. He turns to berate his companion, and Peter takes the opportunity to dart in close, ready to just knock this bitch’s lights out and then figure out how to fight a person made of shit or mud or whatever the other dude is, but fuck fuck fuck Peter’s danger sense screams as the Scarecrow whips up the glass vile right in line with Peter’s punch. 

The worst part about super strength, Peter thinks to himself as his fist sails through the vial, soaking his hand, is how hard it is to pull away once he starts moving. But, well, fuck it, Peter supposes, landing a firm hit on the Scarecrow’s head which knocks him to the ground. 

(K.O. !!!

Peter’s 2:0 now for one hit knockouts.)

Peter posies his hand as if to shake off the excess liquid before pausing, turning to look at the mud-man. He’d obviously been afraid of the fear toxin, and it also obviously worked just through skin contact because Peter’s mind was starting to whisper to him that he’s the reason May died, and the voice was louder than normal. Out of the corner of Peter’s eye, he could still see Jason, but his body was on the ground, neck twisted at an odd angle. Peter’s work.

But not, because Peter hasn’t moved. 

… He is going to throw up. Or have a panic attack. Or both, maybe.

Peter wanted to throw up. 

Finishing the multidimensional transporter should be a good thing, right?

Right?

But looking at it, in its untested and still very dangerous form, Peter wanted to do nothing more than to destroy it. 

This monstrosity. 

Tomorrow , Peter tells himself, because even if he hates it he can’t bear to destroy it quite yet: this proof of his ingenuity. Of his capabilities. Because Peter built a multidimensional transporter on his own . With inspiration from others, sure, but Peter figured it out on his own, and he can’t make himself tear it apart less than an hour after finishing it. He’ll destroy the cursed machine tomorrow. He’ll go on patrol tonight, dismantle the machine tomorrow, and then go to game night with Johnny, and no one will ever know what Peter had been about to do. 

(What he got far too close to doing.)

So Peter goes back to his apartment (goes home, sort of, but not really - not at all - because he might have just now realized that multiversal transporting was probably the shittest idea ever but Peter still doesn’t have a home without his family ), and, still a scientist and engineer at heart, pulls out the journal from under his bed, and starts to write.

“Theoretically, I have figured out multidimensional travel.”  

Because he had. Even if he hasn’t tested out the machine, in theory, he still managed to figure it out. 

The depth of Peter’s actions are only now sinking in. He built an untested multidimensional transporter in an unguarded storage unit. An untested, potentially volatile machine. In the midst of a highly populated city . Peter feels like he’s been snapped back to the real world as the gravity of his actions hit, his tunnel vision fading away as reality sinks in. Just because the machine hadn’t blown up yet - or had someone stumble onto it - doesn’t mean that they won’t.

“ In a more practical application, however, the machine is still unstable. I don’t know if I can handle waiting any longer.”

No, no. Peter will wait until tomorrow to dismantle the machine, but he still can’t believe how fucking stupid he’s been. He crosses out the last part.

“What am I doing? Is this right? Am I going to fuck everything up again?”

What if, in dismantling the machine, Peter screws up again. What if he activates it? What if he can’t fight back the temptation of activating it? What if his vision tunnels again, if his own guilty conscience gets too loud, if Peter makes a decision that makes everything worse ?

(Again.)

“What if things get worse? Can they get worse?”

Of course they can get worse. Peter could-! 

It was stupid to build a multidimensional transporter, Peter sees now, far too late. It was stupid, reckless, (absolutely brilliant) and Peter wants to throw up at the idea of abandoning Miles to be Spider-Man, of never having another game night, of losing… 

Of losing everything . Again.

Peter heaves, everything crashing down over his head. He’s drowning, he’s sinking, he’s fuck , he’s- 

He’s on his knees, not able to stand. 

The fear toxin hit like a freight train, one minute Peter being still semi-coherent and the next…

It’s wet. Peter doesn’t know why and his senses are screaming at him. Everything is too much too much too much too much and then things get worse and Peter doesn’t know why it is wet but he tastes salt, too, and thinks that maybe it's his tears.

His hands are cradled under his hunched over back, and Peter stares at them with unseeing eyes. His heart is beating far too fast and it's because of the semi-translucent green fluid coating them. 

He should wash it off in the wetness. 

Peter can’t untense his body. Can’t make himself move.

Fuck . 

“Fuck.”

Saying it aloud helps, Peter thinks, his own voice overpowering the nails-on-a-chalkboard sounds of the rest of the world, “Fuck!!” Peter says it louder and wet fabric touches his mouth.

And Peter’s underneath tons of concrete, his mask wet and choking him and Peter claws at his own head with the hand that didn’t punch the Scarecrow and seal his fate, tries to look up and can’t see anything but gray walls and Darkness and no, no, Peter can’t be there again, but there is pressure on Peter’s chest and he can’t- he can’t breathe , he’s choking, he’s drowning, he’s disintegrating, he’s gone . 

Peter’s gone: swept his own world, through the works of a creation made from his own hands. God , he sees it now, his foolishness is coming back, and Peter doesn’t know how he forgot but he knows that goddamn machine is his worst fear and Peter made it with his own two hands and - and - and everything is crumbling down. Something moves to his right, Peter thinks, and strikes out without hesitation. His hand sinks into whatever it is, and now Peter’s trapped again, it's stuck around his hand, and Peter can hear howling. 

“Shit,” Peter says aloud, just because he can, and then, “Breathe, asshole,” Because MJ would have said that, and Ned would have been panicking too, but he’d be able to say, “We’re here, we’re here,” and May would say, “I’ve got you,” and Happy would say, “Pete, you’re in control.”

And Miles wouldn’t know what to do either, but he’d probably say, “It’s okay!” even if he didn’t believe his own words, and Wade would be the only one brave enough to get close to Peter and would keep his hands from tearing at his head, even if Peter accidentally ripped off Wade’s hands in the process, and he’d say, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” and Matt would be quiet except he’d breathe loudly, slowly, steadily, and Peter finds himself matching it - matching what it would be - instinctively. Johnny would chatter about anything until Peter came back to himself. 

Peter doesn’t know what to chatter about, and it would ruin his slow breathing, so he just pictures Johnny instead.

Time passes, Peter thinks, but Johnny’s still chatting. 

A blink: once, twice, and Jason’s face - without a helmet, without a mask, pure Jason - comes into clarity. Peter doesn’t know why Jason would take them off until he realized he could see all of Jason’s face with both eyes. 

Things feel fuzzy, but more in control now, and Peter laughs humorlessly, strained, and probably nasally and gross just like the Scarecrows, “I’m tired,” he says simply, and his voice is hoarse and Peter has no idea what just happened, “Is-?”

“Firehose,” Jason explains, probably because Jason knows what he would want to hear in Peter’s position, “Mud and water don’t mix. And then you hit him with a hand covered in fear toxin.”

Ah. Mud-man probably doesn’t have an metabolism like Peter’s. Or ghosts like Peter, who whisper over his ears that he’s okay.

“-with me?”

“Huh?”

Jason is patient, repeating his words, “You back with me?” 

And Peter nods, because kinda, but he still can’t breathe and feels like the walls are closing in and is sick with the realization that all of this is Peter’s own fault and - “Y-yeah.”

“I have the antidote. It’s an injection.”

Wordlessly, Peter holds out an open palm and gestures for Jason to hand it to him.

“I can inject it.”

And get tossed aside when my danger sense starts screaming danger at me? Peter would roll his eyes if he wasn’t destroyed inside already. Impatiently, he moves his hand again, and Jason hands it over, albeit reluctantly. 

Peter injects the antidote into his own arm, and it stings like the glass did, all those months ago, but Peter can handle it, “I’m a danger right now,” Peter’s voice isn’t steady. He doesn’t try to make it steady, “I can’t control my strength.”

Jason hasn’t stopped scouring Peter’s face, but all he says is, “Okay. I’ll keep watch. Can I call anyone?”

The fear toxin makes Jason’s neck look twisted and broken. It makes him look like Matt, makes him look disappointed, makes him look disgusted. Peter fumbles for his phone and his fingers feel numb.

Peter doesn’t know who he’s calling until the phone is ringing. 

Not Peter’s.

Or, well Peter’s phone is ringing, but it isn’t the only one. Jason’s helmet is ringing - Peter didn’t know it could do that - and Jason frowns, “A coincidence,” He says, but he sounds unsure, and Jason stands up to retrieve the helmet, and does something to answer the call without putting it on. 

"B?” Jason asks, “Alf? Who the hell is calling me, this thing should only be connected to the com-set.”

And Peter hears Jason’s voice from two places.

Jason himself, who went to retrieve his helmet.

And through the phone. 

Peter hangs up, and thinks he understands.

“Hey, did you-” Jason asks, and Peter shrugs.

“A coincidence.”

Jason’s unconvinced - hell, screw unconvinced , he knows what just happened, even if he doesn’t understand how - but he doesn’t argue, and the two end up sitting back to back in half-an-inch deep water, Peter coming down from the high of his majorly concentrated dosage of fear toxin and Jason doing the same, calming himself after his microdosing and concussion had him believing that Peter was in genuine danger.

“I’m tired,” Peter says, and Jason doesn’t say anything, but their breathing has synced, “I’m tired ,” He says again with more emphasis, and Jason’s breath hitches, “I know. I am too.”

“I wanna go home ,” And Peter feels childish, feels stupid, feels ridiculous, feels Jason hum against his back, “Gotham isn’t?”

“...No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ll help y’get back.”

Really? Peter wants to ask, Truly? He wants to question, but his body says sleep and his senses say it’s okay and Peter is. 

He is okay.

May’s number - the one he’d been most afraid to call - had been answered. 

And Jason is here , so there was no need to stay on the line.

And Peter…

Peter remembers.  

He remembers blowing out a singular candle on a cupcake, seated on the top of the Empire State Building with Johnny beside him, who had proudly lit the candle himself. Peter had accidentally let his birth date slip, although in hindsight, Peter doesn’t know if it was an accident or a plea. Either way, Johnny delivered.

Looking back on the memory - at how progress on the transporter (and god , how foolish Peter had been (no, not foolish: fucking stupid ), thinking that he truly wanted to leave) had been ramping up in the week before Peter’s nineteenth birthday and then completely stalled out in the days after - Peter doesn’t realize how he could have been so blind.

In Peter’s memory, Johnny looks at him like… like Johnny always has, and Peter doesn’t know how he could have ever been willing to give this up. 

(He wasn’t willing, Peter sees that now. But he’d been grieving and lonely and desperate and drowning in his own guilt and self-hatred. He’d found an outlet for that despair - an ideal to cling desperately onto, in order to stay afloat - and he’d put everything into it. Into that false hope. But it kept him afloat - kept him going - maybe that hope wasn’t false after all.

Peter now realizes that the transporter was never supposed to be used. He’d never intended to activate the damn thing, but that part - the activation, the injuries, the reason why Peter couldn’t remember anything related to the transporter, and the reason why some memories still elude him - has yet to become clear. Peter hates mysteries.)

But, of course, Peter had given it up, if accidentally, because he finished the transporter two weeks later, and then everything fell apart.

Chapter Text

As much as everyone - and Miles really means everyone: himself included - wanted to jump the gun and immediately go to Spidey’s secret storage unit, Torchy managed to wrestle control of their singular shared braincell, stopping them all from instantly diving out the window, “The laptop may have important clues on it. What I’m thinking happened is,” he points to the bed, “Spidey was in his civilian clothes and checked something out on his laptop. Whatever he saw must have been important enough to have him rushing out of the door. He didn’t grab his suit or wallet, so he must have been in a serious hurry. He then went to the storage unit where his transporter-thingy is being stored, and something happened there.”

“Shouldn’t we head straight to it then?” Daredevil argues, “It’s already been over a month. Almost two , for Christ’s sake. What if-”

“And what if we make things worse ,” Torchy interrupts, and he’d totally be on fire if he had less control of his powers. Already steam was wafting off of his shoulders, “I want Spidey back as much as-”

“Do you?” Deadpool spits, crowding into Torchy’s space, “Do you really want him back? Because it seems like you wanna stall-!”  

Everyone is bristling, tensions are wound tight, and Miles wonders if these three had known each other before Spidey’s disappearance, or if they’ve only started working together recently to keep Queens safe and to find Spider-Man. The energy of the room is ramped up to a hundred and Miles thinks that Peter would tell him he’s too young to be worrying about making everyone happy. So Miles doesn’t try to appease them - they’re adults, it’s not his job - and leaves them to it.

He steals one of Spidey’s backpacks and stores the laptop inside of it, and then heads to the window. Daredevil notices, “Kid? Where are you going?” Torchy and Deadpool snap to attention. Miles shrugs, “You three can figure yourselves out. It’s not my job to find a solution. I’m going to do what I said I would: break into the laptop and figure out what Spidey was looking at. Wait for me, don’t wait for me - not my problem. I’ll text when I’m done and what I end up finding.”

And Miles ducks out of the window and leaves.

(Matt waits until he knows that even big-Spidey’s hearing wouldn’t be able to catch his words, “Our Spidey would have broken up your argument before it even started. He’d have sensed it in the air and made it his problem, even though it isn’t. That Spidey…”

“He’s young,” Johnny’s voice is soft, “It’s not the kid’s job to help us get along.” He glances at Wade, who is still bristling, “Let’s wait until the kid hacks into the laptop. Then we’ll all go.”

“I dunno how the fuck you think waiting is going to do any good, but whatever,” Wade grumbles, but its still an agreement.

“I want him back,” Johnny tries to keep his voice hard, but mostly it's tired . He’s tired, “I just want him to be safe. And home.”

“I know. ‘M just afraid this isn’t home anymore,” Wade admits, “And the longer Spidey is somewhere else, the more he’ll forget about us.”

The following silence is uncomfortable.)

For a while, Jason and Peter didn’t say anything to each other. They just sat back-to-back, their breathing having long synced up. It wasn’t as if they had nothing to say to each other: the issue is the exact opposite.

There is too much to say - too much to attempt to explain - yet they need to explain. Peter needs to explain. 

Not , Peter tells himself firmly, because he is obligated to give Jason an explanation, but because he wants to. 

But Peter doesn’t know how to explain and figures now isn’t exactly the best time, “I ran into Robin on my way here,” Peter eventually says, and Jason doesn’t have an obvious reaction to that bit of news, so Peter continues, “...I told him I was heading to the docks. I imagine he’ll be showing up soon.”

Now Jason seems to bite back a wince, trying to hide his own anxieties, and Peter can’t help but wonder what Jason’s dosage of fear toxin is making him think. Of what already-present fears it might be enhancing. 

But Jason isn’t obligated to explain anything either, and he doesn’t seem to want to. Jason ignores his own reaction entirely and forces his shoulders to relax, “What’s the story?” He asks gruffly. 

“Eh?” 

“Y’know. Our story. Y’Peter or are y’Greenie? I can find you something to cover yer face with if y’pick Greenie,” Jason offers, and Peter thinks to himself “It can’t be this easy.”

Peter doesn’t try to keep the genuine surprise out of his voice, “You’d… help me hide my identity? And keep my secret?” 

Almost defensively , Jason shoots back, “Y’doubt me that much, Pete?”