Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Parker curse was real. It struck when you least expected and it had no mercy. It was slow, like a parasite, gradually consuming its host. It took everything. Everyone.

May had just been the latest victim.

(he could still hear the heart monitor flatline when they stopped CPR, “Her heart just gave out, most likely stress, there was nothing you could have done.”)

He was the ‘stress’. shut up shut up shut up.

Because taking his parents wasn't enough. Because taking Ben, and Gwen, and Harry, and Captain Stacy and Dr Connors wasn't enough.

The Parker curse typically showed itself with his family dying early, gruesome deaths. Peter got an especially cruel strain, who knows, maybe it was the alliteration that did it. It never touched him. It just took everyone he cared about. Sometimes he wondered if he was the curse.

Not for too long though, he couldn’t. He couldn’t fail all of them by deciding not to carry on.

It was the least he could do for his victims.

“Any last words, bug?”

Oh shit, when did the bad guy monologue end? He really needed to focus on this guy, that giant machine looked bad, and the crazy scientist get-up, featuring the mandatory stained lab coat and manic eyes, made Peter think that it might actually work.

It was always the smart ones that end up going crazy and all villainous, they should really make some studies on that; it was probably for the best that he didn’t end up going to college. A public service really.

“Nothing? Fine. You’ll make the perfect test subject whether you’re screaming for mercy or not.”

Right, focus.

“Actually, spiders are arachnids”, the restraints broke with a loud crack like her back nope nope nope don’t think about that, he pushed himself from the wall with a kick aimed at Crazy Scientist nr 4 and trying pull more of his typical cheer up in his voice. “Which you should really know for such a smart guy, and second of all”, the kick pushed him back stumbling, a satisfying trail of blood now running from his nose “you seem very confident for a man that's trying to fight someone who has a very consistent streak of winning with wayward scientists; just saying-”, he shot a web at the man’s foot, his other hand quickly flashing the mockingjay sign because Peter has interests that don’t only include sewing his frankenstein of a suit (God are fabrics expensive), “the odds were never in your favor.”

Now, Peter was a planner at heart. He had already spotted the weak points on the portal shaped structure, the wires he’d need to cut the power to this extreme sport version of a science project, the weird looking gun that the man of the hour was holding up right now-

Shit.

Shit indeed, as Harry would say (no no no do NOT think about him right now), because Peter had certainly NOT seen that gun.

Half a second of lost focus and he was now; floating?

“Is that a gravity gun? OH MY GOD that's cool!” Well this just went downhill fast “I mean under different circumstances, but still. Also, you have the ability to make gravity guns but you’re slumming it down in a villain lair? I mean, you could make so much off of this, not that I support the military industrial complex, because I don’t, my friend gave me a whole lecture about it, very interesting stuff actually”, (someone take his thinking privileges away please DO NOT THINK ABOUT HER RIGHT NOW).

“SHUT UP! YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF MY GENIUS! MY INTELLIGENCE! AND THIS? THIS IS MY MAGNUM OPUS!”

Dammit, he was rambling again. Also, ANOTHER monologue?

“Everyone will know the name Adrian Toomes now, everyone who has ever doubted me, shunned me, underestimated me.” He was whispering now always a bad sign, his face red from screaming and the impressive nose bleed, slowly making Peter float towards the portal.

Now maybe there was a reason the Toomes hadn’t sold the gun, because Peter could still twitch his fingers, even though the rest of his body was currently unavailable. And really, that's all he needed.

Waiting until his hand was in the right position-

Use his web shooters to get the gun-

Just get the right angle-

Do it fast enough-

Wasn’t fast enough with her, were you?

You failed.

Fuck.

And you see kids, when fighting an unstable scientist, the one thing you should never do is get sucked into your thoughts enough for said bag guy to finish whatever half-baked human experimentation they’ve got planned for you, because then this really funny thing happens.

Namely.

You get pushed.

Into.

The bad guy portal.

Idiot.

Bonus fact, you get to see your idiocy in slow motion thanks to your super duper cool spider senses.

Including the split second image of the portal imploding on itself and everything in its near vicinity.

Like Toomes.

—

Through the ages, philosophers have often asked, “what does death by a weird portal feel like?” Answer: Like eating dirt at 100 kilometers per hour while having your atoms individually rearranged.

Peter will take the Berggruen prize and the million dollar reward now, please and thank you, “There's no Nobel prize for philosophy, Peter” “How was I supposed to know that Gwen?”

Scratch that. Say sike. No death. His thoughts wouldn’t be that loud if he was dead.

Do not feel disappointed by that. Don’t you dare. You already have enough blood on your hands, Parker.

He can feel disappointed by how he's still in a butt load of pain right now, and by how he’s gonna have to snap his nose back into place later.

Peter weakly groaned as he slowly turned away from his bed of asphalt, trying his best not to make any more pathetic noises as he felt his definitely fractured ribs move around.

Unlike Toomes, who got essentially eaten by his contraption.

Murderer.

Peter threw up.

Both from the guilt of being too slow to save Adrian, and the fact his stomach was currently winning gold in olympic gymnastics.

Where is he?

Clearly the portal did something, they’re no longer in the warehouse, and its dark-

Did he pass out?

Bile continues to sting his throat, and his body screams at him to lay down, but he barely feels it. Looking around, run down blocks surround him on two sides, a chain link fence in front of him. The smell of garbage clues him into the dumpsters lining the walls.

Something feels wrong.

He knows how New York smells, feels, his senses familiar with it, which comes with being tuned into his surroundings when he’s looking for any crimes to stop.

But this feels… different, somehow.

The air is heavier, polluted by smog and a general atmosphere of uneasiness, a constant low buzz of his spider senses.

Using one of the buildings for support, Peter slowly dragged himself up into a standing position.

Making sure that he wasn’t about to start dry heaving, he made his way to the opening of the alley, looking both sides in case there were any civilians to witness Spider-Man looking like he just got out of a meat grinder, because first of all, not a good look, and also he was pretty sure the portal teleported him to another city and in him current state he wasn’t gonna risk some bold cop deciding he was gonna get famous by arresting the masked menace, or whatever stupid moniker Jameson was sticking with right now.

Heh, sticking.

God, he probably has a concussion too.

Turning a corner, he spotted what looked like a news stand in the distance.

Ok, that's a start. Find out where he is, get back to New York, deal with the guilt and trauma later.

His hands shaking from exertion, he picked up a soggy newspaper and tried his best to decipher the letters in the dark.

…

Now, Peter was always more of a STEM kid.

So not recognizing Gotham City wasn’t that concerning.

But you’d think that as a superpowered vigilante he would have been aware of a psycho with a bag over his head that used a chemical weapon to murder 20 people.

Especially if, as the front page article suggested, this wasn’t even the first time it happened.

Safe to say, Peter was now very concerned.

Chapter Text

Now, not be dramatic, but Peter is freaking out because-

Well.

When he said he was a STEM kid, he also meant he was a massive nerd, and he has seen enough movies and shows and comics and all this is adding up to a very unsavory conclusion.

A very unlikely conclusion-

But Peter is nothing if not widely unlucky.

So as his mind immediately chimes in the phrase 'alternate universe’; he can’t make himself immediately dismiss it.

Like, for fucks sake, he’s met a guy that got lighting powers from falling into a vat of eels.

He’s still not over how ridiculous that sounds.

You failed to save Maxwell too. He believed in you.

Sorry, Peter’s mental breakdown factory is closed for today, please call back another time.

Dimension travel would account for the feeling of having his atoms rearranged, if reality is trying to reconcile the concept of thermodynamics and so on…

Right now he’s just praying that the $20 he has on him will work here.

Also that whatever gas this “Scarecrow” guy used is not anywhere near him because biological weapons are something he is not comfortable with.

At least this “fear gas” doesn’t change people into like, actual scarecrows or something, because that's the insanity he was initially expecting.

But the title of the article is what really gets him cause

“Scarecrow once more apprehended by Batman”

“Batman”

Now that just sounds like an alternate version of Spider-man

Why no hyphen though?

Is it like Mothman?

Oh God, is he actually part bat?

Like with real wings and shit?

That would be fucking terrifying.

And this is a little tidbit of information Peter can’t even check because there are no photos of Batman anywhere in the article.

Which could be due to either a) the guy is so terrifying the editor would have to ban them from showing him, b) he’s so well known that no one needs anymore context, or c) his civilian persona isn’t broke enough to have to take pictures of himself to pay rent.

Ah, the possibilities.

As he kept standing on the sidewalk, trying his best to process all these bombshells of information currently being pedalled at him, Peter was now realizing how fucking freezing it was outside, all the while it being exacerbated by how the wind sliced at the tears in his suit.

He should get some real clothes.

Peter has always felt safer high up on buildings, having a birds eye view of everything, being harder to reach, always being able to web himself somewhere else quickly.

And at the moment it’s his favorite place because people tend to hang up their laundry there

Not even an hour into being in whatever this place is and he’s already getting himself a misdemeanor.

But at least the new (re: someone else's) beat up jeans and hoodie are making the weather much more tolerable.

With a running start, he begins jumping between buildings, not about to associate Spider-Man with any more crimes he will most likely commit to stop himself from starving to death. He can already feel the itch of his skin as all the superficial cuts on his body start to heal as he tries to find any open bodegas or cheap restaurants because actions (not eating before getting into a fight to the death) have consequences.

Finally, finally, he spots a fast food place with the most psychedelic designs he’s ever seen, and crawls down the wall of the building he’s on into another alley to get a closer look.

“Batburger?”

He’s never had a restaurant named after him.

The windows of the Batburger, (they better be named after the vigilante and not the meat served), have decals of different colors, with patterns ranging from green question marks to scrawled “HAHAHA” in pink, but the lights are still on so Peter decides to ignore that beige flag.

As he enters, there are few customers in at the moment, so he beelines to the ordering station and looks up at the equally psychedelic menu.

“Welcome to Batburger, what can I get for you on this Battastic night?”

He quickly looks down to the worker with the most kill-me-now customer service voice he has ever heard, which he can definitely relate to, especially if he had to wear what looks like a dollar store superhero costume, there’s no way they can make people wear those scaly shorts in this weather like it has to be illegal or something, and reaches into his pocket where he stashed his cash.

“Uhh… could I get 2 Batburgers and large jokerized fries (do they have different spices in this universe?), also a water refill, please.”

“Sure, that will be $18.75, cash or card?”

Saying a quick prayer to the universe, he passes his cash over, and the relief when the cashier puts his money into the register is overwhelming.

He sits down in one of the booths, the sticky, red cushions and smell of grease almost reminding him of the many burger spots he frequents at home.

The atmosphere is generally relaxed, as relaxed as it can be with the type of people who eat at this universe’s waffle house at-

Well the clock on the wall says 1am.

Nothing good happens in a waffle house at 1 in the morning.

His hypothesis is proven correct about 5 minutes into his meal (he would usually eat both burgers and the fries in a few bites but his stomach and guilt make it hard to swallow not matter how much water he drinks), when his spider sense makes his head whip towards the entrance, where two guys looking like they just bought a masterclass in amateur robbery come with handguns start the “hands up and open the register” speech. This makes the server look even more dead-souled, which is honestly quite the feat.

He’s about to get up and try to get the guns pointed at him instead of the civilians around him because “not my problem” hasn’t been in his vocabulary in a while-

And what good that has done.

When a guy in the corner that Peter had been mildly wary of thanks to the -danger- vibe his spidey senses have been wiring at him about, pulls out a gun and.

Kneecaps them both with insane accuracy.

And then just sits back down.

One hand on the top of the booth, Peter feels mildly frozen in his place, but the would-be robbers start screaming and he immediately runs towards them, kicking the guns away and starts using their clothes to stop the bleeding, refusing to think about the situation, the blood and it’s stench, stop thinking, stop thinking stop thinking-

A gunshot, he’s crying, there's blood everywhere and he’s trying to keep it in but there’s too much, an ambulance arriving too late- “He was already dead, there was nothing you could have done”--

He can feel the memory play out in the depths of his mind, his hands clammy but refusing to acknowledge it, this is not the fucking time-

“Chill out kid, they’ll be fine, the ambulance will be here soon.”, the shooter is now walking up to him, his nonchalance and the- is that a domino mask? short circuiting Peter’s mind a little as he finishes the tourniquets on both men.

“Hey Sharon; I gotta go, sorry for the mess but I don’t feel like dealing with the cops on this one”

“Yeah ok Hood, have a night I guess”

“Yeah, you too; get this kid some wet wipes- and make sure to hide the guns behind the counter. We don't want a repeat of last month.”

The fact he’s been called a kid twice in as many minutes doesn’t make him bristle like it usually does he still feels like a kid, but he’s 18 and he’s been through too much to be considered a kid anymore; it’s the principle of the thing, but it does make Peter realize that his hands are no longer sweaty and instead bloody.

The masked man slides a red chrome helmet onto his head, overkill much, and strolls out the restaurant before presumably starting up and driving off on the monster of a motorcycle Peter saw outside when he came in.

He should go after him.

He shot two people.

He’s a bad guy.

But then why the fuck is he on a first name basis with the server, Sharon, apparently, and why does it sound like he’s done this before?

His nausea from teleporting into this wild west of a city makes standing up difficult, and his vision is still blurry when he takes the wet wipes being passed to him and starts to obsessively scrub the blood from under his fingernails.

It does nothing to get rid of the smell.

There’s no way Peter can go after him.

He almost killed two people.

And Peter’s useless.

Again.

Useless and helpless.

He grabs the rest of his food he still didn’t get through, and gets out before the sirens get too loud, quickly hopping onto the roof of the nearest building.

He tries to control his breathing as he jumps over the next few roofs, finally landing a very un-Spider-Manly way for him, huddling under an AC unit for the illusion of warmth.

Maybe therapy’s cheaper in the universe?

For now he’s going to focus on easier tasks like eating his leftovers and hoping he doesn’t freeze to death.

Chapter Text

Dick is actually going to strangle Jason when he sees him.

The camera footage Babs sent him painted a regular but definitely not pretty picture of a typical Red Hood vs robbers situation, and even through the blurry quality of the tape, the kid involved was not used to it.

And either this kid has some sort of 6th sense for cameras or is a cryptid, because from the footage they could access, he essentially spawned into existence from a dead end alley from where he entered the Batburger in question and then disappeared straight after.

And while the third option of him taking the rooftops like a Bat is in the back of his mind, he would rather not deal with it because he does not need another headache, thank you very much.

Also, as Jason described him, the brunette in question looked rough and a tourist, considering the New York accent which sticks out even more than usual in a Batburger at 1 in the morning.

Probably a runaway, thinking Gotham would be a good place to lie low, he muses as he swings through the sky, adding a fancy twist or two at the peaks of his leaps.

He scans the streets for any signs of life, his concern growing with every block he passes, because the cold is in full swing this part of November, so much so that even in his Bat certified suit he can still feel the freezing wind trying to cut through his body.

His fleeting hope that the kid found one of the many Wayne sponsored homeless shelters dies a quick death when the infrared setting on his domino spots a small mass of heat, which then turns into the huddled form of a teenager matching Hood’s description.

This is going to be a rough night.

***

Peter is, at his heart, selfish.

He knows this.

The universe has beaten it into him time and time again.

He wanted to know his dad better, so he gave Connors the algorithms he needed.

Which ended up with the Lizard.

He wanted to use his powers for fun, took his aunt and uncle for granted, and refused to help the store clerk.

Which ended up with uncle Ben dying, because he decided to be a better person than Peter.

He could have stopped that robber easily, and even if he was the one to get shot, he would’ve healed.

But he didn’t do shit.

He refused to save people when it was easy for him, and for that he got the inability to save people when it was the most important.

And now he’s helpless again.

And he’s alone.

That’s probably for the better.

He gets torn from his thoughts as his spidey senses flare, -watchingclosewary-, and hears the soft sound of someone walking towards him from one side of the roof.

Shit.

He isn’t in immediate danger, but honestly that doesn’t mean much because he knows how quickly intentions can change, so he discreetly moves into a starting position, taking note of the possible exits he glimpsed before his little existential crisis

There's a fire escape behind him, an adjacent roof on the right, if anything he’ll outrun them.

“Hey kid, you alright?”

The stranger’s get up is almost as skintight as his own suit, with two sticks holstered on his back, a blue… eagle? on his chest who’s coloring goes down his arms to his finger tips.

Another domino mask, which concern’s Peter a little, with his general demeanor resembling an animal shelter employee approaching a wild cat.

“Yeah, I’m good, I was just leaving actually…”, Peter stands up, trying not to betray his chosen escape route by looking towards the other roof.

“Oh no it's fine, just wanted to make sure you didn’t need help, those cuts don’t look too good; I can get you to a free clinic if that’s ok?”

Peter still at the comment somewhat, reflexively touching his face, and yup, those are still there.

Apparently dimensional travel takes more out of his healing factor than he’d assumed, that’s good to know.

He’s got to give it to the guy, his script for dealing with civilians is pretty good, but even free clinics typically require some sort of ID and he is not ready for any more questions right now.

He moves his foot an inch towards the other side of the roof.

“Or we could just sit down and talk for a bit, whatever's on your mind?”

Peter can almost see the puppy dog eyes from behind the mask, and the sincerity being projected at him, but this guy could be anything from a passionate freerunner to another vigilante (but they already have Batman, don’t they? Maybe they work together?) Or he knows the other domino guy.

“Listen man, I appreciate the offer but I don’t even know who you are, and all those stranger danger lessons probably weren’t for nothing, so I think I’ll pass.”

Now that gets the guy a bit of kilter, as he clearly begins to reexamine the situation in a way that Peter wants to get some insight into right now, because he feels like he just made a major mistake.

“I’m Nightwing, nice to meet you, I’m one of Gotham’s vigilantes but guess I’m not as popular in New York as I thought I was, huh?”

“How-”

“Well, an NY and Jersey accent are pretty different”, the guy- Nightwing, chuckles a bit at the observation, which Peter only half registers because-

He’s in fucking New Jersey?

Christ.

***

Ok, so probably not a runaway then.

Dick thinks that's a pretty solid conclusion to draw because typically runaways know what state they’re running to and the confused look the kid’s wearing points to the opposite.

His scrawniness is even more obvious now than it was in the footage, with cuts and scrapes being barely hidden by too big hoodie swallowing the kid in front of him.

His skittishness is also a point of worry for Dick, because if he’s not a runaway afraid of being caught, there might be another reason he’s scared of people approaching, especially if he doesn’t know who Nightwing is. (He quickly says goodbye to this being a regular case)

Now, not to brag, but the Bats and birds are known all over, definitely known in New York at the very least, and the strong Queens accent definitely points towards him being a native.

Human trafficking would fit the bill, though his mind is also throwing out space and time travel as possibilities, because that's just the life he lives.

Right now though, he needs to focus on coaxing the guy away from taking a run for it, so he softens his voice even more and changes his approach, “You can stay on this roof if you want to, I’m not going to chase you off it, I was doing my normal patrol route and you got me a bit worried.” Don’t make the interaction seem targeted, don’t ask invasive questions.

That gets the teenager to become fractionally less tense, his face suggesting he’s debating on what to do next.

Please don’t run please don’t run-

“Do you, uh, patrol with Batman or something?”

Ok, so he knows who that is at least. It doesn’t give him much, but he can work with that.

“Yup!”, he makes his tone light, popping the “p”, “Me and Bats take care of Gotham and help out others when we can, though he’s been at it much longer than me, there are also others but they aren’t out tonight.”

The kid looks even more stumped at this information than the fact he’s in New Jersey, but he also looks a bit curious, so silver linings it is.

***

“The are also others”

How bad is this city that it requires a whole group of vigilantes running around?

Nightwing is still standing in front of him like Peter’s uncertainty and borderline hostility isn’t bothering him in the slightest, and he did promise to not kick him out so maybe he's the real deal. And he’s giving out information Peter desperately needs.

Or he’s trying to get your guard down.

Or that.

Decisions, decisions.

Well, Nightwing’s main assumption is probably that Peter is a runaway, what with the calling him ‘kid’ and him being from a different state while chilling on a roof in the middle of the night, so trying to make him not try to ‘help him’, might turn into an exercise in futility, but if he does some damage control then maybe he can gain the status of ‘homeless young adult that got into a scrap’ and make Wing back off for now.

At least until he checks out what the hell he got himself into and maybe even finds a way home.

Cause you’ve got so much to go back for, don’t you.

Murderer.

Scrap that, if Nightwing is actually a bag guy and wants to punt him off this roof right now that would work too, anything to make him forget his night so far.

He consciously relaxes his body, trying to exude an air of ‘this is just a regular whatever day of the week it is right now’ (because back home it was the middle of October and like 5 in the afternoon) and leans against the AC unit.

On the previous topic, Peter once again wishes he carried his phone with him on patrol like he used to so maybe he could jailbreak it to connect to something here.

Even though last time he carried something of his, Connors figured out his identity, dumbass of the year award to him for writing his name on that goddamn camera.

Also, after May, he doesn’t really have anyone to call anymore, but that's totally not the main reason.

“Sounds like I’m just keeping you busy then, huh? Also, it’s Ben”, no way he’s giving out his real name, “not ‘kid’, ‘specially cause I’m 18, and I get it, total baby face and the starving artist look is definitely not helping, but the cuts I got from a fight with a guy who decided I looked at him wrong, not an abusive parent, so if it's all the same to you I’ll just stay here until the trains to New York start running again.”

“One of the worst performances of my career and they-”

Well, Nightwing still seems to be doubting it.

Fuck it, he hasn’t slept in almost 20 hours (thank working enough to afford an NYC apartment for that).

He sits down again, he back on the AC unit, and waits for the verdict.

“Sure man”, he didn’t believe a word Peter said, did he. “And if it's the same to you, I’ll keep watch; Gotham’s pretty dangerous at night.”

And the guy has the audacity to just sit down next to him.

But Peter’s an acteur, so he doesn’t budge.

“Sure.”

“No Problem.”

He actually smiles at him like he’s doing Peter a favor.

He’s so screwed.

***

“...How many of you are there?”

Ha, the kid- sorry, ‘Ben’ (definitely not his real name), didn’t last 5 minutes of awkward silence.

Credit where credit’s due, ‘Ben’ did try his best to act like everything is fine, but he’s for sure not used to schooling his expressions, kind of like how Dick knows for a fact that Jason partially likes wearing the helmet because he doesn’t have to keep a poker face 24/7 like B does with is cowl.

Anyways, Nightwing: 1, Possible human trafficking victim: 0 …wait no that sounds wrong-

“Well, apart from me and Batman, there’s Robin who’s Batman's partner in crime fighting, there’s Spoiler, she dresses in purple and has a pretty cool cape, Red Robin, he’s the one with the bo staff, Batgirl looks pretty similar to Batman, only with a full mask instead of a cowl, The Signal is our only day time vigilante but you definitely can’t miss him… pretty sure that's about it!” He purposefully excluded Red Hood from the list considering Ben’s last encounter with him, but even now half the public still isn’t sure if he’s part of the Bats and birds so it’s not like he feels obliged to tell him, considering he does not need the not-kid to get scared off.

Ben seems to go through every stage of grief as he digests the information, all of which seem completely foreign to him, not a good sign, and the fact he only recognizes Batman might suggest he knew about him when he was younger and then- what, just never had access to any media, news, anything?

Well, playing along with the story ben has laid out has gotten him the furthest, so he should probably go with that.

“So… you got enough for a train ticket?”

“Wha?”

“To New York.”

“Uhh… yeah. Obviously.”

Lies upon lies upon lies

“Well, you don’t seem too sure; maybe you could contact a friend or family to pay for one?”, risky, but it might get him more information on Ben’s situation.

The way Ben’s face crumbles for a split second makes Dick’s heart break a little.

“I- no, not- not…anymore”

He almost sounds like he’s about to choke on his own words, the memories still raw and at the front of his mind- Dick can definitely relate.

“That must be really difficult, being all alone in a new place and all.”,the kid isn’t even trying to look at him anymore, and what should but doesn’t confuse him is that the kid’s reacting as if this is the first time anyone has really talked to him about it, allowing for vulnerability and acknowledging that his grief, no matter how overwhelming, is still valid.

He also doesn’t fail to notice how Ben just barely shifts himself toward him, probably unconsciously seeking out the warmth that his external suit heater produces.

“You know, I’ve lost people before too, and you know what was the hardest in all of it?”

He barely catches the unsure, whispered “what” that Ben makes in response.

“The loneliness. They’re gone, and you’ve got a hole in your soul where they once belonged. That and the helplessness of not being able to do anything about what happened to them.”

He can see Ben minimally shaking now, his face almost completely hidden between his legs, clearly trying to escape the conversation, but Dick needs to finish his point if he’s truly left no other choice than to leave Ben here (he’s already placed trackers on him, but can you blame him?)

“The only thing that will help you get through it: other people you can rely on, confide in.”

He turns to face the teen once more, gently putting a hand on one of his shoulders, being acutely aware of any signs of touch aversion, tenseness, or flinching.

Instead, it takes about 2 seconds for Ben to melt into the touch.

Christ, all this and he’s touch starved? Does this kid have anyone?

“I get that you don’t know me, and I don’t expect you to trust me, but promise me one thing, alright?”, (Ben has shut down a little by now so he hopes the message still sticks), “Find someone who you can trust, and talk to them. Because believe me, as much as it might seem like the only way, dealing with things like this alone? It never ends well, and you deserve better.”

They sit in mutual silence like this for a while, and thankfully Ben falls asleep soon after, leaning against Wing’s shoulder, he looked absolutely exhausted, and though Dick would much rather get him to sleep in a bed, he settles for covering him in an emergency blanket he keeps in his belt. He knows that waking up with him still there would probably freak Ben out, him being a rando and all, so as the sun just begins to peak out from the horizon, Dick takes off, but not before leaving some snacks and water behind, as well as some useful pamphlets for Ben to use, (shelters, soup kitchens, the Gotham library), feeling at least a little better about the whole situation.

All in all, Babs already has Ben’s face to run through facial recognition, and as Oracle, she will hopefully be able to make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble while they figure out who he is and where he came from.

Right now though, all Dick wants to do is get out of this suit and sleep for at least the next dozen hours, even if it means breaking most driving laws on his wing cycle as he rips through Gotham’s streets at 5 in the morning.

Chapter Text

He held the flowers gently in one hand above her open grave, the remnants of february snow littering the ground.

His eyes were wet, he knew they were, but he was stuck in a space of limbo where moving didn’t feel like an option.

It felt like floating, like the air in his lungs wasn;t really air like his body was made of dark matter- he didn’t really exist, he wasn’t really there, this wasn’t really happening.

The dread pooling in his stomach didn’t seem to care.

His too thin, black trench coat that once belonged to Ben did nothing to stop him from shivering.

(Had he been standing there that long, or was it getting colder?)

The scarf that May made him when he was seven was tightly wrapped around his neck, if he paid enough attention to anything around him, maybe it's scratchiness would have registered, though it didn’t matter much anyways- she was so happy whenever he wore it.

There had been a lot of people at the funeral, friends, neighbors, May’s co-workers from the hospital she worked at.

The priest (why was there a priest, they weren’t even religious) was the only one left now.

Waiting for Peter to say his last goodbye.

To throw the flowers onto the coffin as everyone else had.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He just wanted to pretend this wasn’t forever a little while longer.

“SQUAK!”

Peter woke up with a start, his all-natural alarm clock in the form of a pigeon almost relieving itself on him if it wasn’t for his spidey sense, making a sound of indignation as he quickly rolled to the side.

He really hoped the bird wasn’t planning another attack, as once he stopped in his escape he realized he was wrapped in- a human sized burrito wrapper?

An emergency blanket, you idiot his brain helpfully supplied, but that did not stop his confusion, because he definitely wasn’t in possession of one last night–

Wait a fucking minute.

Did that Nightwing guy tuck him in?

After he cried in front of him like a goddamn baby!??

His head hit the floor with a thud, mortification quickly overwhelming the remnants of grief that that dream always carried, because he actually had a breakdown in front of the first stranger to be remotely nice to him.

He is pretty warm though.

And it has been a while since he felt this warm while sleeping, cause funerals and mortgages cost money he didn’t have and shoebox apartments in NYC aren’t known for their stellar appliances and he did not know that shock blankets could be this effective.

Though Wing’s suit did look pretty decked out, like, his boots didn’t even look like material hand sewn with gutted sneakers, so maybe he just has access to the good shock blankets.

Either way he should get up now and stop squatting on a rooftop so he can start researching multiversal travel.

Because this is his life now.

***

It took Peter too much time to admit without it being embarrassing until he finally got up- but can you blame a guy, all those pamphlets Nightwing left were just asking to be read while wrapped up in fancy tin foil and fully horizontal under an AC unit while snacking on some free granola bars.

Also, he got up eventually (after having to physically roll himself off the roof so his body had no other option but to react lest he break his back on the sidewalk, but that's nobody’s business please and thank you).

Now, from the few pamphlets he was given, the city library seemed like his best bet in terms of research.

Granted, it said that he needed to set up a free account online to get access to the computers or in person with a local ID, which is a total catch 22 for people who don’t exist, but Peter was nothing if not resourceful.

Walking in the direction of the library, he began entering what looked like the business district, the sidewalks littered with people in fancy black suits and even more stereotypical briefcases, but most importantly, diners filled with very focused businessmen finishing up work on their laptops.

And you know what they say about the human brain- you don’t multitask, you simply shift focus. So, making sure that the newest quarterly spreadsheet was done (or whatever these people do, Peter was decidedly not a business bro in any way shape or form), was much more important than checking whether your phone was still beside you.

Nabbing a loose pen from the counter, Peter quickly hid in the bathroom and God was thankful that the technology in this universe seemed to be at least a little less advanced than back home.

As soon as he got access to that computer, he was going to give a 1 star review to whoever programmed this Lexcorp phone he was holding.

(He valiantly refused to acknowledge the parallel to another ‘Corp’ he was very familiar with.)

Anyways, it took him less than 5 minutes, that blindspot was fixed with a software patch that came out years ago, and on with making a new email and then library account he went.

After copying all the account information onto his arm, he promptly erased all his activity and, making sure to keep his pace relaxed, deposited the phone back into its rightful place.

A quick walk from the diner, all his very meager possessions stuffed into his hoodie and jeans pockets, and he was standing in front of Gotham City Library, which looked way better that every other building surrounding it within like a mile radius, but Peter wasn’t here to judge the city’s messed up budget. No, he was here for the free bathrooms, free wifi, and hopefully some sort of literature on dimensional travel.

Because compounding the unknown vigilantes, rouges, tech companies, and having somehow traveled a couple months into the future, one thing was clear- this was not his universe.

Entering the column lined building, he could almost pretend to being back in the NYC public library, the quiet soothing his heightened senses and the familiar scent of old paper filling his nose.

Dark wooden desks could be seen in the main section of the hall, interrupted every once in a while by grand bookshelves that seemed to loom over people passing between them. On each side of the hall, wide staircases led up to more levels, where he could spot an entire line of large PCs.

Score.

Walking up to the computers, he spared a glance to the librarian, a red-headed woman who for some reason piqued his danger sense for a split second, but he just assumed that to mean she was another regular gothamite, as he learned when walking from his roof and having most people give off the vibe of “if you try to start shit with me, you’re leaving this confrontation with at least one missing finger”.

(The people in the business district seemed marginally less dangerous, so he’s thankful he decided to do his mildly illegal borrowing there).

He then walked with the confidence he most certainly didn’t have, making a beeline to the desks, and immediately logging into his recently acquired account.

He went straight to looking up a list of current vigilantes slash superheroes, because he had to check his meeting with Nightwing hadn’t been a fever dream, and Christ on a cracker.

There are so many of them.

Also, all the cities that he’s never heard of must have been named by the world's most underpaid intern, because one does not name a city by the word’s synonym, Metropolis, under the assumption they’ll be fairly compensated.

Now that Peter finds himself in vigilante central, with Gotham’s equivalent of Big Brother by the name Oracle, he’ll definitely need to be a little more careful with the next part.

AKA, the real fun stuff.

See, since time immemorial, Peter has been a god of piracy- unsupervised access to the internet and being a mostly self-taught biochemist will do that to a person. Also, as Spider-Man, knowing what the law enforcement knew and then some was key in his activities, for which hacking was essential- he learned that from experience.

He learned it from Captain Stacy.

Shut up.

Enabling some decent spoofing software, he went on a deep dive of the top universities research on anything related to dimension travel, at the same time grabbing a few sheets of paper from the printers and tried his best to sketch out the machine Toomes used for this shit show to happen in the first place- if he can limit the blast radius of that thing when he manages to actually build it, that will just be for the better.

But the thing is.

The thing is.

There is no fucking reserach for Peter to piggyback off of.

None. Nada. Zilch.

Time travel? It’s referenced.

Human cloning? Take your pick on the methodology, they’ve got em all.

But dimension travel? In its infancy.

At least from his initial search, though if he has to hack into the CIA or the Justice League (which is the most pretentious name Peter’s ever heard, he’s surprised it’s leader isn’t Lawman or something, but he digresses), he’s going to need something better than a 5 year old dell PC to do it.

Superman is pretty close to “Lawman” though.

He quickly learns the rouges here take themselves even more seriously.

He can’t really take issue with their names, because The Riddler or The Joker are still more interesting than The Lizard, but he has to say it; Two Face? That’s at least a little funny.

Has anyone ever called him a ‘two faced bitch’ before? If not, Peter is definitely using that if he ever sees him

It gets even better (worse), though, because their escape rate? In the fucking hundreds.

Arkham seems to be a revolving door, and God knows why so many mass murders end up in a mental hospital while not even fulfilling the criteria for criminal insanity, maybe it's all the chemical weapons in the water supply, but that’s not his problem.

Not his problem at all.

At least for now, his best chances of getting his hands on any useful technology lie somewhere between area 51 or whatever the hell is The Watchtower.

Which means he’s stuck here for the foreseeable future.

And while he could possibly imagine himself getting help from the heroes here, unless they use the lasso of truth on him, which he definitely would in their position, and then find out he’s a stone’s throw from being a mass murderer with an MO of idiotic levels of negligence, throwing him into one of these hellish ‘prisons’.

“Hey Peter”, one might say, all wide eyed and having faith in the world, “why not go to the government, they probably have resources for this, right?”

Ha.

Hahaha.

Are you on crack?

(Re: Absolutely fucking not.)

Because as much as death and taxes are a constant of American life, so is the fact that if the government ever gets even a modicum of access to Peter, he knows full well he is going to be seen as the next weapon as experimented on like those rodents in Connors’ lab.

Peter learned that a month after the electro incident, when he heard the unmistakable electronic whirr of a little camera that suddenly appeared on one of the rooftops he liked to relax on during his patrols.

He’s been making his outings even more random ever since and making every decision with a healthy tablespoon of paranoia.

Getting to a dead-end on that front, Peter went waltzing through the welcome mat that New York called a firewall protecting personal records. For the sake of simplicity, he looked for any Peter Parkers that wouldn’t mind having their identity stolen for the next however long.

What he found was in equal parts tragic and convenient.

The obituary tied to this alternate version of himself, described a 4 year old Peter who died in a car crash alongside his parents Richard and Mary.

But no ties to any corporations, no grand research.

He knows, he checked, the half hour digital rabbit hole he dug proved it.

It was a planned vacation.

A normal road trip turned fatal due to a long haul trucker on 40 hours of no sleep.

They were survived by no one, no Ben, no May.

He pretends like the wetness in his eyes is from staring at the screen too long.

He assumed, but this solidifies his hypothesis.

Peter is completely, unequivocally, alone in this world.

Stealing the SSN? Child’s play. The lack of an autopsy made deleting the obituary and death certificate easier, and although back-dating a long, uncheckable foster system stay and unexceptional high school diploma was harder to do, the real challenge was attempting the sisyphean task of getting someone to send the physical copies to a PO box next to the library, and which embodiment of satan created this .gov site, because he can kindly shove a-

“Hi! Didn’t mean to disturb you, just wanted to let you know we’re closing in an hour since it’s sunday.”

He turned back to the sudden voice and closed the tabs still running spoofing software with maybe a little too much super speed, as suggested by the stanger’s tiny flinch backwards, instantly being reminded why he likes to hyperfocus on illegal activities in the safety of his own room as he faced-

The librarian from before.

The thought of why he didn’t recognize the distinct vibrations of footsteps quickly vanished because she’s in a wheelchair, dumbass.

“Uhhh, no problem, I’m just about done.”

They stared at each other for a moment, a part of Peter internally screaming because he had no idea how legit the encryption he was using was, oh god what if she saw everything and she knows and she’s just staring why is she staring-

“Of course, sorry for startling you…”

“Peter”, he did not squeak like a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar.

“...Peter, well it’s nice to meet you, I’m Barbara, but you can call me Babs,” she extended an impressively muscled arm, which Peter then shook dumbly with a blue screen-eque expression, “I’m glad to see more young people using the library, seems like it kind of died out recently”, she finished with a dry chuckle, apparently ignoring the fact Peter’s screen was showing a request for a personal ID copy rather than a book report as was implied.

Seemingly satisfied by the conversation, she gave him a quick, “Let me know if you need any help!”, and began rolling towards an elevator Peter hadn’t noticed before.

If his spider sense was a person, it would be getting jumped by Peter right now.

After wiping the computer of his kind-of identity fraud (is it really stealing if you’re stealing from a dead, alternate version of yourself?), and finishing the request for new copies of his real-fake ID, he let himself as much time as he reasonably could to clean himself up in the bathrooms before that ninja of a librarian snuck up on him again.

Then, with a list of food banks and a $1.25 to his name, Peter went out to face the city

***

Barbara was having an aneurysm.

Or rather a hacker’s block, if you will.

“Ben”, who now goes by Peter, aka the kid that Dick was worrying sick over came into her library just before noon, and had then spent about an entire day doing god knows what on the computers, thanks to a guest account that didn’t exist yesterday and some weirdly good spoofing software that she tracked to a not at all well not know hacker forum, which confused the everloving crap out of her because this guy didn’t know who Nightwing was or that he was in New Jersey, but getting through the mid level security she installed into the library computers didn’t seem an issue. Admittedly not her best work, but considering the number of patrons the place gets it didn’t seem necessary at the time; Bruce the boy scout is going to have a field day with this, she can already tell.

Anyways, she tried to get close enough to see the kid’s screen through his stay because making a move on the interference he was running would alert him and probably make him run, but he seemed to just- know? And kept shifting just enough that she couldn’t catch a glimpse, up until her final attempt, where he was filling out what looked like government form to replace lost documents which supports Wing’s initial theory of trafficking, if Peter decided to DIY himself back into existence for some reason, and the way he almost jumped out his skin when she made her presence known adds fuel to that fire because that level of reactivity was intense and so fast it had to be a learned behavior.

Either way, he seemed to freeze during the interaction, giving her time to catch his name on the form, Peter Parker, and a quick search through her databases showed-

This is either straight up identity fraud or a cold case being opened wide with a side of hacking.

Because the death of 4 year old Peter Parker was seemingly scrubbed from existence and replaced with an 18 year old version.

They certainly looked similar.

And there's no record of an autopsy.

There was however a DNA sample taken earlier that year to test for genetic diseases done by the parents.

Which was then lumped into evidence by anxious cops who didn’t want to be considered as not thorough considering the unfortunate circumstances of the case and young age of the victims.

Well.

Guess it’s time to call Red Robin for an impromptu DNA sample, because damn her if she wasn’t going to be prepared to deal with the mystery kid this time around.

Chapter Text

Peter does not want to go to the food bank.

He’d rather eat his shoes.

But he’s so goddamn hungry that for a split second his brain actually wonders whether his spider powers would allow him to digest inedible material-

which is why he quickly walks in because apparently his body cannibalizes brain tissue instead of muscle, who knew?

And, there really is something truly depressing about stealing from a food bank.

It’s like a rock bottom you can only access after unlocking every other level of rock bottoms.

Honestly, he felt less humbled when someone tried giving him a dollar while sitting outside the restaurant he was working at during his break because they thought he was homeless.

The struggles of not existing, am I right?

Using all his chronic scrawniness and all the skills he’s gained from dodging bullies in busy school hallways, he skirts around the workers, searching for the most high calorie foods on offer, and tries not to succumb to the curse of being in a grocery store while hungry because his pockets can only hide so much.

He needs to get a backpack.

A jar of peanut butter, three bars of chocolate, and a fistful of granola bars that probably have the texture and taste of saw dust later and he does an inconspicuous walk of shame out the place.

Not before grabbing the most beat up jansport he has ever laid his eyes on though, because it's really a public service not forcing some poor kid to drag that into school.

Being able to put his gloves and mask somewhere else than his back pockets makes him feel much more secure considering the insane amount of times he’s felt his spider-sense warn him of someone trying to pickpocket him, and giving a thief a vigilante mask instead of a phone is the definition of a lose-lose situation.

At least his ID should be arriving in the mail in a few days, a pretty solid delivery time all things considered, and mostly the result of just how many rogue attacks there are here.

(On one questionnaire the options for how his documents were destroyed was “incinerated during a Firefly attack”, and he can only pray they mean a dude that dresses up by one and not some kind of genetically modified swarm of monstrous bugs.)

Getting a job ASAP is still on the forefront of his mind, maybe using using one of the internet cafes around to do some craigslist web design or something, which once managed to get him through a month of rent on its own, the only thing he needs for that is a little extra cash to buy a drink while he’s there, cause his pride will not allow him to return to the library and face the scary Barbara lady.

Bonus bad luck points!

Homeless shelters also require ID, because apparently that's what all homeless people definitely have on their person.

So while he’s planning out a very realistic rags to riches Sims gameplay in his mind, Peter also takes note of any buildings in the business district he’s wandering through that could serve as a hideout for the next couple of nights.

Bingo.

In all its brutalist-gothic wonder, stands before him a building with a sleek build, with the exception of its peak, where some high architect probably got inspired by the cubism movement and added a weird, not climbable level roof.

For a typical person without a climbing harness?

A death wish.

For Spider-Man though?

Basically hopscotch.

His enhanced hearing helps Peter find a nice, quiet, camera-free alley perfect for muggings formed from all the close standing buildings and vaults himself onto the initial level of the roof, the scurrying up to the top where he’s protected from the wind by positioning himself between a ventilation unit and an adjacent wall.

Before he starts trying to eat his food through the wrappers though he immediately rips open one of the chocolate bars, using it to scoop spoonfuls of peanut butter and eating at a pace that May would lightly smack him with a kitchen rag for.

May would want him to continue being Sipder-Man.

Save people.

Which is a random but piercing thought to have right now, and the guilt of all the shit he pulled today is also hitting him full force now that he’s no longer functioning on adrenaline and basic survival instincts.

He unsuccessfully tries his best to shut it out.

***

Babs is on a mission.

That much is clear to Tim.

But swinging through Gotham on a metal wire while looking for a mystery teenager, isn’t conducive to figuring out why he need to get a covert DNA sample of all things, and no, he doesn’t think the guy is under 18, Dick is just bad at estimating ages and the camera footage he was sent by Oracle shows a fellow baby face syndrome victim, with which Tim can commiserate.

If the goal is to identify Peter, she would’ve started with a facial scan to be then compared to the terrifyingly large data cache Oracle has access to, but if that hasn’t worked, then the only DNA comparison that could be done would be with samples from decades ago, the assumption being that Bab’s digital aging software would for some reason be considered not reliable, leaving only plastic surgery, sudden changes in environment, or rapid aging on the table…

Actually, scratch that, Tim can figure out cases even while in free fall and dodging birds.

This again raises the question; how bad of a flight risk-

Attach the grapple, estimate angular velocity, check surrounding streets and rooftops

-is this ‘Peter’ (Or Ben, so far he’s gotten conflicting reports), that taking him over to Leslie's or Gordon seems like such a bad idea.

Peter’s last location was tracked by Babs to an alley in the business district after walking out from a food bank with a backpack and some snacks, which Tim might have judged him on (because from what they can tell he had no ID to get any of that) but the only reason Wayne sponsored services like these required ID is federal law which Tim could frankly not give less of a shit about.

His friends call that perspective of his, “a hair's breadth away from being an anarchist”, and, “way too close to having a villain mindset”, but Tim calls it having some lived experience. So honestly, good for not-Ben.

He approached the aforementioned alley from above, and is there a person sitting next to an aircraft warning antenna?

The shock of that discovery was quickly followed by, why are they eating with the speed of a weightlifter in bulking season?

He landed on an adjacent rooftop with light feet, because a bit of reconnaissance never hurt anybody, and pulled out his pair of compact binoculars.

And would you guess who he saw?

The scene honestly couldn’t have gotten closer to a modern adaptation of Oliver Twist (See, Jason? He’s read classics) unless the scruffy teenager in front of him currently inhaling a jar of plain peanut butter was then going to jump down one of the air vents and start cleaning it before asking, “May I have some more, sir?”

After using up his makeshift utensil in the form of a chocolate bar, the resident flight risk took out a granola bar and started using that.

Props for the Mcgavering but Christ, someone get this guy a spoon or something. At least they know his little stint as a shoplifter wasn’t fuelled by any malicious intent; he’s seen starved dogs that Damian takes care of in crime alley eat slower.

With that observation, he was quickly thrown into an unexpected episode of the X-files when the dude looked him straight in the eyes through the binoculars.

Akwardddddd.

Time to meet the man of the hour and as of now Tim’s nightmares because He’s stalked Batman in elementary school and managed not to be noticed but this guy clocks him after 10 seconds?

What the fuck.

***

“Another one?”, is all Peter manages to whisper through bites of his depression meal before the guy in red who he’s pretty sure peter just made eye contact through binoculars (stupid spider sense with no covert mode) lands in a very neat roll Peter should work on those his back has been killing him lately, wait no focus focus-

“You alright there?”

“The other guy said that too”, he immediately replies because he did, didn’t he, and also he has no brain to mouth filter, but then he quickly adds, “Yep, couldn’t be better, how ‘bout you… Red Robin right?”

Smooth.

“Yeah, the smaller one has a katana. Whatchu eating?”

Say sike right now.

Did domino mask #3 just say the theorized to be under the age of 15 Robin carries a katana?

Apparently registering his silence as ignoring the question and not complete bafflement, Robin the elder drops down beside Peter and asks the obvious:

“Why are you up here?”

“Studies have proven you’re at least 30% less likely to get robbed on a roof compared to on street level- especially if you get cornered by a bird themed vigilante, you guys are like average-luck charms.”

Maybe Peter would have answered that with at least a grain of truth but the softness of RR’s voice and semi-relaxed posture gives him flashbacks from how Spider-Man would talk to a person sitting on edges of buildings and he’d rather not get asked any more personal mental health questions because the last bird guy who did that induced a crying session that Peter will not benefit from right now.

So half-baked jokes it is.

“You don’t get nervous so high up? I mean-”, he looks over the edge a little, as if the hypocrisy of the situation has not set in, “I’d be kind of nervous, not gonna lie.” He leans back, even closer to Peter, is he trying to plant something on him?

“I mean, that whole ‘what if I just fall over right now’ feeling is actually you brain telling you to be careful, and there's tons of space here anyways-”, he rubs the back of his head because that was a weird pinch, oh God does he have lice please don’t let him have lice he doesn’t have the money to buy proper shampoo and he’d look so bad with a buzzcut.

At least red doesn’t seem to notice his momentary panic, looking at Peter with genuine interest in what he’s saying, relaxed as ever “- so I’m not that worried, and this is just for now anyways, and in all honesty this is probably more safe for me that a homeless shelter, not like I got any contacts; I’d be a pretty easy target.”

He chides himself internally and immediately shuts up, because he’s made the big no-no of saying he’s alone and now come the pity stares and the I’m so sorry and–

“That makes total sense, but just so you know, the church near Gotham City Park give out free toiletries and breakfast in the mornings, and I got some contacts down in the bowery that said the gym there has very shitty locks on the back door that lead into the changing rooms.”

He looks back up at Robin, who just continues his make sure Peter doesn’t get shanked or smells like a 2 day old super suit plan that he began explaining, and he can feel the faintest shadow of a smile invade his face, like a real one, not the fret not dear citizen you are safe one he’d been doing at Spider-Man or the I swear I’m not doing anything suspicious one he gave back at the library.

“- but maybe you could consider a lower rooftop, this one is just stressing me out.”

And Red really does look nervous and a little sheepish when he says that.

But Peter is a little shit and he just likes heights, sue him.

“I mean if you’ve got any rope I can tie myself to that pole Katniss style?”

“What’s Katniss?”

He hates it here.

Trying not to look too beat down by life he tries again, “...Odysseus style?”

“Oh, I mean I’d rather you just get off…”

Peter still can’t make himself dislike the guy, even if he’s using the pretty please voice right now that he himself used on teachers to appear less demanding when asking for extensions on essays.

He’s just trying to get close to Peter as a person, trying to form some sort of connection, however superficial.

And what happens to people Peter tries to get close to?

If he could just remind the class right now?

“And how would you suggest I do that?”, he spreads his arms showing off the lack of any way to climb down, because he was trying to eat and now he’s just hangry.

He knows he’s being reactive, he doesn’t care, he just needs to stop thinking of how easy talking to Robin is and how similar it is to talking to Harry.

The less deadly Robin (who let the little one carry a katana is actually beyond Peter), tilts his head, seems to observe him like he half thinks Peter might be a hallucination.

His error becomes blatantly obvious to him about a second into Red Robin beginning to speak cause-

“Then how did you get up here?”

Silence has never been so fucking loud.

Fucking idiot, you fucking idiot, how the fuck did you not think this through to such an extent, this is why people die because of you, you have the forethought of an chewed up shoe-

“There was a ladder that led here from one of the lower levels.”

“Where did that go?”

If you keep to your story, he’ll be forced to believe it.

“It tipped over.”

“There is no ladder down there.”

He even leans to the side as if to say, see?

Now, at this point, Red probably thinks he’s gotten Peter dead to rights, especially considering he’s now crossing his arms and eyeing Peter like a disappointed parent (or like Spider-Man when Peter catches guys trying to rob an ATM while not even realizing he’s right behind them).

Unfortunately for him, Peter has literally used the excuse of washing an American flag for why he dyed the laundry red and blue.

He’s claimed to have cleaned non-existent chimneys.

Peter has no shame when it comes to lying.

“Someone stole it like 10 minutes ago, and what was I gonna do? Get it back from all the way up here?”, he shrugs a what can you do? All the while giving his best white people smile, reveling in the dumbfounded expression that Red is trying oh so hard to hide.

He goes back to leaning on the antenna pole, and uses his next bar of chocolate to shamelessly scoop another wad of peanut butter, because fuck him.

You’re a shit person, you know that right?

Yup.

And that's for the better, isn’t it?

No curses about to strike any unsuspecting people who don’t serve it.

At that implied ultimatum, RR sits up and turns away, with too much ease for someone who didn’t get what they came for, and with a mumbled, “whatever you say”, goes into a leap while extending something that looks like a metal web shooter gun, maybe a grapple?, and swings away.

Peter’s too emotionally exhausting to figure out what all that seemingly strange reaction might mean.

He’s too exhausted full stop.

He wraps himself in his emergency blanket, lying his head on his backpack, and hopes he’ll feel better when he wakes up.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up with his spider sense screaming.

As 9 out of 10 dentists would agree, not a great sign.

Even worse, he has no fucking clue what it’s trying to warn him about, and the now pitch black sky is not helping.

He frantically crawls out from the cocoon he’s made from the blanket and starts to look around, focusing his senses for anything wrong.

The smell.

The smell is wrong.

Sure it still smells like sewage and trash and smog, but there's something else.

Something Peter’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to catch without his abilities.

That means it's something chemical.

Shit, he thinks emphatically, because, well, he knows what these things can do.

You’re only going to get people hurt.

But he fights that train of thought. He has to. Inaction will do worse. People better than him have taught him that.

He needs to believe that.

So he takes off the hoodie and jeans.

He ignores how his suit makes his skin crawl (it never stopped after Gwen and Harry).

He puts on the mask and gloves.

And he jumps into the night.

***

That spider he smacked to death was probably rolling in its grave from laughter right now, because his heightened senses were not having fun with his unwashed mask.

God he needs to find a laundromat after this.

He swings towards the danger, making sure to not draw too much attention, cause he might need to actually do some recon first, no matter how much his attention span hates it.

His danger sense spikes as he turns the corner towards a warehouse, and why is it always a warehouse? More importantly, why are there so many warehouses that can be so easily taken by bad guys, like at least Connors had the courtesy of going to the sewers, now that's an actual hiding spot-

*WATCHING DANGER!! DANGER!!!*

He looks down, where a figure in black too small to be Batman (or so he can only assume, the photos online are shit) is staring directly into his visors from a rooftop opposite to the warehouse, a yellow bat emblem on their chest.

It's like being the new kid at school all over again.

Guess it’s time to meet the locals.

He drops into a roll, keeping a safe distance of a few meters from the vigilante, and Christ that mask with the stitching and hollow eyes is creepy as fuck.

The figure seems relaxed, seems being the operative word, and Peter’s pretty sure he looks very much not relaxed right now.

In all honesty he probably looks like he’s about to piss himself.

The figure tilts their head, a mix of cold analysis and amusement, and then says in a very raspy but solid voice, “Batgirl.”.

He stands there for a few moments, not knowing what to do with his hands, but she doesn’t say anything else.

He valiantly finds his voice, and replies, “Spider-Man”.

Cause why complicate it, right?

***

The boy in the suit was more than human.

It was obvious.

The second Cass saw him, he looked right back at her.

More than that, he felt it.

It was like… a tingle?

A Sixth sense?

He was…

Anxious.

Torn.

Help or stay away.

Cassandra decided he will help.

Spider-Man bounced from one foot to another, like he was wondering whether she would fight him.

How silly (she liked that word) she could’ve taken him down pretty quick, even with how strong he was.

And he was strong, and fast, the way he flew like Nightwing on a single… thread?

Impressive.

Especially with how untrained he was.

He was more like Spoiler, when she first debuted, a trial and error sort of movement, based on little scraps that children get into.

Not that silly though, because most people who were wary about her and didn’t know who she was thought she’d be easy to beat.

And Spider-Man didn’t know her, it was clear.

But his muscles still tensed, almost involuntarily, ready for a very hard fight.

Almost like someone was telling him, in real time, how much of a threat she could be.

But no movement of head to indicate a comm…

As she said, more than human.

She tossed him a rebreather, which he caught instantly, so guided by reflex, almost like her.

She gave him a nod, then towards the warehouse telling him to follow.

The boy nodded back.

Scared but ready.

Good.

Time to work.

***

They both descended on the warehouse roof, the spider matching her nimbleness well–

Was he sticking to the glass??

Not important.

Batgirl knew what to do, Babs had already briefed her:

Joker had released some of his gas in the area to draw attention. 5 hostages, unknown number of goons.

-Neutralize Joker’s men.

-Disable the larger dispenser more advanced version, might need help from Batman or Red Robin

-Catch the Joker.

Not that hard.

Usually.

But on her left Spider-Man had just tensed up more, his mask eyes narrowing.

He was caught off guard.

Hurt.

Furious.

Remembering.

And… he’s off.

***

Below him stood a man that could be best described as John Wayne Gacey lite, frolicking around the hostages with a terrifying smile, made only worse by a Glasgow smile painted over with thick smears of red paint.

The Joker, his brain supplied, one of the deadliest of Gotham’s rouge gallery.

His arms wide apart, he held out a trigger button, probably meant for the gas dispenser which looked eerily similar to the one Oscorp owned, and laughed.

And that fucking laugh.

If you asked a random person in the street what the worst noise was, they would probably say something typical like a nail on a chalkboard, a baby crying during a transcontinental flight, and so on.

For Peter?

It was, and forever will be, Green Goblins laugh.

Joker had it down cold.

He popped off one of the glass panes of the roof, depositing it next to him and slipped in, silently crawling within the confines of the shadows.

He tried to slow his thoughts to no avail, his mind replaying the laugh he heard over and over again, burrowing inside his brain like he never even left that clock tower, his muscles tensed, his eyes felt hot, a silent fury rolling over him. His vision seemed to zero in on the man, the toxic green of his suit only furthering his spiral, was he even breathing right now?

Stop it. There are people you need to help.

But fuck him sideways if Peter won’t beat the shit out of that cursed lookalike when he’s done.

He makes his way towards the goons, all wearing identical makeup, his joints bending in ways they probably shouldn’t be as he sticks as close to the top of the wall as humanly possible, he is going to pick them off one by one, the clown won’t even realize what hit him.

It’s honestly pretty easy, one thwip of his webs to shut their mouth, another to drag them up to the ceiling, then it’s just securing their limbs in a cocoon and leaving them to hang.

He’s pretty sure the hostages have noticed, but they’re smart enough to shut up and still look like proper terrified victims.

He’s also pretty sure Batgirl took a few of the goons down as well, but frankly he couldn’t give less of a shit, as long as she doesn’t give away his position she can start doing cartwheels across the floor for all he cares.

The clown is still laughing.

His chest is made of solid stone by now, a swarm of pain and hurt and righteous anger buzzing in his stomach, and by time he lands directly behind the Goblin Joker, he’s lightheaded from a mix of hyperventilating and not breathing and he can barely make out what that fucker is monologing about, because all Peter can see is red, the red of Gwen’s blood as it trickles from her nose, from her lifeless corpse, at least he’s stopped galavanting around now, he doesn’t even notice Peter is five inches behind him.

The clown freezes.

“Well, hello there, didn’t know Bats got any new additions to his menagerie”, he suddenly twirls around to face Peter, a disgusting smile flashing him, “and who might you be, boy?”

And it's funny.

It really is.

The way Peter can see the clown put on a display of confidence, amusement, all the while realizing all his men are gone.

He can see as the man’s eyes quickly flit towards the ceiling, that spark of realization he’s alone.

The way he moves the trigger out of his reach, tensing more each second that Peter doesn’t reply, doesn’t move.

Even through the rebreather he can smell the chemicals on him, the ones that took him from human to a poor replica of one, just like Connors, just like Harry.

But this one isn’t them.

That’s why it's so easy to pull the clown towards him by a web and headbutt him with a sickening crack.

It feels good, too.

Time slows down as he does it, and he grabs the trigger straight from the man's hand who was a hair’s breadth away from pressing the button which he then secures on his back using his stickiness as the clown reels away with a shriek, gripping his now definitely broken nose.

The clown looks up, blood smearing into his makeup and is that fear Peter sees in eyes?

It better fucking be.

He moves slowly towards the clown who’s still slightly doubled over, understandable because apart from the nose his brown also seems fractured, he thought he was controlling his strength more on that one, oh well.

“WOW, now that I didn’t expect, little quiet to be another birdy, huh?”, the clown gurgles through the blood probably coating his throat by now, letting a breathy chuckle as he does, reaching towards the inside of his suit, a gleam of metal entering Peter’s vision-

Another shriek escapes the clown as Peter sticks a web to his hand and pulls, the gun skittering onto the concrete floor as the gangly man flies and hits the other side of the warehouse, his arm hanging limply from the pulled socket courtesy of Peter.

Within a second he’s there as well, grabbing the mangled clown by the throat and throwing him against the wall where he webs him as well as his mouth, and elbowing him into unconsciousness.

Finally Peter can take a breath again.

He takes a step back.

Only then does he realize that his shadow is bigger than it should be.

***

According to the quick brief given by Cassandra, ‘Spider-Man’ was a young adult she had encountered on her way to the warehouse, and while untrainted, he clearly had meta abilities of some sort and was willing to help.

As much as Bruce trusted her judgment, he also didn’t approve of dragging unknown factors into missions, because then something like this happens.

Apparently the new spider themed vigilante had some sort of post-traumatic break, and had taken down Joker’s men in the few minutes it had taken Bruce to get there, as well as the rogue himself, delivering multiple facial fractures and a dislocated shoulder with terrifying ease.

What concerned him most, though, is that Cass had whispered to him through the comms that the masked man had enjoyed it.

The only reason he hadn’t intervened immediately is that the man was apparently done now, as indicated by Batgirl, supposedly satisfied with only restraining and knocking the Joker unconscious, barring the slight psychological and physical torture that had accured seconds before.

Bruce could see the moment when Spider-Man noticed the pointy eared shadow towering over him, though he was still eyeing the trigger somehow attached to the smaller man’s back.

“Hand over the trigger device, Spider-Man”, he growled at the masked man, who was now beginning crash from the adrenaline fueled episode as well as breathing again, something he apparently hadn’t done at all during the confrontation, lending to the possibility of his moniker being much more literal as spiders had the ability to not breathe for hours at a time.

A shaky hand was slowly extended to him with the remote, the young man’s back still facing him.

He gently took the device and opened it using a small tool already in his hand, examining the wires for any dead man switch capabilities.

As customary for the Joker, one had been already activated.

Crap.

He wasn’t even half way towards the dispersion machine when the familiar beep of a countdown made itself known, though he vaguely registered Spider-Man’s head had swiveled towards the machine seconds before the noise and was now also making his way towards it.

Batgirl was still working through the elaborate Saw-style restraints the hostages had been outfitted with, but she didn’t give any indication of malice from the unknown vigilante, so Bruce could only hope he wasn’t about to get sabotaged.

He still reached into his tool belt for an enhanced tranquilizer which he then attached to his gauntlet for easy access just in case.

***

Fucking idiot.

How do you forget the huge gas dispensation machine in the middle of the building?

You’re about to get everyone here hurt or killed, all because you wanted some vicarious revenge.

Cause that's what always had the best results, right? You getting revenge.

Peter shot towards the device, his mind already going a thousand miles per hour trying to

remember the schematics of Oscorp’s version of this doomsday device, at least this one looked much clunkier and less advanced, the radius would probably equate to a fraction of the one he was familiar with, though the additional parts might be secondary triggers…

He was already ripping off the metal casing, digging through the wires inside, identifying triggers and red herrings when Batman had reached him, and God did Peter hope he wasn’t about to get punted by that guy for his little episode back there because he was in no shape to explain himself, and fighting back was going to be a little complicated while elbows deep in the devices mechanisms.

He still gave the former option a shot.

“FYI, I do actually have the engineering knowledge for this so don’t freak out, I encountered a similar device a while back”, (should he be saying this? He doesn’t want Batman to think he’s got anything to do with this, he already made a shit impression by beating the hell out of the rogue) he could feel the internal switches that corresponded to the individual canisters of gas by now, he just needs to figure out which wires correspond, “Just got to disarm the switches, going to take me a bit considering all the dummy wires.” A quiet click gave him an indication that the first switch had been turned off, and Peter continued his work while trying to ignore the constant beep of the 3 minute countdown and the hulking figure of Batman literally breathing down his suit as he tried to get a look at what Peter was doing (which was valid, but at the same time really goddamn stressful).

He already had 3 out of 4 switches down by the time the countdown hit 40 seconds, when he felt someone light drop in behind him, someone dangerous, and the only reason he hadn’t turned around was that Batman hadn’t signaled any concern at this very wonderful and perfect timing of a revelation.

“Who is this interloper, Batman, shall I remove him from the innards of the machine?”, now that actually made Peter stall in his progress for half a second because that was definitely the voice of a child, (why was there a child here??), and was followed by the sound of a sword being unsheathed, just his luck, being threatened by an elementary aged vigilante with a fucking katana, whats next, is the helmet guy going to pull up on his motorcycle with an AK to get him out the “innards” of this thing too?

“Stand down, Robin, help Batgirl with securing the hostages”, and there was that growl again, did this guy use ground up rocks as his mouthwash? Also, ‘get the hell out of the radius of this thing and go to bed’ would have been a more suitable response in Peter’s opinion, but that’s just his 2 cents on the matter.

The sigh of relief Peter made when he heard the fourth click and the stop of the countdown was very audible, and he let himself slump down as he removed his hands from the device for around 10 seconds before he came to senses because Batman was still crouching behind him very ominously and he was probably about to get into a lot of shit for the whole beating a guy unconscious.

He was very aware of the mini gas mask from Batgirl he still had shoved up his mask that he’d need to sanitize lest the Bats try to get his DNA off of it when he turned around to face the child endangering man of the hour.

“Sooo… sorry about the whole beating up your bad guy, I was just in the area and thought I’d help out, just so you know you still need to detach the canisters but you might want to do that somewhere less full of civilians”, he began to get up, the words spilling out in the hopeful attempt to distract Batman from the fact he really wanted to dip from this place ASAP before all the questions he couldn’t answer started-

“Who are you? Why are you in Gotham?”, to his credit, Batman looked much more graceful getting up, doing his best to loom over Peter, even though by now the bat ears were starting to seem a little funny to the younger vigilante.

He can thank sleep deprivation for that.

“Just passing through”, Please, let that be the case.

“That’s not an answer.”

Peter has no clue what time it is, but it’s definitely either too late or early for him to be interrogated by a furry (and that’s what he is, isn’t it? Maybe he doesn’t actually wear any fur but the ears are kind of damning; and no Peter isn’t a furry, no matter what that one Daily Bugle article suggested, spiders aren’t mammals, he will not dignify any ‘some spiders have hair’ comments, thank you very much.

“Honestly man, it’s definitely a better answer than whatever you’ve got to say about why in the everloving hell you brought a kid along to take down a mass murderer”, that made Batman still a little in his intimidation, which Peter took full advantage of in trying to get some space between, “And I’m Spider-Man, already told you; I also answer to Webs, Webhead, Spidey, even menace on occasion but I prefer the former.” He’s running his mouth right now, isn’t he?

By this point the hostages had been evacuated, and the faint sound of sirens were rapidly approaching, with Batgirl and Robin supposedly staying with the victims, so Peter had a pretty small window of opportunity to get the hell out of here.

His spider sense spiked as Batman approached, his vision automatically zooming in on what looked like a needle-

Ohhhh fuck.

He didn’t even let the guy begin wherever reply he had loaded meant to distract Peter from the fact he was about to get tranqed, because that was definitely a tranq, he’d used similar looking stuff when he was dealing with enhanced bad guy back home, instead webbing Batman’s feet to the ground and then catapulting himself with a pair of webs through the part of the ceiling he’d opened beforehand, shooting up into the sky and doing a little flip while attaching himself to the next roof quicker than the now grounded, furless furry could say “Batgirl, request backup in the warehouse” (which Peter could just faintly make out being said before getting flying off into the night).

All in all, when he finally crawled his pitiful self back up to his sleeping spot and began to peel off his suit, the sky was slowly beginning to lighten. This was because after he’d made his great escape, he had had to find something to get the DNA off of the gas mask he was still wearing, which ended up being a random barrel of the most dirty water he’d had seen in a while, because apparently bleach and rubbing alcohol aren’t widely available at 3 in the morning (thank you random clock tower he saw while on his scavenger hunt from hell).

You know what they say; if you can’t sanitize it, degrade it. (Disclaimer, make sure you add the context about DNA when you say that, otherwise you might get some weird looks.)

For the record, the only reason Peter had done any of this is because upon closer inspection, the mask had what looked like a potential tracking device, who even puts a tracking device in a gas mask, that's such overkill; more importantly a pain in the ass for Peter, but he digresses.

So, after he’d stuffed his biohazard of a costume into his backpack, not even caring about how much colder he was in his clothes without it, he promptly curled into himself and passed out, ready to be plagued by dreams of laughing clowns, goblins, and dying all his clothes red in a laundry machine.

Chapter Text

“Batm- I told you I could neutralize the meta!” Damian shouted as he and Cass entered the warehouse once more, Bruce still trying to cut through whatever Spider-Man had used to secure him.

It had the resemblance of spider webs, though much stickier and durable, and his Batarangs were barely able to get through them; he should sample these and analyze their chemical makeup.

“Stand down, Robin, he successfully disabled Joker’s device; you saw it too.” He looked up at Damian from his admittedly not very Batman-esque crouch and his sawing slowly seemed to become an exercise in futility; he’s having Red Robin make a solvent to this substance as soon as Tim gets at least six hours of sleep- no matter what his son says, he should at least attend some of his lectures at Gotham U.

Robin ran over with his already unsheathed katana to help him, while Cass moved towards the new skylight fashioned into the building ceiling by Spider-Man earlier. “I go after Spider. Tracker in rebreather”, her light rasp of a voice was the only thing he heard even as she disappeared into the night.

***

It took fifteen minutes.

Fifteen full minutes using some of the highest grade blades to cut through the webs.

To say Bruce was frustrated would be a major understatement.

To say Bruce was extremely unsettled, because there was nothing resembling this substance on his radar would be accurate, as well as something he would never admit.

As he drove through the streets of Gotham with Robin beside him in the Batmobile, he was also consciously ignoring the fact he still had some of the webbing attached to his suit, what a shit show-

“Father, the substance is dissolving.” Damian’s voice had the faintest shred of alarm painting it, which was enough for Bruce to look down and yes; it was indeed beginning to disintegrate- at least the suit didn’t seem to be following the same fate, so small miracles.

He still sped up, and decided to alert Alfred to prepare the Batcave’s chemical analysis spectrometer, all the while activating thinking his quiet goodbyes towards any sleep he was going to get.

Now, typically the spectrometer mounted inside the car would have sufficed, but the prospect of the webbing being naturally occurring and produced by Spider-Man himself could result in the substance reacting dangerously with testing chemicals or markers and challenging the containment chamber’s limits on explosion resistance were not worth satisfying his curiosity.

Robin went quiet after that, not even taking the time to once again disparage Bruce’s decision to not immediately restrain the unknown meta, his head looking out the window even as they entered the tunnel leading towards the cave, where the dark yet enrapturing (at least to Bruce) views of Gotham speeding past them turned into barely lit cement walls.

“What's on your mind Robin?” He allowed his tone to soften, he’s been practicing with Dick on “not acting like a Bat-shaped drill sergeant”, when talking to Damian, and credit to his eldest, Bruce can admit in retrospect that this is something he struggles at- as all things regarding communication that didn’t involve a persona. Damian shifted in his seat a little, his vision still focused at the window.

“I have a theory on the ‘Spider-Man’; namely, that he may have a personal grievance regarding the Joker, and though hatred towards him is obviously universal among civilians, it would explain his impassioned attack and lack of control.”

“I’ve considered this too, the theory has merit- Batgirl mentioned on my private comm he was ‘remembering’; this could point to a post traumatic flashback. We’ll definitely discuss it during the debrief.” It still hurt Bruce’s heart how unlike with others, Damian had less confidence when presenting his ideas to his own dad- thank you Talia for instilling his child with a ridiculous reverence towards Batman and in turn himself like he was the goddamn babadook, A+ parenting on that one, truly.

“I also think Spider-Man is a threat and a loose canon, and apprehending him is of the essence.”

As Stephanie would say, valid.

“Apprehending him may pose some issues, seeing as Batgirl’s radio silence suggests she hadn’t been able to track him down yet, Oracle is already combing through the footage we have of him, soon we should get some more insight into Spider-Man.”

“Hmph. Very well, father.”

***

Entering the cave quickly devolved into a mad dash towards the spectrometer, Alfred at the ready with test tubes already running the necessary algorithms for preliminary analysis.

“Welcome back, Master Bruce, young Master Damian”, the butler greeted them as Bruce placed in the samples, already approaching Damian with a change of clothes and an unspoken order to hit the showers and go to bed, for which Bruce felt immense gratitude.

He felt a little less grateful for the side eye he was given by the butler with the expectation that he do the same.

Damian gave a curt nod before heading towards the changing rooms, while he let the machine begin analysis and took a seat at the Batcomputer.

“Are you planning to stay in your uniform for the rest of the night, sir?” The raised eyebrow almost made him eye the set of more comfortable clothes set out in Alfred’s hands.

Almost.

“No point in denying the inevitable, Alfred, the Spider-Man case is currency taking precedent.”

With a sigh, a quiet reply came from behind him, “Very well, I shall ensure young Master Damian does not follow in the same footsteps.”

“Wow, B, I see Agent A is going full SuperNanny tonight.”

“Oracle, report?”

The faint clicking of a keyboard accompanied Barbara’s slightly tired voice, “Well, I’ve been going through the mask footage, I can give you this Spider guy’s approximate dimensions, not a lot of walking going on from him, so running a gait analysis through street cameras might be an issue. Nothing on his webs yet if they’re manufactured, might be a backyard scientist kind of situation, the tracker on the rebreather he took with him has been stationary for the past few minutes, Cass is almost at the location but unless Spidey’s holing up in a sketchy restaurant at the border of the business district it might be he’s just dumped it.”

“Anything apart from his approximate dimension that we can use to start building a file?”

“Apart from the webs… well there's not much.” Every second that passed, Bruce felt like he was grasping at straws more and more.

Not the greatest place to be when there’s a loose canon potential vigilante galavanting around Gotham.

“Despite the rebreather distorting his voice a little when I was parsing through the footage, I’d say his accent leaned towards New York, definitely east coast.”

“So either he’s from there, or he knows how to fake one.” In terms of the man’s suit, it was clearly self-made, and he was fairly sure the soles were a pair of gutted sneakers, and when he told Barbara as much she in turn began siccing algorithms onto potential manufacturers.

“...There is another case I wanted to mention to you.”

Bruce grunted in permission as he looked over the street cam footage of Spider-Man making his way towards the warehouse, scarce as it was considering their purview didn’t usually include the sky.

Should he install cameras around Gotham aimed at the skyline? He should discuss the technicalities with Barbara later.

“In short, it might be a cold case that was considered solved at the time. 4 year old Peter Benjamin Parker, died in a car accident with his parents, with all death certificates issued, no next of kin.”

“Hmph.”

Why did she sound so frazzled?

“The thing is, there was a teen that came into my library today who managed to bypass the security I’ve installed in the public computers, running algorithms he got from the dark web to block my access. When I went to check out what he was doing in person, he was filing lost ID claims in Peter’s name.”

“Identity theft then?”

After a beat of silence that Bruce was used to whenever Barbara was about to say she did something he may not have advised she replied, “The kid was already on Nightwing’s radar as a potential runaway or trafficking victim, so I sent RR for a covert DNA sample.”

This is why ‘do as I say not as I do’ is a futile teaching tool, “Oracle-”

“The DNA matches Peter Benjamin Parker. Bruce… It's the same kid.”

“Who has been missing for 14 years.” That’s one hell of a shoe drop.

“Yeah.”

He put his head into his hands with a sigh. “Send me the files. And talk to RR about installing sky pointed security cameras so we can track Spider-man if he appears again.”

“Alright. I’m going to sign off now, I have to be at work in a few hours”, the neon green oracle mask on one of the main screens pulsing with light as it matched her voice, “You should sleep too; I checked your WE schedule, you’ve got a meeting later in the morning.”

“I’ll cope.”

“Mhm…”

“And Oracle?”

“Yeah?”

“Update the library security.”

He knows she knows, and he’s too invested in the new cases for a lecture, but it had to be said.

Bruce remained in the cave even after Barbara logged off, the only other sound beside the whirring of the chemical spectrometer being emitted from the near silent underground streams that emerged from the concave exterior walls and occasional chirping or bats in the stalactites that decorated the ceiling like natural occurring, deadly chandeliers.

But even his sanctuary couldn’t stop the train of thought that was rapidly approaching an unlikely conclusion. More a hypothesis than theory, but as he viewed the footage of the recently (hopefully not literally, please, please, please don’t let it be literally) resurrected Peter Parker, Bruce got a detective’s hunch he couldn’t shake off.

That body language.

That voice.

Appearing from nowhere.

The advanced knowledge of technology.

In his mind, coincidences were simply facts not yet connected, and Bruce’s brain was beginning to rapidly rectify that.

It was too soon to propose this to the team.

Nothing was definitive yet.

Nothing was completely damning.

But the similarities, however far fetched, between Peter Parker and Spider-Man were beginning to emerge and the implications were extremely concerning.

Chapter Text

Peter has never felt more thankful for an adrenaline crash. Sleeping through the night was definitely worth it.

And yeah, he feels like a human-shaped container of stiff muscles (pro tip to avoid this: don’t sleep on literal concrete), but his brain no longer resembles a blender of misfiring neurons so you know, progress.

In other words, he for sure could go for some of that free breakfast that the lawsuit ready to happen called Red Robin suggested.

As soon as he stops by a laundromat that is, because Christ almighty does he smell fucking rank. (Pro tip to avoid that: don’t get bitten by a spider that gives you an enhanced sense of smell and/or swing around in a skintight suit as the BO machine that is a teenager.)

Shoving his suit and meagre belongings into his backpack, he quickly scaled down the building and used his broke, New Yorker talent of sniffing out the nearest laundromat.

***

A tiny bell chimed as he entered the musty, window-walled establishment, the whir of machines a familiar sound that calmed his frayed spider-sense that seemed to ping around most of the people he passed. The diamond-patterned vinyl floor was decorated with scuff marks and water stains, and though just as in the rest of Gotham, a certain atmosphere of hostility still hung in the air, Peter had never felt more at home.

After he moved out from his family home, re: the bank kicked him out for not paying the mortgage on time, he spent a lot of time in places like this- scrubbing blood stains out of his suit with those tiny squares of powder you buy from rackety dispensers, borrowing sewing kits from old ladies that always seemed to have 3 generations worth of clothing going in the machines to mend holes and cuts courtesy of a variety of weapons.

For all the time he spent there, he’d never seen anyone wash an American flag though, so maybe May was onto something.

He used some quarters for the aforementioned laundry detergent, and using an inconspicuous web to keep the ancient laundry machine door from falling open, he waited for his suit to wash.

He revelled in the monotone noises, and laid himself out on a bench in front of the machine, as his mind began unravelling the shit show that was last night.

First of all, the things he didn’t majorly fuck up: he disabled the gas dispenser, all the hostages got out, he got all of Joker’s men out of commission…

Yeah, that's about it.

And then you literally disabled the Joker.

Letting revenge turn you into a brute just like after uncle Ben died.

And he pissed off the city’s main vigilante, broke the trust of another vigilante who wanted to work with him by going apeshit and didn’t consider the possibility of a deadman’s switch.

At least he covered his tracks well with the gas mask and didn’t compromise his identity.

Probably.

You fucking idiot, you irresponsible, violent, selfish, useless-

(Maybe he should go dumpster diving for an mp3, tuning out all his thoughts sounds great right now)

Ping!

Oh look, the laundry is done! Now, less thinking- more doing!

Peter spent exactly five seconds packing his stuff while checking a clock above the entrance to find it was currently 9 am, which hopefully meant he wasn’t going to be late for the church breakfast, before running out onto the sidewalk and using a pamphlet map the Wing-Man (he’s for sure calling him that if he sees him again) gave him to find his way.

On that note, Peter would like to kiss whatever genius made Gotham a grid system, he’ll even forgive this universe for having ‘Metropolis’ as a city name for this gram of familiarity in his life right now.

The walk wasn’t quick or easy, having to as nonchalantly as possible avoid being a victim of 5 separate muggings, if Peter ever gets the guts to go out again he’s definitely doing something about that, but once he finally reached the stoop of the most (shocker) gothic looking church he’s ever seen, Peter, for all intents and purposes, certainly looked very homeless and down on his luck.

Truly, a poster child for free food.

Peppered throughout the entrance were huge signs with “Wayne Foundation” written on them, which he was pretty sure was the name of the local billionaire, apparently a staple of any end-stage capitalist universe, though credit where credit’s due, Osborne wasn’t as interested in anyone else's problems.

After getting some much-needed goodie bags of toiletries, Peter queued up for what looked like a tray of oatmeal, fruit, and a muffin.

Not enough for his metabolism, but maybe enough to stop the unholy thoughts he had about the tide pods back at the laundromat.

His thought process must have shown more than he had intended because a second muffin had been sneaked onto his tray and a ‘this is gonna be our secret’ type of look from the volunteer in front of him.

Being ripped from his borderline dissociative state, Peter was now honestly questioning what the guy was doing here. He had a blinding smile that seemed to make charisma pour out of every pore, and the practically golden skin and built-up physique made him look like an off-duty model.

Although quick and silent, the exchange made Peter’s brain itch. Not his spider-sense, which was very quiet at the moment, but it felt as if his neurons were trying to create some kind of connection he was not being made privy to.

Pardon his French, but it made Peter feel a bit n’est pas fucking comfortable.

His earlier assumption must have been at least a bit correct since when he went to sit at one of the foldable tables, said guy prompt fucked off and began furiously tapping at his phone, but he was now more focused on inhaling the food in front of him with no regard for decorum when eating in a public place.

***

Dick was going to buy Tim the largest coffee he could find after this.

Considering Peter’s (whose name was now confirmed by Babs with the DNA test), so far distrusting demeanour, hoping he would show up where Tim told him to go was a long shot, but it certainly paid off. Once he rapidly updated the Bats’ group chat on the mystery boy’s whereabouts, he focused on his plan of action.

Directly confronting the kid would probably either result in him fleeing or lying straight to his face, described by Tim as being, “the shittiest liar I’ve ever seen with a conviction only seen in gaslighters that believe what they say can alter reality itself”, and detaining him for alleged identity theft would pose a risk for the kid if traffickers were involved.

But presenting Peter with an environment in which they would figure out more about him naturally could work- if his willingness to come here and the pamphlet Dick remembered giving him as Nightwing sticking out of the kid’s back pocket were any indication.

Gotham University perhaps? Peter clearly had some computer science knowledge, and with his ID papers arriving any day now, he could be nudged into a paid internship or even a course with a sponsorship- Bruce could assure both easily with his influence.

“Hey Harper, mind if I go on break? Got a little community service to do.” The coded message got to his colleague and fellow up-and-coming vigilante easily enough, and after getting a permissive nod he grabbed a snack from a basket beside him and began casually approaching his target’s table.

“Hey, do you mind if I join?” The kid was almost done eating, so Dick sat down at his silent nod and began unwrapping his muffin. “You know, Gotham U has lately begun an initiative to provide underprivileged young people with paid internship opportunities and courses, and us volunteers have been encouraged to seek out potential applicants.”, (technically the truth, apart from the applicants being picked out in charity events). At that, the teen raised his head, meeting Dick’s eyes with a raised eyebrow as if trying to sense any lies.

Not receiving a dismissal yet, he pulled out a pamphlet of the program that Tim gave him beforehand, “Here’s a leaflet detailing the program, you can also check it out on the GCU website.”

The folded paper was taken from his hand gingerly by the younger man.

“Do you think you might be interested…?”, he prompted for a name.

“...Peter.”, he replied with food in his mouth, unphased by the slight faux pas, and began flipping through the information packet whilst still picking at his oatmeal.

Dick began to rip apart his pastry, taking small bites, “Well, Peter, I hope you find something that interests you, if you have any questions I’ll be at the main stand, just ask for ‘Grayson’ if I’m not there”.

Another low-effort nod, and a continued clear ignorance towards Dick being the son of a billionaire and one of the most well-known people in Gotham.

Interesting, to say the least.

By this point, Peter had finished eating, now totally engrossed by the pamphlet.

“Uhh… and what would I need to apply, exactly?”

Score.

“Well”, Dick sat up, discarding his muffin to the table and gaining a more animated demeanour, “Proof of identification, some high school transcripts, answering some personal questions, potentially a small personal statement, and a proof of address.”, Peter visibly deflated at the last mention, which meant the kid hadn’t found a place to stay yet, good to know.

“...But! The equal opportunity initiative might allow just a PO box, you know, to send mail and any forms to fill out,” (lie, but with Bab’s algorithms and a bit of light hacking they can get around that issue).

“...You sure?”

The slight twinkle of hope in the kid’s eyes was heartbreaking as it was disarming, or maybe he’s just a big softie like Jason says, but he digresses.

“Yep!”

Peter relaxed slightly in his seat, dragging his thumb across the smooth pages, clearly lost in thought. “I- I had been planning to go to college before, but it just didn’t work out,” With a lowered head, he met DIck’s eyes again, now a little glassy and darker, making his obvious dark circles even more pronounced, “I lost- I lost some people important to me, and it just…”, the kid was trying to collect himself now, with little to no avail, “a shitty financial situation didn’t help either.”

Dick leaned forward an inch, a small sympathetic smile pointed at Peter, “ Life can be like that sometimes, huh?” Because God knows he knows how that feels, losing people, even if it wasn’t permanent, his plans breaking down in the process out of necessity, duty, pain.

Peter cleared his throat, looking a bit overwhelmed and ready to leave quickly putting his trash on the tray and standing up, the information packet shoved into his jean’s pocket, “Thanks, Mr Grayson, I’ll look into it.” (Dick tried to not cringe a little at how ‘Mr Grayson’ made him feel about two decades older).

With a quiet goodbye, Peter stood up and started walking towards the tray disposal station, and Dick returned to his post at the food line, feeling somewhat lighter.

Time to commit some mild academic dishonesty in the name of a case.

***

College.

Peter hasn’t thought about that in a while.

Surviving alone in New York wasn't easy in any way, in fact, it was harder than most things he’d ever done.

No money, no family, whatever else that Iggy Azalea song said.

And no one to die in the name of your incompetence.

Which was why he refused to consider a different life for himself so far.

He might struggle to make ends meet, he might have to work odd jobs that barely pay for his suit and web shooters, he might have no one to confide in like he did Gwen, but in the end, only he gets hurt.

No collateral.

Not again.

The Grayson guy opened a Pandora’s box of internal debate for Peter, and no matter how much he tried to focus on scrubbing himself down with the wet wipes he got back at the church, as quickly as possible before the coffee shop he was in kicked him out from their restroom, the possibility of something else, something more, was beginning to be something impossible to ignore.

And granted, the whole thing seemed a little too good to be true, and the probability of Peter, a non-Gothamite, being accepted into this program seemed close to none, but a paid internship? The possibility of getting a degree?

Unlike under the table bartending or 12 hour shifts at restaurants one cockroach away from being shut down by the health department, a college might pay a living wage.

Hypothetically.

Though despite Peter trusting the job market as much as he would trust an actual spider’s web to swing around a city, the prospect of not having to sleep on rooftops with a menagerie of vigilantes trying to figure him out is quite honestly enough for him to believe in the American dream again.

Sometime in the middle of mechanically brushing his teeth in the tiny automatic sink, he hears a second rap on the door, signalling to him that he should get out before he gets blacklisted from the cafe, which would be a true shame because unlike most chain establishments this place didn’t have a number lock to the bathroom.

Getting his own place is quickly going up on his mental list of priorities.

After splashing some cold water on his face, he walked out onto the sidewalk of the predominantly residential area that surrounded the church. The buildings were slightly shorter than the ones back in the business district, though most were at least 6 stories tall, peppered with small windows and covered in old, grayish, peeling paint. The people here appeared even more alert and wary and occasionally the pavement had stains suspiciously the color of dried blood, which might normally worry Peter but his train of thought was currently hung up on how the rent prices in this area would compare to his shoebox apartment in New York.

Probably cheaper, right? Everything is cheaper than the NYC housing market.

His plan for today mainly revolved around finding a cheap internet cafe where he could get something for the $2 left in his possession since he’d rather not show his face at the library for a while due to the whole hacking a government database thing, but apparently, those weren't included on the map of Gotham he had on him.

Walking in no particular direction, he passed a variety of businesses from grocery stores to pawn shops to empty, fancy restaurants that practically screamed “We’re a front for the mob!”. But no internet cafes. Because that's just his fucking luck.

As that last thought graced his mind, the powers that be must have had a major fucking laugh because not a second later his spider-sense practically took over his body, throwing him under a nearby bench while the mob front of an Italian restaurant seemed to go down with a mild case of firebombing.

As chaos erupted on the entire street, people began scurrying to safety with an impressive level of nonchalance, which only shocked him a little because if Peter has surmised a single thing about this city its that shit like this occurs with the same regularity as an on-time Swiss train.

He, on the other hand, felt very chalant right now.

But more than anything, he felt the familiar urge of needing to do something.

This time though, it was also plagued by heart piercing fear and guilt.

Fear and guilt and doubt that made him want curl up under that bench and stay, because what if in trying to help he was going to fuck it all up just like last time.

It wasn’t uncommon for Gwen’s graduation speech to reverberate in his head, after all he listened to it all but a million times, but he found that in this moment it felt especially loud. Even his perpetually depressing intrusive thoughts, which grew more painful and sounded more true with each day that passed couldn’t drown it out.

“Fight for what matters to you, no matter what. Because even if you fall short, what better way is there to live?”

He could hear the people inside screaming, even when muffled by the roar of flames that grew each second.

Maybe not everyone in that place deserved forgiveness, but in the end, that’s not why he did what he did.

“There will be dark days ahead of us too, and there'll be days where you feel all alone, and that's when hope is needed most.”

His vigilantism may have started from a need for revenge, but the idea of Spider-Man became so much more. It started when he saved the kid, Jack, from the bridge, knowing that he may not catch Connors but he could save a life.

And that was enough.

“No matter how buried it gets, or lost you feel, you must promise me, that you will hold on to hope and keep it alive.”

He wasn’t perfect at it. He failed more times than he wants to remember.

But he can’t hide behind his pain of loss and failure, behind Gwen, and stand aside.

He crawled from under the bench, identifying the nearest rooftop where he can get unnoticed to change into his suit.

Do you remember the last time you tried to ‘help’?

You’ll lose your cool again, you’ll hurt more people than you save, you barely have any webs left, you’re just going to make things worse-

“We have to be greater than what we suffer. My wish for you, is to become hope. People need that.”

Some people dodn’t want Spider-Man. Sometimes neither does Peter.

But no matter what he wants to think, Peter needs Spider-Man. And others need him too.

So when he scales the wall and puts on the suit, with the red spider gracing his back once again, he decides it will only signify hope. It will only signify what the people he lost needed it to mean.

And a shit-ton of quips, obviously.

He landed in front of the restaurant without the use of webs, only vaguely registering the cement cracking under the force of his jump.

Amidst the flames, stood a man clad in a sharp, striped, tailored suit and a sadistic smile surrounded by men in much less impressive attire holding machine guns.

As objectively intimidating as Peter admitted it was, none of it was as eye-catching as the rouge’s face though.

Or rather, the fact he was lacking half of it.

And God, was it graphic.

Before his brain could fully conjure the question of why Peter always ends up fighting some sort of bodily deformed villain, or whether it’s a cause and effect sort of situation when choosing a career in being one, he shot a web towards the ceiling of the restaurant and swung into the inferno.

Chapter Text

“Hey watch it, I’m swingin’ here!”

Peter’s New Yorker charm was clearly lost on Two Face’s goons, whose name he remembered from his research at the library, as they immediately turned from an understandably scared shitless group of middle-aged men in Italian suits and a terrified waitress, and began shooting towards Spider-Man.

He dodged the bullets in mid-air, his body adjusting naturally with his spider sense, feeling small tufts of air as they passed millimeters from his skin.

That was until Two Face himself turned as well, the eye on the mangled side of his face meeting the white lenses of Peter’s mask.

The eye was a jaundiced yellow, and honest to God looked like it was one, purposefully positioned slap away from being evicted from the rouge’s skull. Surrounding the almost completely hollowed out socket, a patchwork of burns, some charred and some fleshy, constricting around the mouth, a permanent snarl plastered on the man’s face as a result of burned off lips.

In short, he would’ve given the Norse goddess Hel a run for her money.

(See Gwen? He learned something from that AP history class.)

Not a second later Peter heard the familiar shink of a bullet nicking his arm, because what better karmic justice is there for staring at someone for too long, followed by a very sobering heat flaring around the wound.

Bad Peter.

Stupid Peter.

He still managed to make a decent landing on a square foot of floor that hadn’t yet been consumed by the flames, all the while disarming two of the goons by flinging their machine guns out a window with a loud crash, just to really make sure that Spider-man was now the focus of everyone’s attention as well as their fire-arms.

“You dare disrupt my due diligence in distributing justice upon these”, Two Face looked down at the huddled group at his feet, begging to twirl the coin in his hand even more obsessively, “vermin?” Well, that was certainly no longer a half-snarl. From a low stance on the ground, Peter slowly rose to his full height, crossing his arms.

“Cause that totally required all the theatrics of bombing the entire restaurant, right?” Wafts of smoke were already permeating his mask, but Peter stood his ground, analyzing the situation before him.

Six more armed men, five hostages, two possible exists, ~’and a partridge in a pear tree’~

And a massive fire that was going to kill them all if he didn’t figure this out.

“Ha!” The taller man exclaimed, pacing in circles, his hired guns waiting for the order to fire at Peter. “Do you even know who these men are, boy? Tommy Maroni”, he practically spat the name, pointing a finger from his unoccupied hand at one of the hostages, “a capo of the Maroni family, a body count close to a hundred”.

So, maybe not a de-escalation, but a villain monologue? Peter can work with that.

“Not to mention the other four, Tommy’s infamous enforcers that helped this- this murder gain his honorary status in the mob.” At that, he turned back to Peter, taking some oh-so-sweet steps away from the hostages to try his best at staring down Spider-Man while still keeping a safe distance of several feet.

To his credit, he was doing a decent job at it, too.

He could manually enable the water sprinklers above to quell the fire, but the bombs used an accelerant, most likely gasoline or oil which would just cause an explosion-

“But there’s no mystery as to who you are, is there?” Another mocking laugh came from the rouge’s mouth, though by this point Peter was more bothered by how everyone in this goddamn city either ‘knew’ who he was or were willing to stoop to tranq darts and gps’ in gas masks to find out.

“I go by Spider-Man; nice to meet you”, he held his hand out, “You’ve got a beautiful smile by the way-”

“Another one of Bat’s pet projects”, he’s got to be really into his monologue for that to go over his head, huh? “A self-proclaimed do-gooder, unwilling to see how truly corrupt, purposefully corrupt, the system is, letting these scum go time and time again”

That would be… one(?) of three correct, could be better.

“So, Spider-Man let me teach you the true meaning of justice, blind justice”, Two Face suddenly caught the coin between two fingers, raising it above for all to see as if it was Simba himself. “What do you say, Maroni, heads or tails?”

The rogue's profile on the GCPD website flashed before Peter’s eyes, looks like he’s entering the end game now.

“Fuck y-”

“Heads, then.”

Well, that’s his cue.

Peter could see the coin being tossed into the air in slow motion as he entered a horizontal spin and propelled himself forward, webbing another four guns out the window and kicking the goon nearest him in order to start a domino effect of falling men.

As the silver dollar entered the peak of its journey, Peter was already shooting another web, connecting to the rogue's suit.

With swift pull, he propelled himself into the man, kneeing him (very purposefully), in his chest instead of his face.

Peter’s nice like that.

As the coin hit the hardwood floors with a faint ping, so did most of the goons as well as Two Face himself.

A quick backflip and he was once again dodging bullets, now crawling on the ceiling, from the two remaining, machine gun-wielding men.

It was honestly kind of entertaining how their eyes widened at the sight of Peter on the ceiling, though his niceness backfired not a second later as his spider-sense flared in the back of his head, having only a second to turn around and drop down when Two Face, still sprawled on the floor, shot at him from a pistol he had presumably kept inside his jacket until now.

“Ohh, that's dirty, man”, Peter rebutted at the now absolutely furious bad guy, now sitting in his classic Spider-Man crouch on a restaurant table, “kind of a two-faced-bitch move, not gonna lie.”

Another shot was fired at his face.

“Though; and call me a pessimist”, Peter fired another web at the ceiling, spinning in the air and landing behind the rogue, “I think ‘Half Face’, would be a more accurate moniker for you.”

The former DA spun around to fire another bullet, but Peter was faster; he grabbed the gun from his hand and webbed it to the ceiling, causing a stalemate for Half Face’s men who could no longer shoot at Peter without aiming at their boss.

Then, with only a tiny uptick in his spidey sense, four double edged knives in the shape of a… was that a fucking bat? Struck an equal amount of the hired guns already on the ground, pinning them to the floor by their jackets.

“What the- ”, before Peter could even finish, he sensed another cluster of vibrations behind him, and; Where the fuck did the hostages go?

Correction: Peter did know where they were; he simply couldn’t see them, because at least according to his heightened senses, a group of panicked footsteps were making their way out of the building and onto the deserted street.

“SignaI”, Two Face hissed, his eyes shifting from one end of the restaurant to the other, “Signal what?” Peter answered, but his confusion was quickly cleared up as his body automatically moved back a few inches while the most brightly dressed vigilante he’d ever seen appeared from thin air and proceeded to knee rouge straight in the face.

Signal’s badass appearance was accompanied by the guy responding with an even more badass, “The one and only, Dent.”

The dude definitely sounded like a teenager though.

Is there a school in Gotham entirely dedicated to making underage vigilantes? Peter will take a person closer to his age doing this over an elementary student such as Robin, any day, but come on.

Even once the bright yellow vigilante landed, it took Peter a few seconds to look back at him because he had been staring at Two Face, still half cringing at how the man was now writhing on the floor.

Now, the main bad guy was down, which was great.

Not so great was the fact that now Two Face’s men had a perfectly clear shot at both of them. Signal seemed to register this along with Peter when he flatly said, “Crap.”

“Yep!”, Peter replied, and then grabbed the fellow teen by the waist, webbing them both to safety behind the bar counter almost 20 feet away.

Now that he was able to get a better look at the guy, he noticed the dark-skinned teen’s suit also had various black outlines along with the yellow, as well as a bat emblem that seemed to almost glow an ethereal white.

Wait a minute.

Peter tilted his head, “Are those cat ears?”

“I’m sorry?”

Peter pointed to Signal’s cowl, half aware of the shots being currently fired into their hideout.

“Oh… no, they’re- they’re bat ears.”

“Right.” Peter looked out behind the edge of the counter, seeing that the remainder of Two Face’s men still standing also had handguns.

Wonderful.

At least they seemed to be busy reloading at the moment.

He could feel Signal eyes on him even with the yellow cowl, so he turned back to his impromptu crime-fighting buddy.

“Yeah?”

The indisputably cat-eared teen’s staring continued as if Peter was no longer Spider-Man and had instead turned into a particularly difficult equation. “You’re- you’re… glowing”, he almost whispered, awe painting his voice.

Sorry, what?

Peter laughed awkwardly, “Uh, thanks? Don’t know how you’d be able to tell with my mask on-”

He did still have his mask on, right?

“No no no, as in, you’re literally glowing”, he shook his hands fervently in embarrassment, “like in a radioactive way. I think.”

Wow.

Ok.

Peter couldn’t be more glad he misread that situation, because not only was he not used to working with other vigilantes, he definitely wouldn’t know how to respond to flirting from one.

The relief is short lived however, because now the only thing he can think about is how he fucking glows and how if this guy EVER sees him out of the suit he can wave his secret identity goodbye.

Shit.

“So I’m gonna guess that’s not common, then?”

Please say it is please say it is please say-

“No, not unless you’re a nuclear physicist or work in radiology”, his hands became animated once again, his tone suggesting to Peter he clearly researched this topic a lot considering he sounded exactly like Peter when he talked about a science topic he was particularly interested in, “I mean, latent radioactivity can have a lot of reasons, but yours is pretty severe- like chemo treatment severe, like you shouldn’t be able to run, much less jump twenty feet severe.”

By this point, Signal’s vision was strictly fixed on Peter’s mostly healed arm, which at this rate made him actually hope those weren’t cat ears because with the sheer curiosity coming off from the yellow-clad vigilante, Peter was worried he might just drop dead.

Not to mention his disbelief, which was just as tangible, as if he was honestly expecting the guy in a bright red and blue suit to suddenly announce, “Why yes, pardon my lack of introductions, I am actually two-time Nobel prize winner Maria Skłodowska Curie that works with radioactive elements on the daily”.

He had half a mind to say it, too.

Thankfully, another hail of bullets successfully disrupted both their trains of thought. An explosion of splinters had Peter shoving Signal to the side as the lead flew past them exactly where the guy’s shoulder had been moments before, and without any more time to waste Spider-Man sailed over the counter in one smooth motion, neutralizing the two machine guns left by webbing them back to where Signal was still sitting.

“I’m assuming first responders are on their way?” Peter shouted over his shoulder, already positioning himself to fling himself at the group of bad guys. He heard a quiet thump of the teen landing beside him. “Yep!” Signal quipped, a smirk on his face as he threw two yellow sticks similar to Nightwing’s, there’s probably a more technical term for those but Peter’s knowledge of martial arts is limited to youtube tutorials of the flips he does, hitting two guys square in their foreheads. Then, he used equally bright yellow wires attached to said sticks to have them land back into his hands.

“Cool sticks”, Peter pointed out as he entered the air, twisting his torso to travel between even more bullets, like seriously, credit where credit’s due, these guys are nothing if not persevering.

“You mean my escrima sticks?” Peter heard Signal ask with a healthy dose of bewilderment. So that’s what they’re called. “Mhm!” He hummed in agreement as he roundhouse kicked two guys in the head while still in mid-air, then made his way to the ceiling where he cocooned any stragglers back onto the floor.

“Cool webs!” The voice came from behind him, though whatever powers he used with the hostages were in play again, as the escrima stick wielder was nowhere to be seen.

Regardless, from the multitude of grunts and sounds of bodies hitting the floor, he was doing a pretty good job. “Thanks, it’s actually a family recipe”, he joked back, right before a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Specifically the soot-covered form of Two Face, who had crawled closer to the corner where the hostages had been sitting, and was now pointing a revolver in the cluster of invisible punches and kicks being thrown at his men.

His gun was still on the ceiling so how-

The Maroni crime family, you idiot.

Shit.

The gun was already on the correct trajectory, webbing it out of reach wasn’t an option, no matter how fast he could do it.

Ah, fuck it.

For the second time, Peter experienced the distinct and nauseating feeling of his flesh being torn apart by searing hot lead, this time fully going into his thigh. Despite that, he still managed to roll into a landing, and then web Two Face’s every limb to the floor.

He turned to face Signal, who had already finished tying up the goons with heavy duty rope and was now hauling them out of the building, using some sort of foam grenades to put out the fire and create a safe path. Peter tried appeasing the concerned glance being shot his way with an objectively weak thumbs up, before picking up his share of dead weight, including Two Face who continued to mutter obscenities and quote obscure legal precedents even as Peter crossed the restaurant’s threshold.

No longer carrying the weight of multiple people only did so much to help with the pain of a bullet still embedded deep into his leg, but the piercing sirens didn’t leave much room for Peter to relax.

And when he saw Signal approaching with an unreadable expression, his only thought was seriously, not again.

“Spider-Man-”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about the whole Joker situation, I get it, I fucked up, but if you could maybe wait until I get this bullet out to try and tranq me or play tag on the rooftops I’d appreciate it.”

The vigilante stopped walking, and looked down at the ground, almost bashfully. “I- I wasn’t planning on any of that, actually.”

“What?”

“You took that bullet for me, didn't you?” He pointed his head at Peter’s bleeding leg. “Batman has his orders for us, mostly because you’re an unknown to us; but in my book… you’ve got the makings of a hero- and I owe you, big time.”

Peter felt speechless. It’s sad to say, but since May died, he hadn’t felt like enough of a good person to receive this much gratitude for what he did. People back In New York thanked him, he got a free hotdog once in a while, and he could never forget how the loved ones of the people he saved would look at him, how grateful they were. But for a person who knew how this life felt…

“That, that means a lot. Thanks, man.”

Signal gave him a small smile as he went around Peter and approached a very unhappy group of tied-up men he hadn’t noticed before- the Maroni capo and his enforcers.

Damn, this kid’s good.

The hoard of firetrucks, ambulances, and cop cars were almost at the building though, so Peter took one last moment to give Signal a quick salute and catapult himself onto the rooftop where he kept his bag.

On that note, Peter was going to send an email to Wayne Enterprises so that whatever god-send of a person thought about putting tweezers in those free toiletry bags gets a raise, ASAP.

Chapter Text

||Secure Comm Status: OPEN||

||Cowl Camera: POI [SPIDER-MAN] IDENTIFIED||

B: Signal, report. 10:14

B: Signal, I can see your cowl cam, report. 10:14

B: I am in a non-negotiable meeting, please follow the order to stall or apprehend SP. 10:15

B: What do you mean he’s radioactive? Is he dangerous? Please respond. 10:20

B: Inquire further about what “it's a family recipe” means 10:23

B: Do you need reinforcements to make the apprehension? 10:29

B: Are you unable to use the tranquilizer in your belt? 10:29

B: Signal, report back at the cave for debrief, now. 10:31

||Secure Comm Status: CLOSED||

Tim had just finished his 8:30 am class, a weekly, hour-and-a-half-long hellscape caused by him signing up last minute for his college courses (was it because he got dragged into a case that he refused to drop? Historians may argue for centuries to come), before his phone lit up with Duke’s cowl-cam informing all the Bats about the reappearance of Spider-Man.

Tim learned only this morning during breakfast of all times about the new vigilante’s existence, undoubtedly another attempt from Bruce at having Tim ‘focus his energy on university and general wellbeing’. So after asking nicely re: hacking, begging, and then bribing Barbara to let him view the messages and said cowl cam, he got to witness as Bruce turned into a concerning mix of drill sergeant and helicopter parent, and deciding that since his next class was still a few hours away, he might as well get a front row seat in the shit-storm that was going to be the debrief.

From the footage and comms, it seemed Duke went full radio silence on the big Bat for the duration of the incident, figured out the new guy is radioactive, and let him go on his merry way.

Mounting his civilian motorcycle, he raced towards the manor, letting his mind work on what he saw in the background.

Objectively, Spider-Man was a loose cannon. He had a quippy sense of humor, a presumably strong sense of justice, presenting high gymnastics and long-range combative prowess, yet lacking significantly in any theoretical martial arts training as indicated by Cass and his own analysis of the cowl-cam available.

Enhanced senses, enhanced healing, enhanced strength.

A triple threat in the semantic field of meta abilities.

Not to mention an extensive knowledge of engineering that helped him disable Joker’s gas dispensation device, and the mathematics needed to utilize his webs to travel in such a fluid way.

Tim imagined that if the guy were aged down by a little less than a decade and put on some pixie boots, Damian would be fighting by the skin of his teeth to keep his job as Robin.

On a more personal note, Tim was concerned.

Agitated, paranoid, and just the tiniest bit scared. Whatever you want to call it.

All of these feelings that he was very adamantly suppressing stemmed from the fact that Spider-Man very much reminded him of the Council of Spiders, a group of arachnid-themed assassins he fought during his sabbatical at Ra’s al Ghul’s house of horrors, aka The Cradle.

From his sudden appearance, to the spider-themed powers, name and costume, the self-proclaimed ‘menace’ had Tim considering him as a potential member or associate of the Council.

And that’s not even mentioning the whole radioactivity thing, which he definitely had to ask Duke about as soon as possible.

The even more stressful part of all this was that Tim… Well Tim didn’t exactly catch Bruce up on who the council were. Sure, B knew about the whole Ra’s situation somewhat, a lot of which Tim withheld for a variety of reasons including being forced into therapy, but Ra’s himself wasn’t a sharing kind of person, and what Tim did during this time isn’t his favorite topic.

So after Bruce came back from the time stream a changed man, who decided to work both on himself and being a better father overall, which Tim was in equal parts thankful for and surprised about, the Council thing just… didn’t make the cut.

And why would it? Tim blew them up. He’d rather not make a detailed report on the Batcomputer for all to see about how he potentially committed mass murder by turning Ra’s bases to rubble, even though it was a decision he still stands behind.

Riding up onto the driveway, he noticed Bruce’s car, a sleek, black, yet not too eye-catching BMW was already parked, meaning he had already returned from his WE board meeting. No time to waste, then.

A few turns from the foyer and Tim was standing in front of the grandfather clock, about to move the hands to enter the Batcave. “Good morning, master Tim,” Alfred said with a raised eyebrow, appearing at the end of the corridor like the teleportation user he probably is. “As I was made aware, you still have a class today, do you not?”

“Hi Alfred, yeah, I still got a few hours until then though”, he entered the time, a metallic whirr accompanying the secret entrance revealing itself, “decided to get in on the action around the new vigilante after the Two Face bombings today.”

The butler made a soft sigh before turning on his heel. “Very well, but I do hope Master Damian hasn’t been made aware of this development yet, I would rather not be called to his school to pick him up on the grounds of malignant food poisoning just so the boy can feel caught up with a case, again.”

With a quick nod, Tim began descending the spiral stairs.

Bruce, to no one's surprise, was already analyzing the footage frame by frame, still in the suit he wore to his meeting, awaiting Duke’s arrival. On a separate monitor, all of Spider-Man’s dialogue was shown as a transcript, a color-coding system of highlights peppered throughout.

“What’s up, B?”

A barely audible grunt greeted and acknowledged Tim’s presence, which he took as his cue to approach the chemical spectrometer containing what used to be Spider-Man’s webs. Samples, he might add, that he was only made aware of this morning. Rude. The webs had already degraded into salt water, but prior analysis suggested the substance was artificial.

Unlike The Wanderer’s, the Council’s leader, poisonous touch.

Small mercies, he supposed.

Just then, the roar of an engine pierced the cave, with Signal entering the main area of the cave moments later. “Batman. Tim.” Duke acknowledged way too formally, taking off his cowl. He stood with his back straight, his eyes steely calm, awaiting the inevitable.

“Signal.” Bruce turned his chair towards the teen with steepled fingers, reciprocating his use of codenames.

“I understand-”

Batman held up a hand. “First, I acknowledge you had a free period during the incident, so your missing school isn’t under scrutiny here.” Damn, B was going full deposition mode. “What is, however, is the fact you didn’t follow my order on how to interact with the unknown, meta vigilante known as Spider-Man. It is your refusal to respond to my messages on comms or to act on them. It is you letting him go without any follow-up, without questioning him in any capacity. So, I ask you again, report.”

The tension was so thick it might as well have been made from the webs Tim was pretending to read the breakdown of.

“I was called to the bombing by Two Face through one of Oracle’s algorithms, Spider-Man was already on the scene when I arrived. As he was engaging Two Face, I rescued the hostages using my photokinesis as cover, tying up one of the Maroni crime family capos and his enforcers outside of the building for the authorities to arrest and prosecute using the information we had on them. I then engaged Two Face myself, and Spider-Man helped me escape the line of fire from the rouge’s accomplices. I alerted first responders and both Spider-Man and I began neutralizing Two Face’s men.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Duke looking down at the ground, pausing as if trying to decide how to continue. “One of the hostages had left their gun on the ground, and Two Face reached for it, aiming at me. I was not aware of that until Spider-Man took the bullet for me. He then neutralized Two Face and we carried the perpetrators outside, using the anti-fire foam pellets to form an escape route.”

His eyes met Bruce’s once more. “He took a bullet for me. I didn’t find it fair to punish him for that.”

Bruce pushed himself off his chair, exhaustion painting his tone. “Duke-”

“No. I get it, I didn’t follow your order. Bench me if you want.” Tim turned around as Signal took a step closer to B, no longer even bothering with the excuse of looking at the spectrometer. “But not only did Spider-Man make sure Dent’s men couldn’t take a shot at me the first time, he then put my well-being over his. And even after getting a bullet lodged in his leg, he still carried Two Face and his crew to safety. In my book, those are not the actions of someone ‘morally indeterminable’ as your report said.”

By this point, both vigilantes stood almost toe to toe, and though Duke was obviously shorter, it didn’t stop the 17-year-old from looking Bruce straight in the eye. “Those are the actions of a good person. Just because you don’t understand someone’s powers, someone’s motivations, doesn’t mean they should automatically be labeled a danger.”

Tim wanted to believe that as much as Duke did. He’d even wager so did Bruce.

The older man sighed, squeezing Duke’s shoulder. “Thank you for the report, Duke. We can discuss the consequences to your patrols later. I am not excluding the possibility of Spider-Man having good intentions, in fact, I hope I will be proven wrong.” See, Bingo. Call Tim the Bruce whisperer. “But his actions during the confrontation with Joker lead me to assume that he is on some level… emotionally unpredictable. And the less we know about him, and how he operates, the more likely one of us is to get hurt. And I refuse to accept that possibility.”

Bruce’s response seemed to marginally satisfy Duke, though it was clear his position hadn’t changed. Since the tension was a little lighter now, Tim decided to make his entrance into the conversation.

“Is Spider-Man radioactive?”

Both heads were quickly turned towards him, Duke’s face scrunched up in confusion. “How do you know-”, began Bruce. “Not important.” B raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Babs told me, ok? Now, Duke, explain. Please.”

The younger teen blinked a few times, “Well, I could see radioactive waves being emitted from a wound on his arm. My best guess, his blood is the source.”

“So could you identify him just by seeing him, or would he need to be bleeding?”

“... The latter, I think.”

Of course nothing could be that simple.

“The question would then be, is it a part of his powers, or its cause”, Bruce added.

Oh shit. “You’re thinking human experimentation?” He asked, getting a thoughtful nod in response. “I’ll text Kon and ask if he or Supes have seen if CADMUS has been up to anything lately.” He took his phone out, deciding to head back into the manor.

“Oh, and Duke?”

“Yeah?”

Tim smirked at the younger guy, “Please be aware I’m texting the group chat about the cat ear comment, I don’t know about you but I cannot unsee it.”

***

After asking his boyfriend to check out the human experimentation lead and receiving the most wonderfully vulgar rant back about what Kon will do to Lex Luthor if it pans out, and sending all the Bats Spider-Man’s observation so that Duke can join the rest of them in never beating the furry allegations, Tim checked the slew of messages he got on the Bat group chat from Dick about the teenager he stole DNA from yesterday, who apparently decided to take Red Robin’s advice and showed up at the WE sponsored breakfast.

So far, Peter had been confirmed by Babs to be a victim of a cold case from 14 years ago, currently an 18-year-old hacker who unsuccessfully tried to hide the fact he fell off the face of the earth (not to insult the guy’s tech abilities, but they call her Oracle for a reason). The way Peter showed up on their radar was even more ridiculous, that is to say by appearing out of thin air and covered in bruises, then witnessing Red Hood shooting some would-be robbers at a Bat Burger at 1 am before fleeing the scene to a random rooftop. All in all, a valid response.

Now, Dick took it upon himself to solve the case, with theories ranging from human trafficking to living under a rock. Either could be true considering the guy doesn’t know who the one and only ‘Richie Grayson’ is. Or, you know, what state he’s in, who the local vigilantes are, and so forth.

Tim threw his laptop bag next to his desk before falling onto his bed. The prospect of living at the manor hadn’t seemed like the greatest idea, though with Damian finally weaning off his ‘kick Tim out through attempted murder’ phase which Tim personally credited to Dinah, who was probably the only therapist out there that Damian couldn’t scare out of a job, and Jason mostly only visiting to see Alfred or for vigilante business, Tim finally found the manor as an actually safe place to be. Living close to both his campus and having easy access to the Batcave was also a benefit.

He almost fell asleep in his unmade sheets (convincing Alfred to not interfere with how he organizes his room was difficult, but having his own space was a blessing regardless) but he was awoken by another message from Dick, now in their private chat.

Informing Tim that he suggested Peter sign up for a GCU internship that Babs will apparently help him get into, and whether Tim can keep an eye on him if the plan works out, namely by getting closer to him and finding out more about him, and Jesus Christ is Dick about to pull a Bruce on this kid???

Well shit, now Tim’s even more invested.

Chapter Text

Peter is fine.

The tweezers digging halfway into his thigh ~never bothered him anyway ~.

He isn’t cursing under his breath to the point even the mystery liquids covering the floors of this abandoned subway station would be calling him filthy. He’s being very mindful; very demure.

“Motherfucker!” He screamed as he finally managed to jank out the bullet, winning the tug of war between him and his enhanced healing, and slumped back against the graffiti-filled wall as the piece of lead rolls away unceremoniously.

No time for an after-patrol nap, time to get shit done. Time to send in his internship application, clean, and sew up his suit again. He’ll just close his eyes for five minutes. And he deserves it too; swinging and crawling halfway across town in case someone did come after him only gave his healing factor more time to close the flesh around his bullet wound, essentially making him reopen it, which is something he tries to avoid because Christ is it painful.

The battle of wills his mind is conducting is strangely reminiscent of trying to get up for school after a night of Spider-Manning in New York.

Peter can compromise, ok? One minute. There, now his conscience is clear.

***

The spidey sense equivalent of a three-ton truck struck him out of his sleep, which had him grabbing and pulling on his mask probably quicker than the naked eye could see while jumping to his feet, incredibly thankful that his leg no longer hurt, even if it meant he most definitely passed out for longer than a minute.

From the depths of a subway tunnel emerged a figure cast in shadow, though his stark, split-dyed mask was still visible to Peter. Walking alongside the tracks, the silhouettes steps were practically silent despite the heavily armored suit he wore. He also seemed to instantly clock Peter after a few steps, wonderful, even with their surroundings being only lit by the faint sun rays coming from the station entrance at the top of the stairs. The man’s stature feigned nonchalance, all the while standing still like a statue, one hand already at his waist as if ready to go for his gun, boring into Peter’s eyes which allowed him to barely make out the fact that as opposed to the orange colored side of his mask, the other didn’t feature an eye hole.

Of course, as a chronic sufferer of foot-in-the-mouth syndrome, the only words he could conjure was to immediately say, “What are you, Two Face’s cousin?” while pointing his chin towards the mask of a most likely very dangerous individual, if the massive sword on his back and multiple gun holsters were any indication.

Realizing what he just said, Peter joined the mystery man of the hour in standing completely still.

This is why Peter can’t have nice things.

Instead of being immediately stabbed, shot, or berated though, the tunnel instead filled with the most dry chuckle Peter had ever heard, then followed by what felt like a million years of being stared at as if under a microscope, and despite his spidey sense inexplicably calming down, Peter felt like he was currently standing on millimeter thin ice.

And then the guy just… turned back to face the tunnel, and continued on his way, deeper into the labyrinth of Gotham’s subway system, as if he’d simply been a figment of Peter’s imagination.

Peter continued standing in his spot, dumbfounded by whatever the hell of an interaction that was. As much as his New Yorker pride objected, that was probably the weirdest thing he had ever witnessed in the subway. Who would’ve guessed?

Throwing his clothes on and stuffing his mask back into his bag, he emerged from the station with the singular goal of finding an internet cafe, as his mind replayed the meeting he’d just had with Tunnel-Man/Two-Face’s potential cousin (he never actually gave Peter his name, alright?) After around a half hour of aimless wandering, he finally saw a neon sign advertising the promise land of overpriced coffee and slow wifi.

By this point the sun was approaching sunset, which honestly made the city look almost… nice? Well maybe not nice, but at the very least less grim looking. The chime of a tiny bell announced his entrace into the cafe, and he strode over to the counter to get a mandatory drink so he won’t be considered as a free loader and consequently kicked out.

The cheapest thing was a $1.50 tea. But that didn’t phase Peter. Peter was rich now.

Well, subjectively rich.

See, the station had been closed due to what Peter could only assume had been a chemical attack; re: the entrance was taped over with an exorbitant amounts of biohazard signs. In other words, amateur hour for Peter. Now, because of this fact, some of the ticket machines hadn’t been emptied.

Conclusion: Peter’s liquid assets were currently at around $20 in stolen subway change.

Fulfilling the american dream, he splurged on a loaded bagel and some tea, then made his way towards a computer in the back. The soft clacking of multiple keyboards filled his ears as he logged onto his email, periodically accompanied by soft curses being uttered from a guy who sat beside him, completely engrossed in his work who unlike most of the customers was using his own, clearly modified laptop. A single, massive coffee cup graced his part of the desk, Peter’s senses suggesting it contained a borderline illegal amount of caffeine in it.

Peter’s inbox included a message from the Social Security office, and apparently New York bureaucracy was slightly more put together in this universe since his request had been expedited, meaning he’d be receiving his documents tomorrow instead of a few days. Pulling out the leaflet Grayson gave him, now a part of a steadily growing collection in his backpack, he pulled up the GCU’s website and began his application- thankfully he’d only need to show physical proof of his ID when he came in person for later interviews, so for now all the digital version he’d been sent would be enough.

Scrolling through the options for courses and internships, one program caught his eye.

Biochemistry.

It had always been his best combination of subjects. It’s what he dreamed about doing back in highschool, a dream that died seemingly a millenia ago. Back when the thought of having a long-term plan didn’t make his skin crawl with guilt and doubt and the bitter taste of nostalgia. It was a connection to so many facets of his life- his parents and their work, Harry, when he’d tutor him on the subject on Norman’s insistence when they were kids. And later, before it all went to shit; with Dr Connors, having him as a mentor while still trested as an equal. With Gwen, her plans to study medicine. At Oxford.

That she never got to go to.

His eyes were already felt wet form reminiscing all the what ifs of the last few miserable years as he filled in the forms. The courses he took, his grades, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And then, there was one. The college essay. Considering only a blip of his own life had occurred in this universe, and the rest was made up, he’s really going to need to be careful in how he does this.

It took him the next two hours to write the magnum opus of his artificial life, adding snippets of his experiences throughout, waffling in some areas while still making the essay engaging. In the meantime, he’d occasionally notice his desk neighbor catching glaces of Peter and his screen, though his effort to make it hidden was valiant. To be fair his messy black hair, probably the result of him running his hands through it every few minutes made it so his it covered his eyes pretty well.

As he clicked the upload button, Peter didn’t want to acknowledge nor fuel the spark of something that felt like hope his chest. Because this felt like something long-term. He had no place to stay, no money, no one he knew, and yet this felt like a proper decision. An assumption, however shaky, that his life won’t be turned upside down at any moment. All built upon bricks of lies, omissions, and untold amounts of potential identity fraud convictions. His spider senses piqued once more.

And again with the staring from the caffeine fanatic.

He bit the bullet and turned back to the teen beside him reaching out his hand for a handshake, now tired of the mutual facade going on between them, “Hey, I’m Peter. My essay that good of a read?”

If the stranger was surprised Peter noticed his sleuthing, he didn’t show it. Instead, he got a handshake and a small, bashful smile from the guy, “Name’s Tim”, he said with a sheepish look, “Sorry about that, I just got stuck on my work and- well, I go to GCU, so when I saw you were applying I might’ve gotten a little interested.” Tim looked back at his laptop but then shot his eyes back at Peter and pointed at him, “Biochem, right?” He responded with a nod and returned the smile, cause he totally gets it- socialising was a bitch, and it’s not like Peter isn’t a huge people watcher either *cough* taking pictures of Gwen *cough cough*.

“Uh, yeah, what are you studying?” At the prompt, Tim’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, “Oh! I’m doing a double major in business and engineering, then a minor in biochem as well; we might get some classes together if you get in.”

Tim seemed pretty cool, all things considered. He reminded Peter of Harry in a way, because despite the easygoing disposition, there was a barely noticeable tension that surrounded him- the kind you get from being on your toes all the time, a calculating gaze mingling with the projection of excitement.

Maybe Peter’s just projecting, who knows. But Tim’s clothes were expensive, not to mention the top of the line laptop; unlike Harry though, who emanated his wealth like a shield, a way to be respected, the guy in front of him hid his rich kid status well- the quality of his stuff was top of the line, but to an outside observer, it was basically imperceptible. Not to mention Harry wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. Or rather, Norman wouldn’t.

After the exchange, Tim proposed they get some dinner after, which Peter tried to refuse with an excuse of he wanted to budget re: he needed to stretch his remaining money, but got porptly hit with the line, “It’s only fair I pay, come on, it’ll be fun! I only just started the semester, and at the moment I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about this stuff!”

A negotiation ensued, and they finally settled on Peter helping Tim with some engineering homework as reciprocation for the food. Cause Peter loves free food, but at the same time the thought of even Harry paying for him always left a bad taste in his mouth. The whole interaction of Tim throwing pleasantries at Peter, trying to find any common interests (of which they had a decent amount to be fair), made him think the guy was either playing him somehow, or, he just really wanted to make a friend. In the end, Peter decided to give Tim the benifit of the doubt and assume the latter; afterall, what the hell else would Tim want from Peter?

***

If Tim was religious, he’d be thanking God right now. An unsuccessful search party was sent out by B to find Spidey, which Tim joined after his other lecture finished, but he’d only been able to track the guy’s path to the area surrounding a closed subway station which had been th esite of a deadly Scarecrow attack a few months ago. Apart from that, Spidey seemed to be nowhere in sight. Maybe Duke might’ve been help, but his position was clear and he was sent back to school benched for the next week. Not that Tim didn’t see where was coming from; his willingness to solve a case won against his sympathy towards Spider-Man. A non-existant sympathy if it was determined he was part of the Council of spiders.

After he decided there was nothing left to do, he changed and went to nearest cafe to finish up some old reports and maybe even start on the assignment that had concernigly started to pile up.

An hour in, however, his plans were obliterated.

Because next to him, by some miracle, appeared Peter Parker, the undead car crash victim that Dick had unofficially taken under his wing, (pun intended) in the meantime trying to figure out where the kid had been for over a decade.

What really piqued Tim’s interest though was the college essay the teen had started writing; because Bab’s could definitely find it, and then they’d actually have something which could contain a thread of truth about the guy’s life. He didn’t expect to be caught in his staring considering his training, but hypervigilance was to be expected from a kid that grew up in the conditions Dick had suggested, so Tim just plastered his most innocent, I’m a lonely, rich kid ith no friends facade and kept going.

The fact he hadn’t actually met any people who wanted to be friends with him past getting in the good graces or Brucie Wayne’s family was not a factor in how well he played the role. Not at all.

As expected, Peter didn’t recognize him, and honestly… the guy was pretty fun to talk to. For once, Tim was the one hurling complements and niceties, and however stressful it was, it was at least refreshing. Their interests matched up well too, he was actually taking a minor in Biochem (it was never bad to refresh his knowledge in a subject that applied to many of his missions as RR), and Peter revealed his knowledge of engineering was as impressive as his other mysteriously acquired specilizations in STEM subjects.

Before leaving to a local pizza place, he quickly updated Dick on his status and immedietly blocked his location so that when they arrived they wouldn’t find Dick sitting in the corner with sunglasses and a fake mustache.

Chapter Text

The restaurant Tim had suggested was close by the cafe, and for Gotham standards, quaint. Both the walls and floors were completely covered in linoleum, a pattern of black and white tile, and the most 70’s colored wooden panels respectively, and while Peter saved them a table, Tim went up to the counter to order.

Now, Peter knew Tim was rich. Despite that, it was still kind of shocking when the server referred to Tim as “Mr Drake” in a weirdly formal tone (especially since Peter was 99% sure he hadn’t mentioned his last name to the staff). Not to mention when he heard the same guy curse out his uni work at the cafe to the point where both parties would’ve ended equally traumatized if the engineering quiz in question had ears just minutes before.

Wait. Back up. Was Tim famous? Was this like him not knowing who Nightwing was? He should really read up on celebrities in this universe later.

***

“Not impressed?”

“You said this was a local pizza place. We’re in New Jersey; I’d say I’m not surprised.”

Tim snorted, putting his slice back on the plate, and leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess: New York?” Peter nodded, taking another bite. “Yeah, born and raised.” Whatever flicker of emotion he saw on Tim at his answer disappeared just as quickly as it came, immediately followed by, “Queens’?”

Ok, this is getting creepy, does everybody in this universe just have an accent detector shoved up their ass-

Instead of spiraling on whether his accent is actually that strong, he decided to be a responsible identity fraudster and start using his alibi for the past fourteen years, because practice makes perfect and if god forbid he comes across a vigilante tonight he needs to have this shit locked and loaded. “I mean, I was born there, but DCSF placed me all over the city after my parents died.” He even made sure not to look to his left when he said it, just like Harry taught him as kids when they wanted to lie to Norman after they’d sneak into Oscorp labs and accidentally break equipment; “That's what all the books say, Peter- when you look to the left it means you’re making up a story!”

He really needs to stop thinking about him.

“The accents stuck around though I guess.” He looked back at Tim, who was now looking at him with a softer expression. “What about you?” He asked, pointing his half-eaten slice at the teen in front of him. Tim crossed his arms and shrugged, “I was born in Bristol, just north of Gotham, but my parents traveled a lot for work so I got sent to boarding school at seven. Came back at thirteen.”

Well, now he really reminds him of Harry. Maybe if Norman didn’t make his kid spend his entire adolescence hidden away at a private school and then die on him so soon after he came back, he would’ve ended up slightly more well-adjusted like Tim seemed to be.

Then Tim broke eye contact, looking down at the table between them like he was reliving a memory, before speaking up again. “My parents… also died. Soon after I came back, actually. My mom when I was fourteen, my dad two years later.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Peter stared at Tim with wide eyes, then and there deciding to find the nearest stationary store, buy a gratitude journal with his ticket machine money, and make his first entry a fifty-page ode to the fact that this time he managed to keep his mouth shut. He was lucky enough that Tim didn’t notice his reaction, but when Tim finally looked back up, Peter couldn’t do much else except give him a non-verbal acknowledgment that was both a show of his condolences and empathy towards the situation because-

Well. From his lived experience, there’s not really a good way to respond to that. It hurts either way.

It was at that moment he also realized Tim hadn’t immediately hit him with the automatic, "I'm sorry” like most people when Peter would talk about parents, which he was immeasurably grateful for. Since the expected response to that was either, “Oh no, it's fine” or “Thank you” which just felt… wrong. Peter’s personal favorite response was to say, “Why, were you piloting the plane?” However after finding out the crash really was sabotage, even that lost its charm.

The rest of their dinner was pleasant, especially compared to the rest of Peter’s time on Gotham, and he did keep up his end of deal by helping Tim with his engineering quiz, though credit where credits due, it was pretty difficult.

Still, once twilight set in and the streets became progressively darker, he decided it was time to find a place to rest for the night since the Bats knew the location of his last rooftop crash pad. He even got Tim’s number before he left, making up a white lie about how his phone had been stolen which didn’t seem to surprise his new acquaintance (friend?) in the slightest.

Or maybe Tim picked up on Peter’s precarious financial situation and just went with it. He was nice enough not to question him on it though, and as they parted ways, Peter could honestly say, barring all the random microexpressions he picked up on from the guy whenever Peter divulged details of his life, (most of which were fabricated) it was the first relatively normal interaction he’s had.

***

“Not my fucking problem, B.”

“Red Hood, Spider-Man is a loose cannon we know nothing about, we need to contain him somehow.”

“Yeah, well in my book he’s got one free vigilantism pass in Crime alley, and then I’ll start shooting.”

“But we can’t place any reconnaissance tools?”

“Here’s a proposition- how ‘bout you go beat the Joker half to death, and then we’ll talk about who gets access to my territory.” Jason turned off his comm before Bruce could give him another useless lecture, since he needed some mental stability left when his men came back to report on the past week’s incidents.

Both were boring, but only the former induced a sick green haze to invade his vision, so you know, priorities.

The reports ranged from mildly annoying, such as news that impurities in drugs trafficked to the less patrolled areas of the alley were on the rise again. None of his lieutenants had been able to determine the responsible party, which meant he’d have to hit up his contacts; whether that be figuratively or literally wasn’t a concern of his.

Any blatant invasions of his territory hadn’t been noted, though knowing Bruce’s band of child soldiers, he wouldn’t be surprised if any twelve year old katana wielders were spotted soon enough.

That’s gonna be a fun confrontation for sure.

Jason leaned back in his chair at the head of the large table he and his men sat at and tapped his fingers on the wooden surface for attention, its dark color an amalgamation of alcohol and blood stains, rather than its original varnish.

“Where are we on the body found in the dead end alley near Patrick’s?” All the heads spun towards him in an instant, and the silence that followed was damning. To be fair, Jason was equally baffled by the whole thing. The appearance of a dead middle aged guy was reported two days ago near the edge of Crime alley by one of the resident street kids, quickly traveling up the grape vine to the Red Hood himself. Now, typically this wouldn’t be the case, but said corpse apparently looked like it got thrown into a decent sized explosion before being deposited in the alley- charred clothes, flesh, bones.

Like you.

Not the fucking time, not the fucking place.

Anyways, seeing as there was no footage of the body being dumped, the only clue to the guy’s identity was his almost disintegrated lab coat, making a scientist being disposed of by a gang or rogue most likely. And of course, any fingerprints he managed to lift gave no results, because that’s just his luck.

And now his lieutenants, one by one, were describing in too many words how they also found fuck all.

“Alright. Meeting’s over, you’re dismissed.” He stood up, walking to one of the open windows of the old warehouse that served as the meeting place this week. “Anything comes up on any of the things discussed, contact me.” With that settled, he pulled out his grapple and jumped, beginning his patrol for the night.

***

Peter had no idea where he was.

Talking to Tim to going to GCU had set his mind spiraling with ideas what he could potentially do if he got in and in turn got his hands on a computer that wasn’t a few opened tabs away from crashing, such as actually figuring out what the hell was it that Toomes used to propel him into another universe, the half done sketch of the contraption still sitting untouched at the bottom of his backpack. First, though, he’d need to find some secondary knowledge on multiversal travel, with the only promising candidates being the Justice League or some highly encrypted government files.

To be fair, Peter just thinks better on the move. Whether it be swinging through the streets of New York or meandering through the poorly lit streets of crime central that is Gotham. Only this time he completely zoned out trying to figure out the potential technicalities of phishing a CIA analyst and the only clue he had about the area he was now standing in was that it somehow made his spider sense rise to a constant buzz crawling under his skin.

But a street’s a street, a rooftop’s a rooftop, and he’s absolutely not in the position to deny himself a place to sleep right now, especially since he's had only two meals today and he might actually start sleepwalking soon if he doesn’t find a place to crash for the night.

Of course actually finding a rooftop that can’t be easily accessed through the building below, something that would give him at least a shred of security, is another story.

It takes time, it takes focus.

Focus that he probably should’ve used to make sure he wasn’t walking by any even creepier alleys.

Maybe if it had been a proper villain, his spider sense would’ve given him more of a heads up, but instead, he barely felt the tug on his hoodie before-

“You better gimme your fuckin’ money kid if you wanna get home after this.”

Is this dude seriously trying to rob him without even pulling out-

“Ya deaf kid? I said gimme yer money!”

…Aaand there’s the gun.

He could definitely dodge that though. Peter looked down at himself, then the robber, who for some reason looked almost as scared as a normal mugging victim would, before asking in his most doubtful voice, “Man, does it look like I’ve got anything to spare?”

Before he could be interrupted, he threw his hands out, “I mean, I look worse for wear than you do and you’re asking me for money? You really want the backpack I got from a freakin’ donation box? Or is it the half-eaten jar of peanut butter in it that did it for you?”

The guy only became more agitated once Peter raised his voice at his last remark, the gun beginning to shake in his hand, which for those not in the know, typically doesn’t end well when the person's finger is on the trigger.

By this point the grip on his hoodie was tightening to uncomfortable levels, the brink wall behind him most likely making one of his only pieces of normal clothing be stained with years of caked-on grime alongside an ancient strain of syphilis. And he’d much rather get some shut-eye instead of spending his non-earned money on new clothes he couldn’t afford. “Ok, so how about you”, he swatted the gun straight out of the mugger’s hand which flew out into the depth of the alley, hitting a nearby dumpster with a metallic clang, keeping his unimpressed attitude just left of clinically insane, “get that out of my face. See? Now we can have a truly productive conversation about what socio-economic factors brought us to this here moment.”

The perp's frazzled expression stood fast even as he began to fumble for his pockets, and a sudden sense of deja vu flooded Peter's mind.

There it was. Pointed at him silently in all its shiny, miniscule glory.

“Oh. My. God. Is that a real knife?”

“...Yes?”

“Really? Cause you seem unsure. And I’m only scared of real, small knives, just so you know.” Somehow at this point it felt as if Peter was the one cornering the man, who was now standing a safe distance away, or rather as far as he could be while still remaining within the confines of the narrow alley. Not exactly conducive to stabbing, but who is he to judge?

He told the guy as much. Probably why his legs seemed to be having an internal conflict about whether to lunge at Peter with the knife or run away.

“By the way, why are you acting so nervous? You got somewhere to be after this?”

“Yeah, me and him have a booked appointment right about now.”

Are you there God? It’s me, Peter.

Oh wait, no, it’s just a guy built like a brick shithouse jumping from a second story building.

It’s his fault, really. Maybe if Peter was less focused on being poorly robbed and more on his immediate surroundings, he would have noticed the new guy who was now pointing a gun straight at him-

It’s not being pointed at Peter.

Granted, was it smart to run at his own perpetrator to get him out of the line of fire? No. But Peter had already failed to stop the man above him, who he now recognised as the Red Hood, from shooting two other people all the way back at that God forsaken Batburger when he first got to Gotham.

He’s Spider-man, and no one is dying because of his stupidity today.

***

Jason is a good shot. He’s been trained by Talia, for fucks sake. And yet, somehow, he isn’t fast enough to change trajectory when the kid getting mugged with a swiss knife decides to barrel into the scared-shitless guy that he was about to shoot.

Fucking hell. Is this why B doesn’t use guns?

Of course, using whatever brain cells he abandoned when deciding to rob people in Crime alley are quickly put into use by the piece of shit who throws off his human shield and scurries away like a subway rat around the corner and into the night, while the kid ends up sprawled out on the pavement, now gripping his bleeding shoulder.

There would be a dilemma about who to handle first, but shoulder wounds can make even a grown man bleed out relatively quickly, not to mention a guy who’s a few missed meals away from looking like Jason did when he was living on the street.

He quickly holsters his gun and approaches, pulling out some gauze and bandages from his utility belt, “Alright, try to stay still while I do this, it’ll hurt less- oh you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re the kid from the Batburger, aren’t you? Peter Parker?”

And it was. It was the same scrawny teenager Jason gave what at the time looked like a panic attack when he stopped the robbers right outside of Crime alley, the same kid that Dick chewed him out over scaring off. Dick, who was now treating Peter Parker like a bird with broken wings in a catch and release program.

To say that the blood drained out of Peter's face when he heard his name was an understatement. A more accurate description was that the blood drained out of his face and onto the ground from his bullet wound.

That you gave him. Vigilante? More like a rage fuelled beast. Not thinking, just reacting. Just like when you almost murdered Tim-

He didn’t wait for the absolutely bamboozled brunet in front of him to answer before kneeling beside Peter and shoving gauze into the wound, who surprisingly barely even reacted to the additional pain, only occasionally hissing in discomfort. To say the least, not a great sign of a normal upbringing.

He was actually more annoyed by the literal life-saving treatment he was getting, even ripping the bandage straight out of Jason’s hand to wrap the shoulder himself. Huh.

Maybe Dick was onto something.

“Why are you staring at me? Also, how the hell do you know my name?”

Jason stood back up, desperately trying to ignore the fact he quite literally had the teenager’s blood on his hands right now. “Word gets around.” Peter’s expression was equal parts irritation and confusion and why is he getting up so fast watch him fucking pass.

Remarkably, he did not pass out. Instead, throwing his hands out in exasperation, he began walking in circles, completely oblivious to the puddle of his own blood being stamped into his sneakers. “What does that even mean, who’s fucking word?” He suddenly faced Jason, pointing an accusatory finger somewhere towards the sky. “Was it Nightwing? It was him wasn’t it? How is it every day I meet another one of you, and how is it you even know my last name- are you people stalking me? Are you planning to dox me or something?”

Now, Jason doesn’t have the patience nor the ever present sympathy for Nightwings ‘kill them with kindness’ approach, or Tim’s ability to manipulate people until they spill their entire life story and deepest secrets while thinking it was their idea. But he knows how indignant teenagers think: he'd been the poster child for one, really. And to be honest, he still feels like one sometimes. Which is probably why he immediately responded with, “Who would we even dox you to, orphan Annie? You’re more under the radar than the goddamn Mariana trench.”

“...Unless, you don’t think you’re under the radar enough. Because you’re hiding something; or hiding from someone.” He took a step towards Peter, now stuck in his place, progressively tensing up with defensiveness as Jason continued, “So, which is it? Because no matter how much you’d like to deny it, whatever situation you’ve gotten yourself into, you’re clearly in over your head.”

They stood like that, Peter’s body completely frozen even as his eyes betrayed the mental feud going on in his brain on what to do.

Apparently the stupider side won.

“No clue what you’re talking about dude,” he finally responded with the fakest nonchalant tone Jason has ever heard, and walked out onto the main street, “so I’m just gonna-”

He followed behind Peter, keeping up with the guy's impressive pace considering he was still nursing a fresh bullet wound. “You’re gonna do what? Go back out into the most dangerous area of Gotham with that ticking time bomb of an infection you’ve got going on? Find another quaint rooftop to nap on so you can freeze to death?”

“Well I can’t do that if you keep following me and asking me dumbass questions, can I!”

Now he gets it.

“Listen, how ‘bout this,” Jason sped up, now walking beside Peter, “I can get you a place to crash for tonight, just to make sure none of my men have to draw straws tomorrow morning on who gets to drag your ass to the morgue when you end up dead from either sepsis or hypothermia, and then you,” he lightly poked the bandaged area on Peter’s shoulder to punctuate just how exceptionally idiotic going off with that kind of injury would be, “can go on your merry way, and keep acting all mysterious and misunderstood, yeah?”

The promise of being left alone, which at this point was redundant because damn it the kid was clearly in a shit ton of trouble and barely reacting to having a fucking bullet wound poked just further proved to Jason that not a single thing about the kid was remotely normal, worked well enough for Peter to stop in his tracks and actually consider the offer.

“What if I-”

This fucking kid.

“You really wanna tell me you can outrun a trained vigilante and crime boss right now?”

At this point Peter actually opened his mouth, a fact that almost made Jason have an aneurism, but thankfully he shut it just as quickly. “That’s what I thought,” he immediately turned on his heel and shoved his hands in his pockets, heading towards the location of his nearest safe house.

As they traversed further into the Alley, he could barely make out the kid cursing him out under his breath, which Jason could honestly commiserate with. He was doing the exact same thing to Dick right now for somehow inadvertently making him feel responsible for the wellbeing of this hopeless case of an enigma walking a few steps behind him.

Chapter Text

Peter was breaking records in the panic disorder world previously thought impossible. Knees weak, palms sweaty, quoting random lyrics while mentally noting down his obituary.

At least the source wasn’t hard to identify since it was sitting across from him in this surprisingly atmospheric Asian fusion restaurant; because and he cannot reiterate this enough, there’s no way Hood didn’t see his suit under his hoodie, right?

Sure, the guy looked a little shaken while stuffing all that gauze in his shoulder; like, Peter could practically taste the vigilante-flavored PTSD coming off of the guy, though what had triggered it was beyond him. And yes, the lack of any significant street lighting may have marginally disguised his suit, especially with all that blood covering it… but still. From Peter’s experience, the Parker curse was like Murphy’s law on steroids and a non-zero chance of the shittiest outcome happening turned into a mathematical certainty most of the time.

One way or another, Peter was screwed.

“Ahem.”

Oh, right.

He stared down at the egg fried rice in front of him, then back at the Red Hood who was now staring at him with crossed arms like a parent waiting for their child to ‘either finish the meal, Jeremy, or sit here until the restaurant closes’. No, nope. He may excuse unprompted medical treatment, but he crosses the line at getting pity meals from crime lords. This cannot be what his life is now. “You know I’m really not… that hungry.”

All he got was a silent stare-down from Hood. Peter wondered if maybe he reciprocated the gesture for long enough, the memory of Peter’s stomach rumbling way too fucking loud for an empty street would be scrubbed from the other's mind, and they could just keep walking towards what was probably the ice-filled bathtub he’d be waking up in tomorrow with a missing kidney.

But alas, no such thing happened. And the food did smell heavenly, especially considering most of the calories he ate today were being used up on healing his shoulder, which would hopefully be completely fine by tomorrow morning. Or maybe not hopefully, because then he’s going to have to explain his spontaneous recovery to his… Kidnapper? This kind of felt like a kidnapping.

He finally gave in, taking his first bite. And then proceeded to shovel the rest of the meal into his mouth so fast that when he was finished Hood had physically recoiled a little from… shock? Disgust? A little voice in the back of Peter’s mind suggested that it might have actually been concern, but Hood didn’t seem like the guy to be worried over a rando. Either way, it was hard to tell with the helmet on.

“So… where’d you get the get up from?”

At least he had the common courtesy to ask that after he was done eating. Meaning the only thing Peter choked on was air. What a kind soul.

“W-what?” Peter rasped, as he tried to conceal the fact he was about to surpass the hummingbird for the fastest recorded heart rate. “Well those clothes are three sizes too big on you: those jeans are so long the city should be paying you for dragging up dirt from half the streets in Gotham-”

He only barely stops himself from letting out a manic laugh of relief. Wow. Damn, that could’ve been so much worse. Maybe he’s fine. Maybe he’s not about to get exposed as a vigilante. Life is good, the birds are chirping-

“-also I’m positive I’ve seen one of my men, what’s his name… Mark? Wearing that exact hoodie. I mean, down to that bleach stain on the cuff. D’you steal it off a clothesline or something?”

Motherfucker.

“I… was cold?”

Yep. Sure, that works.

Please don’t shoot him over this.

Hood shrugged and reached into his jacket, thankfully revealing a small wad of cash instead of a gun, “Eh, fair enough”. Putting the money down on the table for the food, he got up from his seat with a sigh, “I don’t know what goes through that guy’s head anyways, hanging up his laundry in Crime Alley of all places- idiot pulls shit like this and still has the audacity to ask why he hasn’t been promoted yet. Fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Huh. Peter’s whiplash might have whiplash, but no extra bullet holes on his body, so he’ll treat that as a win.

***

This is what he gets for never replacing the locks on his safehouses. As Jason kept putting more of his body weight into turning the key, the only solace he could find was the fact no one he respected or who could tank his street cred was witnessing his one man battle.

“Fuckin’ work, you piece of shit.”, he muttered under his breath, before finally leaning away from the door to take a breath.

“You want me to try?”

Great, he can’t even embarrass himself in peace.

“Pfft. Sure, take your best shot. The things totally jammed thou-” click. He snapped his head towards the now open door, Peter wearing the most sheepish smile he’d ever seen. “I’m used to shitty locks; half of New York functions on them.”

What even- that is not how that works.

“There’s a technique to it, ok?” Peter added as he rubbed the back of his head and looked away, clearly sensing Jason’s disbelief. But you know what? He’s got bigger fucking problems in life. He’s not B, he doesn’t need to make a conspiracy out of everything.

He pointedly ignores the voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like the pseudo-furry as it spouts potential theories.

Jason swung the door open and threw his helmet onto a ratty couch in the middle of the tiny studio apartment. He rarely used this safehouse, sometimes offering it to street kids during the colder months. That didn’t happen often though, because unlike in the other parts of the city, the youth shelters here were much less likely to have cases of trafficking associated with them. It took a couple of months of extensive investigations and another duffle bag full of heads being dropped off at the GCPD, but it was worth it.

Jason would've done it if it meant just a single kid didn’t have to go through what he did, but he digresses.

Despite taking initiative of getting them into the place, Peter still seemed weary of stepping inside. Even as Jason began rummaging through a closet where he kept some spare clothes, the teen continued to lean on the door frame.

“Catch”, he threw a bundle of clothes including some sweats and a t-shirt, which Peter caught without even looking up. Freaky, but maybe he played Little League, who knows? He pointed his head towards the bathroom door on his right, “Go clean yourself up- no. Do not start. There’s some spare toiletry bags under the sink, and you’re not sleeping on my couch with days-old Gotham street grime on you. And whatever you do, do not get any water on that wound, I’ll clean it when you get out.”

That seemed to remind Peter how dirty he probably was, the realization bringing instant discomfort to his face. He could certainly relate to that. It probably took Jason a couple of showers when he first got to the manor to feel normal again- Don’t. Don’t think about that.

It’s not worth it.

He tried his best to push down the memory. Like most of the ones related to his life before death, they tended to be tainted by a green, toxic rage. At least Peter seemed not to notice Jason’s inner turmoil as he shuffled towards the bathroom, his ridiculously long jeans covering his oversaturated red sneakers.

Now that the kid had apparently decided not to bolt out the door and straight into an unpleasant death, Jason was faced with a bigger issue. Should he tell Dick about Peter being here? Oh, and bonus question: How mad will he be when he inevitably finds out Jason managed to shoot him?

***

For it being in the middle of what Peter understood as Gotham’s Staten Island, the apartment was pretty decent. It was certainly better than the closet he paid a stupidly high rent for back in New York. He could barely even hear any gunshots as he sat in the corner of the shower, his exhaustion finally letting itself known as a torrent of hot water peeled the dirt off of him.

The plastic bag he’d taped over his shoulder to prevent the water from seeping into his wound was doing a subpar job, but for a DIY he did in under a minute by rummaging through the sink’s vanity, and the fact he had enhanced healing that would prevent any infection, Peter couldn’t complain. (Not to mention how he normally treated gunshots would give any doctor a heart attack.)

He began scrubbing with some high-end shower gel he found in one of the toiletry bags, occasionally glancing back at his suit, now a hole-filled, crumpled mess of blood and dirt in the middle of the floor. Maybe he can ask Red Hood if he owns a sewing kit?

The pure ludicrousness of that thought had Peter throwing his head back onto the shower wall with a silent laugh. God, this was such a shit show.

According to the file on his dead doppelganger, he was freshly eighteen, but that clearly hadn’t stopped Nightwing from putting out an amber alert on him to his vigilante contacts. And sure, maybe he looked, and acted, and for all intents and purposes would be considered a ‘troubled youth’ in the universe. If he were in Nightwing’s position, Peter would also be worried. At the same time, when Peter falsified his records, he hadn’t accounted for the level of stalking the guy was capable of.

Cause like. The dude knew his name. It was his first guess back in the alley with Hood, who then all but confirmed it, and the consequences of that discovery were now barreling towards Peter like a freight train.

Namely, that Nightwing either stole his DNA or managed to track him to the library. Best case scenario, and Peter was using that term very fucking lightly, was that the vigilante found out about him applying to get his ID and documents, which he then used to look him up in a government database.

Any other timeline would have Peter potentially implicated in committing identity fraud, falsifying foster and school records, or you know; coming back from the dead. The last outcome was both the worst, though thankfully the least probable, as that would require him to get past all the heavy data deletion and alteration courtesy of Peter. Which there was a chance of, especially if the stories of the so-called ‘Oracle’ the Bats had on retainer were true, which would mean-

Peter was suddenly ripped from his train of thought by a rapid-fire of loud knocks at the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

Crap.

“Uh, yep! Gonna be out in a second!”, he squeaked out as he fumbled with the shower knob, quickly grabbing a towel from a shelf next to the cabin. Looking up at the small clock above the door, he came to the realization he’d managed to waste half an hour’s worth of hot water. Screw stealing clothes and letting muggers get away; this might actually be the reason Hood decides to kill him.

And so, half a minute into his mad dash to get out of the bathroom, he found himself with a toothbrush in his mouth as he attempted to simultaneously shove his suit and shoes into the bottom of his bag whilst also throwing on the fresh clothes, underwear, and socks.

He finally barrelled out through the door with his backpack over his shoulder, half expecting to be forced to leave, when he noticed a surprisingly calm looking Red Hood sitting at the tiny kitchen table, with what looked like a hospital-grade set up of medical supplies spread out in front of him, including a bottle of antibiotics beside a glass of water.

Right. Crime lord. He doesn’t get panic attacks over water bills. “...Sorry about taking so long.” Hood looked up, gesturing for Peter to take a seat. “Couldn’t care less. Now come on, I gotta sort out that bullet wound before you get sepsis.”

Now, his shoulder being spontaneously healed isn’t Peter’s biggest concern right now; after all, it’s only been less than two hours. What is, however, is that he’s going to have to take off his shirt for Hood to clean and bandage the wound. And there is about a… hundred percent chance that Peter having a six-pack whilst being on the edge of starvation and the constellation of scars covering his torso as a result of his vigilantism is going to raise some questions.

To Red Hood’s credit, he only slightly froze in shock when Peter took the shirt off, making sure to bundle it around his stomach. If the whole thing didn’t make him want to escape through the nearest window, the way Hood’s mouth went agape at the sight would seem pretty funny.

Strangely enough, there were no comments. Peter’s shoulder was carefully unwrapped, and the gauze seeping with blood slowly pulled out. He tried not to wince or move to indicate any discomfort, but Red Hood seemed to catch even the tiniest of his reactions and make his movements even more gentle. In the end, it barely hurt at all.

It felt so foreign to not relive the initial pain of an injury when treating it. To not have his body fixed with the same roughness and disregard as he did a broken suit. He probably wouldn’t be littered with so much scar tissue if that was the case.

When Peter was given the all clear, he quickly put the shirt back on, and took the antibiotic in front of him without even being goaded into it. He just wanted to go to sleep.

But before he could even make it halfway towards the now pulled out couch, with what looked like very comfortable sheets and pillow, a voice came from behind him. “Hey kid, you don’t have to be out of here by tomorrow if you don’t wanna. It’s gonna get colder so… yeah. Just, consider it.” There was a softness to the vigilante’s words that wasn’t there before, and Peter fought tooth and nail to not consider why. Dragging his bag to drop beside the head of the bed, he slumped down slightly before turning around. “You know I’m not a kid, right? I don’t know why you keep calling me that, you clearly know my age with all the stalking you guys have done.”

“Yeah, but I doubt you were ever treated like one either, huh?”

What does that even-

“Listen, I know that you don’t wanna hear this, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Just because you’ve had to do everything by yourself, without any help, doesn’t mean you have to make a habit out of it now. There are going to be people who are willing to help if you ask. Some won’t even need you to, like Nightwing. No matter what shit you’ve gotten yourself into, he’s still gonna help you.”

The speech left Peter at a loss, which Red Hood apparently took as his cue to leave, packing up the medical supplies before opening a window and grappling out into the night without another word, and leaving Peter dumbfounded at how his life’s been panning out for him to be getting pep talks from a crime lord.

When the cold breeze from the still open window became uncomfortable, his body finally decided to move once more, shutting it closed before throwing himself onto the pull-out couch and wrapping himself in the soft duvet.

He churned over Hood’s words in his head, even as sleep tried to pull him into unconsciousness.

Apart from the past few months, unlike Hood seemed to think, he hadn’t been alone his entire life. He didn’t need to fend for himself. For the majority of his life, he had Ben. He had May. They moved mountains for him, they treated him like a son, and they did so much- so much he didn’t even deserve.

A thought had wormed itself into his mind, sometime as he was saying goodbye to Tim at the restaurant. Namely, that… maybe this place wasn’t that bad. After all, he had no one in New York. Not anymore. It was only a shrine to his pain, his failures. Scraping by, day by day, just to go out again and spill his blood onto an altar already overflowing with it from people he couldn’t save.

That thought filled him with shame now. Because how could he deny the people he loved the duty of upholding their memory? And realistically speaking, that's what would be required of him here. No matter how much he embellished or altered his story, he would be stuck in a box where the people he would’ve sacrificed anything for, never even existed. To never talk about Gwen, how smart and funny and independent she was. Always doing what she knew was right. He was the only one left who truly knew how caring but stern May was, how forgiving. Ben’s humor, and the passion he put into everything he did. Their memory was his penance, and the only thing he had left.

***

||Secure Comm Status: OPEN||

RH: Hey Dickhead

RH: Found the kid you’ve been stalking

NW: Wait Peter??? Where is he

NW: Tim said he found him and they started talking but he blocked his location saying he’ll report back later

NW: And now he’s leaving me on delivered

RH: One of my safe houses

RH: He kinda got shot

|| NW: Voice Call Requested…||

||ACCEPT|| ||DENY||

|| RH: Voice Call Denied ||

NW: JASON

RH: Dick.

NW: Jason I swear to God if you shot him

RH: He’s fine, the wound is clean and wrapped up. He barely complained

NW: …

NW: I don’t even know how to respond to that.

RH: On that note

RH: You were right, there’s something going on with that kid

NW: ?

RH: He treated a GSW like an inconvenience, way too chill about it

RH: Also tons of scars all over his torso and back, holding back reactions of pain when I was treating the bullet wound

NW: Shit.

RH: Yeah.

NW: Can you keep an eye on him?

RH: Already offered for him to stay longer at the safe house, I’ll check on any trafficking leads I

might have

NW: Thanks

||Secure Comm Status: CLOSED||

Chapter Text

Tim had a list and he was crossing it twice. According to Kon, Luthor and by relation CADMUS wasn’t responsible for stealing any teenagers recently. Of course that still left him with a nth number of entities to be responsible for Peter’s potential trafficking, and even with the joint power of Oracle, Nightwing, and Batman, there were some actors who could be in play that only Tim could dream of looking into. He’s sure Bruce is happy knowing that his access to the League of Assassins’ database and intelligence was nonexistent since he blew it all up.

…Blissful ignorance, and all that.

It’s not even his fault; really. If anything, it’s Bruce’s. One does not teach the pathological application of contingencies and then expect for that not to be followed.

Long story short, Tim did a little catfishing in the freelancing IT sphere and may have had a hand in creating the LOA’s new intelligence network. And no, this isn’t him turing to the dark side; it was going to happen sooner or later, and at least now he’s got some Oracle certified backdoors in their system.

(Whether Ra’s is aware of this is an intrusive thought he’s not poking with a ten foot pole.)

Three energy drinks and a half-baked business plan to invent an FDA- approved eye bleach into his research, Tim learned that while the secret organization was alive and well, they didn’t have a single file that could give him insight on what happened during Peter’s fourteen year hiatus on documented life.

Stretching in his chair, he caught a glimpse of the sun peaking through his bedroom curtains.

Shit.

Quickly checking the time, he crawled towards his bathroom with the groan of a man facing the gallows, and turned on the shower to the coldest setting.

Still better than getting half the family on his case for not looking awake.

***

Barbara had decided to run point on Peter’s college essay, which she was quickly regretting. She still had the recent Joker and Two-Face incident reports to finish, and naively thought the essay could wait- just a little fact checking to finish off her all-nighter.

Objectively, it was a good essay.

It was also filled to the brim with metric tons of unverifiable information, Christ on a fucking cracker how is the New-York foster system still running, do they even keep digital records or are they all scribbled onto restaurant napkins shoved into the floorboards at the ACS headquarters-

It was around 7am when she uploaded her scarce findings onto the Batcomputer systems, deciding to treat herself to breakfast at the Manor, and putting the cost of getting a car there onto Dick’s card. Dragging her into hours of hacking government records has consequences.

“Miss Barbara, how great to see you again”, greeted Alfred, opening the front door. “You too Alfie; you mind if I join for breakfast? Oh, and is Dick back from patrol? I want to touch point on a case.”

She rolled into the foyer and towards the kitchen, Alfred at her side. “Of course you may, I believe master Richard is still washing up, but he should be down shortly- he usually prefers to have his breakfast with everyone since he has to return to Bludhaven by the end of the week.”

The kitchen was already emitting a delicious variety of smells and they entered, from cinnamon oatmeal to perfectly seasoned scrambled eggs, and, most importantly, a fresh pot of coffee.

In no time, she was sipping from her mug at the breakfast nook, the wonderful taste almost wiping the memories of her night. That was, of course, until she heard the unmistakable sound of a certain gymnast sliding his way down the stairs and practically skipping into the kitchen.

A small shadow of worry slipped away as he saw her, his face lighting up, “Hey Babs, what’s up!” Before she could respond, he picked up two plates of eggs and toast from beside Alfred, before depositing them both at the nook and taking his seat.

Picking up her fork with a sigh she turned towards Dick. “As much as I appreciate the bribery of a breakfast I would’ve gotten either way, it still doesn’t make up having to go through Peter’s essay- I’d probably have an easier time deciphering the Voynich manuscript.” Dick stopped mid-chew at the kid’s name, looking up at her with a questioning look. And, well, who is she to give up an opportunity to complain to her best friend about work?

“So then I go and look into their digitized archives, right?” She pointed her half eaten piece of toast at Dick, taking a sip of her coffee, “And I God is my witness, there it is; file after file of Peter’s placements. But follow up visits? Any, and I mean any additional paperwork involving his case worker, doctors visits? Not a single document.”

“And the thing is! I actually can’t fucking tell whether all the missing documents are someone forgetting to add them, or someone forgetting to forge them! Because on a larger scale- and yes, Richard, I went down a rabbit hole, do not give me that look- there’s barely any digitized records at all!”

***

“Yeah, no, at this point it'd be easier if he were just an alien that crash landed here or

something.”

Tim realized he should have probably been more obvious about his descent into the kitchen, considering how fast Babs and Dick turned to face him. Ignoring both of their lingering stares, he began to pour himself a cup of coffee, also not acknowledging the watchful eye of Alfred as he did so.

You overdose on caffeine one time and people try to make it a thing.

Shoving himself onto the opposite bench on the breakfast nook to Dick, he continued. “Obviously the DNA analysis would’ve flagged it though, even if he had shapeshifting abilities like J’onn.” He buried himself further into the warmest hoodie he owned, his body still recovering from the freezing shower that left him equally refreshed and hypothermic.

“You left me on delivered, baby bird”, was the only warning Tim got before a piece of bread was being tossed at him. His training under Shiva being put to good use, he caught it in mid-air and ate it in one bite.

“I was busy.”

“With what exactly?”

Hacking into the LOA and finding jack shit.

“Uni stuff. I almost didn’t finish highschool, remember? This stuff isn’t easy, you know.” He finally replied, because it really wasn’t easy. The all nighter meant he still had a biochem lab report due in a few hours that he hadn’t started on.

“...Right. Well since you’re so busy, you probably don’t want to know how Peter is now staying at Jason’s?”

Tim’s face involuntarily contorted into something between confusion and amazement, and Dick’s smug expression revealed just how obvious it must have been. “First of all: screw you, tell me everything”, he said, stealing a piece of toast straight off his brother’s plate as revenge for not being told sooner, “and second of all- do you want me to call Dent and see if he does custody disputes?”

Because for all of Jason’s murderous tendencies, the guy was a total softie for potentially hurt kids, which Peter most likely classified as, only his version of Dick’s overprotectiveness would present itself slightly differently, namely with systematically tracking down and wiping out whoever was or is a threat.

***

Peter has no idea when he managed to fall asleep. Judging from the faint streaks of tears on his face still visible in the bathroom mirror when he finally gathered the strength to get up and brush his teeth, it probably happened sometime during his hour-long, silent breakdown over everything wrong with him and his life after Hood left last night.

Dragging himself out into the kitchen, he chugged a bottle of water from the fridge, since he did not want to find out the consequences of drinking from the sink that had a red posted note from the crime lord with “DO NOT DRINK” scrawled on it. He also took advantage of the pile of fresh clothes left of the table, and shoved the twenty dollar bill beside them into his pocket, which was either a pity allowance or meant for breakfast, since apart from the water, the fridge’s only contents was a suspicious looking take out box and a bottle of alcohol.

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder Peter made his way over to the door, all the while having his brain reminding him of the fact that he cannot keep living at a crime lord’s safehouse funded by, you guessed it, crime. But it’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s going to go get his ID, and all other proof of existence, that will hopefully be delivered sometime today, and then he can get his apprenticeship pay, get his own shitty apartment, and forget all about whatever the fuck last night was.

Chapter Text

Peter hated physical maps. They required knowing which way is north, typically stretched his entire wing span, and never failed to make him feel like a lost tourist. Which, granted, he most certainly was right now.

Unfortunately, the color-coded piece of unholy creation courtesy of Nightwing was his only chance at finding his PO box next to the library, since asking the locals in the oh-so-comfortingly named Crime Alley for directions was probably not in his best interest.

So far, he was about 60% sure he needed to take the subway.

Now that he can do. No matter how convoluted a system they had here, he was used to one governed by what could only be the whims of a trickster god high on PCP.

Jumping the turnstiles because this city had already taken enough from him as is, he maneuvered through the platforms and got the express train towards the city centre, the crowds around him slowly changing from people of equal sketchiness to him into mostly depressed looking office workers.

He pushed through the remains of rush-hour traffic on the platform, finally emerging onto the street. But before he could take a step in the direction of the library, his stomach decided to announce just how hungry he was to every single person around him at full volume. Right.

Peter’s eyes focused so quickly on the nearest bodega he was fairly sure his spider-sense had a hand in doing so. It was a small, rundown building on the other side of the road, but the smells his enhanced senses picked up were comparable to the Ritz.

He broke every jaywalking law and his pinkie toe dodging the cars.

It's a good thing Red Hood had given him 20 bucks, since he almost went over his budget with the amount of toppings on his sandwich.

It lasted him three minutes.

Three, glorious minutes.

Acknowledging the owner’s concerned stares didn’t even cross his mind, and neither did the hefty amount of napkins being slid over to him in disgust.

For only containing a few pages of documents, the manilla folder now resting in his hands felt incredibly heavy. The weight of the situation made Peter slump down on the bottom of the library stairs, as he put a hand through his tangled hair. He had proof of existence. That took him three days. It took him three days to get through some bureaucracy and he needed to recreate multiversal travel if he ever wanted to see his world again. Maybe instead of the apprenticeship he should just call up the underworld and ask what Sisiphuses’ per-hour rate is.

Wait no, stop it, Parker. Do not spiral. It's fine. He already has a vague idea of how Toome’s invention looked. He just needs some more data. And then machine parts. Both of which he can find at the university he still needs to get into, preferably with a full ride. How hard is it to hack into a secret government database? Or a secret superhero database, or whatever on god’s green earth is the ‘Watchtower’? On top of that, he just needs to get the apprenticeship, or else try to do the above under the roof of a mass murdering crime lord. Or he could just solve all his problems by going rogue and stealing everything he needs for this plan using his powers. He won’t though. Cause he’s not a rogue. Huh. Is this how easy becoming a supervillain is? Is Peter really this close to compromising all his morals, just to achieve his goals? Is he a bad person for his mind almost going to that conclusion? What is wrong with him-

“-earth to Peter Parker!”

Note to self: Being clocked with your legal name by a stranger works wonders for emotional breakdowns.

In a moment of calm and collectedness, Peter’s head snapped up so fast he almost hit his head on the stairs behind him, as he locked eyes with one of the last people he wanted to see right now.

The terrifying librarian lady. Or Barbara, as she probably preferred to be addressed as.

“How did you-”

“I took a wild guess.” She fired back, crossing her arms and giving him an unimpressed stare.

“...Seriously?”

Slumping down in her chair, she pointed towards his lap, “No. That folder you’re death gripping has ‘Property of Peter Parker’ stamped onto it, kid. Now, I have to clock in to work, but I just wanted to check up on you, cause I could hear your hyperventilating from a few feet away. You okay?”

It’s tough to nonchalantly recover from being jump-scared by a stranger, but Peter tried his best anyway and addressed her with a pitiful attempt at a smile. “Uh- yeah. Yeah, totally. Sorry for freaking you out.”

The discerning look he got in return was enough for Peter to force himself to stand and start looking for a direction to start walking.

Prefferably, away from anyone else who wanted to question his wellbeing.

Vigilantes asking how he is, he can tolerate. Crime lords? That's a bit much. But if he’s drawing the attention of probably overworked public servants?

That’s a level of struggle that's meant to be kept between Peter and the universe, thank you very much.

“Say…” Barbara continued, oblivious to his growing anxiety, her tone filled with what could only be considered recognition. Shit. “You’re that kid from the other day, aren’t you? You were using the computers?” And oh, that wasn’t even a question, no matter how she phrased it.

Well, for a person who interacted with god knows how many library goers a day, she clearly had a good memory. Hopefully, it wasn’t jogged thanks to Peter’s streak of felonies he committed that day.

With the number of third parties that are already on his case, he did not need weirdly perceptive librarians who may or may not have witnessed his cybercrimes to join the Let’s Figure Peter Out Club.

So, sobering up from his impromptu almost-panic-attack, he took the quickest route to end the line of questioning being clearly lined up in the redhead's unfaltering eyes.

When in doubt, act clueless and bullshit.

It had worked on May (no it fucking didn’t), his high-school teachers (obviously, but not even questioning Flash shoving a student into a plate of food put the bar for perception or giving a shit round about the earth’s molten core), and even Red Robin (maybe even too well, but that’s to be determined).

His lip tugged to the side as he threw his hand back into his hair, feigning surprise with a slight gasp of realization.

“Wait- Oh my god, yeah totally! And you’re… Barba- my bad, Babs, right? I knew you looked familiar!” He quickly shoved the folder into his bag, locking eyes with one of the less sketchy streets as if pretending to remember where he was going, “Anyways, it's nice to see you again, but I really gotta get back to running some errands- have a nice day though!”

His abrupt change in demenour had apparently been jarring enough not to provoke further inquiry, so he took his chances and barreled down the street as casually as possible.

The route of choice brought him to window shopping through various businesses, ranging from expensive-looking pop-up boutiques to sketchy tech resellers, but one display caught his sight in particular.

His entrance through the glass door being announced with the chime of a small bell, Peter immediately started scanning the walls.

Pvc pipes, tarps, duct tape-

Heavy duty sewing materials. Perfect.

Picking up a spool of red thread meant for fixing tents, as well as a needle that looked much too big, he went up to the register and prayed he had enough cash.

After all, he’s got a bullet hole to sew up.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Peter feels like he’s just floating through life. Not in the split-second decisions, not when he’s pushing past his limits, his knowledge, just to maybe, maybe fix whatever situation he’s been thrown into. He’s always present then. He’s so present, he’s so in the moment, that it fucking hurts. He’s never been good at dissociating himself during the hard times. His body doesn’t let him. He will feel every microsecond he spends trying to get to the civilian that’s about to be crushed by a pile of rubble as if time itself became a plane he has to trudge through as well. He will feel every strand of hair cradled in his hands as he screams and prays that by some miracle, Gwen’s snapped back will revert to its original state. That her unseeing eyes will have the same joy, the same vehemence for not just standing there when bad things happen.

The aftermath, though? The funerals, the stitching of his skin, the washing of his costume to reveal again the vibrant reds and blues previously hidden by gray dust; that's when the floating happens.

Some stuff just leaves a longer aftermath.

In retrospect, he might’ve been floating up until he started falling through that portal.

Granted, he was literally floating for the few seconds beforehand, cause of the whole gravity gun thing- anyways.

Don’t misunderstand him, he felt the rejection from job after job, the tearing, cold wind through the closet-sized apartments he passed through. He felt the stab wounds and the other shit that makes his body riot with hunger pains as it tries to make sure he can continue to quip at villains and muggers.

It just never compared to burying his family.

Here though?

What other fucking choice do you have than to feel your every atom being rearranged, to feel hopeless in the face of having to recreate multiversal fucking travel, to rage at the psychopathic, cackling, party city savant that sounds like the person who you cared for to death and then chipped off part of your soul without even being cognizant enough to understand what they were doing.

How can he detach himself from the monotony of his life, however chaotic to an outsider, when the universe decides to take that monotony, everything you’re used to, and shove it down a garbage disposal without even considering that “Our sink is not made for that, Peter, we already have rat problem in this city so for the love of god just use the recycling bin-”

*snap*

If he has to redo this stitch one more time-

And here people say sewing is supposed to be relaxing. Or maybe that’s crocheting. Either way, he’s doing a bang-up job considering fixing vigilante costumes is an activity that requires a lot of spatial awareness and discretion, or at least a bedroom lock, and he’s got neither the lock nor the bedroom.

Hence him using an incredibly thin alley, with his back and legs bracing him against the walls several feet in the air, and a tiny flashlight he pocketed back at the store between his teeth so he doesn’t accidentally attach his spier-suit to his hoodie.

He would’ve considered going back to that safe house courtesy of Red Hood, but he’d already told the librarian he had to run some errands, and the only way to make stupid lies work was to stick to them. He also had a feeling Hood would experience some sort of sixth sense if Peter had the audacity of doing vigilante related things under his roof because the guy already gave off an unearthly aura.

Or maybe he just felt weird working on the manifestation of his guilt and duty in a place sponsored by violent crime, but that’s anyone’s guess, excluding Peter who wasn’t willing to further psychoanalyse himself right now.

In the end, that stitch managed to escape Peter’s wrath when the sound of footsteps began approaching the alley.

“Shit, shit, shit- uhhh…”, he looked down at the alley’s corner, and really wished he hadn’t stashed his backpack there.

And the footsteps were getting closer, just wonderful.

In a decision borne of little brain cells and lots of panic, he shoved the suit under his hoodie and stayed as still and silent as possible, with the only audible thought in his brain quickly adding “If it's another fucking Bat I’m leaving the State”, before also promptly shutting up.

To his glee, it wasn’t. Sweet baby Jesus, it was just some poor fuck who decided loitering was back in style. And he had to give credit- the guy was a natural. Carrying a weight of sketchiness and a resting I-will-bite-you face he now associated with an average Gothamite’s ambiance, the otherwise plain looking man leaned back against a wall, every once in a while checking his phone. Even better, Peter was high up enough and shrouded in shadows right now, the man hadn’t even seen him.

Not ideal, but Peter’s habit of kicking criminals meant he had legs made of steel, so he could reasonably wait out his alleymate for at least a few hours until he got bored and found an equally dark corner to haunt.

Ugly baby Jesus reared his head when the now understandably sketchy man pulled out a gun. And only then, did Peter figure out the level of morbid ingenuity and incredibly bad luck he was witnessing. See, a part of crime fighting requires you to get into the shoes of said criminal, however uncomfortable or rank they smell, so the actions you take aren’t just reactive.

And objectively, Peter was currently taking up some prime mugging real estate. Dark, even with it now being a little past noon? Check. Small enough to back a person into a corner with nowhere to go? Check again! They say laziness is the mother of invention, but Peter would like to include the addendum that crime is as well. This was a trap being actively set into motion and Peter-

Peter has his mask shoved in his hoodie pocket.

As quietly as possible, he put it on, and began reassessing his situation.

Namely, that dude was gonna shit himself if he looked up right now. Secondly, there was a suspiciously large lump of, from an outsider's perspective, something protruding from his stomach.

So, crossing his arms and turning his head down so that the second his presence was acknowledged his mask’s visors would appear to be boring into the mugger's eyes, he said with deadly seriousness,

“This was not part of my birthing plan.”

A flick of the eyes back at Peter, a frantic throwing of the gun, interesting approach, and the screech elicited made him almost sorry he didn’t have a phone to film this.

Before the very human reaction of turning tail at the sight before him set in, Peter shot a string of web at the criminal’s face which secured him to the wall he had at some point begun hugging with his back as if hoping he'd phase through it, and then immediately snapped the gun now in his possession in half.

It happened rarely, but Peter always considered a career as a haunted house actor any time his uncanniness caused his opponent to scramble for a phone to call the police.

To the escelating horror of the solitary audience below, he decided to close his one man show with backflipping onto the wall the was perched on (while gently cradling the hidden suit so it didn’t fall out and ruin the whole thing) and crawled up to the roof.

Well, time to risk homelessness and finish up his suit!

And, really, what are the chances Hood has some sort of metaphysical powers? Even his luck isn’t that bad.

***

Whatever brand of humor Spider-man possessed, Bruce couldn’t say he was a fan. Especially after he began listening to the voicemail left on his Batphone courtesy of Gordon; the man had a gift of blurring the lines of exhaustion and terror when it came to his tone.

“Please, please for the love of all that holy tell me that goddamn spider isn’t about to unleash an army of underlings; I- I cannot deal with another Ratcatcher situation. I tell you, you goddamn furry, I will sooner box Bane bare handed that deal with this shit, so you better- you better hope the guy we just brought doesn’t pass the tox screen because I swear on whatever hairs on my head haven’t turned gray yet I will personally write you down as lead detective on the paperwor-”

He has a personal system wherein he sends the commissioner a gift basket for every threat he receives to be inducted into the police force as a sign of goodwill and subtle rejection of the offer. Considering the message continues in a similar vein for several more minutes, by the time Alfred finishes the arrangements, Jim may be facing accusations of corruption. He’ll have to make sure they’re sent straight to his house this time.

Skimming through the police reports, the issue becomes as apparent as it is perplexing. He’s no stranger to putting on stunts in his “Brucie” persona, but even this seems… a bit much.

He considers quickly researching a spider’s gestation patterns, just to… be thorough, but he knows in his heart of hearts that one of his children will find out, so he decides to check at the manor’s library later.

Bruce still makes sure that his main suspect for the new vigilante’s identity, Peter, is moved onto the interview step in the GCU admission process, because the quicker he can get the boy in the vicinity of Tim, the quicker he’ll get some answers.

Even if his suspicions are proven wrong, and regardless of the baggage the mystery boy is surely carrying, he believes Tim expanding his social circle would be beneficial.

This probably isn’t what that parenting book that magically appeared on his bedside table a few weeks ago meant when it discussed the “importance of compromise”, but he believes his decision could still stand up to scrutiny.

And when saying magically he really does mean it, he’s at least 65% sure the book was his oldest son’s doing, and based on the cryptic messages he’s been getting from the man, he’s fairly sure Constantine was somehow tangentially involved.