Chapter Text
The shadows of Gotham lengthened across the lab table as Peter hunched over his work, the blue glow of holographic schematics casting his face in an ethereal light. Three days had passed since the raid on Ace Chemicals. Three days since Eric had disappeared with the dimensional stabilizers. Three days of Peter trying to convince himself that he wasn't watching his ticket home slip further from his grasp with every passing hour.
He hadn't slept much. The clock mockingly displayed 3:42 AM, but time had become fluid, marked only by the cups of coffee that had been discreetly delivered and removed. Peter barely registered the Bats' concerned glances.
"Recalculating dimensional variance," Peter muttered, fingers flying across the holographic interface. "If I can't recreate the stabilization matrix, maybe I can compensate with a phased harmonic approach."
The simulation ran, calculations streaming across the screen. For a moment, hope flickered in Peter's chest.
Then: [SIMULATION FAILED - COLLAPSE IMMINENT]
"No!" Peter slammed his fist on the workbench, denting the reinforced metal. He immediately recoiled, rubbing his hand. "Sorry," he whispered to the empty lab.
He pulled up another set of schematics—the recovered Chitauri components they'd managed to secure from Ace Chemicals. The power cells were impressive, capable of generating the raw energy needed for dimensional manipulation, but without the stabilizers Eric had stolen, they were as useful as a rocket without guidance systems. Dangerous, even.
"Still at it, I see."
Peter whirled around, his spider-sense having failed to alert him to the presence behind him. Tim Drake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, observing Peter with calculating eyes. Unlike Jason's bold entrance days before, Tim's arrival was silent, deliberate.
"Tim," Peter acknowledged, quickly minimizing several screens. "What are you doing up at this hour?"
Tim's eyes tracked the minimized windows, cataloging each movement. "I could ask you the same thing. Though in your case, I suspect it's less about 'up' and more about 'never went to sleep.'"
He approached with casual precision, each step measured as he took in the lab's state—the scattered components, the multiple coffee cups, the dented workbench.
"Jason mentioned he stopped by to see you," Tim said, picking up one of the alien components and examining it with expert eyes. "Said you two had an interesting chat."
Peter tensed. "Did he tell you what about?"
"Jason's not big on sharing details," Tim replied, setting down the component and reaching for a tablet on the bench. His finger swiped across something that looked like a security feed. "But I have my ways of keeping informed."
A chill ran through Peter. Had they been monitoring his conversations?
"That seems invasive," Peter said carefully.
Tim's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "Welcome to Wayne Manor. Privacy is... a relative concept." He pulled up a chair, spinning it backward before straddling it, arms folded across the backrest. The casual posture contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. "So, these Chitauri components. Fascinating tech."
Peter nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "They're unlike anything I've seen before."
"See, that's what's interesting," Tim said, leaning forward slightly. "Because you quite literally suggest otherwise. Your familiarity with them is... remarkable."
Peter's mouth went dry. Tim was more direct than Jason had been, less emotional but somehow more dangerous in his calculated approach.
"I've been studying them intensively," Peter deflected. "And I've always been a quick study."
"Hmm." Tim's eyes narrowed slightly. "You know what else is remarkable? The way you've adapted to working with our systems. Almost like you've had experience with similar tech before."
Peter felt the conversation sliding into dangerous territory. "I interned at some advanced tech companies before coming to Gotham."
"Like Stark Industries?" Tim asked casually.
The name hit Peter hard. He'd never mentioned Tony or Stark Industries to any of the Bats.
"How did you—"
"You talk in your sleep," Tim said, his expression unchanging. "When you were recovering from that energy blast. Mentioned someone named Tony a lot. And 'Mr. Stark.'" He tilted his head. "Interesting, since Stark Industries doesn't operate anymore."
Peter's heart pounded. "I—I meant Stagg Industries. Simon Stagg's company. Must have been the pain medication."
"Right." Tim didn't even try to hide his disbelief. He reached for one of Peter's discarded coffee cups, examining it with apparent interest. "You know, Jason thinks you're hiding something big. Something that would explain why you flinched when you first saw him, why you stare at Dick like you're seeing a ghost, and why you're destroying yourself trying to build..." he gestured to the schematics, "whatever this really is."
As Tim set down the cup, Peter noticed him slip something small into his pocket.
"I'm not hiding anything," Peter insisted, though the lie felt hollow even to his own ears.
"Everyone's hiding something," Tim countered. "The question is whether your secrets are dangerous to us."
Peter met Tim's gaze directly. "I would never hurt any of you."
"I believe that you believe that," Tim replied. "But intentions and outcomes don't always align." He stood and moved to the computer, his fingers dancing across the keyboard before Peter could object. The minimized screens reappeared, displaying Peter's work in full.
"Dimensional breach analysis," Tim read aloud, scanning the data with practiced efficiency. "Quantum entanglement protocols. Calibration for..." he paused, eyes narrowing, "for what appears to be a targeting system." He turned to Peter, expression guarded. "You're not trying to close the breach. You're trying to use it."
Peter's exhaustion and frustration boiled over. "I'm trying to understand it! You have no idea what's at stake."
"Then help me understand," Tim challenged, his voice level but intense. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're building a device to access the same dimensional technology that's been raining alien weapons on Gotham."
Peter ran a hand through his hair, the weight of weeks of secrets pressing down on him. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" Tim pressed. "Because Bruce is this close to declaring you a security risk. And believe me, you don't want that."
The threat hung in the air between them. Peter knew what Bruce was capable of. But the truth seemed equally dangerous.
"I'm trying to get back," Peter finally said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Tim went still. "Back where?"
Peter hesitated, then decided on a partial truth. "Where I came from. Before Gotham." He gestured to the schematics. "This technology—it's similar to what brought me here. I thought if I could understand it, maybe I could use it to..." he trailed off.
"To go home," Tim finished, his voice softer now. "Wherever that is."
Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Tim was silent for a long moment, studying Peter with an intensity that made him want to squirm. Unlike Jason's volatile presence, Tim's calculated observation felt like being dissected under a microscope.
"You know," Tim finally said, "Jason mentioned something else about your conversation. Said you asked him if coming back was worth it." He moved back to the chair, but didn't sit. "Strange question to ask someone."
Peter's throat tightened. "Not if you've lost people."
"We've all lost people," Tim countered. "But that's not what you meant, was it? You were asking about literally coming back. From death. From somewhere else." His eyes narrowed. "Like you're trying to do."
Peter remained silent, the truth hovering dangerously close to the surface.
Tim's gaze softened fractionally. "Look, I don't know what your story is. Not yet. But I know what desperate looks like, and you've got it written all over you." He gestured to Peter's disheveled appearance. "This? This isn't sustainable. And it's not going to get you what you want."
"I'm close," Peter insisted. "I just need more time."
"What you need is sleep," Tim replied firmly. "And maybe a little honesty. With yourself, if not with us."
Tim's words hit uncomfortably close to home. Peter had been running himself into the ground, chasing an increasingly elusive goal, all while lying to people who had taken him in.
"I've been honest about what matters," Peter said quietly. "I'm not a threat to you or your family."
Tim studied him for another long moment. "Maybe not intentionally," he conceded, echoing Jason's earlier sentiment. "But secrets have a way of becoming threats all on their own."
He moved toward the door, but paused, turning back. "Alfred's making breakfast in a couple hours. He's been worried about you—we all have. Get some sleep, clean up, and join us." His tone made it clear this wasn't a request.
"Is that an order?" Peter asked, a touch of defiance in his voice.
"Consider it a strongly worded suggestion," Tim replied with the ghost of a smile. "And a courtesy that Bruce might not extend if he sees you like this." He nodded toward the workstation. "Whatever you're working on will still be here after you've slept."
As Tim reached the door, Peter called after him. "How much do you know? Really?"
Tim paused, considering the question. When he turned, his expression was unreadable. "Enough to be concerned. Not enough to be certain." He met Peter's gaze directly. "But here's what I do know: Dick cares about you. And that means something in this family."
"Even to you?" Peter asked, remembering the tension he'd sensed between Dick and Tim.
"Especially to me," Tim replied quietly. "Dick gave me a chance when I needed one most. He believed in me when no one else did." Something flickered in his eyes—sadness, understanding, determination. "So yes, I'm suspicious of you. But I'm also willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. For now."
With that, Tim left, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
Peter stood in the center of the lab, feeling more alone than ever. Jason's warning and now Tim's veiled threats made it clear: his time was running out. The Bats were closing in, piecing together a puzzle that Peter couldn't afford to let them complete.
Yet as he shut down the workstation and headed for his room, Peter found himself wondering if perhaps he'd been wrong to keep his secrets so close. If Dick truly was anything like the father he'd never known, perhaps the truth wouldn't be as catastrophic as he feared.
But that was a decision for after sleep. Tim was right about one thing—he couldn't keep going like this. As Peter collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering to change his clothes, his last conscious thought was of the family he'd left behind, and the strange new one he'd found himself entangled with.
The choice between them seemed impossible. But it was a choice he'd have to make soon.
Alfred Pennyworth's breakfasts were legendary, even by standards far more exacting than Peter's perpetually hungry metabolism. The dining table was laden with platters of fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, golden pancakes, fresh fruit, and pastries that rivaled anything Peter had tasted in New York.
Under normal circumstances, Peter would have attacked the spread with enthusiasm. Today, he found himself picking at his food, his appetite dulled by exhaustion and anxiety.
"You should eat more," Dick said from across the table, piling another pancake onto Peter's already full plate. "Alfred's pancakes are worth staying conscious for."
Peter managed a weak smile. "Thanks. They look amazing."
The formal dining room of Wayne Manor felt cavernous this morning, despite being occupied by Bruce, Alfred, Dick, Tim, and himself. Damian was apparently at school, and Jason had declined the invitation, citing "better things to do than play house."
Alfred moved around the table with practiced grace, refilling coffee cups and offering more food with the persistence of someone who measured success in clean plates. "Perhaps Master Peter would prefer something lighter? An omelet, perhaps?"
"No, this is perfect, Alfred. Thank you," Peter assured him, forcing himself to take a bite of pancake. It was delicious, but sat in his stomach like lead.
Bruce, who had been methodically working through his own breakfast while observing Peter with calculated interest, set down his fork and straightened in his chair.
"You seem distracted this morning, Peter," Bruce said, his voice carrying the same precision as his movements. "Tim tells me you've been working through the night. Again."
Peter swallowed his bite of pancake with difficulty. "Just trying to make progress on the Chitauri tech analysis."
"Hmm." Bruce took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving Peter's face. "And that analysis requires extensive research into multiverse theory and dimensional breach mechanics?"
The question hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown down. Tim looked up from his plate, watching the exchange with sharp eyes.
"It... helps to understand the theoretical framework," Peter replied carefully.
"I see." Bruce set down his cup. "And your technical knowledge of these theoretical frameworks comes from where, exactly? Your time at Stark Industries, perhaps?"
Peter felt his muscles tense. "I interned there for a while, yes."
"The interesting thing about that," Bruce continued casually, "is that I've been in contact with Howard for years. We serve on several advisory boards together. Yet he's never mentioned a prodigy intern with your particular... abilities."
Peter's fork clattered against his plate. "I was just one of many interns."
"False modesty doesn't suit you, Peter." Bruce's voice hardened. "You recognized alien technology none of our experts could identify. You've demonstrated knowledge of quantum physics that exceeds most doctoral candidates. And you possess enhanced abilities that appear to be genetic in origin, yet don't match any known metahuman profile in our database."
"Bruce," Dick interjected, his expression darkening, "is this really necessary over breakfast?"
Bruce ignored him, eyes locked on Peter. "I had Tim send your DNA to the Watchtower for analysis last night. The initial results are... illuminating."
Peter went cold. "You took my DNA? Without asking me?"
"From your coffee cup," Tim confirmed quietly. "In the lab."
"The sample shows several unique markers," Bruce continued, unperturbed by Peter's growing anger. “The Justice League's labs are better equipped to handle potentially hazardous materials, so I've authorized a full spectrum analysis."
Dick's fork hit his plate with a sharp clang. "You did what? Bruce, we talked about this—"
"No, Dick," Bruce cut him off. "You talked. I listened. And then I made the decision."
Peter pushed his chair back from the table, hands shaking. "You had no right."
"I had every right," Bruce replied evenly. "You're living in my home, using my equipment, interacting with my family. Yet you've given us absolutely no reason to trust you."
"I've helped you," Peter objected, his voice rising. "I've fought alongside you, helped analyze alien tech—"
"While conducting your own research on dimensional portals," Bruce interrupted. "Research you've deliberately hidden from us. Research that coincides with the very phenomenon bringing dangerous weapons into Gotham."
Peter stood abruptly. "You think I'm responsible for the dimensional breaches? That I'm working with Eric?"
"I don't know what to think," Bruce replied coldly. "Because you haven't given me enough information to form a conclusion. What I do know is that you appeared in Gotham at the exact time these breaches began. You possess knowledge of the technology involved that you shouldn't have. And you spend every waking hour building a device whose purpose you refuse to disclose."
"Bruce, that's enough," Dick said, standing as well. "Peter's earned the benefit of the doubt."
"Has he?" Bruce turned his gaze to Dick. "Or are you letting personal sentiment cloud your judgment?"
Dick's expression hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Bruce said carefully, "that you've developed an unusual attachment to someone we know almost nothing about. Someone who, by all objective measures, represents a potential security risk."
"That's not fair," Dick protested. "Peter's helped us repeatedly—"
"While lying to us repeatedly," Bruce countered. "The DNA analysis confirmed what I suspected. Peter Parker isn't from here. And I don't just mean Gotham."
The room fell silent. Peter felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
"What exactly are you suggesting?" Alfred asked, his normally unflappable demeanor showing signs of strain.
"The radioactive marker in his DNA shows quantum oscillation patterns consistent with dimensional displacement," Bruce stated, his gaze returning to Peter. "You're not from this universe, are you, Peter?"
Peter's mouth went dry. The room seemed to tilt slightly as the secret he'd guarded so carefully was laid bare with clinical precision.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, the denial weak even to his own ears.
"No more lies," Bruce said, his voice quiet but carrying an edge of steel. "The evidence is conclusive. The question now is whether your presence here is accidental or deliberate—and what exactly you're trying to accomplish."
Peter looked around the table, feeling cornered. Tim watched with analytical interest, while Alfred's expression showed concern. Dick looked stunned, his gaze darting between Peter and Bruce.
"I never meant—" Peter began, then stopped, unsure how to continue. How could he explain that he'd come here by accident, that he'd been trying to go home, that he'd started to question whether he even wanted to leave?
"Never meant what?" Bruce pressed. "To end up in our universe? To infiltrate my family? To use our resources for your own agenda?"
"Bruce!" Dick's voice was sharp with anger. "That's enough."
"No, Dick, it's not enough," Bruce replied coldly. "Not when the safety of this family and this city is at stake."
"You had no right to run tests on him without consent," Dick insisted, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "No right to send his DNA to the Watchtower—"
"I had every right," Bruce repeated. "And a responsibility to understand the threat we might be facing."
"Peter isn't a threat!" Dick shouted, his composure finally breaking.
"You don't know that," Bruce replied evenly. "None of us do. Because he hasn't been honest with us from the beginning."
All eyes turned to Peter, who stood frozen, caught between fight and flight, between truth and continued deception.
"Is it true?" Dick asked quietly, his eyes meeting Peter's. "Are you... from another universe?"
The question, asked with such uncertainty, such wounded trust, broke something in Peter's chest. He looked at Dick—at the man who, in another life, had been his father—and couldn't bring himself to lie anymore.
"Yes," he whispered, the admission torn from him against his will.
The simple word seemed to reverberate around the room. Dick's expression shifted from disbelief to confusion to something Peter couldn't quite identify.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Tim asked, breaking the silence. "We could have helped."
"I didn't know if I could trust you," Peter admitted, the irony of his words not lost on him given Bruce's earlier accusation. "I didn't know if you'd believe me. And I..." he glanced at Dick, "I was afraid of what would happen if you knew."
"If we knew what?" Dick pressed.
But Peter couldn't bring himself to reveal that final truth. Not here, not like this. "It doesn't matter now," he said instead. "I just wanted to find a way home. That's all I've been trying to do."
"With technology similar to what's bringing dangerous weapons into my city," Bruce noted, his voice hard. "Technology you understand but have deliberately kept from us."
"I was trying to protect you," Peter insisted. "You have no idea how dangerous interdimensional travel can be—"
"And you thought the best way to protect us was to lie?" Bruce asked, his skepticism evident. "To conduct dangerous experiments in my home without oversight?"
"I didn't have a choice!"
"We always have choices," Bruce replied coldly. "You chose deception."
Peter felt something snap inside him—weeks of tension, fear, and exhaustion finally reaching their breaking point. "You're right," he said, his voice trembling with anger. "I chose deception. Because I didn't know what else to do. Because I've been stuck in a universe that isn't mine for months, trying to figure out how to get home while also trying not to mess up your lives more than I already have."
"Peter—" Dick began, but Peter cut him off.
"No. He wanted the truth? Fine." Peter turned back to Bruce. "Yes, I'm from another universe. Yes, I recognized the Chitauri weapons because I've fought them before. And yes, I've been trying to find a way home. But I have never—never—done anything to put any of you in danger. Everything I've done has been to protect you from the consequences of interdimensional interference."
"Yet you withheld critical information that could have helped us contain that interference," Bruce countered. "Information that might have prevented Eric from stealing the stabilizers."
The accusation stung, partly because Peter had asked himself the same question countless times. "I didn't know what Eric was planning."
"You didn't know because you were too focused on your own agenda," Bruce said. "On getting home at any cost."
"That's not fair, Bruce," Dick interjected. "Peter's been helping us—"
"Has he?" Bruce turned to Dick. "Or has he been using us? Using you, specifically?"
Dick blinked in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I've observed how he watches you," Bruce said. "How he gravitates toward you. There's something specific about you that drew him in. Something he's still not telling us."
Peter felt the blood drain from his face. Bruce was too perceptive, too close to the truth he couldn't bear to reveal.
"That's enough," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You've invaded my privacy, violated my trust, and now you're trying to turn Dick against me. I'm done."
He turned and headed for the door, ignoring Alfred's concerned "Mister Parker," and Dick's call of "Peter, wait!"
As he reached the doorway, Bruce's voice stopped him. "If you leave this room, you leave the manor. I won't have unknown variables under my roof."
Peter turned back, meeting Bruce's gaze with cold fury. "Then I guess I'm leaving."
"Bruce, you can't be serious," Dick protested, moving to stand between them.
"I've never been more serious," Bruce replied. "He's lied to us from the beginning, Dick. Conducted experiments without our knowledge. How can we trust anything he says or does?"
"The same way we trust Jason despite his past," Dick shot back. "The same way you trusted me when I was a traumatized circus kid you knew nothing about. We give people a chance!"
"This is different," Bruce insisted. "The dimensional breaches are escalating. Weapons are pouring into Gotham. And he," he pointed at Peter, "is the only one who fully understands the technology involved. Yet he's chosen to keep that understanding to himself."
"Because I was trying to protect you!" Peter shouted. "Dimensional travel isn't just dangerous—it can be catastrophic. One wrong calculation, one mistake, and you could collapse both our universes!"
"Then help us prevent that," Bruce challenged. "Stop hiding, stop deflecting, and tell us everything."
Peter looked from Bruce to Dick to Tim, feeling the weight of their expectations, their suspicions, their concern. The truth hovered on his lips—not just about where he came from, but about who he was to Dick in another life.
But he couldn't do it. Not like this. Not as an interrogation, a confession extracted under duress.
"I can't," he said finally. "Not on your terms."
Bruce's expression hardened. "Then we have nothing more to discuss."
"Bruce," Dick protested, "you can't just kick him out."
"I can and I will," Bruce replied. "Until he's ready to be completely honest with us, he represents a risk I'm not willing to take."
Peter felt a strange calm settle over him. In a way, this was almost a relief—the decision being made for him, the path forward suddenly clear.
"Fine," he said quietly. "I'll get my things."
"Peter, don't," Dick pleaded, moving toward him. "We can figure this out."
"Can we?" Peter asked, meeting Dick's eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the choice has been made."
"Not by me," Dick insisted. He turned to Bruce, his expression furious. "This is wrong, and you know it. Peter has done nothing but help us since he got here."
"While pursuing his own agenda," Bruce reminded him. "An agenda he still refuses to fully disclose."
"So what?" Dick demanded. "We all have secrets, Bruce. You more than anyone!"
"Not secrets that endanger this family," Bruce said firmly.
"That's bullshit and you know it," Dick shot back. "Everything you do endangers this family. Every decision you make, every enemy you create—"
"That's enough, Dick," Bruce warned.
"No, it's not enough!" Dick's voice rose. "You sent his DNA to the Watchtower without telling any of us. You violated his privacy, his trust—"
"To protect you," Bruce interrupted. "To protect all of you."
"I don't need your protection," Dick growled. "And neither does Peter."
"This isn't just about protection," Bruce countered. "It's about truth. About trust. How can we trust him when he's hidden so much from us?"
"The same way he's trusted us despite everything," Dick replied. "Despite our masks, our secrets, our issues. He's been here for months, Bruce. If he wanted to harm us, he's had plenty of opportunities."
The tension between them was palpable, years of unresolved conflicts bubbling to the surface under the strain of this new challenge.
Peter watched them argue, feeling simultaneously responsible for the conflict and strangely detached from it. It reminded him of countless arguments between Tony and Steve—two men who cared deeply for each other but saw the world in fundamentally different ways.
"I'm not going to stand here and listen to this," Peter said finally. "I'll be gone by nightfall."
"Peter, please," Dick implored. "Don't let him drive you away."
Peter looked at Dick—really looked at him—and saw the genuine concern in his eyes. In another life, this man had been his father. In this one, he had become something else—a friend, a mentor, perhaps even family.
But Bruce was right about one thing: Peter had been hiding the truth. And secrets had a way of becoming dangerous when left in the dark too long.
"I'm sorry, Dick," he said quietly. "But Bruce is right. I haven't been honest with you. With any of you. And until I can be..." He let the sentence hang unfinished.
"This is ridiculous," Dick muttered, turning back to Bruce. "You're making a mistake."
"Perhaps," Bruce acknowledged, his expression unchanging. "But it's my mistake to make."
"No," Dick replied, his voice cold. "It's all of our mistake to live with."
With that, he strode out of the room, brushing past Peter without another word. Peter stood frozen for a moment, caught between following Dick and confronting Bruce further.
In the end, he chose neither. With a final look at Bruce, he turned and left the dining room, Alfred's concerned gaze following him as he went.
The truth was out now—at least part of it. He was from another universe. They knew that much. But the deeper truth, the one that connected him to Dick across dimensions, remained his secret to keep.
For now.
The streetlights of Gotham stretched long and thin across the sidewalk as darkness fell. Peter sat on the edge of an abandoned building in the Bowery, legs dangling over the precipice as he stared at the tiny device in his palm.
The miniaturized tracking device he'd created from scavenged electronics pulsed with a faint blue light, cycling through frequencies as it searched for the unique energy signature of the Chitauri components. It wasn't as sophisticated as what he'd built in Wayne's lab, but it was something.
His backpack lay beside him, containing everything he now owned in this universe: a change of clothes, his Bat-issued suit, and the components of his dimensional transporter he'd managed to smuggle out before leaving the manor. Not enough to complete the device, but enough to keep hope alive.
Peter's phone—a burner he'd purchased with cash—buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Dick had been calling regularly since their confrontation at breakfast, but Peter hadn't answered. What was there to say? Bruce had made his position clear, and Dick, despite his protests, was still part of that family.
A family that wasn't his. Not in this universe.
The tracker suddenly pulsed more rapidly, its light shifting from blue to amber. Peter sat up straighter, adjusting the frequency dial with practiced precision.
"Come on," he muttered, "give me something."
As if responding to his command, the device locked onto a signal, the amber light stabilizing. Peter checked the coordinates and frowned. The energy signature was coming from the East End, not far from Crime Alley—a fitting location for someone trying to disappear.
He slipped the tracker into his pocket and pulled on his mask, the familiar material settling against his skin like an old friend. Whatever universe he found himself in, this part of his identity remained constant. Spider-Man might be a long way from home, but he still had a job to do.
Peter shot a web line to a nearby building and launched himself into the night, the familiar sensation of free-fall momentarily washing away his troubles. For those few seconds between buildings, suspended between gravity and his own will, he could almost pretend he was back in New York, swinging past the Empire State Building or the Chrysler, on his way to meet up with Johnny Storm or to check on May’s grave.
The illusion shattered as he landed on a gargoyle overlooking Gotham's distinctive gothic architecture, the city's perpetual gloom so different from New York's vibrant energy. Here, even the air felt heavier, laden with the weight of a city constantly on the brink.
The tracker led him to an abandoned apartment building, its windows mostly broken or boarded up, a condemned notice hanging askew on the front door. Peter circled the structure, his enhanced vision picking up a faint glow from a third-floor window. He landed silently on the fire escape and peered inside.
The apartment was sparsely furnished—a mattress on the floor, a folding table covered with electronic components, and walls plastered with papers, diagrams, and equations. In the center of it all stood Eric Needham, his back to the window as he hunched over the table, working with intense focus.
Peter tapped lightly on the window frame. "Knock knock."
Eric whirled around, a blade instantly appearing in his hand. When he recognized Peter, his stance shifted slightly—still defensive, but less immediately lethal.
"You found me," Eric said, his voice flat. "I should have expected that."
Peter slid the window open and climbed inside. "You're not exactly hiding your energy signature. Those Chitauri components light up like a Christmas tree if you know what to look for."
"Maybe I wanted to be found," Eric replied, lowering his weapon but not putting it away.
In the dim light of the apartment, Peter could see the changes in Eric more clearly than during their encounter at Black Mask's facility. His dark skin now had a subtle metallic sheen to it, and his eyes—once deep brown—had taken on a golden hue that seemed to glow faintly in the shadows. His locced hair was pulled back in a tight bun, revealing patches of the same chitinous texture Peter had seen on his arm now creeping up the side of his neck.
"You look terrible," Peter said honestly.
Eric laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "You should see the other guy." He gestured to his reflection in a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. "This is what happens when universes collide, Parker. When someone like me gets caught in the backwash."
Peter moved further into the apartment, noting the molecular diagrams on the wall, the half-assembled devices on the table. "You've been busy."
"Dying tends to focus the mind," Eric replied, turning back to his work. "I've been trying to understand what's happening to me. The physical changes are accelerating, spreading further each day. The mental bleed-through is worse."
"The visions?" Peter asked, approaching the table cautiously.
Eric nodded. "Not just fragments anymore. Full memories. Yesterday I could taste your aunt's cherry pie." He looked up, his golden eyes intense. "How is that possible? How can I remember something I never experienced?"
"Quantum entanglement," Peter suggested, examining the components on the table. "Our particles are somehow linked across dimensions. When I came through, it created a connection between us."
"A connection that's killing me," Eric said bluntly. "My body can't handle the transformation. The pain is..." he flexed his right hand, wincing as the chitinous plates shifted, "...constant."
Peter noticed a vial of amber liquid beside the components. "What's that?"
"My latest attempt at a solution," Eric replied. "A cocktail of stabilizing agents extracted from the Chitauri tech. It slows the transformation for a few hours, makes the pain manageable. But each dose is less effective than the last."
The sight of the vial sent a chill through Peter. "Eric, you shouldn't be experimenting on yourself. Those components were never meant to interact with human biology."
"What choice do I have?" Eric demanded, his voice rising. "The transformation accelerates every time I'm near you. It's like your presence catalyzes whatever's happening to me." He gestured to his arm. "This spread faster in the three minutes we talked at Black Mask's facility than it had in the previous week."
Peter stepped back involuntarily. "You're saying I'm making this worse?"
"You're the source," Eric confirmed, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. "The closer you are, the faster it happens. When you were in Bristol and I was across the city, it was manageable. Now..." He flexed his hand again, and Peter noticed with alarm that the blue veins beneath the chitinous plates pulsed more brightly.
"That's why you took the stabilizers from the lab," Peter realized. "You weren't working with Black Mask—you were trying to save yourself."
"And failing." Eric turned back to the table, arranging the components with methodical precision. "But I've found another way. Your way."
With growing alarm, Peter recognized several of the components on the table—parts similar to those he'd been using for his own dimensional transporter. "Where did you get these?"
"Here and there," Eric replied vaguely. "Black Mask's vault had some interesting tech. Wayne Enterprises shipping manifests pointed me to the rest."
"You can't be serious," Peter said, the implications becoming clear. "You're trying to build a dimensional portal?"
Eric's gaze was unwavering. "Not trying. Succeeding. Your memories, your knowledge—they're in my head. Fragmented, but enough to work with." He tapped his temple. "I see the equations when I close my eyes. Hear that scientist—Octavius—explaining the principles."
"Eric, this is incredibly dangerous," Peter warned. "Even with complete schematics and stable components, interdimensional travel nearly destroyed my world multiple times."
"I'm already being destroyed," Eric countered, his voice suddenly raw with emotion. "Every day, more of me disappears—physically, mentally. I wake up calling out names of people I've never met, speaking languages I've never learned." He stepped closer, and Peter could see the feverish intensity in his eyes. "Last night, I wept for hours over the death of someone named Gwen Stacy. Who is she, Parker? Who is she to you that her death makes me feel like my heart is being torn out?"
The name hit Peter like a physical blow. He hadn't thought about Gwen in weeks, had deliberately pushed those memories away to maintain his sanity in this strange world. That Eric could access that particular pain, that private grief, felt like a violation of the most intimate kind.
"Someone I couldn't save," Peter said quietly. "A long time ago."
"Your guilt, your pain—I feel it like it's my own," Eric said. "Along with a thousand other emotions and memories that aren't mine. I'm disappearing into you, piece by piece." He gestured to the components on the table. "This is my only way out."
"To do what?" Peter asked, already dreading the answer.
"To find a universe where I never gained these powers," Eric replied. "Where I'm just Eric Needham, not some dimensional echo of some Spider-Man. Where I'm whole."
Peter shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. You can't just hop to another universe and expect to find a version of yourself without powers. The multiverse is infinite, yes, but traveling there won't cure what's happening to you. It might even accelerate it."
"You don't know that," Eric insisted. "And anyway, it's not like I have a lot of other options. Your mentor threw you out, which means you've lost access to the resources you need to help me."
The statement stung because it contained a kernel of truth. Without Bruce's resources, Peter's ability to find a solution for Eric was severely limited. But that didn't change the fundamental danger of what Eric was proposing.
"Even if you could build a stable portal," Peter said, "jumping blindly into the multiverse is suicide. Without proper calibration, without a quantum anchor, you could end up anywhere—or nowhere at all."
"I'd rather risk oblivion than live like this," Eric replied, gesturing to his increasingly altered body. "The calculations are almost complete. In a few days, I'll have everything I need."
Peter took a step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Let me help you. Not like this, but there has to be another way. If we work together—"
"We tried that," Eric cut him off. "At the lab, remember? Before your 'family' decided I was the enemy."
"They were wrong," Peter admitted. "About you, about me—about a lot of things. But that doesn't mean this is the answer."
Eric studied him for a long moment, his golden eyes unreadable. "You want to go home too. I can feel it—that pull, that desperate need to return to your world." He picked up one of the components, turning it over in his hand. "We want the same thing, Peter. To be whole again. To be where we belong."
"Not at any cost," Peter insisted. "And certainly not if it means risking both our universes in the process."
A shadow of something—doubt, perhaps—crossed Eric's face. For a moment, Peter thought he might be getting through to him. Then Eric's expression hardened, and he reached for something beneath the table.
"I was hoping you'd understand," he said, his voice now cold. "That your memories in my head would help you see why I have to do this."
Peter's spider-sense flared, but he was a fraction too slow. Eric withdrew a device that resembled a handheld taser but glowed with the distinctive blue energy of Chitauri technology. Before Peter could react, Eric activated it, sending a pulse of energy that hit Peter square in the chest.
Pain exploded through his body, his muscles seizing as the energy coursed through him. Peter collapsed to his knees, struggling to maintain consciousness as the room spun around him.
"What... did you do?" he gasped.
"Localized energy pulse," Eric explained, calmly gathering components from the table and placing them in a backpack. "Disrupts neural pathways temporarily. You'll be fine in an hour or so."
Through the haze of pain, Peter tried to reach for him, but his limbs refused to cooperate. "Eric... don't..."
"I'm sorry, Peter," Eric said, and for a moment, genuine regret showed in his golden eyes. "But I can't wait any longer. Every minute near you accelerates the process. I can feel it happening right now."
As if to demonstrate, he pulled back his sleeve, revealing the chitinous plates now extending past his elbow, the blue veins pulsing more rapidly. "See? Just being in the same room as you speeds it up."
With efficient movements, Eric packed the last of his equipment and slung the backpack over his shoulder. "There's a drive on the table with all my research. Everything I've learned about what's happening to me, plus the equations I've managed to piece together from your memories. Maybe it'll help you find your own way home."
He moved to the window, pausing with one foot on the sill. "Don't follow me, Peter. For both our sakes."
Through the fading edges of his consciousness, Peter saw Eric disappear into the Gotham night. He struggled against the paralysis, managing to drag himself toward the table where Eric had left the drive. His fingers closed around it just as darkness claimed him completely.
Peter awoke to the cold press of concrete against his cheek and the distant wail of police sirens. For a disorienting moment, he thought he was back in New York, having dozed off on some rooftop after a long patrol. Then the events of the night rushed back—Eric, the energy weapon, the stolen components.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. The apartment was empty now, Eric's presence only evident in the papers still pinned to the walls and the faint energy signature that lingered in the air. The drive sat on the table where Eric had left it, a small black rectangle that potentially contained both salvation and destruction.
Peter pocketed it and moved to the window, checking his phone as he did. The screen showed five missed calls from Dick and a text message:
For the first time, Peter found himself considering it. The confrontation with Eric had clarified something he'd been avoiding since Bruce had revealed his secret—he couldn't do this alone. The dimensional breaches were accelerating, Eric was building a device that could potentially collapse both universes, and Peter was running out of options.
It was time to tell the truth. The whole truth. Or at least, most of it.
Decision made, Peter pulled on his mask and shot a web line to the adjacent building. His body still ached from Eric's attack, but he pushed through the discomfort, letting the familiar rhythm of swinging through the city calm his racing thoughts.
Twenty minutes later, he landed on a rooftop overlooking the East River, where the glittering lights of Gotham reflected off the dark water. The location was far from Wayne Manor, neutral territory where he could meet Dick without feeling the weight of Bruce's judgment.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Dick's number, steeling himself for the conversation ahead.
"Peter?" Dick answered on the first ring, his voice a mixture of relief and concern. "Are you okay? Where are you?"
"I'm fine," Peter assured him. "I'm on the rooftop of the old Gotham Shipping building on the East River. Can you meet me here?"
There was a pause. "Does Bruce know you're calling?"
"No," Peter admitted. "And I'd appreciate if it stayed that way, at least for now."
Another pause, longer this time. "Give me fifteen minutes."
True to his word, Nightwing arrived fourteen minutes later, a shadow detaching itself from the darkness to land gracefully on the rooftop. He approached Peter cautiously, as if afraid he might spook and run.
"When you didn't answer my calls, I was worried," Dick said, removing his domino mask to meet Peter's eyes directly. "Alfred said you packed everything and just disappeared."
"Not everything," Peter replied. "I left the prototype. Bruce was right—it was too dangerous to take."
Dick ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Peter had seen countless times, in this universe and his own. "Bruce was wrong about a lot of things. The way he handled it, the ultimatum—all of it."
"But he wasn't wrong about me lying," Peter pointed out. "Or about me being a potential risk."
"We're all potential risks," Dick countered. "That's part of the job description." He moved to the edge of the roof, looking out over the river. "I've been thinking about what you said at breakfast. About being from another universe."
Peter joined him at the edge, maintaining a careful distance. "It's true. All of it."
"I figured," Dick said with a half-smile. "It explains a lot, actually. The way you sometimes look at tech like it's both familiar and alien at the same time. The knowledge you shouldn't have." He glanced sideways at Peter. "The way you sometimes look at me."
Peter's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
"Like you know me," Dick explained. "But not this me. Like you're seeing someone else when you look at my face."
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. Peter looked away, focusing on the distant skyline. "It's complicated."
"I bet," Dick agreed. "Multiverse theory suggests infinite variations, right? So in your universe, there's a version of me?"
"Something like that," Peter acknowledged, the half-truth bitter on his tongue.
Dick was quiet for a moment, considering. "Bruce sent your DNA sample to the Watchtower for analysis. The results just came back to my secure server, but I haven't looked at them yet."
Peter tensed. "You haven't?"
"No," Dick said firmly. "I wanted to talk to you first. It's your DNA, your privacy. I promise I won't access those results without your permission." He turned to face Peter fully. "Whatever they contain, that should be your choice to share."
Peter's mouth went dry. The moment he'd been dreading since arriving in this Gotham—the potential discovery of the connection he'd tried so hard to hide—wasn't happening yet. But the choice now loomed before him.
"Dick," he began, unsure how to continue.
"You don't have to explain," Dick surprised him by saying. "Not any of it, not yet. I just wanted you to know that whatever you might be hiding, whatever connection might exist between us—it doesn't change the fact that you've been an ally. A friend."
The simple acceptance in those words nearly undid Peter. After months of secrets and lies, the offer of unconditional support was almost too much to bear.
"I need to tell you something," Peter said, his voice steadier than he felt. "About why I'm here, what I've been trying to do."
Dick nodded. "I'm listening."
Peter took a deep breath. "I didn't come to this universe intentionally. Where I'm from, I was hunting down a kingpin playing around with dimensional theory. There was an accident with the prototype he was building—an energy surge that created a temporary breach between our universes."
"And you got pulled through," Dick finished. "Stranded in a strange world."
"Exactly," Peter confirmed. "When I arrived, I had nothing—no resources, no allies, no way home. I was trying to find components to rebuild the device when I ran into you that first night."
"Chasing the Triad's smugglers," Dick remembered.
Peter smiled faintly at the memory. "Old habits."
"So in your universe, you're also..." Dick gestured to Peter's costume.
"A hero, yes," Peter nodded. "Though the costume is a bit different. More blue, less black."
"And the dimensional technology you've been working on—it's to get you home?"
"That was the plan," Peter acknowledged. "Build a stable portal, calibrate it to my home universe, and go back." He paused, weighing his next words carefully. "But it's not that simple anymore."
Dick raised an eyebrow. "So Black Spider isn't just after the Chitauri tech for profit?"
"No," Peter said, his voice heavy with concern. "It's much more complicated than that."
Dick leaned forward. "We've been tracking him for weeks, but his pattern doesn't match typical weapon dealers. What's his real angle?"
Peter hesitated, then met Dick's eyes. "Eric is dying. The dimensional breach that brought me here—it affected him somehow. Created some kind of quantum entanglement between us."
Dick's expression shifted from curiosity to alarm. "What do you mean?"
"He's developing abilities similar to mine, but his body is rejecting them," Peter explained. "He's mutating uncontrollably, and it's getting worse. The closer I am to him, the faster it progresses."
"That explains why he's been avoiding areas with Spider-Man sightings," Dick said thoughtfully. "We thought he was lying low after his falling out with Black Mask."
Peter shook his head firmly. "He wasn't working with Black Mask—he was trying to stop him. The Chitauri tech Black Mask was collecting? Eric was actually sabotaging those operations, looking for components he needs."
"Components for what?" Dick asked, though his expression suggested he was already connecting the dots.
Peter pulled a drive from his pocket. "This contains his research. He's building a dimensional portal, Dick. He believes if he can travel to another universe, he can find a version of himself that never gained these powers—a version that isn't connected to me."
Dick's eyes widened. "Is that even possible?"
"No," Peter said definitively. "Dimensional travel won't break our connection. It might actually make everything worse. But he's desperate—he's in constant pain, watching himself transform into something he doesn't recognize."
"And not just physically," Dick surmised. "The connection between you—it's affecting his mind too, isn't it?"
Peter nodded grimly. "He's experiencing fragments of my memories, my life. It's like pieces of me are bleeding into him, and he's losing himself in the process."
Dick was quiet for a moment, processing this revelation. "So he's not a villain..."
"Just a man desperate to save himself," Peter finished. "But his solution could tear holes in the fabric of both our universes if his device activates in its current state."
"That's why you reached out," Dick said, understanding dawning. "You need help stopping him."
"Yes," Peter admitted. "But I also needed to be honest with you about everything." He gestured to the drive. "Combined with what I've been working on, this might be enough to stabilize the breaches and get both of us home—or at least help Eric."
Dick's expression hardened with determination. "Then we find him. We stop him, and we help him if we can."
Peter shook his head. "It's not that simple. He's in hiding, and my presence accelerates his condition. Plus, after what happened with Bruce..."
"Forget Bruce," Dick said firmly. "This isn't about him. This is about preventing a disaster before it happens." He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "You don't have to face this alone."
The simple gesture of support broke something inside Peter—a dam holding back all the fear and guilt he'd carried since arriving in this universe.
"Everything that's happening—Eric, the breaches, the weapons coming through—it's all because of me," Peter said, his voice cracking. "I was stupid enough to think I could play with forces I didn't understand."
"No," Dick countered with conviction. "You didn't create this situation. You were caught in an accident, just like Eric was."
"But I knew the risks," Peter insisted. "Back home, we'd already seen what dimensional breaches could do. And I still helped build that device."
Dick gripped Peter's shoulder firmly. "Listen to me. You're not responsible for circumstances beyond your control. That kind of guilt? It's poison. Believe me, I know."
Something in Dick's voice—its familiar compassion despite coming from a different universe—undid Peter completely.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted quietly. "I'm trying to save Eric, get home to my family, and prevent dimensional collapse, all while running out of time."
"Then let me help," Dick said simply. "Let us help. Maybe not Bruce right now, but me, Tim, Jason—we have resources, connections. You don't have to carry this alone."
Peter looked at Dick and saw not just the ghost of his father from another universe, but someone uniquely himself. Someone offering genuine friendship without demanding the complete truth in return.
"What if I make it worse?" Peter asked, voicing his deepest fear. "What if trying to fix this destroys both our worlds?"
"That's the risk we take every day," Dick replied. "Every time we put on these costumes, we make choices that could save lives or cost them. The only way to fail completely is to stop trying."
The words echoed something Uncle Ben had told Peter long ago, in a universe that now seemed impossibly distant. The synchronicity was too much. The tears he'd been holding back spilled over, streaming down his face beneath his mask.
"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I should have been honest from the beginning."
Without hesitation, Dick stepped forward and pulled Peter into a hug—firm, supportive, and entirely unexpected. "We all have secrets, Peter. What matters is what we do when keeping them becomes more dangerous than telling them."
In that moment, held by the man who, in another life, had been his dad, Peter let himself break. The months of isolation, fear, and desperate hope crashed over him in waves, and he wept openly for the first time since arriving in this universe. For his lost home, for Eric's suffering, for the impossible choices ahead.
And through it all, Dick held him steady, an anchor in the storm—not the dad he'd lost, but perhaps the ally he needed most to find his way home.