Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night had already started terrible. Actually, "terrible" was putting it mildly—it was the kind of night that made Peter wonder if he'd accidentally walked under a ladder while holding an open umbrella and petting a black cat. He was in a new city with no idea where he was going, walking around with a single shoe, and worst of all, he'd been mugged. Yes. Spider-Man, defender of Queens, friendly neighborhood hero, all-around amazing fighter, had been mugged. By ordinary humans. With ordinary weapons. And not even impressive ones—one of them had been wielding what looked suspiciously like a selfie stick.

"A selfie stick," Peter muttered to himself, the absurdity of it all hitting him again. "I've fought all sorts of horrific villains but get taken down by some dude with a selfie stick in Gotham."

His only saving grace was that he still had his camera—the current cause of all his misfortune—which he had previously hidden away when his spider-sense finally decided to show up for work. Though "show up" was generous—it had been more like a half-hearted nudge than the usual blaring alarm. Just enough warning for him to stash his camera but not enough to, you know, actually avoid the muggers.

Peter retrieved his camera from its hiding place, brushing off bits of debris from the alley wall. The lens, thankfully, was unscratched. At least he'd gotten some decent shots of Gotham's skyline before everything went sideways. Mr. Jameson would be expecting photos of "Batman in action" for the Daily Bugle's special feature on "America's So-Called Heroes: A Warning," but all Peter had managed to capture was architecture and shadows.

"Get me Batman, Parker!" Jameson had barked earlier that week, jabbing his cigar in Peter's direction like it was a tiny, smoldering weapon. "Not buildings! Not birds! Not that ridiculous signal they shine in the sky! I want the man himself, preferably doing something suspicious!" Spittle had flown across his desk, landing dangerously close to Peter's half-eaten sandwich. "I want angles no one else has! Give me the story behind the mask! The Daily Bugle doesn't do postcards—we expose the truth!"

That morning, Peter had made the mistake of asking, "What if Batman doesn't want to be photographed?" which had resulted in Jameson's face turning an alarming shade of purple.

"That's the point, Parker!" Jameson had roared, slamming his fist down hard enough to make his coffee mug jump. "If he's hiding, he's got something to hide! And the Bugle is going to find out what it is! Now get out of my office and don't come back without Batman looking shifty!"

It should have been simple—just take some photos of the vigilante and head home. Nothing Spider-Man related. Just Peter Parker, photography intern, doing his job without getting involved in any heroics whatsoever. He'd even promised Aunt May. And Mr. Stark. And Happy. And Ned. And MJ. Basically everyone he knew had extracted the same promise: no Spider-Manning in Gotham.

"I'm serious, Peter," Aunt May had said, her expression more worried than usual as she'd packed him an extra sandwich for the bus ride. "Gotham isn't like New York. It's... darker. More dangerous."

"It's just a photography assignment," Peter had assured her. "Two days, tops. No Spider-Man, no danger, no problem."

Mr. Stark had been more direct. "Kid, Gotham's got its own brand of crazy, and they don't play nice with outsiders. Batman's territorial, and he's got at least three mini-Batmans running around. Stay out of their way, get your shots, and get out. No heroics."

Peter had nodded solemnly, thinking it would be easy to keep that promise. After all, how hard could it be to stay out of trouble for forty-eight hours?

Very hard, apparently. The shadows here were somehow creepier than New York's most intimidating alley, the gargoyles more numerous than pigeons, and the criminals apparently had a thing for Peter Parker as much as they did for Spider-Man. It was like they could smell the out-of-towner on him.

His very first hour in the city, he'd nearly been pickpocketed at the bus station. By hour three, he'd witnessed two attempted muggings (neither involving him, thankfully) and one car theft. By hour six, he'd gotten lost three times, been cursed at by a taxi driver who'd nearly run him over, and had a pigeon drop something unmentionable on his left shoulder. And that was all before sunset.

Now, as the clock ticked closer to midnight, Peter was experiencing the true Gotham welcome package: limping down the darkened street, one shoe squelching against the wet pavement, his nerves frayed from the encounter with the muggers who'd seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves.

"Hey, tourist," one of them had said, his voice sandpaper-rough. "Nice backpack. Mind if we take a look?"

There had been four of them, boxing him in against the grimy brick wall of the alley. The biggest one had flicked open a switchblade, the metal gleaming dully in the faint light. Another had that ridiculous selfie stick, which turned out to be reinforced with metal and surprisingly intimidating when swung at your head.

His Spider-Man suit was safely tucked away in his backpack—which was currently in the possession of that group of thugs. They'd taken his wallet, his phone, and his dignity, but had missed the camera he'd hastily wedged behind a dumpster when he heard them coming.

"Some hero," Peter muttered to himself, taking extra care not to step on broken glass with his stockinged foot. "Can't even handle a mugging without powers. May's never going to let me leave Queens again." He could already hear Mr. Stark's lecture: "So let me get this straight, kid. You went to Gotham, got mugged, and didn't use your powers because... why exactly? Your secret identity is more important than your kneecaps?"

The answer, of course, was yes. His secret identity was absolutely more important than his kneecaps. Or at least, that's what he'd thought until thirty minutes ago, when he'd found himself hobbling down Crime Alley (yes, Gotham had an actual place called Crime Alley—subtle) with nothing but his camera and wounded pride.

He paused under a flickering streetlight, the only functioning illumination on the block, and examined the scrapes on his palms from when he'd been shoved to the ground. Had he been Spider-Man, these thugs wouldn't have stood a chance. But he wasn't Spider-Man tonight. He was just Peter Parker, out-of-town photographer with terrible luck.

He thought of Aunt May, how worried she'd be if she knew what was happening right now. The way her forehead would crease with concern, how she'd insist on tending to his scrapes herself even though he'd be healed by morning. Ever since Uncle Ben died, the fear never quite left her eyes. And here he was, giving her more reasons to worry.

"Get it together, Parker," he whispered, straightening his shoulders. "You've faced down worse. You can handle being shoeless in Gotham."

With a resigned sigh, he continued limping down the dimly lit street, one shoe slapping against the wet pavement in a rhythm that matched his deflating self-esteem. His spidey-sense tingled faintly—not danger, exactly, but something was off. The hairs on his arms stood up, and he got that familiar feeling of being watched.

He glanced up just in time to see a figure swinging between buildings with practiced grace.

Not Batman. Too small. Too agile. Definitely not bulky enough to be the Dark Knight that Jameson was so desperate to smear across Page One.

Peter's photographer instincts kicked in before his superhero ones. He raised his camera, adjusting the focus with expert precision. The shutter clicked rapidly as he captured the mysterious vigilante in mid-air, black cape (or was it a cloak?) billowing behind them.

The figure paused, perched on a gargoyle, head cocked to one side like a curious bird. Then, without warning, it changed direction—heading straight for Peter.

"Oh, come on," Peter muttered, lowering his camera. "Why can things never just be easy for me." He briefly considered running but decided that would look even more suspicious. Plus, his single-shoe situation wasn't exactly conducive to a speedy getaway.

The vigilante landed with barely a sound, red and black costume gleaming in the moonlight. "You know, photography without permission is generally frowned upon in Gotham," said a voice that sounded about Peter's age. "Especially after dark."

"I'm with the Daily Bugle," Peter replied, holding up his camera as if it were a press badge, trying to look as professional as one could with one shoe missing and damp sock rapidly soaking through. "Just getting some shots for—"

"The Daily Bugle is publishing a piece on why vigilantes are a menace to society," the figure interrupted, crossing his arms. "I keep up with the news. Your editor has an... interesting perspective on mask-wearing individuals."

Peter winced. "Yeah, that's... that's Jameson's angle. Not mine." He lowered the camera, taking in the details of the costume. Black, red, and green with a stylized "R" on the chest. The cape was shorter than Batman's, the build leaner. This had to be Robin, Batman's partner. "I just take the pictures. I don't write the headlines."

The vigilante stepped closer, the white lenses of his mask narrowing. "You're a long way from New York, photographer."

"How did you—"

"Your accent. Queens, if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm Peter. Peter Parker." He extended his hand before realizing how bizarre this situation was—standing in a Gotham alley, introducing himself to a masked vigilante like they were meeting at a networking event. The vigilante—Robin, he now recognized—stared at the offered hand.

"You're missing a shoe," Robin observed, ignoring the handshake.

"Yeah, got mugged," Peter admitted sheepishly, withdrawing his hand and trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt. "Welcome to Gotham, right? Guess I should have stuck to the tourist areas."

Robin's posture shifted subtly. "You got mugged? Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine. Just bruised pride, mostly." Peter gestured to his sock, now thoroughly soaked. "And, uh, one shoe down. Plus my backpack with all my stuff. But hey, at least they didn't get my camera, so the trip wasn't a total loss." He attempted a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

"I'm Robin," the vigilante said, finally accepting the previously offered handshake. "But you already knew that." His grip was firm but not showy—the handshake of someone with nothing to prove.

Peter could have said anything, maybe asked for directions, a way out of here, an extra shoe, but instead what came bubbling up from the depths of his brain like a geyser of pure self-destruction was—

"Tim," He blurted out, then immediately regretted it as Robin's body language tensed and his hand flew to his belt. "I mean—I didn't say anything. Who's Tim? I don't know any Tim. Thin air. That's what I said. Thin air." He winced at his own terrible attempt at recovery.

Robin stood perfectly still, only the slight tilt of his head betraying his surprise. "What did you just call me?"

The temperature in the alley seemed to drop ten degrees. Peter felt his stomach twist into knots as his brain frantically tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why he'd just called a masked vigilante by his civilian name. A name that, by all rights, he shouldn't know.

How could he explain that he'd recognized Tim Drake's jawline from those charity gala photos he'd studied for a photography class? That his heightened senses could detect the same cologne Bruce Wayne wore at press conferences? That he'd made the connection months ago when researching Gotham's elite for a school project and had practically forgotten about it until this very moment?

"I—I think I'm hallucinating from hunger," Peter stammered, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Been a long day. Skipped lunch. And dinner. And now I'm making up names. Weird, right?" He laughed nervously.

Robin's hand moved to his utility belt, fingers brushing what was probably a weapon. "How do you know that name?" The friendly tone was gone, replaced by something colder.

"The same way you know I'm from Queens, not just New York," Peter replied, suddenly understanding the gravity of their mutual predicament. "We both notice things others don't." He swallowed hard. "I'm good with faces. Even partially covered ones."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant wail of a police siren. Peter could practically see the wheels turning behind that domino mask—calculating threats, analyzing options, preparing contingencies. It was exactly what he would be doing if their positions were reversed.

"Your camera," Robin finally said, his voice carefully controlled. "Hand it over."

"No way," Peter clutched it protectively against his chest. "These are my shots. I need them for my job."

"I need to delete any photos that could compromise identities." Robin's stance widened slightly, preparing for resistance.

"There's nothing compromising! Just silhouettes and shadows! I'm a professional—I know what I'm doing!" Peter took a step back, his sock squishing unpleasantly against the pavement.

"No one at your age is a professional anything," Robin countered, reaching for the camera.

"Says the teenage sidekick!" Peter shot back, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

"Partner," Robin corrected automatically, lunging for the camera.

Peter reacted instinctively—forgetting entirely about his promises not to use his powers—landing on the side of the building with a soft thwip sound as his fingertips adhered to the brick. It wasn't until he was five feet up the wall that his brain caught up with his reflexes.

They stared at each other, secrets laid bare in the most anticlimactic reveal possible under the dim light of the street lamp. Peter's heart hammered in his chest. So much for keeping a low profile in Gotham.

"You're him," Robin said quietly, his voice a mix of surprise and what might have been respect. "The spider guy from YouTube. The one who stopped that car with his bare hands."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Peter tried, clutching his camera tighter.

Robin's mask couldn't hide his exasperation. "You're literally hanging from a vertical wall right now."

Peter glanced at his hands, still firmly stuck to the brick. "Would you believe it's a really good rock climbing technique?"

"No."

"Worth a shot," Peter sighed, sliding down the wall to stand on the ground again. "And you're the world's second-greatest detective's sidekick." 

Robin's mask couldn't hide his grimace. "Partner," He corrected again. "Not sidekick."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude." Peter shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

They remained in tense silence, two teenage vigilantes sizing each other up on a dark Gotham street, like the world's most awkward standoff.

"So," Peter finally said, scuffing his one-shoed foot against the pavement. "This is uncomfortable."

Robin's shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone older. Less... talkative. Less likely to immediately expose my secret identity within seconds of meeting me."

Peter grinned despite himself. "Yeah, I get that a lot. The talking thing, not the exposing-secret-identities thing. That's new. Sorry about that. It just... slipped out?" He ran a hand through his hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I've never told anyone. About you, I mean. I just... noticed. And then forgot I noticed until right now."

Robin seemed to make a decision, his posture softening slightly. "Look, I'm not going to expose you if you don't expose me. But I can't let you publish those photos if there's any chance they could connect dots."

"What if I show you the ones I plan to use? Professional courtesy between masked vigilantes?" Peter offered, holding up the camera. "You can veto anything that's too revealing."

"I'll even throw in my secret recipe for removing blood stains from spandex." He added with a grin before pausing, expression faltering. "That sounded less creepy in my head."

Robin raised an eyebrow, seeming to consider. "There's a diner three blocks east that's open late. They won't question the costume—this is Gotham."

"Do they have fries? I'm starving. Being mugged really works up an appetite." Peter's stomach growled audibly, as if to emphasize his point. "Enhanced metabolism. It's a curse."

"Best in the city. Triple-fried and seasoned." Robin's head tilted slightly. "Enhanced metabolism, huh? That explains the five cheeseburgers."

Peter froze. "What five cheeseburgers?"

"The ones you had at Big Belly Burger when you first arrived in Gotham. Around 2 PM today. With the chocolate milkshake."

"Have... have you been following me?"

Robin shrugged. "We monitor unusual visitors. Especially ones with press credentials who work for publications with anti-vigilante agendas."

"That's... invasive. And creepy." Peter paused. "Also impressive. But mostly creepy."

"Gotham," Robin replied, as if that explained everything. And somehow, it did.

Peter glanced down at his single shoe and soggy sock. "You think they have a no-shoes, no-service policy?"

Robin actually smiled—or at least, his mouth quirked upward at one corner. "I think we can make an exception for Spider-Man."

"Don't say that so loud!" Peter hissed, looking around the empty alley. "I have a secret identity crisis to maintain!"

"Says the guy who just called me by my real name in the middle of patrol."

"Touché, Bird Boy. Touché."

———

Twenty minutes later, Peter found himself in the strangest situation yet: sitting across from Robin—Tim—in a booth at the back of a dingy diner called "Gotham Grill," reviewing photos on his camera while sharing a massive plate of fries that were, true to Robin's word, possibly the best he'd ever tasted.

The waitress hadn't batted an eye at Robin's costume or Peter's missing shoe, simply asking "The usual, Boy Wonder?" before bringing them menus and water. When she returned to take their order, she looked Peter over with the weary expression of someone who'd seen it all.

"First time in Gotham?" she asked, pen poised over her notepad.

"That obvious, huh?"

"The one shoe gives it away. Most tourists lose both or none." She glanced at Robin. "He with you?"

Robin nodded. "He's... a colleague. From out of town."

"New York," she guessed, and when Peter's eyes widened, she tapped her name tag. "I'm from the Bronx. I can smell a New Yorker from across the room."

"Queens," Peter admitted.

"Thought so. You've got that Queens look about you." She turned to Robin. "You vouching for him?"

Robin gave a curt nod, and the waitress seemed satisfied. "Double order of the special fries and two chocolate shakes, then?"

"And a burger," Peter added quickly. "With everything. And maybe some onion rings?"

"Growing boy," the waitress said with a knowing smile. "Got it."

As she walked away, Peter leaned across the table. "Does everyone in this city know everyone else's business?"

"Pretty much," Tim replied. "It's either incredibly convenient or extremely annoying, depending on the day."

When the food arrived—a mountain of fries, Peter's burger nearly toppling with toppings, and a side of crispy onion rings—they fell into a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of eating. Peter hadn't realized just how hungry he was until the first bite of burger hit his stomach.

"This one's actually good," Tim said, pointing to a silhouette shot of him swinging between buildings, the composition capturing both movement and the gothic architecture of Gotham. "You can tell it's me, but not... me."

"Told you I know what I'm doing," Peter replied, popping another fry into his mouth. "Been photographing myself for years. It's all about the angles and lighting."

"That's... kind of weird when you say it out loud."

"Tell me about it. Try explaining expense reports to yourself. 'Dear Mr. Jameson, please reimburse me for the bus fare I took to photograph myself flying through the air.'"

Tim laughed, then quickly composed himself. "Batman would kill me if he knew I was doing this."

"He actually kills people? I thought that was just a rumor," Peter said with mock seriousness, then backpedaled when he saw Tim's expression. "Joke! That was a joke! We don't kill people. Obviously. Bad guy rule number one."

"Funny," Tim said dryly. "And no, he doesn't kill people. But he's not exactly known for his sense of humor."

"Mr. Stark would probably make some quip about a playdate and then secretly run background checks on your entire family." Peter sipped his chocolate milkshake.

"Too late," Tim muttered. "Already did that on yours."

Peter choked on his milkshake. "You what?"

"After I spotted you taking photos earlier today. Standard procedure." Tim shrugged, dunking a fry in ketchup. "Your academic record is impressive, by the way. Especially in science."

"Dude! Boundaries!" Peter spluttered. "You can't just background check people you've never met!"

Tim shrugged. "Says the guy who somehow figured out my identity just by looking at my chin."

"That was an accident! I'm just observant!"

"So am I."

They stared at each other again, this time with grudging respect underneath the mutual embarrassment.

"Your aunt seems nice," Tim offered, breaking the tension. "Great community service record."

Peter groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "This is the most awkward encounter I've ever had in my life. And I once had to ask a girl to homecoming while wearing only a towel in the school gym locker room."

"That... sounds like a story."

"It involved a chemical spill, three fire alarms, and Flash Thompson's gym shorts. I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"Same," Tim admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. "About this being awkward, not the gym shorts thing. But at least neither of us has to fake a death and assume a new identity."

Peter looked up. "You considered that option too?"

"Briefly. Seemed drastic. But I did run through thirteen contingency plans in my head when you said my name."

"Only thirteen? Amateur." Peter grinned. "I was on contingency twenty-six, which involved faking my own kidnapping by an interdimensional being."

"Completely drastic," Tim agreed, looking more relaxed than he had all evening. "Though I was about 73% sure it was my only option."

"That's my percentage!" Peter exclaimed. "Are you stealing my very specific statistical anxieties?"

Tim smiled—a real smile this time. "Great minds calculate oddly specific probabilities alike."

"Good thing we're both terrible at keeping secrets," Peter said, stealing the last fry.

"Speak for yourself," Tim protested. "I'm excellent at secret-keeping. Batman hasn't fired me yet."

"You literally acknowledged who you were within thirty seconds of me slipping up."

"That was... okay, fair point. But in my defense, you threw me off by being Spider-Man."

"What, you were expecting someone cooler? More impressive? Less likely to lose a shoe to muggers?"

"Someone who doesn't take selfies while fighting crime, maybe."

They fell into a comfortable silence, two teenagers carrying the weight of cities on their shoulders, finding unexpected common ground over greasy diner food.

"So," Peter said, pushing the empty plate aside and slurping the last of his milkshake. "Any chance you could help me find my other shoe? And maybe my backpack? It has my suit and my emergency twenty dollars and my chemistry homework."

Tim's mask lenses narrowed in amusement. "I think I can manage that. I am a detective, after all. World's second-greatest, as you pointed out."

"Great," Peter grinned. "And maybe afterward, you could show me some of Gotham's better angles? For my portfolio, of course. And because I'm pretty sure I'll get lost again if left to my own devices."

"Only if you tell me how those web-shooters work. Batman's been trying to reverse-engineer the formula for months."

"Wait, what?" Peter's eyes widened. "Batman's been studying my web fluid?"

"Don't look so shocked. You're on his radar. All meta-humans are."

"I'm not a meta-human! I was bitten by a radioactive spider!"

"That... definitely makes you a meta-human."

"Says who? The classification committee for people with weird powers?"

"Actually, yes," Tim replied seriously. "There's a database."

Peter stared at him. "You're joking."

"I'm not." Tim leaned back in the booth. "We keep track of these things. For safety reasons."

"That's... somehow even creepier than you knowing about my cheeseburgers."

"Deal with it." Tim stood up, dropping a generous tip on the table despite the waitress's protest. "Now, about that backpack. I think I know who might have taken it. Small-time muggers usually have a fence they sell to, and there's only three or four operating in this part of Gotham right now."

"Let me guess," Peter sighed, following him out of the booth. "We're going to go dangle someone off a rooftop until they talk?"

"That's more Batman's style," Tim replied, heading for the door. "I prefer a more subtle approach."

"Such as?"

"You'll see. How's your acting?"

Peter grinned. "Depends. Am I playing the charming, sophisticated hero or the ditzy, helpless tourist?"

"Definitely the second one."

"Deal. But you have to promise not to actually make any web fluid if I tell you the formula. I've got patents pending."

"Patents? Under Spider-Man's name?"

"It's... complicated. Let's just say my lawyer is very blind to certain details."

As they left the diner, Peter couldn't help thinking that maybe this night wasn't a total disaster after all. He'd made a new friend, kept his secret identity (mostly) intact, and gotten some great photos for Jameson, who would undoubtedly still hate them.

Even if he still only had one shoe.

———

"So what's the plan?" Peter asked as they crouched on a rooftop overlooking a run-down pawn shop. The neon sign reading "Gotham Gold & Goods" flickered weakly in the night.

"Your muggers work for a guy named Twitch," Tim explained, his voice shifting to a more professional tone. "He runs this pawn shop as a front for selling stolen goods. Electronics, jewelry, wallets—anything that can be flipped quickly."

"And my one shoe?" Peter asked doubtfully.

Tim's mask couldn't hide his amusement. "Probably not worth the effort, but your phone and backpack should be inside."

Peter nodded, scanning the building. "So we just go in and ask nicely?"

"Not exactly." Tim pulled something from his utility belt—a small device that looked like a compact mirror. "We need to be strategic. Twitch knows Robin, but he doesn't know you."

"I'm just the poor tourist from Queens who got mugged," Peter realized, catching on. "And you're..."

"Not here," Tim finished. "I'll be watching from up here. You go in, play the lost tourist, see what you can find out. If things go south, I'll intervene."

Peter glanced down at his mismatched feet—one shoe, one sock now thoroughly soaked through. "I think I can sell the 'pathetic tourist' angle pretty convincingly."

"Just don't drop any names this time," Tim warned. "Especially not mine."

"One identity crisis per night is my limit," Peter agreed, climbing down the fire escape.

The pawn shop bell jingled as Peter entered, and he immediately adopted a slightly hunched posture, making himself look smaller and more vulnerable than he actually was. The man behind the counter—a skinny guy with twitchy eyes that explained his nickname—looked up suspiciously.

"We're closed," Twitch said, despite the "Open" sign in the window.

"Please," Peter said, putting a slight quaver in his voice. "I just need some help. I got mugged a few hours ago, and I thought... I mean, someone told me that stuff from muggings sometimes ends up in places like this."

Twitch's eyes narrowed. "You calling me a fence, kid?"

"No! No, nothing like that," Peter backpedaled, raising his hands. "I just thought... maybe someone tried to sell you my stuff, and you, being an upstanding businessman, would recognize it as stolen and want to return it to its rightful owner." He tried his best innocent puppy eyes.

"Beat it, kid."

"Please," Peter persisted. "It's my backpack. It has my homework in it, and my chemistry project is due Monday. My aunt will kill me if I fail another assignment."

Twitch seemed unmoved, but Peter noticed the slight flicker of his eyes toward a door behind the counter—probably a back room where the most recently acquired merchandise was kept.

"I can pay," Peter added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the twenty dollars Tim had lent him. "I know you'd be losing money, but it would really help me out."

"Twenty bucks?" Twitch scoffed. "Get lost."

Time for Plan B. Peter's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "I guess I'll have to tell Batman I couldn't find it."

He counted silently: one, two, three...

"The Batman?" Twitch's voice was suddenly higher. "What's the Bat got to do with this?"

Peter turned back, feigning surprise. "Oh, he's the one who told me to come here. I ran into him after I got mugged. He said he was too busy with some big case to deal with petty theft, but he told me exactly where to find my stuff." Peter gestured around the shop. "Said something about keeping an eye on this place anyway."

Twitch's face had gone pale. "I don't know nothing about no backpack."

"That's weird," Peter pressed, "because he seemed pretty sure. Said the guys who mugged me work for you." He stepped closer to the counter, dropping his voice. "Between you and me, he seemed kind of angry about it. Something about 'repeat offenders' and 'last warning.'"

Twitch's eye twitched more rapidly. "Wait here." He disappeared through the back door, returning moments later with Peter's backpack. "Some guys brought this in. I was gonna call the lost and found tomorrow."

"Wow, what a coincidence," Peter said, taking the backpack with an overly grateful expression. "The Bat will be so glad to hear about your cooperation."

"Yeah, you tell him," Twitch nodded eagerly. "Twitch is always helpful. Always looking out for the community."

Peter checked through his backpack—the suit was still there, hidden in the secret compartment. His wallet was gone, as expected, but his student ID had been tossed back in.

"My phone?" he asked hopefully.

Twitch hesitated, then reached under the counter and pulled out Peter's slightly scratched but intact phone. "Found this too. Must've fallen in by accident."

"You're a real hero," Peter said with complete insincerity. "Oh, and you haven't seen my shoe, have you? Just one shoe? Left foot, size ten?"

"Get out," Twitch said, patience clearly at an end.

"Right. Thanks again!" Peter backed out of the shop, backpack clutched to his chest.

Once outside, he looked up to the rooftop where Tim was waiting. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he leaped up, landing softly beside the vigilante.

"That," Tim said, sounding genuinely impressed, "was not bad at all. The Batman threat was a nice touch."

"I learned from the best," Peter grinned. "Mr. Stark calls it 'strategic intimidation through name-dropping.'"

"Did you get everything?"

Peter nodded, patting his backpack. "Suit, check. Phone, check. Dignity... still working on that one."

"What about your shoe?"

"Apparently even Gotham's criminals have standards when it comes to used footwear." Peter sighed. "But hey, two out of three isn't bad."

A slight movement caught his eye—Tim was holding up a familiar-looking sneaker. "You mean this shoe?"

"How did you—"

"While you were distracting Twitch, I checked the alley behind the shop. Your muggers apparently discarded it after realizing one shoe isn't particularly valuable."

Peter took the shoe reverently. "You beautiful, wonderful bird person. I could kiss you right now."

"Please don't," Tim said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Peter declared, sitting down to put his recovered shoe on. "Spider-Man and Robin, working together to fight crime and recover footwear."

"I think you mean Robin and Spider-Man."

"Nope. My name definitely comes first."

———

Three hours later, Peter found himself perched on a gargoyle overlooking Gotham Harbor, his backpack retrieved (minus twenty dollars but with his Spider-Man suit intact), both shoes on his feet, and a newfound appreciation for Tim Drake's detective skills.

"So," Peter said as they watched the first hints of dawn breaking over the skyline. "Does this mean I'm an honorary Bat-family member now? Do I get a cool signal? Or at least a membership card?"

Tim snorted. "Don't push it, Spider-Boy."

"It's Spider-Man!"

"Not with that backpack full of Hello Kitty pencil cases, it isn't."

"It was on sale!"

Tim laughed, a genuine sound that echoed across the rooftops. "You know, Parker, you're not half bad. For a New Yorker."

"And you're not half bad either. For a guy dressed like a traffic light."

"Says the human arachnid in homemade spandex."

"It's not spandex! It's a breathable polymer blend with enhanced durability and—you know what? Never mind."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching as the city slowly woke up beneath them.

"I should get going," Peter said eventually. "Bus back to New York leaves in a couple hours, and I need to at least try to get some sleep before I face Jameson's wrath over my distinct lack of Batman photos."

"You got some good shots of Robin, though," Tim pointed out. "Surely that counts for something."

"You clearly don't know Jameson. He'll probably accuse me of colluding with the enemy."

"Aren't you?"

Peter grinned. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Tim pulled something from his utility belt—a small, sleek device that looked like a cross between a phone and a GPS tracker. "Here. If you're ever back in Gotham and need help—or just want to grab fries—use this. It's secure."

"Is this a Bat-phone? Am I getting a Bat-phone right now?"

"It's just a communicator."

"A Bat-communicator."

"If you call it that again, I'm taking it back."

Peter accepted the device, tucking it carefully into his backpack. "Thanks. And if you're ever in Queens and need someone to show you where to get the best sandwiches..."

"I know where you live, remember?"

Peter stared at him.

"Right. The background check. Still creepy."

As they prepared to part ways, Peter hesitated. "Hey, Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"This was... not terrible. The almost-getting-my-identity-exposed part and mugged in the most embarrassing way possible was pretty bad, but the rest was actually kind of cool."

Tim smiled. "Yeah. Not terrible at all."

"Next time, I'll try to keep both my shoes and your secret identity intact."

"And I'll try not to run a full background check before saying hello."

Peter extended his hand, and this time, Tim took it without hesitation.

"Until next time, Bird Boy."

"It's Robin!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude."

With a mock salute, Peter leapt off the gargoyle, swinging into the Gotham night. Behind him, he could have sworn he heard a quiet laugh—the sound of another teenage vigilante who, just maybe, wasn't so different from himself after all.

For all its darkness and danger, Gotham had given him something unexpected tonight—a reminder that he wasn't the only one trying to balance being a teenager with being a hero. And maybe, just maybe, a friend who understood exactly what that felt like.

Even if that friend did have questionable taste in bird-themed costumes.

———

In the dark shadows across from the diner, a figure watched silently as the two teenage vigilantes disappeared into the night, an unlikely friendship forming against the backdrop of Gotham's gothic skyline.

Batman frowned. This wasn't part of the plan. The Parker kid was supposed to be monitored, not befriended. Now he'd have to add another superhero to the 'potential allies/threats' database. And worse—he'd probably have to deal with Tony Stark calling to gloat about his protégé's networking skills.

With a sigh that was barely audible, he melted back into the shadows. Let the kids have their fun. For now.

He'd be watching. He was always watching.

———

Back in New York, Tony Stark's phone buzzed with an automated alert. The GPS tracker he'd secretly installed in Peter's camera had spent forty-five minutes in a Gotham diner, in the company of a signal matching Robin's comm frequency.

Tony smirked. "FRIDAY, send a congratulatory fruit basket to Wayne Manor. Something expensive with a note that says 'Our kids are playing nicely. Try to keep up.'"

"Are you sure that's wise, boss?" the AI responded.

"Absolutely not," Tony replied cheerfully. "That's what makes it fun."

Chapter Text

Tim Drake's morning had started like most others: with way too little sleep. 

He'd been up until 4 AM analyzing crime pattern data, squeezing in a meager three hours of rest before his alarm blared at 7. Now, settled in the Cave's auxiliary monitoring station (what he privately called his "homework nook"), he nursed his third cup of coffee while reviewing the overnight activity logs. The holographic displays cast a blue glow across his tired face as he scrolled through reports from across Gotham, noting patterns that others might miss.

"Master Timothy," Alfred's voice cut through his focus, the butler's footsteps almost silent on the Cave's stone floor. "I believe we had an agreement about proper sleep schedules."

Tim didn't look up from his screens, fingers continuing to dance across the keyboard. "We had a suggestion about proper sleep schedules, Alfred. Not an agreement."

"Six hours minimum," Alfred reminded him, placing a plate of toast and eggs beside his keyboard with practiced precision. The aroma of perfectly cooked food momentarily distracted Tim from his work. "Non-negotiable for growing vigilantes."

"I got three," Tim countered, reaching for the toast without taking his eyes off the data streams. "That's half credit."

"Master Bruce will be most displeased."

Tim snorted. "Bruce got two hours last night and we both know it."

Alfred's silence was confirmation enough. Tim took a triumphant bite of toast, only to receive a pointed look that somehow made him feel guilty despite his technical victory.

"The Visitor Protocol pinged," Tim said, changing the subject as he tapped a few keys to bring up a new screen. "Daily Bugle photographer arrived yesterday. Parker, Peter. Age seventeen. From Queens."

Alfred peered at the screen. "Is this standard protocol for all press visitors now?"

"Only the ones working for J. Jonah Jameson," Tim replied, scrolling through data. "The man's on a crusade against masks. Bruce wants us to monitor anyone he sends to Gotham."

"And this warrants your personal attention because...?"

Tim pulled up a grainy YouTube video showing a red and blue figure catching a speeding car with his bare hands. "Because our photographer might be more than he appears."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You believe this Parker boy is the Spider-Man?"

“There’s a chance. The timing fits. The build fits. And his background checks all the boxes—orphaned, lives with his aunt, genius-level intellect with a focus on chemistry, sporadic attendance record despite perfect grades." Tim sipped his coffee. "Plus, he's the only one who ever gets clear photos of Spider-Man."

"Many photographers specialize in particular subjects."

"True. But how many of them were bitten by a radioactive spider at Oscorp during a field trip right before Spider-Man appeared?" Tim countered, pulling up Peter's medical records. "Hospital visit for 'unexplained fever and severe flu-like symptoms' the day after the Oscorp trip. Then suddenly he's acing physical education after being asthmatic his whole life."

Alfred's expression remained neutral, but Tim could see the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes that meant he was impressed. "I see. And have you shared this theory with Master Bruce?"

"Not yet." Tim closed the file. "I want to confirm it first."

"Indeed. And your plan for today includes...?"

"Standard surveillance. Parker's here for Batman photos—probably trying to catch him doing something Jameson can spin as menacing." Tim shrugged. "I'll keep tabs on him, make sure he doesn't stumble into anything dangerous."

"Very thoughtful of you to concern yourself with his safety."

Tim recognized the dry tone. "It's protocol."

"Of course it is, Master Timothy." Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder. "I've added more protein to your lunch. Surveilling potential meta-humans is hungry work, I imagine."

As Alfred departed, Tim returned to the screens, pulling up Parker's real-time location. The photographer had already had breakfast at a diner near his motel (five pancakes, two orders of bacon, and orange juice—either the kid was carb-loading or had an enhanced metabolism), visited the Gotham Museum of History (spending an unusual amount of time studying the gargoyle exhibit), and was now setting up camera equipment on a rooftop with optimal views of the GCPD building.

"Smart," Tim muttered, zooming in on Parker's face. "Batman visits Gordon at least three times a week."

The kid looked ordinary enough—tousled brown hair, earnest expression, the awkward posture of someone trying not to be noticed. Hardly threatening. But then again, Tim knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be. After all, no one expected Tim Drake, nerdy high school student, to be Robin, the Boy Wonder who regularly took down criminals twice his size.

"Let's see what you're really up to, Peter Parker."

———

By mid-afternoon, Tim was fairly certain of three things:

1. Peter Parker was about 90% likely to be Spider-Man.
2. Peter Parker was absolutely terrible at keeping a low profile.
3. Peter Parker might actually be the unluckiest person in Gotham.

In just six hours, the photographer had:

• Nearly been pickpocketed (twice)
• Almost walked into a drug deal
• Gotten lost in the East End
• Been cursed at by three different taxi drivers
• Had his lunch stolen by Gotham's most aggressive pigeons
• Tripped into a newsstand while (apparently) trying to avoid a stray cat

All while taking photos of random gargoyles, fire escapes, and shadowy alleys that might conceivably be Batman's patrol route.

"Is he really this uncoordinated, or is it an act?" Tim wondered aloud, watching as Parker fumbled with his camera lens, nearly dropping it off the edge of the building he was currently perched on.

The pattern was odd—moments of perfect balance and agility followed by bumbling clumsiness. 

Fascinating.

Tim checked his watch. Almost time for training with Damian, which promised to be the usual delightful combination of physical exertion and verbal abuse. He'd pick up Parker's trail again tonight during patrol.

Closing the surveillance feed, Tim couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with the photographer from Queens. Another teenager balancing an impossible double life, hiding extraordinary abilities behind an ordinary facade.

Perhaps, in another world, they might have been friends.

But this was Gotham. And in Gotham, you never trusted strangers—especially ones who worked for J. Jonah Jameson.

———

"You're distracted."

Damian's accusation came right before a kick that nearly connected with Tim's jaw. He ducked just in time, using the momentum to roll backward and create distance between them. The training room's padded floor absorbed the impact, but Tim's pride wasn't so easily protected.

"I'm multitasking," Tim corrected, falling back into a defensive stance. "There's a difference."

"Tt." Damian advanced with precise footwork that belied his age, eyes narrowed with predatory focus. "Your form is sloppy today. You're thinking about the supposed Spider-boy, aren't you?"

Tim blocked a flurry of strikes, retaliating with a sweep that Damian easily avoided. The youngest Wayne moved like he'd been born fighting—which, considering his upbringing with the League of Assassins, wasn't far from the truth. "How do you know about that?"

"I read your surveillance notes," Damian replied casually, as if invading Tim's private files was perfectly normal. Which, for Damian, it probably was. "Your analysis lacks depth. The spider-powers are clearly mutagenic, not technological."

"I'm aware," Tim grunted, narrowly avoiding another strike that would have left a bruise for days. Sweat dripped down his temple as he countered with a combination Bruce had taught him last month. "I was focusing on confirming his cover identity, not the origin of his abilities."

"Irrelevant. Father would want a comprehensive threat assessment."

Tim managed to land a glancing blow to Damian's shoulder, earning a grudging nod of approval from his younger brother. Even a small victory against the assassin-trained Robin felt like an achievement. "Spider-Man isn't a threat. He stops muggers and helps old ladies cross the street."

"Anyone with superhuman abilities is a potential threat, Drake. Your sentimentality clouds your judgment." Damian's tone was dismissive, but there was something almost teasing in it—or as close to teasing as Damian ever got.

"Says the kid who adopts every stray animal in a five-mile radius."

Damian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Animals are pure. People are not."

Tim couldn't argue with that logic—not when it came from a kid who'd seen the darkest side of humanity before he could ride a bike. Instead, he shifted the subject, using a feint to create space between them. "I'm going to tail him tonight. See if he's really just here for photos."

"I could eliminate him quite easily," Damian offered, with the casual air of someone suggesting they pick up milk from the store. "One dart, problem solved."

"We're not drugging and kidnapping a teenager from Queens," Tim sighed, stretching a sore muscle in his shoulder. "No matter how much you want to dissect his mutated DNA."

"Your loss," Damian shrugged, then proceeded to exploit Tim's momentary distraction with a lightning-fast combination that left Tim flat on his back, staring at the training room ceiling. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, a humbling reminder of just how dangerous his younger brother could be.

Damian stood over him, arms crossed and expression smug. "Perhaps you should focus on not getting yourself killed tonight, rather than babysitting some wall-crawler with an atrocious costume design."

Tim picked himself up, resisting the urge to rub what would definitely be a bruise tomorrow. "Your concern is touching."

"It's not concern," Damian sniffed, reaching for a towel. "It's practicality. If you die, I'll have to do all the surveillance myself."

"A fate worse than death, clearly."

"Precisely." Damian turned to leave, then paused at the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the hall light. "Drake."

"Yeah?"

"The Spider-boy's reflexes exceed normal human limitations by approximately 400%. Don't underestimate him because of his ridiculous banter."

Tim blinked, surprised by the genuine advice. Coming from Damian, it was practically a declaration of brotherly love. "I won't."

Damian nodded once, then departed, leaving Tim to wonder if he'd imagined the brief moment of actual brotherhood.

———

Patrol started routinely enough. Tim stopped two muggings in the financial district, interrupted a drug deal near the docks, and helped an elderly woman who'd locked herself out of her apartment. Standard Gotham night.

It wasn't until he was swinging past the Gothic Cathedral on 5th and Park that he spotted a familiar figure crouched on a ledge, camera raised toward the skyline. Peter Parker, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was balanced precariously on a gargoyle six stories up, was thoroughly focused on capturing the perfect shot of Gotham's night sky.

Tim perched on a nearby water tower, observing. No normal photographer would be able to maintain that position without climbing gear. The ease with which Parker moved along the narrow ledge, adjusting his angle without a hint of fear, further confirmed Tim's suspicions.

For fifteen minutes, Tim watched as Parker photographed the cityscape, occasionally performing feats of balance that would make most acrobats nervous. When Parker finally packed up and began making his way down—in an impressively agile descent that involved minimal use of the actual fire escape—Tim decided to follow.

Parker moved through the streets with the cautious awareness of someone used to being in dangerous situations, but there was still something undeniably touristy about him. He checked his phone map frequently, took wrong turns, and seemed fascinated by Gotham's architecture in a way locals never were. Despite his enhanced abilities (and Tim was now certain he had them), Parker was still very much an out-of-towner in unfamiliar territory.

When Parker turned down a particularly dark alley near Crime Alley, Tim's instincts kicked in. That route was a known hotspot for Twitch's crew—small-time thieves who preyed on tourists. He increased his pace, preparing to intervene.

But before he could, a group of figures emerged from the shadows, surrounding Parker. From his vantage point on the rooftop, Tim could see everything: the flash of a knife, a ridiculously reinforced selfie stick used as a weapon, and Parker's deer-in-headlights expression as he quickly stashed his camera behind a dumpster before being confronted.

What happened next was... confusing.

Instead of fighting back—which Tim was certain Parker could do—the photographer surrendered his backpack with only token resistance. He allowed himself to be shoved around, even losing a shoe in the process, before the muggers departed with their haul. The entire interaction lasted less than a minute, leaving Parker standing in the alley looking forlorn and oddly resigned.

It made no sense. If Parker was Spider-Man, he could have easily handled those thugs. Why pretend to be helpless?

Unless...

"Secret identity," Tim murmured to himself, understanding dawning. "He's protecting his cover."

It was a principle Tim understood all too well. Sometimes, maintaining your secret identity meant suffering indignities your heroic self would never tolerate. How many times had he, as Tim Drake, dodged out of dangerous situations he could have handled easily as Robin? How often had he played the part of the helpless civilian to protect the greater secret?

He watched as Parker retrieved his camera, examining it carefully before slipping it around his neck. The young photographer looked utterly dejected—standing in a Gotham alley with one bare foot, backpack gone, pride wounded.

Something about the scene struck Tim as both comical and strangely endearing. Here was someone who could probably bench-press a car, reduced to limping through Gotham with one shoe. Despite himself, Tim felt a twinge of sympathy.

He probably should have left it alone. Bruce would have advised observation only—gather intel, maintain distance, report back. But Bruce wasn't here, and Tim had always been more curious than cautious.

Decision made, Tim adjusted his position and prepared to make his entrance. This would either be a productive information-gathering mission or a terrible mistake. Possibly both.

As he swung between buildings, deliberately allowing himself to be spotted, Tim calculated the odds. Best case scenario: friendly exchange of information between vigilantes. Worst case: compromised identity and Batman's disapproval. So, pretty much a normal Tuesday in the life of Robin.

Parker raised his camera, capturing Tim in mid-swing. Perfect. Time to introduce himself to the photographer from Queens—and maybe, just maybe, to Spider-Man himself.

"You know, photography without permission is generally frowned upon in Gotham," Tim said as he landed, adopting the slightly deeper voice he used as Robin. The cape settled around his shoulders in what Dick had once called his "dramatic entrance pose." "Especially after dark."

The photographer looked up at him with what seemed like genuine awe—though there was something else in his expression that Tim couldn't quite place. Recognition? Assessment?

"I'm with the Daily Bugle," Parker replied, holding up his camera like a shield. "Just getting some shots for—"

"The Daily Bugle is publishing a piece on why vigilantes are a menace to society," Tim interrupted, crossing his arms. He'd done his homework. "I keep up with the news. Your editor has an... interesting perspective on mask-wearing individuals."

Parker winced, and Tim felt a small surge of satisfaction at having the upper hand. It was short-lived.

"Yeah, that's... that's Jameson's angle. Not mine," Parker said, lowering the camera. "I just take the pictures. I don't write the headlines."

Tim stepped closer, sizing up the photographer. In person, the resemblance to Spider-Man footage was even more striking—the lean build, the way he carried himself, the calculated casualness that didn't quite hide his physical capability.

"You're a long way from New York, photographer," Tim remarked, testing.

"How did you—"

"Your accent. Queens, if I'm not mistaken." Tim allowed himself a small smile behind his mask. Point: Robin.

"I'm Peter. Peter Parker." The photographer extended his hand, and Tim stared at it, momentarily caught off guard by the casual introduction. Most people didn't try to shake hands with vigilantes.

"You're missing a shoe," Tim observed instead, ignoring the handshake.

"Yeah, got mugged," Parker admitted, withdrawing his hand and glancing down at his sock-covered foot with a grimace. "Welcome to Gotham, right? Guess I should have stuck to the tourist areas."

Tim's posture shifted as concern outweighed suspicion. "You got mugged? Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine. Just bruised pride, mostly." Parker gestured to his sock, now thoroughly soaked. "And, uh, one shoe down. Plus my backpack with all my stuff. But hey, at least they didn't get my camera, so the trip wasn't a total loss."

The attempted cheerfulness in the face of misfortune was oddly charming. Despite his training to remain detached, Tim found himself warming to Parker. He seemed... genuine. Even while potentially hiding enhanced abilities.

"I'm Robin," Tim said, finally accepting the previously offered handshake. "But you already knew that." He kept his grip firm but controlled—no need to test strength just yet.

What happened next would replay in Tim's mind for days to come.

"Tim," Parker blurted out, then immediately froze, his eyes widening in what appeared to be genuine horror at what he'd just said. "I mean—I didn't say anything. Who's Tim? I don't know any Tim. Thin air. That's what I said. Thin air."

Tim's entire body tensed, hand automatically moving to his utility belt where he kept his collapsible bo staff. His mind raced through possibilities:

1. Parker was working for someone who knew his identity
2. This was an elaborate setup to expose him
3. The photographer had somehow recognized him despite the mask
4. Bruce was going to kill him

Every alarm bell in his head was ringing at maximum volume. This random spider photographer from New York knew his real name. The secret identity he'd protected through countless battles, interrogations, and close calls—just casually exposed in an alley by a guy missing one shoe.

"What did you just call me?" Tim asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Parker looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. "I—I think I'm hallucinating from hunger," he stammered. "Been a long day. Skipped lunch. And dinner. And now I'm making up names. Weird, right?"

It was the worst attempted cover-up Tim had ever heard, and he regularly dealt with Gotham criminals whose excuse for being found with stolen goods was "these fell into my bag."

"How do you know that name?" Tim demanded, fingers brushing a batarang.

Parker seemed to collect himself slightly, his expression shifting from panic to something more measured. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable—a glimpse of the hero behind the awkward facade. "The same way you know I'm from Queens, not just New York," he replied. "We both notice things others don't." He swallowed visibly. "I'm good with faces. Even partially covered ones."

Tim's mind raced through possible scenarios. Parker could be working for anyone—a villain, a rival vigilante, a tabloid seeking to expose Batman's team. But somehow, none of those options felt right. There was a directness to Parker's gaze that suggested he wasn't here to blackmail or threaten.

Still, protocol was protocol.

"Your camera," Tim said firmly. "Hand it over."

"No way," Parker clutched it protectively. "These are my shots. I need them for my job."

"I need to delete any photos that could compromise identities." Tim widened his stance, ready for resistance.

"There's nothing compromising! Just silhouettes and shadows! I'm a professional—I know what I'm doing!" Parker took a step back, his sock making a pathetic squishing sound against the pavement.

"No one at your age is a professional anything," Tim countered, reaching for the camera. Rich coming from him, he knew, but Parker didn't need to know that.

"Says the teenage sidekick!" Parker shot back, with surprising fire.

"Partner," Tim corrected automatically, lunging for the camera.

What happened next confirmed every suspicion Tim had harbored about Peter Parker.

Parker moved with inhuman speed, leaping straight up—not just jumping, but adhering to the brick wall five feet above the ground. The move was instinctive, clearly reflexive rather than calculated.

They stared at each other in mutual recognition of a pivotal mistake. Tim's heart raced—not with fear, but with the peculiar excitement of solving a puzzle. Tim's carefully constructed theories about Parker being Spider-Man were proven, but at the cost of his own secret identity.

"You're him," Tim said quietly, a mix of vindication and concern coloring his voice. "The spider guy from YouTube. The one who stopped that car with his bare hands."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Parker tried, still clinging effortlessly to the vertical wall.

Tim couldn't help the exasperation that crept into his voice. "You're literally hanging from a vertical wall right now."

Parker glanced at his hands as if just noticing this fact. "Would you believe it's a really good rock climbing technique?"

"No."

"Worth a shot," Parker sighed, sliding down to stand on the ground again. "And you're the world's second-greatest detective's sidekick."

"Partner," Tim corrected again, suppressing the automatic annoyance. "Not sidekick."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude." Parker shrugged with infuriating casualness.

They remained in tense silence, sizing each other up like boxers before a match. Tim ran through contingency plans rapidly—everything from calling Batman (embarrassing) to negotiating a mutual non-disclosure agreement (potentially effective) to faking his own death and assuming a new identity (extreme, but not off the table).

"So," Parker finally said, breaking the silence with awkward charm. "This is uncomfortable."

And just like that, the tension began to dissolve, replaced by the awkward camaraderie of two teenagers who'd accidentally stumbled into a mutual blackmail situation.

Tim felt his shoulders relax slightly. There was something disarmingly honest about Parker's demeanor. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone older. Less... talkative." Tim allowed himself a small smile. "Less likely to immediately expose my secret identity within seconds of meeting me."

Parker grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I get that a lot. The talking thing, not the exposing-secret-identities thing. That's new. Sorry about that. It just... slipped out?" He ran a hand through his hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I've never told anyone. About you, I mean. I just... noticed. And then forgot I noticed until right now."

Tim studied the other teenager carefully. Everything about Parker's body language suggested he was telling the truth. Besides, if he had wanted to expose Robin's identity, he would hardly have blurted it out accidentally to Robin's face.

Decision time. Bruce would advise caution, distance, formal agreements. But Tim wasn't Bruce.

"Look, I'm not going to expose you if you don't expose me," he said, relaxing his posture. "But I can't let you publish those photos if there's any chance they could connect dots."

"What if I show you the ones I plan to use? Professional courtesy between masked vigilantes?" Parker offered, holding up the camera. "You can veto anything that's too revealing."

"I'll even throw in my secret recipe for removing blood stains from spandex," he added with a grin before pausing. "That sounded less creepy in my head."

Despite himself, Tim felt a smile tugging at his lips. There was something undeniably charming about Parker's awkward enthusiasm. Plus, the offer was reasonable—mutually assured destruction combined with professional respect.

"There's a diner three blocks east that's open late," Tim found himself saying. "They won't question the costume—this is Gotham."

"Do they have fries? I'm starving. Being mugged really works up an appetite." Parker's stomach growled audibly. "Enhanced metabolism. It's a curse."

"Best in the city. Triple-fried and seasoned." Tim tilted his head slightly. "Enhanced metabolism, huh? That explains the five cheeseburgers."

Parker froze. "What five cheeseburgers?"

"The ones you had at Big Belly Burger when you first arrived in Gotham. Around 2 PM today. With the chocolate milkshake."

"Have... have you been following me?"

Tim shrugged, enjoying the momentary upper hand. "We monitor unusual visitors. Especially ones with press credentials who work for publications with anti-vigilante agendas."

"That's... invasive. And creepy," Parker said, looking genuinely disturbed. "Also impressive. But mostly creepy."

"Gotham," Tim replied simply. It really did explain everything.

Parker glanced down at his single shoe and soggy sock. "You think they have a no-shoes, no-service policy?"

Tim allowed himself a small smile. "I think we can make an exception for Spider-Man."

"Don't say that so loud!" Parker hissed, looking around the empty alley. "I have a secret identity crisis to maintain!"

"Says the guy who just called me by my real name in the middle of patrol."

"Touché, Bird Boy. Touché."

And with that, Tim found himself leading a one-shoed Spider-Man through the back alleys of Gotham, headed for a midnight snack with the last person he ever expected to befriend on patrol.

Bruce was going to kill him.

But somehow, as Parker chattered about horrible bosses and the indignity of being mugged by a selfie stick, Tim couldn't bring himself to care.

———

Twenty minutes later, Tim found himself in the strangest position he'd occupied in weeks (and that included hanging upside down from a chandelier while infiltrating a Two-Face hideout): sitting across from Spider-Man in a booth at Gotham Grill, sharing fries and reviewing photos of himself.

Doreen, the waitress who'd been working night shifts for as long as Tim had been coming here, approached with her usual unflappable demeanor. "The usual, Boy Wonder?" she asked, setting down water glasses.

"Please," Tim replied, momentarily forgetting that normal vigilantes didn't have "usuals" at local diners.

When Doreen returned to take their order, her gaze lingered on Parker's missing shoe. "First time in Gotham?" she asked.

"That obvious, huh?" Parker responded with a self-deprecating smile.

"The one shoe gives it away. Most tourists lose both or none." She glanced at Tim. "He with you?"

Tim nodded, making a split-second decision. "He's... a colleague. From out of town."

"New York," she guessed immediately, and Tim watched Parker's eyes widen in surprise.

"I'm from the Bronx," Doreen explained, tapping her name tag. "I can smell a New Yorker from across the room."

"Queens," Parker admitted.

"Thought so. You've got that Queens look about you." She turned to Tim. "You vouching for him?"

Tim gave a curt nod, the implication clear. Doreen ran interference for Gotham's vigilantes as needed—an unofficial ally who asked no questions but offered subtle protection. If Tim vouched for Parker, he was under the same umbrella of discretion.

"Double order of the special fries and two chocolate shakes, then?" she asked.

"And a burger," Parker added quickly. "With everything. And maybe some onion rings?"

"Growing boy," Doreen said knowingly. "Got it."

As she walked away, Parker leaned across the table. "Does everyone in this city know everyone else's business?"

"Pretty much," Tim replied honestly. "It's either incredibly convenient or extremely annoying, depending on the day."

The food arrived promptly—a mountain of fries, Parker's burger towering with toppings, and a side of crispy onion rings. Tim watched with fascination as Parker began demolishing the food with the efficiency of someone who genuinely needed the calories.

"This one's actually good," Tim commented, pointing to a silhouette shot that captured his movement between buildings while maintaining the anonymity that Batman insisted upon. "You can tell it's me, but not... me."

"Told you I know what I'm doing," Parker replied, mouth half-full of burger. "Been photographing myself for years. It's all about the angles and lighting."

"That's... kind of weird when you say it out loud."

"Tell me about it. Try explaining expense reports to yourself. 'Dear Mr. Jameson, please reimburse me for the bus fare I took to photograph myself flying through the air.'"

Tim laughed genuinely, then caught himself, remembering that he was supposed to be the serious one. Batman would definitely not approve of him sitting in a diner sharing jokes with an unknown meta-human. "Batman would kill me if he knew I was doing this."

"He actually kills people? I thought that was just a rumor," Parker said with mock seriousness, then backpedaled when he saw Tim's expression. "Joke! That was a joke! We don't kill people. Obviously. Bad guy rule number one."

"Funny," Tim said dryly, though he was more amused than annoyed. "And no, he doesn't kill people. But he's not exactly known for his sense of humor."

"Mr. Stark would probably make some quip about a playdate and then secretly run background checks on your entire family," Parker said, sipping his milkshake.

"Too late," Tim muttered before he could stop himself. "Already did that on yours."

Parker choked on his milkshake. "You what?"

"After I spotted you taking photos earlier today. Standard procedure." Tim shrugged, trying to play it cool while dunking a fry in ketchup. "Your academic record is impressive, by the way. Especially in science."

"Dude! Boundaries!" Parker spluttered. "You can't just background check people you've never met!"

"Says the guy who somehow figured out my identity just by looking at my chin."

"That was an accident! I'm just observant!"

"So am I."

They stared at each other again, but the hostility had transformed into something closer to mutual respect mixed with embarrassment.

"Your aunt seems nice," Tim offered, breaking the tension. "Great community service record."

Parker groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is the most awkward encounter I've ever had in my life. And I once had to ask a girl to homecoming while wearing only a towel in the school gym locker room."

"That... sounds like a story."

"It involved a chemical spill, three fire alarms, and Flash Thompson's gym shorts. I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"Same," Tim admitted, surprising himself with his candor. "About this being awkward, not the gym shorts thing. But at least neither of us has to fake a death and assume a new identity."

"You considered that option too?"

"Briefly. Seemed drastic. But I did run through thirteen contingency plans in my head when you said my name."

"Only thirteen? Amateur." Parker grinned, a genuine expression that transformed his face. "I was on contingency twenty-six, which involved faking my own kidnapping by an interdimensional being."

"Completely drastic," Tim agreed, feeling more relaxed than he had all day. "Though I was about 73% sure it was my only option."

"That's my percentage!" Parker exclaimed. "Are you stealing my very specific statistical anxieties?"

Tim smiled—a real smile, not the calculated one he used during undercover work. "Great minds calculate oddly specific probabilities alike."

"Good thing we're both terrible at keeping secrets," Parker said, stealing the last fry from the plate.

"Speak for yourself," Tim protested reflexively. "I'm excellent at secret-keeping. Batman hasn't fired me yet."

"You literally acknowledged who you were within thirty seconds of me slipping up."

"That was... okay, fair point. But in my defense, you threw me off by being Spider-Man."

"What, you were expecting someone cooler? More impressive? Less likely to lose a shoe to muggers?"

"Someone who doesn't take selfies while fighting crime, maybe."

The conversation flowed with surprising ease—a rhythm of banter and information exchange that felt almost... normal. Tim hadn't realized how rarely he interacted with people his own age who understood both sides of his life. Dick was older, Stephanie was complicated, and Jason was, well, Jason. Damian didn't even make the list of options. 

"So," Parker said, pushing the empty plate aside and slurping the last of his milkshake. "Any chance you could help me find my other shoe? And maybe my backpack? It has my suit and my emergency twenty dollars and my chemistry homework."

Tim considered the request. Helping Parker recover his belongings would be simple enough, and it provided an opportunity to gather more information about Spider-Man's abilities. "I think I can manage that. I am a detective, after all. World's second-greatest, as you pointed out."

"Great," Parker grinned. "And maybe afterward, you could show me some of Gotham's better angles? For my portfolio, of course. And because I'm pretty sure I'll get lost again if left to my own devices."

"Only if you tell me how those web-shooters work," Tim countered, his curiosity about the technology genuinely piqued. "Batman's been trying to reverse-engineer the formula for months."

"Wait, what?" Parker's eyes widened comically. "Batman's been studying my web fluid?"

"Don't look so shocked. You're on his radar. All meta-humans are."

"I'm not a meta-human! I was bitten by a radioactive spider!"

"That... definitely makes you a meta-human," Tim replied, bemused by Parker's indignation.

"Says who? The classification committee for people with weird powers?"

"Actually, yes," Tim said seriously, enjoying the look of disbelief spreading across Parker's face. "There's a database."

"You're joking."

"I'm not." Tim leaned back in the booth. "We keep track of these things. For safety reasons."

"That's... somehow even creepier than you knowing about my cheeseburgers."

"Deal with it." Tim stood up, dropping enough cash on the table to cover their bill and a generous tip despite Doreen's protests. "Now, about that backpack. I think I know who might have taken it. Small-time muggers usually have a fence they sell to, and there's only three or four operating in this part of Gotham right now."

"Let me guess," Parker sighed, following him out of the booth. "We're going to go dangle someone off a rooftop until they talk?"

"That's more Batman's style," Tim replied, heading for the door. "I prefer a more subtle approach."

"Such as?"

Tim considered their options. "How's your acting?"

Parker grinned, eyes lighting up with mischief. "Depends. Am I playing the charming, sophisticated hero or the ditzy, helpless tourist?"

"Definitely the second one."

"Deal. But you have to promise not to actually make any web fluid if I tell you the formula. I've got patents pending."

"Patents? Under Spider-Man's name?"

"It's... complicated. Let's just say my lawyer is very blind to certain details."

Tim filed that information away for later investigation. A blind lawyer involved with Spider-Man's legal affairs was too specific to be a random comment. He could practically hear Batman's voice in his head: Every detail matters.

As they left the diner, Tim found himself genuinely smiling for the second time that night—a rare occurrence while in costume. Maybe this unexpected meeting wasn't a security breach after all. Maybe it was... an alliance. Or something close to friendship.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what Bruce would make of tonight's events. Another vigilante in his city, a compromised identity, and Tim sharing those incredible fries he usually saved for post-patrol comfort food. He'd probably need to submit a ten-page report just on the security implications alone.

At least the fries had been worth it.

———

Twenty minutes later, they crouched on a rooftop overlooking "Gotham Gold & Goods," one of Twitch's many pawn shop fronts. Tim had been tracking Twitch's operation for weeks now, gathering evidence for a larger case Batman was building against one of the Penguin's money laundering operations. The pawn shop was just a small piece of the puzzle, but it would serve their immediate needs.

"So what's the plan?" Parker asked, surveying the building with a practiced eye that told Tim this wasn't his first stakeout.

"Your muggers work for a guy named Twitch," Tim explained, switching to what Dick called his 'mission voice.' "He runs this pawn shop as a front for selling stolen goods. Electronics, jewelry, wallets—anything that can be flipped quickly."

"And my one shoe?" Peter asked, looking doubtful.

Tim couldn't help the slight quirk of his lips. "Probably not worth the effort, but your phone and backpack should be inside."

He watched as Peter nodded, scanning the building with surprising thoroughness. "So we just go in and ask nicely?"

"Not exactly." Tim pulled a compact surveillance device from his belt—one of the newer models Bruce had developed that could penetrate most standard building materials. "We need to be strategic. Twitch knows Robin, but he doesn't know you."

"I'm just the poor tourist from Queens who got mugged," Peter said, catching on quickly. "And you're..."

"Not here," Tim finished, setting up the device. "I'll be watching from up here. You go in, play the lost tourist, see what you can find out. If things go south, I'll intervene."

Peter glanced down at his mismatched feet. "I think I can sell the 'pathetic tourist' angle pretty convincingly."

"Just don't drop any names this time," Tim warned, still not entirely over the shock of hearing his civilian name from a complete stranger. "Especially not mine."

"One identity crisis per night is my limit," Peter agreed with a smile that was somehow both self-deprecating and confident.

As Parker climbed down the fire escape, Tim activated the surveillance device, bringing up a clear image of the shop's interior on his wrist computer. Watching the Queens photographer slouch his shoulders and adopt a more vulnerable posture as he entered the shop was fascinating—it was like watching a completely different person emerge. Gone was the wisecracking vigilante, replaced by a nervous teenager who looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.

Not bad, Tim thought grudgingly. Batman would approve of the transformation.

Through the audio feed, Tim could hear every word of the exchange. Parker's performance was convincing—just the right amount of desperation mixed with naivety. The mention of homework and a chemistry project was a nice touch. Personal details always made a cover story more believable.

When Peter turned to leave and casually dropped Batman's name, Tim nearly choked. It was bold, maybe too bold, but he had to admit it was effective. Twitch's reaction was immediate, his fear of the Dark Knight overriding any business sense.

Strategic intimidation through name-dropping, Parker had called it later. Tim made a mental note to remember that one.

While Peter kept Twitch distracted inside, Tim slipped down the back of the building and into the alley behind the pawn shop. Sure enough, lying discarded near a dumpster was one pitiful-looking sneaker. Tim picked it up, wrinkling his nose slightly at the dampness, and made his way back to the rooftop just as Peter was exiting the shop.

The look of genuine joy on Parker's face when Tim produced the recovered shoe was almost comical. "You beautiful, wonderful bird person. I could kiss you right now."

"Please don't," Tim replied dryly, though he couldn't entirely suppress the slight upward twitch of his mouth. There was something infectious about Parker's enthusiasm, even if it was just over a damp sneaker.

"This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Peter declared as he put his recovered shoe on. "Spider-Man and Robin, working together to fight crime and recover footwear."

"I think you mean Robin and Spider-Man," Tim corrected automatically. Order mattered in Gotham.

"Nope. My name definitely comes first."

Tim couldn’t stop the easy grin that spread across his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bantered so easily with someone he'd just met. Even within the Bat-family, there was usually an underlying tension, a constant awareness of the mission. Parker seemed to operate differently—like he could be both deadly serious about heroics and genuinely amused by the absurdity of it all at the same time.

"Come on," Tim said, gesturing toward the harbor. "I know a place with a good view of the sunrise."

———

"So," Peter said as they perched on a gargoyle overlooking Gotham Harbor three hours later, "does this mean I'm an honorary Bat-family member now? Do I get a cool signal? Or at least a membership card?"

Tim snorted, the sound escaping before he could stop it. "Don't push it, Spider-Boy."

"It's Spider-Man!"

"Not with that backpack full of Hello Kitty pencil cases, it isn't."

"It was on sale!"

Tim laughed, the sound echoing across the rooftops, surprising even himself. When was the last time he'd actually laughed while in costume? Steph would never believe it.

"You know, Parker, you're not half bad. For a New Yorker."

"And you're not half bad either. For a guy dressed like a traffic light."

"Says the human arachnid in homemade spandex."

"It's not spandex! It's a breathable polymer blend with enhanced durability and—you know what? Never mind."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching as the city slowly transformed in the early morning light. Gotham at dawn was different—softer somehow, the harsh angles and shadows giving way to a gentler palette of pinks and golds. Most people never saw the city like this. Most people never sat on gargoyles with inter-city vigilantes, either.

"I should get going," Peter said eventually. "Bus back to New York leaves in a couple hours, and I need to at least try to get some sleep before I face Jameson's wrath over my distinct lack of Batman photos."

"You got some good shots of Robin, though," Tim pointed out. "Surely that counts for something."

"You clearly don't know Jameson. He'll probably accuse me of colluding with the enemy."

"Aren't you?"

Peter grinned. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Tim hesitated, then made a decision Bruce would probably disapprove of. He pulled one of his spare communicators from his belt—the untraceable ones, with multiple layers of encryption that he'd personally enhanced. "Here. If you're ever back in Gotham and need help—or just want to grab fries—use this. It's secure."

"Is this a Bat-phone? Am I getting a Bat-phone right now?"

Tim fought the urge to roll his eyes. "It's just a communicator."

"A Bat-communicator."

"If you call it that again, I'm taking it back."

Parker accepted the device with more reverence than it warranted, tucking it carefully into his backpack. "Thanks. And if you're ever in Queens and need someone to show you where to get the best sandwiches..."

"I know where you live, remember?"

The look on Peter's face was priceless.

"Right. The background check. Still creepy."

As they prepared to part ways, Peter hesitated. "Hey, Tim?"

Something about hearing his name without the usual weight of secrecy felt strange. "Yeah?"

"This was... not terrible. The almost-getting-my-identity-exposed part and mugged in the most embarrassing way possible was pretty bad, but the rest was actually kind of cool."

Tim smiled, a genuine one this time. "Yeah. Not terrible at all."

"Next time, I'll try to keep both my shoes and your secret identity intact."

"And I'll try not to run a full background check before saying hello."

Peter extended his hand, and Tim took it without hesitation. There was something reassuring in the firm grip—the understanding that passes between people who carry the same kind of burdens, even if they carry them differently.

"Until next time, Bird Boy."

"It's Robin!" Tim protested, though without any real annoyance.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude."

With a mock salute, Parker leapt off the gargoyle with surprising grace, shooting a web toward a nearby building and swinging away into the lightening Gotham sky. Tim watched him go, already mentally composing the heavily edited report he'd give to Bruce later.

Spider-Man. Threat assessment: Minimal. Identity: Secured. Potential alliance: Worth exploring.

He'd leave out the part about the identity slip-up. And the diner fries. And probably the communicator.

As he turned to head back to the Cave, Tim sensed a familiar presence in the shadows of a nearby building. Of course Batman had been watching. Batman was always watching.

Tim sighed. His report just got a lot more complicated.

Correction: Spider-Man. Threat assessment: Minimal. Identity: Secured. Potential alliance: Worth exploring. Current status: Known to Batman.

He'd deal with the interrogation later. For now, he had patrol logs to write up, case files to update, and—if he hurried—maybe two hours of sleep before his 9 AM meeting at Wayne Enterprises. Just another typical day in the life of Tim Drake, high school student, Wayne Enterprises intern, and secret vigilante with a growing collection of equally strange friends.

———

In his private office at Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne frowned at the alert that had just appeared on his secure tablet. Someone had accessed the Bat-Computer's files on Spider-Man multiple times over the past few hours. Tim, no doubt, updating his research after tonight's unexpected encounter.

What concerned him more was the separate alert indicating that Tony Stark had sent a message—a digital notification of an incoming delivery to Wayne Manor. A fruit basket, according to Alfred's forwarded text, with a note that read: "Our kids are playing nicely. Try to keep up."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming. Just what he needed—Tony Stark feeling smug about their protégés forming an alliance.

"Alfred," he spoke into his comm, "prepare a response to Stark's... gesture."

"I've taken the liberty of selecting an appropriate gift basket in return, sir," Alfred's crisp voice replied. "Shall I include the usual terse note, or would you prefer something more accommodating given the circumstances?"

Bruce considered this. Tim had seemed... lighter after his night with Parker. Less burdened. More like the teenager he sometimes forgot his partner still was.

"Something diplomatic," Bruce decided. "But make it clear that Gotham remains our territory."

"Of course, sir. And the fruit basket?"

"Send it to Ms. Potts. She's the only one there with any taste."

"Very good, sir. And may I suggest, perhaps young Master Tim's new friendship might not be entirely disadvantageous? The boy could use more associates his own age. Particularly ones who understand his... nighttime activities."

Bruce grunted noncommittally, but didn't disagree. Alfred, as usual, had a point.

"Just make sure Stark knows this doesn't mean I'm joining his little club."

"I believe the phrase 'when hell freezes over' conveys that sentiment quite effectively, sir."

Bruce almost smiled. "Perfect."

As he closed the connection, he glanced one more time at the security footage from the diner—two teenage vigilantes sharing fries, gesturing animatedly, looking for all the world like normal kids having a late-night snack.

Perhaps Alfred was right. Perhaps this unexpected alliance wasn't the security risk he'd initially categorized it as.

Though he'd still be monitoring all communications between Robin and Spider-Man. Just to be safe.

After all, he was Batman.