Chapter Text
Peter wakes up groggily, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. His body aches with bruises and scrapes, trophies from his action packed previous night. He hadn’t meant to get involved with anything again; he’d only gone out because four nights in Selina’s safe house had left him feeling cooped up and stir-crazy. He’d only meant to go stretch his legs from the safety of Gotham rooftops.
Still, when he’d come across some thugs ganging up on a street kid, he’d had to intervene. Just this once, he’d told himself, he’d promised. It was too dangerous, and drew too much attention. Plus, he’d told himself he’d left his double life behind him.
You’re not a hero, and you’re not Spider-man, he’d thought angrily. Not anymore.
It’s still early, Peter notes. He’s only managed to catch a few hours of sleep. Still, he feels more rested than he has in a long time. With weary legs, he pulls himself out of bed and towards Selina’s quaint bathroom.
It’s been nine days since Selina had lent her safehouse to Peter, four days since he started using it full time, and two days since she last made good on her promise of stopping by.
Sometimes, she just slips in when Peter’s out, leaving no trace but a freshly stocked fridge and neatly folded laundry or medical supplies. (He knows the random appearance of protein bars, fuzzy socks, and a brand new lock picking set are tokens from her secret visits).
Sometimes, she simply waltzes in like there’s no houseguest at all, grabbing emergency supplies or tending to small wounds, before slipping out as quietly as she came. Other times, she’ll wordlessly lay out some sort of device, silently teaching Peter to seamlessly disassemble and reassemble them; a basic security sensor and camera, handcuffs, or various locks.
“In case Gotham decides she doesn’t like you.” she’d said once, and then she’d left.
But his favorite, he’s quickly come to realize, is when she stops by out of her suit. Not as Catwoman, but just as Selina Kyle.
She simply prances in the front door, pulls off that long blonde wig, and sets about business; filling out paperwork, mapping out patrol routes, or whatever else she has planned. They rarely exchanged more than cursory greetings, just moving around the small apartment in comfortable silence.
After her work, she’d quietly make her way to the kitchen and cook a quick meal, mindful to always place a serving for Peter across from where she sits, but never pressuring him to join her, or even acknowledging when he does. Peter prefers that. He likes the company.
Wow, that makes him sound pathetically lonely.
Peter rinses his face with cold water, eyeing the deep purple bruises marring his left cheek, where he’d taken a particularly nasty elbow to the face. That, combined with his sunken cheeks and tattered clothes, even he can tell he’s a sorry sight.
With a deep, grounding breath, Peter pulls up his top lip and, not for the first time, studies the change in his anatomy. Despite bracing himself for what he knows he’ll see, it still feels surreal, and a little scary.
Both the canines on his upper and lower teeth have sharpened profusely. When he’s startled or angry or frightened, he’s discovered they protrude even further, giving him an animalistic, almost feral look when he bares his teeth. And although at rest, they’re not too fistincy from a regular human’s teeth, the difference is enough to make Peter feel sick.
It’s hard to reconcile his new appearance with the one he has in his head. He looks scary, more animal than human, and the thought of that terrifies him to his core. He’s not the comforting, confidence inspiring friendly neighborhood Spider-man he’d dedicated so many hours to. He’s not the curious, bright eyed kid from Queens Aunt May constantly fawned over.
He’s jaded, dull eyed and distrustful, far from the starry eyed nephew his aunt loved so much. A part of him wonders if she’d even recognize him now. If she could love this new, bitter version of him the same way she loved him before. The thought makes his stomach lurch and his eyes sting.
He tears his eyes away from the mirror.
Next, Peter examines another change in his anatomy, one he’s gotten much more familiar with the past few weeks. About three fingers above his wrist lie small, unobtrusive holes in his skin. Web glands, he had realized almost immediately. Specifically, two glands on each of his wrists.
Now, as he examines them, he notes that they look much better than before. They’re no longer red and raw and visibly irritated, and they don’t hurt to push on like before. Instead of a slight stinging pain, touching the glands just makes Peter feel generally uncomfortable.
He’s spent the last few days testing out his new abilities, with enough scientific precision to make Tony Stark proud. He’s learned that
He’s cold all the time.
His senses have increased tenfold, and are much more sensitive than before. Of these, his hearing and sense of smell are especially strong.
His spider sense is beginning to acclimate to this new universe, doing a much more reliable job warning him not only of danger, but the general size and direction it comes from.
He can produce two types of webs, which he’d learned the hard way. The first type, a strong, thicker silk not sticky to the touch. This, he’d found, was best for swinging around and supporting his weight. The second, a thinner, sticky string that, although still quite strong, was not the most reliable for fast travel through Gotham’s skyline. It was, however, great for webbing up criminals. With lots of rigorous practice, Peter can confidently say he’s mastered the art of seamlessly switching between the two silks, and can even shoot the two together, making a versatile web suitable for both strength and grip.
(He’s chosen to focus as much energy on these changes, to prevent his mind from wandering someplace darker).
When Peter leaves the bathroom, he’s startled to find Selina perched atop the rickety dining room table, dressed in her civvies.
Silently, she scans the room. He watches her eyes as she spots the messy pile of blankets on the pull out couch, before flickering back to him: the dark circles under his eyes, his scraped knuckles, and the too rigid way he stands. She doesn’t ask what he’s done. She never does. Instead she simply states:
“You’ve been going out.” The words aren’t pointed or upset, but they still feel like an accusation.
“I didn’t get caught.” He pauses, weighing the risk of his next words carefully. “I won’t stop.”
“Didn’t say you did. Didn’t say you should.” With no warning, she tosses him a bag, which Peter catches and immediately rifles through.
Instead of food, like he’s expecting, Peter pulls out a black suit and pair of goggles. At first glance, he’d thought it was Selina’s catsuit, but that’s not quite right. It’s too small to be hers, and the goggles are wrong. With startling clarity, he realizes it’s for him. She seems to predict his panic.
“Relax, kid. I’m not asking you to join me or anything. You don’t even have to use it. But if you’re gonna keep running around Gotham playing hero, I’d rather you not do it looking like a target.”
“I’m not a hero.” He snarls, but he knows she’s right about the suit. Just from a cursory glance, he can tell right away the suit is nice; nicer, by far, than any suit he’s ever had.
It's a thick black material, obviously sturdy but still surprisingly flexible. There’s a black face mask that pulls over his head, reminiscent of Selina’s own. It slips under his bangs, covering the top part of his face, but leaving his eyes exposed similar to her cat mask. Under his eyes, however, even with the lower half of his nose, are two fang-like designs pointing down from the mask. The goggles, big and round and reddish orange, are completely opaque from the outside, with a faint pattern reminding Peter of a bug’s eyes.
“I took some creative liberties. Got to have my fun somehow. You like the claws?” Peter pushes the suit back in the bag, but he doesn’t hand it back to her. She seems to take that as a win, as she turns towards the door to leave. But, she pauses, hand loosely gripping the door knob as she turns to address him once more.
“You’re right. You’re not a hero.” She states firmly, and Peter tenses, shoulders drawing up, not sure what point she’s trying to make. Not sure he wants to hear it.
“You’re a kid,” she continues, voice firm. “And no kid should have to be a hero. Not ever.”
She steps closer, and for once, Peter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or bare his teeth or shift his weight like he’s about to bolt. He simply meets her eyes, bright with conviction and understanding, and listens. She rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, and Peter pointedly refuses to lean into the touch.
“I’m sorry you had to be one so young, Peter. And I’m sorry you don’t think you’re one now.” Peter’s heart thrums like a hummingbird in his chest, some unfamiliar emotion churning deep in his gut. He wants to look away, to pull away from her knowing eyes and gentle hands. He wants to crumple beneath the weight of her words. To sink into her arms and sob.
“You don’t have to be a hero,” she says, low and certain. “Not now. Not ever, if you don’t want to. But you’re a protector, that much’s obvious.
“And if you ever want to learn, to move better, hit smarter, stay hidden, the offer’s open.” Peter doesn’t say anything, but Selina must find her answer from the look in his eyes.
Slowly, she cups his cheek with her hand, thumb brushing softly against his temple. It’s barely a touch, but it’s warm and comforting and so, so human.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” she says softly, like a promise. Then she’s gone.
***
The dull clash of his sword against the wooden dummy rings loud against the silence of the training hall. Against the silence of the manor.
Each swing of Damian’s blade strikes true: swift and precise, enough to hinder, to disarm but not maim. It’s his fifth night in a row spent in the training hall. His fifth night in a row spent alone.
The manor, he’s learned, is always quiet. A hollow, empty silence. A heavy weight so thick it’s almost suffocating. Bruce is buried in his office, or the cave. The others, scattered acoss the city. No calls. No briefings. Nothing but monotonous days at school, and empty nights spent training.
He wonders, scathingly, how Father expects him to adequately fulfill his duties as Robin if he never calls for him. (He’s long stopped expecting he’ll call for just Damian).
His hand tightens around the blade. In his carelessness, he swings the sword harder. Faster. More aggressive, and the blade lodges deep into the dummy’s wooden kneck, splintering the wood with a heavy crack. A perfect killing strike. A clean, fatal blow.
“Damn it,” He breathes, and a sudden wave of anger bubbles over him; bitter frustration that throbs like an ugly wound in his chest. Once, such an efficient finishing strike would have earned him praise. Now, it will only earn him distrust, a reminder of the past he will never outgrow.
Now, it only earns him silence.
Damian wrenches the blade free. Not for the first time, his thoughts drift to Grayson. He, at least, would have been around to offer something. Unwanted critiques. Foolish puns or unecessary advice. (‘You’ll always be my Robin,’ he’d said once, soft and sure, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He’d been wrong).
He thinks about the way Grayson would ruffle his hair when he particularly excelled, despite Damian’s complaint. How he’d smile fondly at him, even as Damian scowled and batted his hand away.
He pushes the thought away. He should be long past requiring such childish reassurance. But the ugly wound in his chest remains. Richard is gone. Gone to Bludhaven. Gone, to leave Batman, and Damian, behind.
The dummy clatters to the floor with a violent crash, impossibly loud against the silence of the training hall. Damian doesn’t remember pushing it, but he stares down at its splintered, broken form. It doesn’t move, and neither does Damian.
“Master Damian.” A voice cuts through the silence. Damian startles, his muscles tense. Them, he immediately straightens, annoyed that his anger had left him so open. So vulnerable. He turns to Alfred, who stands patiently with a neatly folded towel draping from his arm.
“Your form was excellent as always, Master Damian,” Alfred notes calmly, pausing at the edge of the training mat. He pointedly eyes the broken form of the dummy, twisted and limp at Damian’s feet. “Though your temper appears less so.”
Damian scowls, snatching the towel from him with more force than necessary. “I do not require technical advice from a mere butler,” He scathes. “It is both improper and unwanted.”
“My apologies, Master Damian,” Alfred inclines his head slightly, but remains unbothered by Damian’s anger. “Forgive the intrusion. I had only presumed you’d grown tired of speaking only to dummies.”
Damian pointedly doesn’t answer, but he can’t ignore the growing restlessness he feels at the butler’s appearance. He wipes the sweat from his brow, hesitating for just a moment. He wants to tell the butler to leave and cease his intrusion. Instead, he says,
“Did he call for me?” He hates how small he sounds
Alfred blinks, just once, seemingly considering his words. Damian looks away. He moves to obtain another dummy with mechanical familiarity.
“Father,” He clarifies dully, his voice flatter, less fragile. “I assumed there was a mission. Or perhaps a briefing I missed.”
“There was no call, Master Damian.” Alfred says gently, and Damian tries not to react. “Master Bruce has not left the cave in hours. He is… preoccupied, to be forthright.”
“Preoccupied,” He echoes, his voice is sharp and hard. “Of course.” The wound in his chest throbs. He throws the towel down, sharp and forceful and resentful.
“And what, do tell, is Father preoccupied with tonight? Another case I’m not trusted to look through? Another villain he claims I’m not qualified to face, despite the fact that I have trained harder and longer than–”
He bites his tongue to stop himself from continuing. Not because the anger is gone. No, the anger burns hot against the cold emptiness of the manor; hot and ugly in his chest, clawing up his throat like a wild beast desperate for freedom.
He stops because, despite his fury, despite his bitter resentment, the words begin to crack around their edges like porcelain on the verge of shattering. Like weakness.
He won’t give it that shape.
Alfred says Bruce is preoccupied. Like that’s supposed to comfort him. Like it excuses the silence, explains why he hasn’t even looked at Damian in days.
Hasn’t seen him, or checked in. Hasn't even asked about him.
Bruce hasn’t needed him. Not as Robin. Not as Damian. Not at all.
The small, fragile part of him wonders if he ever will.
Damian’s eyes return to the shattered dummy, chest tight with frustration, and something else he refuses to name. Alfred speaks, measured and gentle and distant, about grief and forgetting what’s in front of you, but the words slide right off Damian. He listens, but he doesn’t quite hear them.
Doesn’t quite believe them.
Because Bruce hasn’t forgotten him. He’s ignoring him. There’s a difference. One that aches.
Because, despite the silence and the distrust and disapproval, Damian is trying. He’s training. He’s obeying orders, pulling his punches.
Isn’t that what they wanted?
But still, they look at him like there’s a beast beneath his skin; chained, but never tamed. Like he’s one breath away from snapping his leash and pouncing.
Like they’re waiting to see his fangs.
Like they’re waiting for him to prove them right.
He wonders if that’s how Father sees him. A weapon to be stored away. A monster to be caged. Damian’s jaw clenches.
He already knows the answer