Chapter Text
Peter slams the door shut with more force than necessary, the sharp thud echoing off the apartment’s walls. Selina, who’s already seated on the kitchen counter, a steaming mug of tea in hand, raises an unimpressed brow.
“You’re late,” She remarks dryly, taking a long sip of her tea.
Peter kicks off his shoes and drops his bag harshly onto the floor by the door. “Detention.”
Selina hums, looking completely unbothered and unsuprised. “That was faster than I expected. Figured you’d atleast make it to Friday.”
Peter shoots her a look, but she just smiles innocently.
He flops onto the couch with a dramatic groan, rubbing his hands over his face. “Stupid teacher. Stupid principal. Stupid school.”
Selina swings her legs gently, tea cradled in one hand. “Do I even want to know what you did?”
“Called out a teacher for ignoring a kid getting picked on. Apparently that’s more disruptive than the actual bullying.” Peter snaps, obviously agitated.
Selina hums again, tone dry. “Well, no said doing the right thing would be easy. If it was, there’d be no need for little masked superheroes like you.”
Peter grumbles something unintelligible into the couch cushion, but after a beat, his voice softens. “I don’t know. Maybe I overstepped.”
Selina pauses, turning to fully look at him. “Overstepped how?”
“That kid, the one I stood up for, he looked at me like I’d grown three heads. Like, genuinely surprised I spoke up.” Peter remembers the blank, startled look Damian had given him when he stood up, like he’d never had someone stand up for him before, and wasn’t expecting Peter to be the first. “He got all stiff and akwards about it.”
Selina gracefully slips off the counter, leaning her hip against it and crossing her arms. When she speaks, her voice is laced with unconcealed amusement. “Sounds like you found your twin.”
Peter raises a brow, throwing his arm off his face to finally look at her. “Excuse me?”
“Skittish, overly defensive. Doesn’t know how to handle kindness without panicking. Yep, that’s you, five months ago.”
Peter throws a pillow at her. “I was not that bad.”
“You snarled at me like a stray raccoon.”
“That’s speciesist.”
“You used to flinch when I offered you a sandwich.”
Peter huffs, but the tension in his shoulders begins to ease. “They were very suspicious sandwiches.”
Selina taps a finger to her lips. “Be honest. Was it the fact that it was a sandwich, or the fact it came no strings attached?”
Peter mumbles defeatedly, “...Both?”
They share a quiet, amused beat. Peter notes the fond, almost soft smile on Selina’s lips. Then, casual as ever, Selina says, “Feel like getting out of the house tonight, for some hands on experience?”
Peter sits up quickly, immediately intrigued. “Hands on, how?”
Selina shrugs. “Small time job. Some light burglary; thought you might want to test out all your training.”
Peter lights up, then immediately tenses. “We’re not, like, stealing from normal people, right?”
Selina rolls her eyes, through her smile remains. “Please. I have standards. No civilians. Just bad guys.” She pauses, her voice going serious. “And this is one hell of a bad guy.
“The guy runs a halfway house on the surface. Real charitable face. But turns out he’s been trafficking the girls who come through, selling them off to underground rings once they age out of state care.”
Peter’s face goes rigid.
“Yeah,” she says, voice sharp. “I got a tip from someone who used to stay there. Says he keeps records of everything: clients, payments, even the kids’ files. We’re not just taking his money. We’re burning down the whole operation.”
Peter sits up straighter. “And the money?”
“Redistributed,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Half to safe houses, the legit kind. And half to legal funds for survivors.”
A beat passes, before Peter is able to say anything.
“...Okay,” He says, quiet but firm. “I’m definitely in.”
Selina gives him a quiet look. “I figured you would be. Just thought you’d appreciate knowing what kind of man we’re about to rob blind.”
Peter nods slowly, eyes hard, voice soft. “I do.”
Selina softens for a moment, just a flicker in her expression, before she unfurls a detailed blueprint onto the counter.
“You know,” she says, voice low and sure, “this is where the real change happens. Not in the capes-and-spotlight kind of way. No glory. No headlines. Just quiet jobs and quiet wins. The kind no one writes stories about.”
She taps a spot on the blueprint, then looks at him.
“We do work that matters. Making sure the people who slip through the cracks don’t get left behind. For the ones like you and me; who know what it’s like down there. When there’s no one coming to save you. When no one’s even looking.”
Peter stills, watching her with an unfamiliar weight behind his eyes. And for a second, he doesn’t see Catwoman. He sees the girl who clawed her way up from nothing, only to turn back and make sure no one else had to.
Selina’s voice sharpens just slightly. “So we do what we can. For the next kid who doesn’t land on their feet. So they always know: someone’s looking out for them.”
Peter steps closer without hesitation, slipping in beside her to study the blueprint. It’s not a museum. Not a vault, but an old apartment. A predator, not a jewel collector.
He nods, resolution written plainly on his face.
Selina smirks faintly. “It helps,” she adds, dry and warm, fondly ruffling his hair, “that we get to make sure the bastards who made us like this don’t sleep too easy.”
Peter huffs a laugh under his breath. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”
She arches a brow, already grabbing her gear. “I’m excellent at pep talks. You just have high standards.”
Peter shrugs, grabbing her spare pair of gloves from her bag. “Not really. I just like knowing we’re stealing from the right people.”
She pauses at that, hands stilling for a moment as she glances down. When she speaks again, there’s something softer threaded through her voice. “Then you’re in the right place, kid.”
***
Peter scales the stairwell wall like it's second nature. Quiet hands, careful feet. A whisper of motion, all nerves and muscle memory and instinct. His breath stays even, his heartbeat steady. Spider-sense soft and calm. For once, his body feels like his again.
The duffel bag on his back is light, filled not with valuables but with damning files and digital backups; deeds, threats, hush-money payments. Paper trails for the kind of predators who smile for the press and hurt people in the shadows. The kind no one believes unless you shove the truth in their face.
Selina’s just ahead, steps light and poised, every bit the shadow he’s starting to mimic. She throws a smirk over her shoulder, all catlike grace and control. Peter returns it with a quiet, triumphant nod.
They’re almost out. Everything’s gone smooth. Too smooth.
Peter doesn’t say it. He’s learned better than to jinx himself.
The two of them creep down the final hallway; a maintenance wing leading to the back alley. Water pipes creak in the walls. The dim lights flicker. It smells like mold and mothballs, and Peter can’t stop the grin from tugging at his mouth.
He’s having fun.
Not the punch-until-you-bleed kind of adrenaline fun. Not the running-from-death kind. But real, light fun. The kind that makes him feel useful without feeling like a monster. The kind that makes him feel like maybe this life, this weird Gotham version of his life, isn’t so impossible after all.
“Careful,” she whispers, just as he edges toward the door. “There’s a faulty hinge. Don’t slam it.”
Peter holds up his hands. “Please. I’m not a rookie.”
Selina raises a brow. “You were last week.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, some of us have accelerated learning curves.”
She snorts softly and pushes past him with a smirk. “Don’t get cocky, bugboy.”
He follows after, matching her whisper with a smirk of his own. “Too late.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re smug.”
Peter makes a face. “Please don’t call me cute mid-heist.”
She laughs under her breath. “Right, right. So unprofessional.”
They’re almost to the fire escape. Peter can practically taste the cold air from outside.
And then— That feeling hits.
His spider-sense spikes so suddenly it’s like being dunked into ice water. He jerks to a stop. Heart rate jumps. Muscles coil.
Selina senses the shift immediately. “What is it?”
But she already knows. A voice cuts through the shadows like a blade. “That’s far enough.”
Peter’s stomach drops. That voice. That presence.
They both look up.
Perched on the third-floor landing of the fire escape like a gargoyle carved out of midnight stands a man Peter has only seen in grainy news footage and whispered rumors.
Cloak draped. Cowl glinting. Voice a low rasp of judgment.
Batman.
Selina groans. “Oh, of course.”
Peter can only stare. Holy shit, he’s massive. All toned muscle and simmering aura that makes Peter’s spider sense blare like crazy.
Batman drops down without a sound. Peter barely registers the movement; just the heavy thud of impact and the way his presence sucks the air from the alley.
Selina steps forward with familiar exasperation. “I didn’t know you were tracking me again, Bats. I’m flattered.”
Batman’s voice is low. Flat. “You picked up a child.”
Selina plants one hand on her hip. “You say that like you don’t keep an army of them in the basement.”
Peter tries and fails to smother a snort.
Batman’s head shifts, and the glare lands squarely on him. “You’re endangering him.”
Selina’s voice sharpens like a knife. “He’s more capable than half your recruits. And I didn’t drag him into anything; if anything, he followed me.”
“He’s what? Thirteen.”
Peter huffs. “Almost fourteen.”
That gets him twin looks from both adults. He lifts his hands. “Just clarifying.”
Batman’s jaw tightens.
Peter takes a slow step back. His spider-sense isn’t flaring anymore, but every cell in his body feels like it’s waiting for something to break. A lecture. A fist. Something worse.
Selina, meanwhile, takes a bored step slightly in front of him. Protectively, firmly. Like she’s staking a claim. “I’m not going to fight about this here.”
“You’re using him,” Batman says, voice icy. “Training him to be just like you.”
Selina’s eyes flash. “Good. Maybe he’ll survive it then.”
That lands hard between them. Just as the air between them starts to shift from words to something worse–
“You left me behind.”
Peter startles at the new voice, soft but sharp. He turns, just in time to see a dark blur drop from above, a shadow landing with the grace of someone who’s trained since birth. Compact. Controlled.
A cape fluttering. Green and black armor. The stylized red R on his chest.
Robin.
Selina actually hesitates. Even Batman looks surprised. He turns toward Robin with sharp frustration, voice commanding and reprimanding all in one. “What are you doing here, Robin?”
Robin lifts his chin, voice sharp and hard. “What are you doing here, without your partner?”
There’s a beat of tension between them, sudden and raw. Peter sees it: the undercurrent of hurt buried under Robin’s defiance.
Selina sees it too, and she doesn’t wait. She catches Peter’s eye and jerks her chin toward the fire escape. The moment Batman turns to deal with Robin, she bolts, silent and swift.
Peter follows without question, darting up the metal ladder after her, duffel bag thumping against his side.
Below, he hears Batman’s voice rise, low and angry. Robin snaps something back.
By the time they hit the roof and leave the Bird and Bat behind, Peter’s breathing hard but smiling, exhilaration buzzing beneath his skin. He lands beside Selina and laughs breathlessly.
He turns to Selina, wide-eyed. “That was–”
“Don’t say awesome,” she warns.
“ –amazing.”
She smirks. “We almost got caught.”
“We didn’t, though.”
She hums, pulling open the door to another one of her safehouses with ease. “We’ll work on your evasive chatter.”
Peter breathes hard and lets the grin win. “Seriously. That was… that was the most Gotham thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She tosses him a look, that’s quickly replaced by a fond smile. “Welcome to the city, kid.”
***
The Batcave is quieter than usual.
Not silent—never silent, not with the hum of servers and the soft clinking of Tim’s typing somewhere behind him—but cold. Clinical. Bruce's presence makes it feel that way more often than not. His silence weighs heavier than his words ever do.
But tonight, he's not silent.
“You disobeyed orders,” Bruce says flatly, voice cutting like tempered steel. “You weren’t assigned to that sector. You shouldn’t have followed them.”
Damian stands rigid near the main console, fists clenched behind his back. He keeps his jaw tight, his voice even.
“I followed protocol. I stayed out of sight and didn’t engage. I was collecting reconnaissance, as is expected of a field partner.”
“You followed emotion,” Bruce counters. “Not protocol. And if you had been caught–if you had intervened– we’d be cleaning up an entirely different mess.”
Damian's eyes narrow, something in his chest aches. “You’ve always said it’s better to be prepared than caught unaware.”
Tim clicks something on the console, quiet but present. Damian feels his gaze, half-turned away, not interfering.
Bruce, meanwhile, doesn’t even bother turning toward him. “This isn’t a debate.”
“I’m not debating,” Damian snaps. “I’m pointing out the hypocrisy.”
That gets Bruce to face him. Slowly. Coldly. “You’re not ready, Damian.”
Three words. Delivered without malice. Without anger. But somehow, it hurts more that way.
You’re not ready.
Damian feels the sting in his chest, hot and sharp and bitter. His breath flares through his nose. “Because I wanted to prove myself? Because I followed a lead when no one else–?”
“Because you were reckless.”
“And if Drake had followed them?” Damian bites, words quick and edged. “Would you have called him reckless too?”
Tim finally stops typing. The silence rings out.
Damian knows the answer. Everyone in the cave does.
Bruce doesn’t respond.
For a split second, Damian looks toward Tim. Not asking for support, not exactly. But wondering.
For a second he thinks about Peter, who had stood up for him earlier that day.
Peter, a stranger. A twitchy, sarcastic kid from nowhere, had stood up in front of the class and called out injustice like it was as natural as breathing. Like it didn’t even occur to him not to.
A stranger.
His eyes meet Tim’s, just for a brief moment. Drake looks away.
Damian turns back to Bruce. Eyes forward. Spine rigid. “Understood.”
Bruce regards him for another moment. “You’re off patrol for the week.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“You can observe from the Cave. But until I can trust your judgment, you're benched.”
Damian doesn’t reply. Just nods, short and sharp, and turns to walk away. That bitter, aching feeling burns hot in his chest.
You’re not ready.
As if Damian hadn’t trained since birth. As if he hadn’t mastered over a dozen forms of combat. Hadn’t memorized files and tactics and casework. Hadn’t clawed his way into earning this role.
He clicks his tongue, not trusting himself to speak. Not sure what would come out if he did.