Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lock gives way with a soft click. Peter lets out a soft breath, relief washing over him instantly. With his trembling fingers, frozen stiff from the frigid night air, it’s taken him nearly ten minutes to crack the lock. Ten minutes he can’t afford to waste so exposed in Gotham. If he’s learned anything from his time spent in this hellish city, it's that there’s danger around every corner, and nobody is safe to trust.

He slips into the storage unit silently, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud. He gives himself a few moments to collect his senses, to shake off the tension and nerves racking his frame.

He’s been in Gotham for over a week already, and every night spent in the city adds to the uncontrollable terror he feels. And not just because as far as he was aware, there was no Gotham city a week ago.

No, Peter realized pretty quickly that he was in some other world, some parallel dimension to his Earth. That’s not what scares him. What truly terrifies him, is the erratic nature of his powers ever since he arrived in Gotham: his senses have been haywire, his webs fickle, and his spider sense unstable. Instead of warning him of danger, its like his sense has been endlessly blaring with no off switch, leaving him exposed to sudden dangers and completely vulnerable. Plus, he’s been sporting a pounding headache from the stupid sense as well.

With a shaky breath, he pulls away from the door, taking in the storage unit as much as he can in the dark. It’s his second time breaking in, something he’s not proud to admit. He first stumbled upon the supply unit his second day in Gotham, confused and desperate for safety of any kind. Honestly, Peter had thought the building was abandoned from its rundown exterior.

At the time, it had taken him over half an hour to pick the lock, and he would have given up and simply broken the stupid thing, but his paranoia had taken over about leaving any trace he was there (something he’s incredibly grateful for now).

Upon entry into the building, he could immediately tell it was not abandoned at all. The crates were all neatly organized against the walls, the floor clean of any dirt or dust, and he could hear the faint hum of electricity running through the building.

A week earlier, he would have left immediately. Never would have considered stealing from someone. But a week earlier, he wasn’t stranded in another world, with no one to rely on and no way of taking care of himself. A week earlier, he had enough food to keep his ravenous appetite at least at bay, and a roof over his head, and the unshakable support of Aunt May.

In a decision fueled more by pure instinct than survival, Peter had scoured through the storage unit and taken a clean change of clothes and as much food as he could carry. He hadn’t even felt guilty until hours later, too consumed by the overwhelming drive for survival to really even consider what he was doing.

He told himself it was a one time thing. That he wouldn’t steal again, and he wouldn’t be back. He was wrong.

His food supply had dwindled after three days, and he’d spent the next four feverishly struggling to survive on the unforgiving streets of Gotham; avoiding gangs and muggers, shivering under half-assed shelter from storms, and digging food scraps out of dumpsters.

But his drive for survival had caught up to him, and Peter just couldn’t ignore the gnawing ache of his stomach any longer. He’s exhausted down to his bone, and his enhanced appetite has driven his desperation into a primal drive to survive by any means.

He rifles through the crates once more, immediately returning to the boxes he knows hold food. He’s so desperate, he doesn’t even leave and hide away before eating, instead he clumsily tears wrappers away and ravenously gorges on the protein bars and canned foods. He thinks, in the back of his mind, that this may be the best meal he’s ever had in all thirteen years of his life.

Only once he’s eaten as much as he can, does he attempt to clean up and hide the mess he’s made.

Next, Peter slips out of his worn hoodie and sweats, torn and damp with freezing rainwater from an earlier storm. He tries not to dwell on the ugly bruises that paint his chest in shades of yellows and greens and deep purples– remnants of his naivety his first days in Gotham, and reminders of a nasty fall he took when his webs randomly failed him.

He slips into a black thermal shirt he finds, too long on him and too thin for the frigid Gotham nights, but better than before. He’s in the middle of changing when a voice cuts through the silence.

“Those aren’t yours, you know.”

A woman stands in the door, silhouetted by the faint glow of Gotham streetlights. Her voice is smooth and deep, moreso amused than anything else. Still, Peter can tell she’s a threat.

She leans one hip against the doorframe, standing with the inherent confidence of someone capable. Someone dangerous. Peter eyes the whip at her side warily.

Her lip quirks at that, and she takes a lazy step forward. Peter stumbles back.

“You have five seconds to tell me why you’re standing in my storage unit, wearing my shirt and holding my socks.”

Peter curses at his recklessness. He should’ve been more careful, more cautious. It was stupid of him to get caught like this, and now he’s paying the price. His eyes dart around as he looks desperately for some sort of escape, but comes up blank.

His mouth is dry. His voice is hoarse from disuse when he finally speaks.

“Didn’t think anyone lived here.”

“You’re right. Nobody does. But I don’t appreciate little mice rifling through my stuff.” Peter tenses. The ache of his bruises reminds him that in Gotham, everything is a fight. Still, the woman remains relaxed.

“I wouldn’t do that, kid. Believe me, you don’t want to dig yourself any deeper.” She purrs, not bothering to conceal her amusement.

“I swear I didn’t take much.” He says instead, forcing his body to relax as much as possible and hoping he seems nonthreatening.

“Took enough. Twice too, hm?” She waits a beat.

“You’re the one who broke in last week, isn’t that right, Spider-kid?” Peter flinches at the title, but says nothing.

The woman, Catwoman, he latently realizes, takes him in with knowing eyes. Her smile softens slightly.

“Don’t worry, little mouse. I don’t make a habit of fighting kids. And I won’t go tattling to the Bats about the mysterious meta in town” She gracefully slips into the room, sitting lazily on a crate as the door closes behind her. Still, Peter carefully watches her.

She lets out a soft sigh. “You got a name, kid?” Peter shakes his head.

Catwoman smiles. “Fine. Safer that way. Smarter.” She looks him up and down, noting the heap of wet clothing by his side and the stray wrappers he hadn’t managed to hide properly.

“I’ll call you Stray.”

***

He leaves Catwoman’s supply unit with a bag of food, a spare blanket, a change of clothes, and the instructions to come back when he feels hungry again.

He travels six blocks before he deems it safe enough to settle down and examine the supplies. He tucks himself behind an old billboard sign, one of those double ones that sit back to back and form part of a triangle, covered in layers of graffiti and grime. He weaves a hammock connecting the two with his webs, a makeshift bed just for the night.

It’s not perfect by any means, but it's high enough to avoid any muggers, and dark enough to obscure him from any wandering eyes.

Only once he’s secure enough, tucked between the billboard signs, does Peter search through the bag of supplies. He checks the clothes and food and blanket for any tracking devices or hidden cameras, suspicious of the notorious thief’s motives.

She told him to come back when he gets hungry, something that should comfort Peter, but only fills him with more dread. People don’t ever give things away for free, especially not in Gotham, he thinks bitterly. They always want something. They always want you to owe them something.

Still, Peter falls asleep curled tightly in the blanket Catwoman had provided him (surprisingly soft and warm). It’s the safest he’s felt his entire stay in Gotham.

The blanket, however, does nothing to shield him from the nightmares that have plagued him every night.

Tonight, Peter dreams of green; toxic and bright and malicious. He dreams of fire. Of desperately pulling himself out of rubble. Of Aunt May’s screams. Sinister laughter. Of pain like nothing he’s ever felt before.

He dreams of broken bones and blood on his hands.

***

It turns out, surviving Gotham’s streets does not get easier the longer you try. Nope. Not easier at all.

It’s been three days since Peter’s exchange with Catwoman, and three days of him painstakingly avoiding the area and any signs of the thief. The last thing he needs is to get caught up in the crimes of a wanted villain (he spent hours researching her after their meeting. Definitely a bad influence).

Plus, meeting with her will only attract the attention of the Bats, and Peter definitely doesn’t want to get caught violating their ‘no metas policy.’

Definitely better to stick by himself.

Still, the thought of a constant supply of food is incredibly appealing, especially with his enhanced appetite. In just three days, despite his meticulous rationing, he’s already down to just a loaf of partially stale bread.

Regardless, Peter is determined to prove to himself and the nosy feline that he is perfectly capable of surviving on his own. No excessive risks needed.

He makes his way into the underbelly of Gotham. Peter had quickly noticed after a few days in the city that, although generally shadier and more prone to muggings, the back end of the city was much better for finding food and surviving as a street kid.

To start, the upper parts of Gotham are still pretty crime ridden, so not much advantage there. And to make matters worse, the people are way more judgmental. (No, seriously, it’s like buying a place in Bristol requires sticking a steel rod up your ass).

The people actually sneered (sneered!) at Peter’s worn down clothes and bony frame. Sometimes, they’d clutch their bags tighter and avoid him, but mostly they’d pointedly ignore his existence all together.

The worst, however, was when overly concerned Gothamites would report him to the GCPD, trying and failing to help the poor, orphaned, street urchin kid. (He’d learned pretty quickly that the police here were not to be trusted, and they’d often shake him down for whatever score he’d manage to collect from Gotham’s elite).

No, it was much safer to stick to the Bowery, where people were used to seeing kids on the street enough not to bat an eye, but not so desensitized they wouldn’t spare some loose change or extra food.

So, Peter pulls his hoodie tighter, and attempts to look as pathetic as possible (which, considering the state of him, isn’t too hard).

Instead of pulling on the tender heartstrings of passing Gothamites, and collecting a shit ton of money from particularly charitable passerbys like he planned, Peter leaves the Bowery poorer than he began. Which, to be fair, was completely a voluntary decision, thank you very much.

It had only taken 15 minutes of sitting pathetically on the side of a busy crosswalk for the sound of a scuffle to catch his ears, particularly, the distinctly young voice sobbing for help. Before he could even really process what he was hearing, Peter was moving. Urgently chasing the sobs a few streets over, to a dimly lit alley and dead end, and two figures in a one sided scuffle.

His eyes, however, trail to the side, where a young girl looks at the fight in terror, glassy eyes red from crying and wide with fear. Her knees are scraped and bleeding, her ponytail frizzy and pulled loose on one side, and her eyes never leaving the fight. He follows her gaze back to the struggle, or, more accurately, one sided beating.

A boy, no older than Peter, probably younger, is sprawled on the ground at the feet of an officer. His face is battered, blood seeping from a split lip, and a venomous glare on his face. Although the boy is obviously disadvantaged and beaten, he sneers and kicks viciously at the officer’s legs. The soft hum of electricity draws Peter’s attention to the taser held firmly in the officer’s hand, turned on and pointed at the young boy.

Without thinking, Peter rushes at the officer, knocking into him with all his weight and bringing them both to the ground. Peter lands on top, pinning the officer to the ground with more strength than he should have, a snarl escaping from him before he’s even processing what he’s doing, lips pulled back in some sort of animalistic growl. The momentary surprise at his own actions gives the officer, a heavy, red-faced man with a patchy beard and awful breath, the opening he needs to taze Peter on his back, sharp, fiery pain jolting through him, and a cry of pain escaping his lips.

Still, the officer doesn’t relent, holding the taser in place as Peter’s muscles spasm and twitch. It hurts like a motherfucker, he thinks through the pain, and snarls again at the officer. Still, he doesn’t let go of the man, despite the burning pain. It takes all his focus to pull his hand back, to get his spasming muscles to obey his command, and punch the poor excuse of an officer. And punch him. And punch him.

Again and again Peter punches the officer, desperate to end the terrible pain. It takes four punches for the taser to slip from the officer’s grip, and five more before Peter registers that the man has gone limp. His face is horribly bruised and broken, and his form slack with unconsciousness. Peter can barely hear the man's shallow breaths behind his own ragged breathing. When he’s sure the officer isn’t too injured, he grimaces and stands up gingerly, legs spasming slightly as he rises.

He’s surprised to see the two kids are still there. During the struggle, the boy had obviously made his way to the little girl, kneeling at her side, and when he sees Peter look over, he pulls her slightly behind him.

They’re obviously street kids, tattered clothing and gaunt frames, and quite frankly, look like shit (although Peter knows he can’t look much better). The boy’s face is marred with ugly bruises, and there’s burn marks on his arm where the officer obviously got him with his taser. He eyes Peter warily.

“You- you saved us.” The little girl says softly through sniffles, and Peter startles. He tries to smile softly, but he thinks it comes out more like a grimace than anything reassuring.

“I saw that you guys were in trouble.” he shrugs, looking away from the girl’s starry eyed stare. “I couldn’t just leave.”

He kneels besides the two, slowly ruffling through Catwoman’s give-away bag, and luckily, finds some bandages. With as much gentleness as his trembling hands can offer, Peter wipes the blood from the girl’s knees, and places the bandages on.

“That must hurt a lot.” He says softly as he works. “But you’re handling it very bravely.”

“Of course I am!” She says through sniffles. The ‘no duh, what kind of stupid question is that?’ is graciously not added, but evident from her tone. “I’m really really brave! That’s why I’m Red Hood’s super awesome sidekick!”

The boy, clearly her brother, grabs her hand, wincing as he smiles at her. He’s less tense now, the apprehension having melted from his bruised face. He gives Peter a small ‘thank you’ smile.

“Come on, Carina. We should get out of here.” But before he can rise, Peter stops him with a gentle tug.

“Will you be alright? You look pretty bad.” At that, the boy snickers, wincing as his smile tugs at his bruised face.

“Dude, you should see yourself. You look like shit.” He smiles, and in an instance, all the tension and wariness is gone. Peter finds himself smiling along with the battered boy.

“At least take this, you know, just in case.” Peter hands over Catwoman’s care package, and with it the last of his money and food. The boy looks like he’s going to refuse, but Peter insists. “Come on, man. At least for Carina?” And with that, the boy accepts the worn drawstring bag.

With one final smile of gratitude, he grabs his sister’s hand, and pulls her gently out the alleyway. He glances back twice before pausing to say: “You should leave quickly. You don’t want to be here when they find this asshole.”

And with that, the two are gone. And so are all of Peter’s remaining supplies.

Chapter Text

The worst part about shuffling his way back to Catwoman’s supply unit is the embarrassment. He’s obviously hurt, he’s tired, and he’s completely empty handed. Now, not only does he have to face her obvious satisfaction at correctly assuming he’s in need of help, he can’t even return all the supplies she let him borrow.

It takes him longer than it should to make his way back to the storage unit. He loathes to admit it, but that stupid officer’s stupid taser did more damage than he initially thought. His shoulder throbs, his fingers twitch, and his body aches. And to make matters worse, his healing factor has done absolutely nothing. He pities all the normal people who have to go through this every time they get hurt.

For the third time, Peter begins to pick the lock. It takes all his focus to keep his twitching fingers still, and his spidey sense is no help whatsoever. It flares randomly as he works, causing Peter to tense and turn quickly, prepared to counter any sudden attacks. However, each time his sense spikes, no thugs or villains attack. Peter is completely and utterly alone, only the biting cold of the night’s breeze and the droning city noises of Gotham keep him company.

The third time his spidey sense causes him to turn, and therefore lose all progress towards picking the lock, Peter curses loudly and nearly breaks the stupid thing in half. He doesn’t, but it takes more self control than he’d like.

“Should a ten year old really be cursing like that?” Peter would never admit it, but the sudden jeer of Catwoman sends him jumping at least a foot into the air with a startled hiss, confusing both him and the semi-rogue. For a moment, they both just stare at each other, equally startled and somewhat disturbed.

“Well, that’s… something,” She says blankly, and Peter shares her bewilderment. He’s not sure himself where that reaction came from, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to think about it.

After a moment, Peter breaks the silence, garnering Catwoman’s full attention once again.

“I’m thirteen.” He states simply.

“Huh?” she drawls, and Peter bites his lip.

“M’not ten. And definitely not a kid. I’m thirteen” He repeats again.

To that, Catwoman grins, a mischievous, taunting grin that is not comforting to Peter’s nerves in the slightest.

“If you’re young enough to that being called a kid bothers you, you're definitely a kid in my books.” Peter grimaces, but she pays him no mind. Instead, she simply tosses Peter a black mask, turns on her heel, and walks away. Only once she’s reached the edge of the roof does she look back.

“Put that on and hurry up.” She orders, and Peter can feel the intensity of her gaze. A taunting smirk pulls at her lips. “What’s wrong? Can’t keep up?” She sneers, before leaping gracefully down to a lower building and making her way from rooftop to rooftop with practiced ease.

Peter snarls at her blatant cheating, but her obvious challenge sparks his sense of competitiveness, and he throws on the mask, pulls up his hood, and quickly follows suit.

Catwoman is fast, faster than Peter would think possible for a regular, non meta person. She’s obviously experienced, with elegant, sharp movements carrying her rapidly across Gotham’s skyline.

Peter keeps up, but just barely. Without his web shooters to aid him, he’s glaringly outclassed by the cat burglar’s clear technique and experience. It takes all his effort just to not lose her, let alone pass her.

(She’s swinging her legs over the edge of an old building by the time Peter catches up to her, hand covering her mouth as she dramatically fakes a yawn. Peter, rather petulantly, blames his injuries for his egregious loss).

“Took you long enough,” she taunts as she stretches. “Did you get lost?”

“You- you cheated,” Peter says through ragged gasps of air. He’s seriously out of breath as he sneers at the thief, but the words have no bite. “You totally got a head start!”

Catwoman has the audacity to laugh. Laugh! A full, blatant cackle wracks her frame as she stands from her perch on the edge of the roof.

“Rule number one of surviving Gotham, little stray; there’s no such thing as cheating. You either play by the rules, or you play smart. And I always play smart.”

Through her goggles, it’s hard to get an accurate read on what she’s thinking. Even so, it’s clear to Peter that the rogue means no harm, and despite his general annoyance at losing to her, he’s hesitant to admit their game of chase was actually quite fun. The most fun he’s had since he landed in Gotham.

With a sly smile, she pulls open a hidden hatch at the edge of the roof, so seamless Peter hadn’t even noticed the trap door.

“Now, don’t be shy.” She smirks, before slipping gracefully inside. Peter, with so little hesitation he surprises himself, slips in after her, taking a few extra moments to close the hatch.

He’s greeted immediately by the warmth of the room, a welcome respite from the bitter cold of Gotham nights. He takes a moment to look around, surprised by the simpleness and domesticity of the apartment room he finds himself in.

They’re on the top floor of an old apartment building, standing in a modest, cozy single bedroom apartment building. There’s a slightly worn, dull blue couch in front of a small TV and coffee table, and a small dining room table with matching chairs. The living/dining room isn’t separated from the kitchen, so Peter can clearly see a full size fridge, oven and stove, and even a microwave.

Selina makes her way through the building with familiarity, beckoning Peter forward with a wave of her hand.

“Welcome to one of my safe houses, kid. Make sure you appreciate it, alright? I don’t let just anyone in.” Peter’s startled to watch her slip off her yellow-orange goggles, and pull off her cat-themed mask.

Without the anonymity of the mask, it’s clear to see how beautiful Catwoman really is; high cheekbones, sharp eyes, and short, tousled hair. She grins comfortably at Peter, like she didn’t just invite a total stranger into her safe house. Like she didn’t just let a total stranger see her face.

Peter tenses.

“What do you want?” He sneers, suddenly not worried about being polite or a well-mannered house guest. He knows there’s something wrong. There must be. She must be hiding something, some ulterior motive that explains why she's exposing herself to some random kid.

Somehow, Catwoman seems to soften as she watches him. As she tracks the way his eyes dart from the hidden hatch above him to the front door across the room.

“Relax, kitten. If I wanted something from you, believe me, I’d already have it.” Peter doesn’t doubt that. And, for some reason odd reason, the words do bring him slight comfort. Still, he doesn’t move.

“People don’t just do things for free.” Her eyes snap back towards him, and Peter knows he has her full attention now.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable? Paranoid, but adorable.” Her eyes rake over him, filled with some emotion Peter can’t name. Then, they harden.

“You’re hurt.” She realizes, and Peter knows it’s not a question. Wordlessly, she moves across the living room to open a small supply closet, pulling out a med kit and setting it on the small coffee table, before looking up at him expectantly.

Still, Peter doesn’t move.

“I collect strays, kid. You’re not the first, and you definitely won’t be the last.” The words aren’t exactly comforting, and they’re said bluntly with no sugarcoating. But, again, they do make Peter feel better. Less suspicious of her intent.

She looks over him again, her eyes are sharp and hard, but not unkind. Her gaze flicks from his trembling fingers to the awkward way he stands, to avoid sending flaring shots of pain across his shoulder. She nods her head towards the couch to beckon him forward.

“Take off the jacket.” She orders, her voice gentle but firm enough not to leave any room for argument. Peter hesitates, but he doesn’t feel cornered by her anymore, and he notes the way she’s careful not to push him too much.

Carefully, he pulls off the jacket and makes his way to the little blue couch. Catwoman rifles through the med-kit, kneeled on the ground in front of him, and she speaks to him without looking up.

“Let’s try this again. I’m Selina. Selina Kyle.” She pulls out some bandages and disinfectant. “Don’t think I won’t find you if you tell anyone, though. Got it, kitten?” Although the words are said as a threat, her tone is light and playful. Peter smiles.

“How ‘bout you, kid? Wanna tell me your name?” She gently disinfects the burns on Peter’s back, and he winces slightly.

“Peter.” He says softly.

“Peter.” She echoes softly, and Peter realizes with startling clarity that this is the first time someone has called him by his name since he arrived in Gotham. Against his will, tears well up in his eyes and Peter sniffles.

Selina glances up at the sound, a questioning look on her face.

“Sorry, just stings.” He lies, even though the injury is nowhere near bad enough to warrant tears. Still, Selina nods in acceptance of his excuse, but she throws him a pointed look of understanding.

“Well, you’re lucky I’m done, then.” She taps the bandage in place. It’s quiet for a beat, but not uncomfortable, before Selina silently rises.

“Kitchen’s fully stocked. Bathroom’s through that door. Sofa pulls out, and there’s extra blankets in the closet.” Peter looks at her blankly. Selina sighs.

“Use or don’t use whatever you want, alright?” She grabs a long blonde wig from the supply closet, brushing the bangs to ensure they lay even across her forehead. “I’ll stop by when I can, kay?

“And before you argue,” she interrupts before Peter can even begin to speak, putting on thick, pitch black sunglasses gaudily decorated with shimmering rhinestones. “You’re free to come and go as you please. Keep the trap door secret, but remember it's there if you need it. Otherwise, the front door is fine.”

She tosses him a copper key, before unlocking the deadbolt and swinging the door open. She looks back, and softens, obviously seeing the questioning look on his face.

“Look, Peter. You’re safe here, alright? No strings attached. Just rule two of surviving Gotham: strays shelter strays.”

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

Chapter Text

The alley door swings open with a reluctant groan, and Peter follows Selina inside with his head down, the soles of his black suit scuffing quietly against the cracked tile. The space is warm and bright and alive in a way the rest of Gotham isn’t; decorated with string lights, patches of colorful rugs, and a humming radiator in the far corner. A few mismatched blankets and mattresses are piled along the back wall, surrounded by shelves of neatly organized hand-me-downs and supplies: various pairs of shoes, hangers with both new and used clothing, packages of instant noodles and canned food, plastic toys still fresh in their packages.

It smells like linen and shampoo and ramen. It smells like people surviving

Peter lingers in the doorway out of habit, not wanting to startle the residents as he did the first few times Selina dragged him along. He fiddles absent-mindedly at the goggles Selina had given him, the goggles he’d grown surprisingly comfortable with after only a few weeks of use.

Not much has changed since the last time he was here, and Peter spots some familiar faces: a sharp-eyed teen with a bandaged wrist, a young woman who’d been crying on the curb last week, an older brother who watches the younger kids as they add to the coloful chalk mural of butterflies and owls and bats on the left wall.

He watches through his goggles as Selina strides ahead like she owns the place (which, to be fair, she basically does). She doesn’t smile much, doesn’t coddle or fuss, but she checks in like clockwork each week: a brief word to the young woman in the corner, softly rocking a sleeping toddler, a sharp nod to the boy by the radiator, a small smile to the little girl flying her toy plane through the air. No wasted movements as she checks in. No pity.

She’s not warm, exactly, as she makes her way through the safe house. But she’s constant and reliable.

And judging by the way the occupants loosen when they see her, the way their shoulders ease and loose tension in her presence, they’re grateful for that. She’s less a savior, a bright hero swooping in to save the ‘damsel in distress,’ and more a storm wall: something sturdy to lean on and take shelter as they city closes in.

Peter understands the appeal.

She doesn’t treat them like they’re broken. Like they’re tragedies. She simply gives them the room and safety to just breathe. To exist without fear for however long they need.

Peter remains at the door, watching as Selina crouches by the radiator and hands a pack of hand warmers to a tired looking girl in a worn blue hoodie. He thinks about how she never pushed him to stay, never asked where he came from or what he was running from. She’d just given him food, a warm place to stay, and the choice when to stay or go.

It had been enough.

The kids and teens here don’t need a fairy godmother, a knight in shining armor to swoop in and fix them. Just like him, they’ve already survived Gotham; clawed through its cracks and learned to bite. They don’t want or need someone to save them.

All they need is someone who sees them and doesn’t flinch. And somehow, Selina had become that person for them. And for him.

Peter slips deeper into the room, trying to make himself seem smaller than he is. The place is warmer than the streets of Gotham– the kind of warmth that’s been earned. He glances around, eyes catching on the youngest cluster of kids in the room, gathered around a small plastic table littered with crayon marks and scattered with paper.

One of the kids, maybe six or seven, is crouched low, frantically peering under the couch. Peter hesitates, then steps over.

“Lose something?” He asks softly, voice low. The boy startles, staring up at Peter with wide-eyes as he nods.

“My truck. The red one. Rico kicked it and now it's gone.”

Peter crouches without a word and peers under the couch, reaching through cobwebs and dust to grab the battered red toy truck, missing one of its back wheels. The kid gasps and grins brightly.

“You found it!” Peter shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Wasn’t too far.” He smiles, and the boy beams before running off, the truck clutched close to his chest.

Behind him, he hears a small, awed whisper:

“That’s him. That’s Stray!”

“I told you, that’s the guy Catwoman always has with her.”

“No way! He just talked to Jayden.”

Peter goes still, slowly turning to face the group of children. There’s more whispering now, from the shadowed far corner of the room. From small kids, pressed close to their older siblings, wide eyed and whispering like they just spotted Big Foot in the wild.

“That’s Stray? But he’s not scary.”

“He’s cool!”

Peter blinks, unsure what to do with the sudden attention. He glances at Selina for help, but she’s already watching him with a blatant smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth. He narrows his eyes at her.

“What did you say to them?”

“Me?” She replies, tone too innocent. “Nothing but the truth.”

Before he can press her for more info, the young woman from before – the one with the sleeping toddler – walks up beside him with a knowing look. She can’t be that old, probably early twenties at most, but there’s something steady about her that makes her seem much older. Like she’s had to be to survive.

“She didn’t say much,” the woman says softly, adjusting the child on her hip. “Last week, some of the kids asked who you were. Said something about a spirit watching over them. Real quiet, from the rooftops. A few swore they saw you chase off some creeps.”

Peter’s ears warm. “That… could’ve been anyone.”

She grins. “Maybe. But when they asked Catwoman, she just smirked and said, ‘He’s my little stray. Don’t worry, he only bites bad guys.’” She shrugs, ignoring Peter’s growing annoyance. “Name stuck.”

Her smile softens as she looks at Peter a little too knowingly. “Could be worse.” She says, looking around at the groups of children messing around. “Around here, a name like that? Means something. Besides, I think Stray’s pretty cool.”

Peter groans under his breath as Selina comes up beside him, flicking a finger through his curls like she always does. “Be happy I didn’t go with Whiskers.” She grins. “That was my second choice.”

Peter bats her hand away, but there’s no malice to the motion. He looks genuinely horrified when he answers. “You did not consider Whiskers!”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You’ve got that whole, twitchy, wide-eyed thing going for you. Like a feral little kitten.”

For a second, Peter considers the merits of shifting dimensions again just to escape. “That’s like, actual character defamation. I could sue!”

“Please, you’re lucky I like you.” She breezes past Peter with ease, flicking the back of his head lightly as she passes. “I could have gone with Whiskers and made it stick.”

“I’m changing my name,” Peter grumbles as he turns away, tugging his hood back on dramatically.

“Too late,” she calls after him, sounding way too pleased with herself. “Gotham’s already claimed that name. You can thank the street kids for that.”

Just as he’s about to argue, he’s interrupted by a gentle tug at the bottom of his sleeve. He’s startled to find a little girl, maybe eight, staring up at him with stars in her eyes. She tentatively hands him a crumpled drawing of a figure with bright yellow-orange eyes crouched on a fire escape. The words THANK YOU STRAY are written boldly in bright pink marker below it.

He takes the drawing without a word, offering the girl a small smile as she beams and scurries away. His hands are steady, but his heart isn’t.

He grumbles some more about dignity and betrayal and cat-themed nicknames being a violation of human rights under his breath, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the drawing in his hands. He folds it carefully and tucks it away like it’s something fragile.

And for a moment, Stray doesn’t seem too bad.

***

The grainy rooftop footage loops for the third time, and Damian’ still hasn’t looked away.

Catwoman is easy to track, her movements practiced and graceful and sharp. But it’s the figure behind her that draws Damian’s attention. Smaller. Quicker. Sloppier in some ways, but sharper in others, with fast, erratic footwork. Raw instinct layered over makeshift training. Like someone who learned to fight out of necessity, not discipline.

The kid’s wearing a mask, of course, and nice armor, stitched together like a knock-off version of Catwoman’s own gear. Flexible, solid, and obviously not mass produced.

“Still no ID?” He asks sharply.

Tim, sitting at the console a few feet away, doesn’t even glance over. “No prints, no records. B thinks he might be a meta, but we’re still waiting on more data to be sure.”

Damian scoffs. “He’s sloppy.”

“Untrained,” Tim corrects dismissively. “But his reaction time’s off the charts.”

Damian’s jaw clenches. “Father didn’t tell me anything about tracking them tonight.” There’s a beat of silence. Tim clicks something on the keyboard.

“You were on patrol at the Narrows.”

“I should’ve been there. Robin should have been with Batman.” Tim sighs, and finally looks at him.

“Look, Bruce doesn’t think the kid’s a threat yet, but he’s unpredictable and flighty. Plus, Selina’s a variable. And you know how Bruce gets with variables.”

Damian doesn’t reply, he’s too busy watching the boy on the screen vanish over a rooftop. A meta, most likely. A mystery. Another problem Father doesn’t trust him to handle. He’s trained since before he could spell his own name. Fought adversaries much stronger than this.

Yet still, he’s kept in the cave or away from the real action. While Drake gets updates first. While Grayson is away. While Bruce chases down criminals with more interest than he’s ever shown his son.

Damian looks back at the screen. The boy moves like a wild animal with its back always pressed against a wall. A wild animal watching for hunters.

There’s nothing particularly special about him, just sharp edges and survival instincts. So why is Bruce so interested? “Is this what Father has been working on so attentively?” Tim says nothing, but the silence speaks loud enough. Damian clicks his tongue in frustration.

For a moment, Damian stares at Tim – perfectly composed, calmly typing away, eyes flicking across the monitors with familiar ease.

Something ugly twists in Damian’s gut. Suddenly, Damian resents the ease to Tim’s posture; the way he speaks with quiet authority, passing along information like it’s routine. Like it isn’t just another reminder of how he’s inside the circle Damian keeps getting pushed out of. That he’s the one Father trusts.

Like he belongs there more than Damian ever will.

Damian turns away from the screen sharply. “I’m going back to training.”

“You’ve already been down here for hours. Don’t you have school in the morning?”

Damian ignores him, marching towards the training mats with his fists clenched. He watches, silent and bitter, as Catwoman ruffles the boy's hair and exchanges fond words with him before disappearing over the rooftops. He watches as another child earns more trust than he’s been given in weeks. He turns away.

***

The windows of the apartment rattle faintly as a cold Gotham breeze brushes past them. Peter stares at the open fridge, grabbing a takeout box of lo mein leftovers and eating them straight from the carton.

It’s been weeks since Selina first brought him here, but it still feels strange to have place that’s just his. No cardboard, no alley walls, no footsteps to wake him up mid dream (or gentle voice to pull him from the clutches of his nightmares).

He’s making his way to the couch when he feels it, a sudden prickle running up his spine. His body goes rigid. His fork slips from his fingers and clatters against the floor.

His spider-sense flares dully. It’s not loud. Not urgent like it is when a punch is barrelling at his face or like when something’s rigged to explode. It’s quiet. Crawling. Like eyes tracking over his skin that he can’t see, but can feel all the same.

He holds his breath. The back of his throat goes dry.

He glances towards the window, then the corner of the ceiling. Nothing.

But the feeling lingers.

He moves slowly towards the window, squinting through the glass to look at the alley five stories below. It’s empty. No movement, no footsteps. Just the uncanny feeling he’s being watched.

He’s staring out the window when Selina drops in through the trap door on the ceiling with the grace of a falling shadow, startling him so much he jumps a good few feet into the air.

“Jesus–!” Peter startles, his fangs dropping down and turning his cry into a frightened hiss.

“Relax,” Selina drawls, standing up and making her way towards the dining room table with familiar ease. “It’s just me, kid.”

Peter exhales, the tension bleeding from his body, his spider sense quiet and calm. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She throws him an appraising look, tilting her head questioningly. “Spider-sense?”

Peter nods slowly, trying to shake off the residual feeling of unease. “It was flaring before you came in. Guess it was just picking up on you.”

Selina hums, pulling off her mask and placing a black canvas bag onto the dining room table. “Your sixth sense needs to learn not to treat me like an intruder, when I’m the one paying the mortgage.”

Peter nods, glancing out the window one last time. But nothing moves, and his sense doesn’t blare anymore warnings. He turns back to her, making his way back to his spot on the couch, where his lo mein sits untouched. He stirs it half-heartedly with his fork.

Selina watches him for a moment, but Peter doesn’t mind. He’s grown comfortable with her presence over the last few weeks, felt safe from his spot patrolling at her side. Her heavy stare doesn’t put him on edge, like it might have four weeks ago, but instead weighs against him comfortably, like a weighted blanket.

After a moment, Selina sighs, dropping beside him onto the couch with equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“You know,” she starts, casually grabbing a takeout container of her own from her bag, and placing another in front of Peter, “you’ve got sharp instincts, fast reflexes, strong hits, even if they are sloppy.”

Peter squints at her. “...Thanks?”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen much worse. And most of them had formal training.”

Peter frowns suspiciously. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Would it kill you to just say thank you?”

“Maybe.”

Selina rolls her eyes, a fond smile on her face as she takes a bite of her food. “Anyways. I’ve been thinking,”

“That’s dangerous. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Real funny,” she deadpans. “Are you gonna let me finish, or should I leave you here with your paranoia and soggy noodles?” She reaches for the fresh container of takeout to prove her point. Peter puts his hands up in mock surrender, miming zipping his lips closed with a smirk.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says pointedly, pausing to make sure Peter doesn’t break and interrupt. “You’ve been here for a while. Longer than you expected.” Peter stays quiet, clutching his takeout a little more forcefully.

“Long enough that I think we both know you aren’t waiting for a miracle to whisk you away.” Peter doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t deny it either.

“I gave you space,” she goes on, voice even, “And I’ll keep giving it to you, for as long as you need. But we can both tell you’ve been itching for something more. You’ve got way too much brainpower for a life of takeout and rooftops.”

Peter glances down at his lap, and his soggy lo mein. His shoulders tighten, but his voice stays light. “What, you think I should go out and, like, get a job?”

Selina snorts. “God, no. I’m saying I set up a school registration alias for you. The placement testing deadline is next week. All you have to do is show up.”

Peter’s head snaps up. “You what?”

“I figured you’d drag your feet, so I preemptively pulled a few strings. If you want to qualify for one of those shady Gotham scholarships you like so much, you’ll have to prove you deserve them.”

He stares at her like she’s gone completely insane. “You set up a fake identity so I could... take a test?”

“I also pay rent, cover your heating, and bring you food. I’m full of surprises.”

Peter hesitates. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No,” she says, standing and moving to grab some water from the kitchen. “I didn’t.”

There’s a long pause as Peter fiddles with his fork.

“What’s the name?” Peter asks, still hesitant.

Selina slides a folded paper across the table. “Peter Foster. You're my nephew now. Congratulations.”

He blinks. “Foster?”

She nods, already moving toward the fridge, lazily motioning to herself. “Sylvia Foster. Your ‘Aunt Sylvie.’ I’ve got the apartment, records, and bank account to back it up. We’re very boring. Quiet. Law-abiding.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “And what do you do?”

“I clean office buildings at night,” she says, retrieving a bottle of water. “It’s unglamorous, low-profile, and no one ever asks questions. Plus, the janitor's passkey gets me into a lot of places.” She winks. “I’m quite fond of Sylvia.”

Peter snorts, but something about the ordinary domesticity of it—Sylvia cleaning floors at night while Peter goes to school by day—unnerves him. He looks down at the paper again.

Peter Foster.

The name is simple. Easy. Like a life that belongs to someone else.

There’s a pang in his chest he doesn’t expect. Not sharp, but deep. Familiar. The kind that feels like a memory settling behind his ribs.

He thinks about May, and the way she used to label everything in their kitchen with a sticky note and a Sharpie, just to keep things organized. The way she used to mutter “not all heroes wear capes – some do taxes” under her breath while she filled out forms for the neighbors.

He thinks about the pang of hurt in his chest at calling someone else, even someone nonexistent, his aunt. As if anyone could ever replace May.

He bites his tongue to keep the tears away.

He flips through the file, and he has to admit it’s very impressive. Scarily impressive. There’s a neatly typed history of Peter Foster: recently orphaned, jumped between foster houses and the streets until his Aunt Sylvia finally won custody. House payments and a birth certificate so real looking it makes Peter’s chest tighten.

The school records look equally convincing. Good grades, not enough to raise red flags, but solid and impressive. One suspension for fighting. A handful of detentions. Enough absences to suggest instability without outright neglect.

He raises an eyebrow. “You gave me a suspension?”

“Fighting,” Selina replies, already lounging on the couch and flicking through a magazine. “Self-defense. You won.”

Peter flips back to the line. “One kid had a sprained wrist.”

“Sounds merciful.”

He glares. “What, you think I’m a troublemaker?”

She doesn’t look up, but her smirk is audible. “With your twitchy nerves and attitude problem? I give you two weeks tops before someone calls you feral.”

Peter scoffs, but he’s smiling faintly now. “Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Foster.”

He pauses at that. The name still feels strange on his tongue, in his bones. It’s a borrowed skin, tailored to fit, but it doesn’t quite feel like his yet.

But she gave it to him. A life. A paper trail. A way to start over.

He flips to the last page. A schedule mock-up. A school name circled in pen. Peter Foster, 9th Grade. Scholarship candidate pending placement test.

“You really thought of everything,” he murmurs, softer now.

Selina finally looks up, her expression unreadable. “You said you didn’t want to rely on me for money. This way, you won’t have to.”

Peter glances back at the file. The corners of his mouth tug upward, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a weird kind of criminal, you know that?”

Selina shrugs lazily. “Only the best kind.”

At that, Peter can only smile.

Chapter Text

The blazer doesn’t fit right, it’s too stiff in the shoulders and boxy around his waist, like it was tailored for someone far less wiry than Peter Parker.

He glares at his reflection in the window of a nearby parked sedan. It glares back at him in all his preppy horror: blazer, slacks, tie. The only thing not a glaring crime against comfort are his sneakers, dull and worn and thankfully allowed as per the school’s dresscode.

The tie, he decides, is definitely the worst part. It’s too tight, definitely choking him, and already stained from his breakfast.

“Why do private schools always look like someone tried to suck the joy out of childhood and bandage it with a blazer?” Peter groans, tugging at the collar of his shirt. The stupid knot won’t loosen. He gives it one last tug before giving up, sighing dramatically in defeat.

Behind him, Selina’s voice cuts through the morning chill with velvet-laced sarcasm. “You shouldn’t have scored so well on the placement test, then.” She smirks, obviously enjoying his misery. “Smart kids go to fancy schools with fancy uniforms.”

Peter turns to glare at her. She’s leaning against her motorcycle, helmet in one hand, the other holding a coffee she probably stole. Her makeup is flawless, her blonde wig windswept (the one that matches her ‘Sylvia Foster’ driver’s license and ID).

“Should’ve tanked it,” Peter grumbles. “Should’ve wrote my name wrong or something.”

“You did,” she says with a smirk. “And still somehow ended up in honors physics.”

“Betrayed by my own nerdiness.” Peter mutters. “Tragic.”

Selina tosses him a folded piece of paper. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it, before unfolding it to find a basic course schedule: Science. Math. English. Etc.

“No electives?” he asks, blinking.

“You said you didn’t want to ‘waste time drawing fruit bowls,’” she replies. “Besides, I didn’t peg you as the watercolor type.”

Peter makes a face. “Definitely not. I can’t even draw a stick figure without making it look haunted.”

Selina hums, taking a slow sip from her coffee. Her eyes flick judgementally over Peter’s rumpled uniform, like she’s appraising a piece of stolen jewelry for its worth.

“Guess it’s a good thing you're not trying to blend in,” she says dryly. “You’ve got ‘trouble’ written all over you.”

Peter scowls at her. “Says the woman who literally told me to ‘avoid murder but keep it interesting’ on my first solo patrol.”

Selina smiles, unapologetic. “Sound advice. Still applies.” Before Peter can reply, she pushes off the bike and steps toward him with casual purpose.

“Now hold still,” she says, already reaching for his tie.

Peter tenses instinctively, shoulders tight. “I can do it myself—”

“I’ve seen how you ‘do it yourself,’” she replies, one brow arching as she straightens the knot expertly. “And while it was endearingly tragic, we do have reputations to maintain.”

Peter scowls. “I don’t have a reputation.”

“Not yet. But give it a week; you’ll be the weird kid in the back of the class who sleeps with his eyes open and solves entire equations before the teacher’s finished writing them.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

She shrugs. “I know your type.”

Peter fidgets, gazing up at the towering school building ahead: brick, glass, iron fencing. Everything about it screams old money and egoes to match. Even the font of the sign is laced with pretension: Gotham Prepatory School. It makes Peter’s skin crawl.

He must not be hiding his nerves well, because Selina’s next words are softer. “You’ll do fine, Peter. You’ve survived Gotham. You’ll survive this.”

She pauses, then adds, “Just don’t let the dresscode scare you.”

Peter snorts under his breath. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to wear a tie that makes you look like a knockoff preppy villain from a bad teen drama.”

“I’ve worn worse,” she says with a wink. “Trust me.”

For a moment, Peter takes comfort in the way Selina fusses over his uniform; straightening his tie, smoothing down his messy hair, tugging at invisible wrinkles. It’s unnecessary, and they both know it. There’s nothing left to fix, and even if there was, it wouldn’t ever make Peter look like he belongs in a place like Gotham Prep.

But Selina keeps fussing anyways. And Peter lets her. Because it’s easier than admitting he’s scared. For a moment, nothing matters but Selina’s gentle hands and silent promise that everything will be okay. The quiet reminder that someone has his back.

Finally, Selina steps back with an appraising look and soft hum. “Just try not to get in a fight today, okay?”

Peter raises a brow. “What, you think I’m gonna start something?”

“No, but I give you two weeks, tops, before you finish one.”

Peter shoots her a sideways grin and starts toward the school doors. “Real comforting.”

He rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a brief, wry grin. Somehow, having someone expect him to cause trouble feels almost... normal.

Glancing back, he catches Selina watching him with that same amused smirk. “Don’t worry,” he calls, “I’ll try not to get kicked out too fast.”

She laughs softly. “That’s the spirit.”

Peter steps inside. The nervous weight of the day is still there, but now it almost feels lighter. Laced with something akin to excitement. Peter can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips.

***

Damian Wayne prefers early mornings. At least, in theory. They’re quiet, structured, and remind him of his morning trainings with the League – when his days were shaped by structure and discipline.

He likes the silence of the manor before anyone else stirs. When the air is still cool and heavy with mist, and he can move through the halls like a shadow, unseen and uninterrupted. When he doesn’t have to worry about brushing shoulders with Drake, or passing by Father and pretending his apathy doesn’t bother him.

(When he can pretend his solitude is just a byproduct of his early schedule. That his isolation is a choice. That he prefers being alone).

Mornings at school are better, too. People rushing to their lockers and classes, too sleepy to sneer or whisper. Too busy to look at him like he's a puzzle they can't solve; or worse, like he's not even worth figuring out.

His tie is neatly straightened, blazer buttoned without a wrinkle. His bag in its usual spot on the floor beside him, and his pen poised over the margin of his notebook even though class hasn't started yet.

He doesn’t like Gotham Prep.

But he likes having a place to sit where no one bothers him.

Despite the fact, this morning, the stillness grates on his nerves. Brittle and bitter. Cracking under the weight of the night before.

He had only learned about Catwoman’s return, and her apparent new “partner”, secondhand. Not from Father. Not even from Alfred. But from Drake.

Because Father had already left the cave by the time Damian made it down. Because Drake had been told first. Looped in. Trusted.

And Damian… had not.

That had confirmed everything he already knew: he was still being doubted, sidelined. Tested.

Still seen as a threat and liability.

So what if they don’t want Robin on the case? He’d find this Stray himself, and prove his worth once and for all.

And when he did, Father would have no choice but to admit he’d been wrong about Damian.

The sharp, loud steps of his homeroom teacher pull Damian sharply from his thoughts, the mindless gossip quieting to a hush as the door closes with a dull thud. Mr. Wilson, a thin, sharp-faced man with sunken eyes, steps into the room with a folder under his arm, following close behind him trails a small, timid looking boy.

Damian barely blinks, but the low ripple of whispers that passed through the room sharpen his attention.

“That’s the new transfer, right?”

“He’s kind of weird looking.”

“Did you see his shoes? Definite charity case.”

Damian doesn’t flinch, but his eyes narrow just slightly. He couldn’t care less about the social politics of Gotham Prepatory School, but he knows how ruthless the kids here can be. Especially toward someone who looks like they don’t belong.

He turns his gaze back to the newcomer.

The boy, the mid-year transfer, loos like he’s doing his best to disappear and failing miserably at it. His uniform doesn’t quite fit right, and the stiff newness of it makes him stand out even more. His brown curls are a little too messy, his eyes a little too guarded, his shoulders a little too tense. He clutches the strap of his backpack like he expects someone to swoop in and snatch it away from him.

He doesn’t move like a Gotham Prep student. He moves like someone trying not to look cornered.

“Alright,” Mr. Wilson says, with the enthusiasm of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. “Class, we’ve got a new student. He’ll be with us through the rest of the semester, maybe longer. Meet Peter Foster.”

Peter raises his hand in a small, stiff wave. “Uh… hi?”

The greeting is awkward and stilted – not shy, exactly, but measured. The kid is tense; coiled, like someone expecting a blow.

Street kid, Damian thinks immediately. The wariness is too practiced, the way he moves too measured for anything else. He’d seen that kind of posture before, in Narrows or Burnley kids who made it into better schools; always on edge, always expecting the worst.

Still, Damian can’t help but notice the way Peter scans the room as he moves, not socially, but tactically. He watches as he takes in exits, corners, and people. Peter doesn’t avoid eye contact so much as mark everyone with it before moving on.

It’s easy for Damian to recognize, because he had done the same thing once.

And that doesn’t sit right with him. Not because he finds it suspicious. But because he finds it familiar.

Damian pointedly looks away. It’s not like its any of his business, anyway.

***

The day drags on with all the usual monotony, punctuated only by the low thrum of resentment that simmers under Damian’s skin.

He’s made it through the first half of the day without incident; a small miracle, considering the way some of the more mouthy students delight in pushing his buttons. Ever since returning from winter break, they’ve been emboldened. Snide comments, whispered insults, the occasional “accidental” bump in the hall. Constant taunting, but still not brave enough to try anything serious.

Not after the last kid left school with a broken wrist.

Still, the jabs are frequent. And calculated. They want him to snap.

But he won’t. Not again. He hasn’t gotten into a single fight since November, and when Father finally takes notice, maybe he would see that Damian is suited for Robin. That he isn’t a threat.

So when the group of boys start up again in history, Damian says nothing.

It’s a class he shares with Peter Foster, apparently. The new kid had slips into a seat near the window without making eye contact, posture hunched like he’s trying to disappear.

Damian doesn’t pay him much attention until the teacher, Mr. Halworth, who always smells of cheap cologne and apathy, claps his hands and launches into a second-semester group assignment announcement.

“You’ll be working in pairs for the next six weeks. Research presentation, full write-up, visual component. You’ll be graded on both your work and your ability to collaborate. Partners will be assigned.”

Around the room, groans echo. Damian rolls his eyes.

Mr. Halworth begins monotonously rattling off names. Damian doesn’t tune in until he hears his own. “Wayne and Foster.”

He stiffens. A few kids around him snicker.

“Poor new guy,” someone whispers loudly. “Good luck surviving that freak.”

Damian pretends not to hear them.

Peter just blinks, as if surprised to be spoken to, and begins to gather his things without complaint. They meet at a table in the center of the classroom, neither speaking at first. Damian still feels eyes on him, waiting, daring him to lose it.

Then it starts.

A crumpled paper ball bounces off the back of Damian’s head. He doesn’t turn around.

Another boy coughs, loud enough to carry: “Better make sure he doesn’t stab you with a pencil, Foster.”

Laughter follows. Mr. Halworth doesn’t look up from his desk.

Damian clenches his fists and forces himself not to react. He’s already on thin ice at the manor. The last thing he needs is another cold lecture from Father about how Waynes don’t solve problems with their fists, never mind the context. Never mind the provocation.

He grits his teeth, biting down the urge to snap back. (He pointedly refuses to acknowledge the small part of himself that wants to lash out, if only to make Father finally pay attention.)

Peter looks between them and Damian, clearly clocking the tension. Damian sees the flicker in his expression, (irritation? concern?) but doesn’t expect anything from him. Doesn’t expect anything from anyone.

Not until Peter stands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, raising his voice just enough to cut through the noise. “Do you need something? I guess I didn’t realize the insecure bully act lasted past sixth grade.”

The laughter dies immediately, and several heads turn sharply at the unexpected quip. Damian goes still beside him.

“Jeez,” one of the boys snorts, loud enough for the entire class to hear. “Charity case thinks he’s funny.”

Peter looks over slowly, his eyes sharp. “Says the trust fund brat with two brain cells and a mouth he can’t control. Bet daddy’s super proud of you.” He sneers.

The boy’s face turns bright red. “What did you just—?”

Peter doesn’t even blink. “You heard me. I’d repeat it, but I don’t think your single functioning brain cell can process polysyllabic words.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Damian actually hears some students gasp.

The bully lunges, fists clenched like he means to swing, but before he can, Mr. Wilson slams his palm against the desk.

“Mr. Foster!” he snaps, voice sharp and unforgiving. “Enough.”

Damian’s head snaps toward the voice just as the teacher’s tone slices through the air like the crack of a whip. He watches Peter blink, startled, like he hadn’t expected him to be the one called out.

For a second, Damian thinks maybe he didn’t.

Peter straightens, blinking once before frowning. “Wait– me?”

Mr. Wilson glares over his glasses. “You’ve been here five hours and you’re already causing problems.”

Peter blinks again, then lets out a short, incredulous snort. “Are you serious? He nearly swung at me. If anything, I de-escalated.”

“You provoked him.”

“I responded.”

Damian watches, a strange flutter of tension coiling in his chest. Peter’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the class, sharp and steady, and somehow more dangerous for it.

“And now, you’re talking back.”

Peter tilts his head slightly, something dark flickering beneath the calm. “Didn’t realize standing up for someone made me a delinquent. Guess I missed that part in the student handbook.”

The teacher’s expression doesn’t change. “Principal’s office. Now.”

Peter grabs his bag without a word, but his mouth is tight, jaw clenched.

Damian stares at him. No one’s ever done that before.

Stood up for him.

Not like that.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. Part of him bristles; he didn’t need saving. He could’ve handled it. He would’ve handled it, if not for the guaranteed scolding from Father, and definite regression in any progress he’s made in gaining his trust.

So why does his chest feel tight?

Why does something in him itch with discomfort, like he’s been seen in a way he didn’t ask for?

Peter is halfway to the door when he glances back, catching Damian’s eye just for a moment. His expression is unreadable, but his mouth twitches into a wry half-smile.

“Definitely only gonna last two weeks.” He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Damian. Then the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence settles thick over the room. Damian can still feel the stares -- the whisper of confusion, the judgment. But they don’t matter. Not really.

What matters is the boy who picked a fight that wasn’t his, then walked out like it cost him nothing.

Damian clenches his fist beneath the desk. He doesn't know if he's annoyed that Peter thought he needed defending, or... something else.

Something quieter and more complicated.

He just knows he’s not going to forget it.

***

Peter sits slouched on a courtyard bench like he’s trying to melt into it, chin propped in one hand, a crumpled hall pass hanging from the pocket of his hoodie like a badge of dishonor.

Damian spots him instantly.

He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he got detention on his first day. Or the fact it’s the only thing anyone at Gothap Prepatory is talking about.

Because apparently, standing up to a teacher on your first day is enough to land you in trouble. And apparently, it’s more disruptive to call out negligence than it is to let bullies run unchecked.

Tt. Typical.

From a distance, Damian watches the boy flick a small pebble toward a nearby pigeon rooting through a candy wrapper. It lands wide, deliberately, Damian notes. A warning shot, not an attack.

Strange– most people wouldn’t think twice before chasing a bird off for fun. But then again, Damian thinks, Peter doesn’t move like most people. Everything he does seems deliberately casual, like he’s constantly pretending not to care.

Damian’s eyes narrow.

He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t. But something about that infuriating slouch, about the fact that someone actually stood up for him in class today and then immediately acted like it didn’t matter, grates against him.

So he walks over.

Fast. Purposeful. Tight with annoyance he hasn’t bothered to untangle yet.

Peter doesn’t even look up.

“I didn’t need saving.”

Peter doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t roll his eyes, or challenge him, or smirk like he’s about to get the last word in.

He just looks up from where he’s seated on the bench, the late afternoon sun haloing him in warm light, and shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah. I know.”

Damian freezes.

Peter says it so casually, like it’s a fact, not up for debate. No sarcasm. No pity. Just quiet honesty.

“I saw the way you kept your cool,” Peter adds, slouching back against the bench. “You could’ve dropped that kid without blinking. Honestly? That’s probably why he was pushing you. Guys like that don’t know what to do when they can’t scare someone.”

Damian doesn’t respond right away. His mouth opens, then closes. He was expecting a lecture. Or a boast. Or some smug defense of his actions. Not… this.

“But you didn’t hit him,” Peter continues, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Even though he deserved it. Even though the teacher didn’t care. You kept your cool anyways. It was actually pretty cool.”

The words sit heavy between them.

Damian crosses his arms, unsure what to do with the sudden warmth blooming in his chest; cautious, quiet, and unfamiliar.

“…Why step in, then,” he asks, voice lower. “If you knew I had it handled?”

Peter considers that. “Because no one else was going to. And just because you can handle something, doesn’t mean you should have to.”

That lands harder than Damian expects. He doesn't say anything. He doesn’t have the words.

Peter’s gaze drifts off as he digs into his bag and pulls out a crumpled notebook. “Anyway. Project stuff. I had an idea.”

Damian's grateful for the switch of topics. “Go on.”

Peter flips to a scrawled page. “We do a piece on Gotham’s forgotten zones. The stuff between the cracks: runoff shelters, underground tunnels, lost transit stations. Real Gotham. The parts no one wants to look at.”

Damian frowns, intrigued despite himself. “You’ve been to those places?”

Peter glances up with a lopsided smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could say that.”

He hands over the notebook. “You can veto if it’s too grim. But I figured if we’re stuck working together, might as well do something that matters.”

Damian doesn’t respond right away, still off balance. Still quietly turning Peter’s words over in his head.

He hadn’t needed saving. But Peter had helped anyway. And not out of pity. Not out of showmanship. Just… because.

For a moment, Damian doesn’t feel judged or tested. He just feels seen.

And he hates how much that matters.

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.

Chapter Text

Peter’s late.

He’s not surprised, exactly. Just… mildly annoyed with himself. Which is impressive, considering he spent most of the walk to school running on three hours of sleep, cold lo mein, and a still-buzzing adrenaline high.

Because, sure. School sucks. Uniforms sucks. Teachers suck. But heists?

Heists are awesome.

He shuffles down the hall; backpack slung low on one shoulder, dragging his feet as he rounds the corner to his classroom. His limbs are aching in that nice, used kind of way, and he can’t help the dumb little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He feels wired and heavy at the same time.

His thoughts drift back to the rooftop. To Batman’s gravelly voice and the raw tension in the air when he and Selina squared off. That hadn’t just been the usual hero-villain posturing. There was something deeper there. Personal. Painful.

Selina had gone tight-lipped after, brushing it off with a flippant “complicated ex” and a roll of her eyes. But Peter could still hear the way her voice had hitched when she said his name. Could still feel the energy shift when the kid in the cape arrived.

Selina had gone tight-lipped after, brushing it off with a flippant “complicated ex” and a roll of her eyes. But Peter could still hear the way her voice had hitched when she said his name.

Without meaning to, Peter’s thoughts drift to the surprise visit from the kid in the cape.

Robin.

The kid couldn’t have been more than a year older than Peter, if that. Sharp. Controlled. But there’d been something fractured in the way he moved beside Batman. A space between them. Familiar, aching tension.

Peter had recognized it immediately– the desperate sort of distance you try to build from someone when they’ve already decided you’re too much or not enough.

He wonders how the kid’s doing now. If he got yelled at after they slipped away. If Batman always treats him like—

The classroom door creaks as Peter pushes it open. He flinches at the sudden hush.

Whispers drift like dust in sunlight.

“That’s him. The new kid.”

“I heard he mouthed off to Mr. Wilson.”

“Got detention on the first day.”

“What’s with the bruises?”

“Probably from juvie.”

Peter bites back a sigh. Not worth it. Definitely not worth it. At least, he thinks bitterly, the teacher isn’t here right now.

But then, he hears another voice; low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

“Wayne’s always like that. Cold and stuck-up.”

Another voice snickers, “Yeah, creeps me out. Bet he’s planning something in that weird little notebook.”

Peter glances up just as the kid in question –Damian– reaches into his bag, pulls out a math worksheet and an inkwell pen, and gets to work without even sparing the class a glance.

Peter blinks. Math. In pen. In ink. At eight in the morning.

He raises a brow.

“Yeah,” Peter says loudly, dropping into the empty seat beside Damian without a second of hesitation. “Real terrifying. Doing algebra in ink. Someone call the Justice League.”

The room falls quiet. A few heads snap toward him, startled. The whispers dry up.

Damian glances at him out of the corner of his eye, expression unreadable. He doesn’t say anything, but he seems to look closer at Peter. “Your punctuality is atrocious.”

“Yeah, well, so’s your attitude.”

Peter catches the faintest flicker of a smirk twitch at Damian’s lips before he turns his attention back to the assignment. Without looking up, he wordlessly slips an extra copy of the assignment to Peter.

Peter grins.

***

By the time fourth period rolls around, Peter’s exhausted, sore, and starting to regret not grabbing a second breakfast.

He hasn’t seen Damian all day.

Not at lunch. Not in the hallway between periods. Not even a glimpse of the kid’s dramatic black uniform sweeping around corners. You’d think with a personality that sharp and an ego that loud, Damian Wayne would be easier to spot. But nope — the guy disappears like he’s got teleportation powers or something.

Maybe he’s got one of those secret underground tunnels like Selina jokes about.

Peter shoulders open the door to his history class and immediately spots him — second row, far side of the classroom, already sitting upright with his textbook open and notes scrawled in tight, ruthless cursive. Perfect posture. No slouching. No earbuds. A mechanical pencil in one hand, a fountain pen lined up beside it like a tiny sword.

Of course he’s already here.

Peter slides into the seat beside him again without asking, dropping his bag to the floor and letting out a dramatic sigh. “You know, normal people eat lunch,” he mutters, pulling out his notebook. “You don’t just vanish like Batman between second and fourth period unless you’re either skipping or fighting crime.”

Damian doesn’t look at him. “I don’t make a habit of explaining my schedule to people I barely know.”

Peter snorts. “You’re fun.”

No response. Not even a twitch.

Peter drums his fingers against his desk. He should let it drop. Damian clearly doesn’t want to talk. He’s got that coiled tension again, like something’s already gone wrong today and he’s biting it back with everything he has.

Peter recognizes the look. He’s worn it before; too many times, in too many places.

So he leans back in his chair and says casually, “Hey. That thing earlier — I wasn’t trying to make you look weak or anything. I just hate guys like that. Plus, I’ve been told I have a bit of an attitude problem.”

That gets him a flicker of eye contact. Cool, assessing.

Peter shrugs. “And, it’s not like I’m trying to impress any teachers. One already hates me. Might as well keep the streak alive.”

Still no answer. But Damian doesn’t snap or glare, either. Small wins, Peter thinks.

He’s about to let the conversation drop, already half-turning back to the front of the room, when Damian speaks, clipped and precise:

“Your interference was unnecessary. But… I didn’t mind.”

Peter blinks. Not exactly a thank you, but definitely not nothing. He leans back, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Careful,” he says under his breath. “Say one more nice thing and people might think you like me.”

Damian doesn’t reply, but Peter swears he catches the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Peter glances up to the whiteboard, watching as the teacher starts class, scribbling “Gotham History: Industrialism to the Present" in angry block letters. He leans toward Damian a little. “Bet this city was built by haunted industrialists and shady CEOs, huh?”

Damian doesn’t look away from his paper.

“Several of them were later revealed to be war criminals, actually.”

Peter blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

Damian turns a page. “Don’t interrupt.” But it’s soft, and teasing when he says it. Peter smiles back

The low murmur of the classroom shifts as students begin pulling out notebooks and swapping ideas. The second half of the period is meant for project work — which, in most cases, just means half-hearted brainstorming and whispered gossip.

Peter shifts slightly in his seat and glances sideways. Damian already has a pen uncapped and his notebook open to a crisp, perfectly formatted outline that Peter definitely didn’t see him write during the first half of class.

Of course he’s already prepared.

Peter leans an elbow on the desk and tilts his head. “So… any groundbreaking ideas, partner?”

Damian doesn’t answer immediately. His pen taps once, twice against the edge of the page before he speaks.

“You mentioned having… experience. With underprivileged populations.”

It’s stiff and careful, like even saying that much requires effort. Peter blinks, surprised. Then a slow, crooked smile creeps onto his face. “Is that your tactful way of saying ‘street kids’?”

Damian doesn’t look up. “I meant what I said.”

Peter sobers slightly, shifting to sit up straighter. “Well… yeah. I was thinking we could do something on socio-economic disparity and the rise of informal communities. There’s some stuff I’ve seen firsthand, and we could frame it through the lens of urban development. Or lack of it.”

Damian’s brow furrows, but not in disagreement. Just… interest. And thought. “We’d need comparative data. Housing policies. Patterns of city neglect.”

“Already thinking about the thesis, huh?” Peter grins. “We could use field interviews. I know some areas we could go – not the tourist-friendly ones, but the real Gotham. The parts no one writes about unless something burns down.”

That earns him a quick glance. Sharper than before, but not hostile. Almost… surprised. “You’re unusually committed to this.”

Peter shrugs. “Let’s just say I like my projects a little more grounded.”

(And maybe, just maybe, he’s hoping to retrace some of the places he first stumbled through after arriving in this world. Looking for something. Or someone.)

Damian studies him for a moment longer, then finally gives a tight, almost imperceptible nod. They work in silence after that –not quite comfortable, but not tense either. A mutual understanding settling between them like dust after a storm. And when the bell rings, Peter is still scribbling ideas in the margin of their notes while Damian starts gathering his things with clean precision.

He expects Damian to leave without a word, the same way he always does. But instead, a folded slip of paper slides across the desk and lands beside Peter’s hand.

Peter blinks and looks up, just as Damian stands and adjusts the strap of his bag.

“In case this project requires collaboration outside of school hours.” His tone is clipped and formal, but there’s a flicker of something else, something stilted and awkward underneath it.

Peter unfolds the slip. A school email.

His brows lift. “You’re giving me your email?”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “It’s a point of contact. Nothing more.”

Peter grins. “Well, sure. I mean, most people just text, but this is… charmingly old-school.”

Damian hesitates a beat, then says stiffly, “Understood. I was unaware that texting was the standard convention.”

Peter glances up, both amused and surprised. “Wait– have you never had to, like, exchange numbers for a project before?”

“No.” The answer is flat, honest, and without apology.

Peter blinks, then grins, warmth creeping into his expression. “Well, congrats. You just survived your first semi-normal teenage interaction.”

Damian exhales sharply through his nose– not quite a laugh, but not a protest either.

“I’ll send you a time for a planning session or whatever,” Peter says more gently, tucking the note into his hoodie pocket.

Damian gives a curt nod and slips into the flow of departing students without another word. Peter watches him go, that crooked smile returning as he slings his backpack over his shoulder.

Progress. Weird, awkward progress. But progress.

***

By the time Peter makes it back to the apartment, the sun’s dipping behind Gotham’s skyline, painting the windows gold. The apartment’s quiet. Selina’s not there, which isn’t surprising. Peter doesn’t expect another check-in from her for a few more days at least. Not that he minds. It gives him space to breathe.

He shrugs off his jacket and flops down on the couch with a dramatic groan, pulling his phone from his pocket.

One new email.

Damian Wayne

Subject: Project Scheduling

Peter blinks, then sits up straighter. The message is short and rigid, like it was composed under military supervision. Three suggested times to meet, precisely spaced out. At the bottom, there’s a phone number, typed almost like an afterthought.

Peter huffs a laugh, but there’s something fluttery in his chest he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels suspiciously like hope. Not the big, cinematic kind. The soft, quiet maybe-I-have-my-first-friend-here kind.

He copies the number and sends a simple text: tmrw after school works

The response comes almost instantly: Acknowledged.

Peter stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary, lips twitching. Weirdo, he thinks fondly.

He sets his phone down, resisting the urge to reread the exchange like some kind of loser, then grabs his hoodie. There’s one more thing he wants to do before patrol.

***

The Gotham Central Library is quiet in the way that makes your skin crawl—too much marble and too many echoes. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and Peter keeps his hood up as he weaves through the lower research level. He doesn’t bother looking through digital records. Not tonight.

He needs books. Old ones. Forgotten ones. The kind of history that gets left out of school curriculums.

He’s been combing through maps and building registries lately– anything to make sense of the underground ruins he found himself stumbling through when he first arrived. The ones with strange symbols carved into stone and whispers that didn’t echo right. The ones he’s never told Selina about.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly. Just that something is wrong down there. Twisting. Watching. Like the city itself has bones it’s trying to keep buried.

A brittle newspaper clipping falls from one of the old ledgers and flutters to the floor. Peter bends to pick it up, eyes narrowing as he scans it. The article is faded and incomplete, but a few phrases stick out.

"…series of disappearances in the oldest parts of Gotham…"

"…city council denies existence of forgotten tunnels…"

"…unconfirmed reports of masked figures…"

Peter folds it and tucks it into his pocket. His spider-sense itches, not urgently, but in memory. He can still feel the burn of it from that first night in Gotham, like fire in his bloodstream.

Whatever was chasing him back then... it isn’t done. And now that he’s thinking about it again, now that he’s started looking—

He has the sinking feeling it’s started looking for him, too.

He’s so deep in thought he doesn’t even realize another figure has approached him until a voice cuts through the silence.

“Okay, you’re either extremely lost, or you're one hell of an overachiever."

Peter startles slightly, glancing up.

A woman sits a few feet away, a rolling cart full of returns beside her and a sleek wheelchair beneath her. Her red hair is pulled into a low bun, and her lanyard reads: Barbara Gordon – Reference Supervisor

“Oh,” Peter says, blinking. “Uh. Group project.”

She raises a brow at the pile of dusty ledgers and ancient zoning records. “Uh-huh. Let me guess: your partner made you do the grunt work?”

Peter snorts despite himself. “Actually, it’s the opposite. I was worried he’d finish the whole thing before I even opened the doc and make me look like an idiot. He’s way more… research-oriented than I expected. Intense. Kinda terrifying, honestly.”

Barbara smiles. “Sounds like a delight.”

“He’s not so bad,” Peter says before he can stop himself. “Just, y’know. Stiff. A little weird. But, he’s smart. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t take crap from anyone.”

Something about the way he says it must give him away, because Barbara’s smile tilts slightly. “You talk about him like he’s your best friend.”

Peter scratches the back of his neck, cheeks heating. “I mean…I guess he might be? I mean– he’s probably the first one I’ve made here, anyway. Gotham’s not exactly overflowing with friendly faces.”

Barbara’s expression softens. “That’s a big deal.”

Peter shrugs, but there’s a small, sheepish grin threatening to form. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’d probably recite a court ruling about boundaries.”

She laughs, rolling her chair slightly closer and nudging the top ledger with one hand. “Well, if you two are poking around the city’s underbelly for a school project, I might be able to point you toward some of the deeper records. Some stuff even the historians forget.”

Peter brightens. “Seriously? That’d be amazing.”

Barbara nods. “You’ve got the look of a kid digging for answers. Just be careful what you find. Some of Gotham’s oldest secrets are better off staying buried.”

Something about the way she says it makes Peter pause. Like maybe she knows something more than she’s letting on. But her expression is mild. Friendly, not suspicious at all. Just… knowing.

He files it away, just in case.

“Thanks,” he says, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ll let him know. He might… actually like that.”

Barbara gives a small wave as she heads off, cart squeaking faintly against the tile. Peter watches her go, something strange and warm settling in his chest.

***

The sky hangs heavy with storm-wet clouds, turning the city below into a mess of silver puddles and flickering neon. Gotham’s skyline glows faint and sickly beneath the clouded sky; streetlamps flickering, neon signs buzzing against crumbling brick. The city feels older tonight, like something ancient is shifting beneath the surface.

The sharp, bitter Gotham wind whips against Peter unforgivingly, chilling him to the bone in a way not even Selina’s suit can prevent. His fingers are frozen stiff, his breaths even puffs of white smoke, his skin pulled tight and raw and red from the cold.

But Peter doesn’t mind. It’s one of those rare nights when patrol feels… almost peaceful. No gunshots, no screams. Just the soft thrum of the city breathing. And for a moment, Peter lets himself breathe with it.

Then he drops. He lets himself plummet, the wind howling past his ears like a haunting scream. He lets himself plummet, headfirst towards the sprawling city below him, stretching out like a yawning mouth ready to swallow him whole. The streets of Gotham approach faster than he expected, but still he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

For three heartbeats, there’s nothing but air and gravity and the impossible rush that comes only from truly falling.

For three heartbeats, he’s weightless. Untethered. Drawn, moth-to-flame, to the true spark that comes from dancing with death.

It’s stupid, reckless, dangerous in every way that Selina would lecture him for (her teasing ‘Now you’re just showing off,’ laced with something more forceful). But God, it makes him feel alive. Like the world hasn’t beaten it out of him yet. Like he hasn’t already clawed his way back from something worse than death.

The wind whips at his hair, stinging his face and chapping his lips. His heart thunders in his chest, but his spidey-sense is blissfully quiet, even as glass and steel and brick rise to meet him.

Just as he’s about to crash into the ink-black street below him, his web catches the side of a building. His body jerks forward into a swing so sharp it aches his joints and rattles his bones. His web carries him forward, arcing skyward towards the next rooftop, the roaring wind doing nothing to hide his laughter– breathless and wild and free.

Peter lands on the rooftop with a soft thud, the echo of laughter still clinging to his throat like smoke. He exhales through it, crouching low, fingertips brushing the cool stone as he catches his breath.

The city hums around him; distant sirens, car horns, the low thrum of Gotham existing in its usual state of tension.

He’s about to take off again –itching for another leap, another moment where gravity temporarily forgets him– when something catches in the corner of his eye.

Movement.

Not fast. Not bold. Just... clumsy.

He frowns, narrowing his gaze toward the alley below, where a figure darts between shadows, stumbling slightly under a too-large coat. A kid, no older than ten, and limping badly.

Peter’s heart stutters.

He’s seen that kind of panic before. That kind of shuffle, like someone trying to be invisible without knowing how.

He presses closer to the ledge, senses prickling like static beneath his skin. There’s no one else in the alley. No immediate threat.

But the kid’s shaking. Eyes darting. That same kind of wild fear Peter had worn like a second skin not so long ago.

His next breath is steady. Measured. He hops down a fire escape without a sound, keeping low, and hopefully, non-threatening.

“Hey,” he calls gently once he’s close enough, but not too close to scare the kid off. “You okay?”

The kid jerks around like a cornered animal, fists raised despite how small they are. “Back off!”

Peter holds his hands up immediately. “Whoa. No trouble. Promise.”

They eye him warily, suspicious and worn thin. Peter knows better than to press too fast. So he eases back, perching casually on the edge of a dumpster.

“Name’s Stray,” he says with a half-shrug, like it means nothing. “You don’t have to talk to me. Just figured—well, you looked cold. And I’ve got, like, four granola bars in my pocket and no intention of eating them.”

Silence. Then, slowly, cautiously, the kid lowers their arms. “…You’re real?” they whisper. “I thought you were just a story.”

Peter smiles, fishing out his emergency granola bars and holding them out for the kid. “Sorry to disappoint."

The kid approaches him gingerly, but Peter notes that it seems to stem more from his injury than fear, the tension melting away when the kid realized who Peter was. (Something in Peter softens at the notion his name alone could bring so much comfort).

As the kid grabs the bars, Peter can see them more clearly: a small boy, pale and covered in freckles, a sickly purple bruise peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

The boy tears into the wrapper with shaky fingers, like he’s used to eating quick and quiet, used to food being taken away. Peter doesn’t comment, just lets the silence breathe while he slides down from the dumpster to sit cross-legged across from them, still keeping distance. The wind tugs softly at the too-big jacket the kid is wearing.

Then Peter adds, more gently this time, “You’re not the first person I’ve seen out here. I mean– if there’s something you need to get off your chest, I’ve got good ears. And I don’t exactly run to the cops.”

The kid’s chewing slows. He hesitates. Looking down to pick at the corner of the wrapper.

Peter waits.

Eventually, the kid mumbles, “There’s these men… they’ve been following me. Not just, like… normal people on the street. Out of place, I guess…Clean shoes. Black coats. One of ‘em had a tie.”

That gets Peter’s full attention.

“Since when?” he asks, his voice still soft, but edged with alertness.

The kid shrugs. “Few days? Since I left my last foster home. I wasn’t supposed to run, I know. But I heard them talking–” The boy’s breath hitches. “My foster dad and some guy. About selling someone. About me, I think.”

The boy's voice is barely above a whisper, soft and fragile against howling wind. Peter’s jaw clenches, fingers curling slightly.

“And now,” the kid continues, looking up at him, “I keep seeing them. They don’t chase me in public, but I see them watching. I think they’re waiting. Like they know no one’s gonna care.”

Peter takes a slow breath.

He’s been chased. He’s been hunted. He knows what it’s like to be seen as a thing, not a person. And this kid– this kid reminds him too much of himself when he first landed in Gotham: scared, alone, and just trying to stay one step ahead.

Peter forces a small smile. “Well. They’re wrong about no one caring.”

The kid’s brow furrows, and he looks at Peter with glassy eyes. “You?”

“Me.” He nods. “And I know someone who’s got a better place for you to stay. Warmer bed. No creeps.”

“Is it the cat lady?”

Peter huffs a quiet laugh. “You know her?”

“She’s kinda famous. On our side, I mean.”

Peter grins. “Yeah. She’s good at that.” He rises slowly and holds out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

And for the first time, the kid doesn’t flinch away.

***

Damian Wayne doesn't like coming home from school this early. The manor feels too large, too hollow, when the sun is still up and no one else is around.

He walks through the halls like a ghost, hearing only the soft click of his shoes on polished floors, the echo of a distant clock, the brush of wind beyond heavy windows. The others are in the cave, already preparing for patrol. And Damian– the son of the Bat, trained by the League of Assassins since before he could spell his name– is benched.

Again.

Indefinitely, this time.

His anger simmers under his skin, crackling like unkept electricity. Part of him wants to yell. To shout and break things and demand Father reappoint him as Robin, as is his birthright. But Damian’s long since learned that slamming doors in the manor does nothing. Alfred disapproves, and Bruce never reacts.

It feels more pathetic when no one responds.

So, despite the angry itch under his skin, Damian closes his bedroom door with only a soft thud.

He drops his bag and collapses backward onto his bed. Arms folded beneath his head, eyes fixed on the intricate ceiling moldings. It’s been a long, infuriating day. Not because of school, or the students, or even the teachers. He’d tolerated all that: quietly, obediently, waiting for someone to notice.

And yet last night, when he’d sat quietly through yet another tense, stilted dinner and asked Bruce, politely, if he could rejoin patrol, Bruce had simply said, “Not yet.”

Not “soon.”

Not “good progress.”

Just “not yet.”

As if Damian hadn’t gone weeks without a single fight. As if restraint wasn’t the hardest thing in the world for him, and he was mastering it alone.

He sighs and pulls out his phone, almost absently scrolling through his few active conversations. Most are unread. But one thread stands out: a text from Richard, nearly a week ago.

[Richard]: “Sorry I had to cancel. I owe you one. I’ll be there for real next time–

promise.”

Damian reads it again. As if something new might appear. He hadn’t answered. He hadn’t needed to. He’d just believed him.

Because it’s Richard.Of all the people in this house, Richard had always meant what he said.

Damian’s fingers tighten around the phone. He doesn’t hear the door until it opens with a quiet creak. “Master Damian.”

Of course it’s Alfred. He doesn’t look up.

“I thought I might check in. You’ve been rather quiet since returning from school.”

“I didn’t realize silence was cause for concern,” Damian mutters, without venom. Just tired.

Alfred moves further inside. There’s something soft in his voice when he says, “I hear you’ve made a new acquaintance.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Is that the latest gossip among the staff?”

“Tim mentioned a group project. It was a poor attempt at subtlety.”

Damian huffs. “I partnered with someone for a class project. That’s all.”

“Mmm. And yet you’ve rescheduled with him twice,” Alfred says, a twinkle in his eye. “It warms me to see you forming connections, Master Damian. You deserve that.”

Damian scowls, but there's no real heat behind it. “His name is Peter,” he says reluctantly. “He’s tolerable.”

Alfred smiles, and for a moment the silence is almost companionable.

Until Damian notices what Alfred’s holding; a slim, neatly wrapped parcel, wrapped in deep blue paper. Not flashy. Thoughtful.

“What is that?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Alfred's face tightens, just faintly. “It’s from Master Richard.”

The silence shifts. Alfred adds, more carefully now, “He asked me to give this to you.”

Damian sits up slowly, his voice flat. “Why didn’t he bring it himself?”

Alfred sighs. “He wanted me to inform you of his regret that he won’t be attending family dinner tomorrow after all.”

Something drops in Damian’s stomach. A slow, dull sink.“He said he would,” he says sharply. “He promised.”

“I know,” Alfred replies gently. “There was… tension. Between him and Master Bruce. I believe it factored into his decision.”

“Of course it did.” Damian’s voice is low and sharp. Alfred doesn’t speak. Just sets the package gently on Damian’s desk, then folds his hands.

“He wanted you to have this. Said it was something from your time together. A reminder.”

Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch it. He keeps his eyes on the polished edge of his desk like it might cut him if he blinks. “He could’ve come himself,” he mutters bitterly.

Alfred doesn’t argue. Just says, quietly, “He cares. Deeply. But sometimes people think distance protects others more than their presence does. I believe Richard is trying not to get in the way.”

Damian’s fists curl. “That’s a stupid excuse.”

“Maybe,” Alfred says, with the faintest note of sadness. “But it is the truth.”

He stands straighter, offers one last look, and steps back.“I’ll leave you to rest. Let me know if you’d like something brought up later.”

Damian doesn’t respond.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet settles like a weight over everything.

Damian stares at the wrapped package for a long moment. He can feel the effort in it, can hear Richard’s voice in his head explaining whatever sentimental object he’s sent.

He doesn’t open it.

Instead, he grabs his phone again.

[Damian]: My schedule tomorrow has opened. Are you amenable to meeting later in the evening instead?

He sets the phone down beside him and leans back, letting his gaze trail up to the high, empty ceiling.

He hadn’t expected to text Peter. Not tonight.

But maybe it’s better to have someone answer. Even if it’s not the person he wanted.

Even if it’s just a partner for a school project. Damian’s phone chimes.

[Peter]: Only if you pay for dinner. I’ll have you know I charge 1 overpriced Gotham burger in exchange for my presence

Damian stares at the screen for a moment… then, despite himself, he smiles.