Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker has fought crime bosses, devils, and so many scientists. He’s fought all sorts by slinging his way across Queens, fought with an alien trying to possess his body, and has even fought himself. However, he’s got to say that this is a total and complete first for him.

He can only assume that some witch got incredibly lonely and started getting a little too close to their cauldron. This thing has got to be close to 20 feet tall standing up, right now though— he looks much more like a surfboard covered in bubbling green acid as Spider-Man and the Cauldron hurtle through the air. The two are locked together, the behemoth of metal attempting to crush Peter between two cauldron basins that the metal head calls hands.

“Spider-Man—! Hold on! You cannot let him escape!”

Peter, for his part, bites back the urge to swear at the wizard. Strange is attempting to catch up. “Doing my best, Doc!”

The Doctor is flying behind them; he’s been playing catch-up this whole time, attempting to stitch together the damage the Cauldron has been causing so far. He’s been less than successful.

“Portal incoming!” Strange shouts, and the Cauldron rumbles as an electric green tear seems to open up in the empty sky below them. It looks like someone pulling the stitches out of a wound, and the trio topples through, bleeding out from bright daylight to a black sky. At least they’re still in the air. Peter can’t imagine how it would feel to teleport into the ground.

Cauldron uses the chance to try to squish Peter to death again; it’s taking a big portion of his strength to prevent that from happening. “What is this thing, Doc?”

“DIE POWERED MEN, DIE!” The beast of metal curdles, its voice is edged with the sound of crackling fire.

“Whatever this is, it’s not from our universe, and neither is its tech—!” Strange, only seen through slits in the mish-mash of cauldrons and what is essentially bright green battery acid, is performing some type of spell. Golden runes appear out of the air as he mutters something under his breath. Peter isn’t focused enough to listen in.

“I AM CAULDRON, THE SCALDED MAN, AND YOU WILL BOTH BURN! UNHAND ME!” The monster rumbles, acid spilling out from its mouth as it cackles. Peter shoves the nearest hand harshly, making enough room to wrench himself from its grasp to swing up and over onto its back. Avoiding the corrosive substance for now.

“Ah, god crockpot— Do you really have to spit up all over me? You look old enough to know to keep your mouth shut!” Not his best work, but he’s busy doing his best to avoid being melted. The trio is still plummeting down from the atmosphere, and Peter has to dig his hands into the seams of Cauldron to hold on. Not sure how much use his webs will be in this situation unless he plans on bringing Strange down with them.

Cauldron shudders, and with a series of pops and crackles, the lid on his head clatters open. Hot green fire dancing out all around. “FOOLS, ALL OF YOU. I’LL KILL YOU!”

His spider-sense is blazing; unfortunately, he doesn’t have much of a chance to evade. His hands are still tangled in the seams of Cauldron, and fire licks at his fingertips. “Keep your hands to yourself!” Peter yells, trying to shake off the flames on one hand while still staying attached to what is essentially a warhead falling through the air.

“Spider-Man, he’s opening another portal. Stay alert. Retrieve the device and stop him.”

“What? Strange, that's supposed to be your job!” Peter manages to look over in time to see Strange back off entirely. “WHAT? HEY!”

Doctor Strange calls back, “I have to close the portals he’s already opened, before more entities bleed between them! Good luck, Spider-Man.” With that, Strange disappears into the previous portal, now a tiny pinprick in the sky above. Fuck.

Unfortunately, Strange had made a good point. These portals can’t spell anything good. Though it sounds like Peter and Cauldy here might be the bigger problem. Probably tearing through universes faster than Strange can bandaid them back together.

As soon as the two thunder into the next portal, Peter yelps as his body begins to fall in the opposite direction. Toward something silvery and chaotic that serves as the sky. It looks like a mad ocean or a volcano about to explode. The Cauldron is rolling in the air, trying to shake Peter off as Spider-Man clings for dear life to the tin can.

Cauldron giggles; more acid spit-up is bleeding through the half-melted seams. “HE’S ALL ALONE.” Peter is about to retort, before the metal under his fingertips starts to warm impossibly fast. “NOW WHY DON’T WE SEE HOW A SPIDER TAKES A MATCH!”

Just before the two are about to crash into the silver, they tumble through another portal, and Peter blanches as his vision goes completely black and white. The sun looks like a paper circle, the clouds like cotton balls— buildings that are oh too close look like cardboard. He has no time to linger on it further as his grip begins to slip. The metal is becoming too hot, even for his spider grip.

“That’s cheating!” Peter yells, securing a glob of webbing to Cauldron’s back, connecting a strand to it— and letting himself fly backward, catching the strand. His neck snaps back upon reaching the end of the line, all momentum ceases in one moment, and he’s barely able to hold on. He’s being dragged behind the Cauldron now, with nothing to block the force of air that whips the strand of webbing with him at the end back and forth. Cauldron’s suit is beginning to glow bright orange; the heat of his acidic innards and the intense wind are starting to burn him up.

There’s the faint worry of the heat dissolving his webbing, but for now, it seems to be holding up. Peter’s had the benefit of using him as a shield so far, but now he’s entirely without one. Forced to brave the full force of free-falling through the atmosphere for several minutes at this point. The wind is viciously clawing at his suit, trying to strip it away. When he sees Strange again, he’ll definitely have earned a punch in the jaw.

Cauldron shakes, glowing brilliantly. “THE DIMENSIONAL WAVE INDUCER WILL BE MINE!”

“Is that what you’ve been using to make a mess of things, toaster oven?!” The wind is worse now, and despite his strength, getting whipped around like a rag doll is only going to work for so long. He’d seen the machine before Cauldy had stashed it inside himself. Dr. Strange had not enjoyed Peter’s comment about what laxatives would work on a Cauldron. Peter had absolutely no idea how he’s supposed to get it now. He can’t even touch the thing!

Another portal tears itself open in front of them. Peter frantically climbs back up his line, closer to Cauldron in an effort to fall into the portal— instead of right next to it. He imagines a vivid image of a spider puddle on concrete if that were to happen.

His holding on for dear life is successful. Color returns to vision as flashes of white clouds, green acid, and an inky black sky streak by. At least this place looks normal; it looks like Earth. Only here, they’re much, much higher. Higher than the clouds even.

To his surprise, he looks up just in time to see the last portal snap shut. Had Strange arrived? “Give it up, toaster oven! I’m not going anywhere. Just give me the doo-dad and we can all go home!” The chill wind tears off part of his glove.

The metal creaks, “STUPID SPIDER. THIS IS BEYOND YOU.”

“Try me! I can surprise you! It’s that or becoming scrap metal!”

“ENOUGH TALKING. IT’S TIME TO CHOOSE, FALL OR BURN— SPIDER!” An orange and yellow Cauldron creaks, turning over itself in the air to face Peter as they begin to arc downward. Plummeting straight toward the ground, it cranes its neck before reaching up to flick open the grate holding in the angry, glowing goo.

Cauldron breathes in and then blows, sounding like a train whistle as an arc of acid flies at Peter’s face. Peter has no choice but to let go, immediately left behind in total free fall. Cauldron is quickly gaining distance between them. Peter straightens into a dive, hoping to gain some speed, but he’s not catching up fast enough. He fires another web, one that can’t overpower the wind. It flies behind him uselessly.

There’s no way he’s going to build up enough velocity to get close enough.

“BYE BYE LITTLE PEST,” Crockpot cries in total glee, opening a portal beneath it. For a moment, it feels like it’s all over, right before Peter’s sense explodes.

Luckily for both of them, every portal so far has opened into open air, but this time it opens into water. Cauldron crashes into it, green energy rupturing as its entire body compresses with the impact– Akin to hitting a brick wall at 200 miles per hour. In an instant, the body splinters, metal shrapnel tearing out of its body and shooting out of the portal. What must be over a ton of water sloughs out of the green tear, joining the metal pieces as they continue their descent.

The body doesn’t topple out of the portal, and Peter’s close enough to have a chance. As a last resort to get the device, Peter fires a final web. It rushes through the air, close enough to zip through the portal, but Peter never gets the chance to see if it attaches. The tear abruptly snaps shut, cutting his line in two. Out of time, Peter falls passed it all.

The water spreads out in moments, slow enough that Peter is soon falling through it– gasping. Maybe it would wash away the blood. Unfortunately, he can’t spot the pieces of Cauldron; they must’ve spun off into the darkness. Peter won’t say that it would’ve been handy, but it would’ve been nice to celebrate part of a victory.

Now, with all the immediate danger passed, Peter is free-falling alone. Nothing except the burning wind against his face, the bleeding of his wounds, and the water high above him to keep him company. What a way to die.

For a moment or two, he just has to admire the view.

He’s directly above a city by the looks of it. It’s still hard to make anything out, but the lights are bright, and the clouds are scattered. He can make out that snow is falling around him. That’s nice. It might cover up the Peter Parker-shaped hole he’s about to leave in the ground.

Peter wishes he’d hugged someone today. He wishes he’d held MJ’s hand. Hugged Aunt May, or visited Uncle Ben’s grave.

The city’s closer now, Peter can make out streets, the lights cut off on the sides, surrounded by blackness, off the coast of the mainland. An island? Strands of lights connect to it; are those bridges?

And in that moment, he knows there’s a chance. A very, very small chance, but there’s no harm in taking chances when you know you’re definitely going to die. As he falls, more details come into view.

The city really is on an island, the black water shifting around it— his luck manifests in that the bridge he’d been studying is directly below him— and it has spires. Tall ones. They’re fancy, old-looking, gothic. They line both sides of the bridge, cables stretched between them to support the structure. They’re tall enough to provide Peter with an option.

Peter fires string after string of webs between four of the spires, weaving a crude net. No time to double-check it, no time to calculate if he’ll snap his neck on impact. He’s lucky that there’s even enough time for the strands to stick to the stone before he’s crashing through it all— screaming.

Peter has no time to shoot another web before his body slams into one of the spires, the impact throwing his head back to slam into it before he ricochets off the side, barely missing the railing of the bridge on the way into the dark, swirling water.

The force of the impact cuts Peter’s vision to black.

It’s just as quick that the ice cold brings it back, and Peter gasps, bogged down by his suit and stiff limbs. Pure unfiltered panic surges through him, and Peter’s one and only thought is that he’s trapped in the water and if he stays here, he will die.

The teen can’t help but wonder if he’s already dead. That was a big fall. He should be dead. He should be dead. But air still forces itself down into his lungs, and he chokes on the water. He can feel the sea threatening to drag him down. That’s a good enough feeling to probably be alive.

It takes the last of his strength to pull, to claw his way toward the bank of the river. Any adrenaline he has left is forcing him to keep moving in an effort to live. He doesn’t want to die. He’s never wanted to die. Goddammit, he wants to live. Parker luck be damned.

Looking back, Peter has no idea how long he fought until his burnt fingers reached the rock-covered shore. He has no idea how long he layed on the beach, coughing up water and blood. Or even how long it took to try to stand up, almost vomiting with the vertigo that fills his head. His ribs feel bruised if not broken, burns dance over his body, and strips of his suit and skin have been peeled away entirely.

Peter is soaked to the bone, a mix of blood, water, and ice. If he stays out for much longer, it’ll for sure be a death sentence. A frosty wind blows through him, digging in deep with its claws. Peter curses, tugging at his hair, taking in an awful amount of breath. It feels like too much, everything about this is too much. He really hopes that the water hadn’t hurt anybody, but it’d been falling long enough to probably just be mist or raindrops at this point. The metal likely hit the water. Hopefully.

The mask has to be peeled away, and Peter wrings it out on the bank. The landscape around him is totally unfamiliar. It’s just the large cityscape sprawled out in front of him, the bridge he’d hit casting him in shadow.

Trembling, bleeding, and soaking wet, Peter looks up at the sky, watching for a portal to no avail. If rescue isn’t an option right now, survival has to be. The first step toward city lights has him nearly crashing to the ground again, but he doesn’t fall. So he takes the next step, and the next one, and the one after that. Peter breathes heavily as he walks, panting as water pools beneath his feet. At least the snow has stopped.

The mask is balled up tightly in his hand as he slips into the city. It’s dark, incredibly dark. The outskirts here aren’t very well lit, which works in his favor. A dark, black snow lines the corners of alleys, and the ice is slick. Whatever snow had been falling doesn’t appear to have stuck around. Peter hasn’t seen many people out and about. The ones he has are hunched over in dark coats, eyes peering out across the way as they hurry down streets and side alleys.

How can he not feel just a little bit nervous at that, are they waiting for something? He drifts to a few dumpsters as he wanders, trying to find anything useful. On dumpster four, he retrieves what could’ve been a nice coat at some point. Only now it’s faded, stained, torn. Peter has zero complaints as he slips it on, covering the majority of his suit. It’s a bit too big for him, the coat’s edges sweeping past his knees. Now it looks like he just has really cool and colorful socks on. Peter stashes his mask and hands in his pockets, assuming the stance of most he’s seen walking tonight.

He needs to find a way out of the cold. The trembling is getting worse, but every place around here looks like it’s been closed for decades. They’re worn down, almost like they’re melting into each other and the ground. It’s a dreary sort of place, Peter can feel the exhaustion that hangs in the air. Like it’s been etched into the building blocks of this place.

With no aim and no goal until Strange saves his ass, that is, he wanders deeper into the depths of this hollow urban maze.

It isn’t much later that he’s shifting his feet down a chilled sidewalk, lit by the weariest streetlamp Peter’s ever seen. Peter looks up, bracing against the cold to examine it more closely. It reminds him of the historic cast-iron lamp posts he can sometimes find in New York. The light it casts is dim, barely lighting five feet. It flickers ever so often, dead bugs lining the bottom of the lamp.

Peter can’t help but feel a little sorry for it. He glances over, intent to continue, but in the faint light, something catches his eye. Above leans an old building lined with chipped pillars. Stretched across the front is a tattered banner reading, ‘Thank You Gotham City’.

If anything, the banner makes him feel very unthankful. But that must be where he is, ‘Gotham City’. Place could use a laugh. Peter is alerted to footsteps from behind, and he turns, surprising the other dark shape just a few feet away. They show their gloved hands in a placating gesture.

“You look lost, kid.”

Peter frowns, Is it really that obvious? Man. The stranger leans up against the frosty lamppost, blowing out a breath to warm their hands. The light helps Peter make out details. They have a thick woolen jacket on, a scarf pulled up to the top of their nose, and deeply tired eyes. “Just getting my bearings,” Peter’s voice is ragged, drawn out at the edges. Just as weary as the streets he’s been wandering.

The man shivers, trying to pull his coat up higher. “You'll need that if you want to last out here.”

The wind picks up again, blowing trash and cool air over his still-damp face. He’s thankful for the coat. Even if it’s a bit gross. “Are there any shelters nearby?”

“You sure you want to?” The stranger eyes him, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Evidently, he’s out of the loop here. Why would he not want to? It’s cold as hell, and if he stays out here for much longer, they’ll be putting him in a grave. His hands feel like they’re blue already. “Not sure how long I’ll make it out in the open.”

There’s a soft sigh, something like pity behind it. “Lot of us avoid ‘em. Easy to get picked off that way.”

“How’s that?”

“Some of them say new people steal their beds. Ain’t uncommon for ‘em to get pissed over it. Even the bat won’t save you from them.”

The bat? Never heard of that one before. He’ll definitely keep the warning in mind though, Peter Parker can’t afford to make any enemies right now. His hesitation leads him to look over the near-desolate street, seeing a few more shapes leaning in alleyways and shivering in the cold. A few more drops of water gather beneath his feet. “I think that I’ll have to take that chance.”

The stranger grunts again, “Suit yourself. Closest one is that way. Deeper into crime alley. It’ll look old, s’got stained glass. Could’ve been a nice place awhile ago. They might take you in this late.”

Crime alley? Well, doesn’t that just sound lovely. “Cool, thanks a lot man. What’s your name?”

“Ted.”

“Take care of yourself, Ted.” Peter gives him a pained wave and starts to walk once more. He pretends that the blood seeping through his boots isn’t evident in the footsteps he’s leaving behind.

Ted’s directions may not have felt like much, but they’re enough for Peter to find the place. Just in time, too, his vision is developing a suspicious vignette, and he can hear his heartbeat shudder. He balls his hands into fists, driving his nails into his palms. He’s got to stay awake, especially when he’s this close.

The shelter is pretty small. But Ted was right, it could’ve been nice at some point. The front door is a chipped and faded blue paint. The front window is stained glass, with iron bars fitted over the front. Peter can’t help but be reminded of F.E.A.S.T. There had been a discussion of bars at the front, but it’d been turned down. They wanted everyone to feel welcome. Bars on the windows don’t exactly scream ‘safe space’. With another small breath, Peter pushes open the door, stepping inside.

The entryway is small, unkempt, but not unwelcoming. There’s a small desk up at the front with a handwritten sign that Peter can barely read. The letters jumble themselves, looking like scribbles and a blurry mess. He eventually makes out ‘Please ring the bell.’ There’s a door behind it, presumably leading to the rest of the small facility.

Peter looks around. The light on the desk is dim as well, but it doesn’t flicker like the other lights around here. He steps up, ringing the bell with a frost-covered hand. It doesn’t take long for the door to click open and a taller man to step out.

The volunteer steps behind the desk with a mumbled hello, before he finally looks up– doing a double take after looking Peter over.

To say he fits the part of a kid with nowhere to go is an understatement. The man working the desk has to do a double-take when he sees him. Peter’s not too sure how bad he looks right now, but it definitely isn’t good. The volunteer is still staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Uh, hi, is this a shelter? I need a place to crash for tonight?” Peter asks, trying to smile.

That jogs the volunteer out of his trance. “Oh– yes. We’re out of beds, but there’s a cot or so left. Um. I need your name.”

Peter nods, feeling the world swim a little; the cold is still clawing into him. “Peter. Parker.”

The volunteer, Peter can’t make out the letters on his nametag, looks like he wants to ask something more, before shaking his head. “Sure, head on back. Maeve can set you up with first aid. You’ll probably have to answer some more questions.”

With a shiver, Peter agrees. The volunteer opens the door for him, leading him into the corridor. It’s tight, undeniably so. A few rooms branch between the right and left, all are closed. The floor is sleek tile; it’s definitely not original to the place. The overhead lights buzz, filling Peter’s head with static.

“Maeve?” And Peter’s head swivels, a small traitorous thing in him hopes he’s mishearing the name Maeve. He’s disappointed when a young woman, probably only a few years older than him, steps out of a side room. She’s holding the biggest coffee Peter’s seen.

She looks at the volunteer before her eyes move to Pete. She goes a little pale. “Will– oh.”

‘Will’ hums. “Yeah. Said his name is Peter. We still have a cot, right?”

“I think so, here, hello Peter, I’m Maeve. Um, if you don’t mind, I’ll probably be helping you bandage that cut up.

Which one? Peter can’t help but think. “Could I– could I get some spare clothes first? ‘M really cold.”

The volunteers blink before agreeing just as quickly. In another minute, there’s a stack of clothes being shoved into his hands, and he’s left alone in what looks like their medical area to change. The two volunteers are a bit out of their element here it would seem. Peter would’ve made sure to focus on the blood first if he were at F.E.A.S.T. However, it works out for him here. He needs to get this suit off.

Peeling off his suit genuinely feels like ripping off his skin. The burns from Cauldron and ripping through the atmosphere aren’t kind. He’s thankful for having tougher skin than most. A normal person probably wouldn’t have any skin left if they’d gone through the same.

Half dried and still warm blood sticks to his body and the suit, his wounds are tender and deep. He’ll have to be wary of that moving forward. His skin is damp and almost frozen to the touch. He glances at the door, still firmly shut, before grabbing some of the bandages on a side table to wrap his arms and chest. It doesn’t have to be pretty, just enough so that he doesn’t bleed through the new clothes.

It’s a half-assed job, his fingers aren’t moving quite right, it’s hard to hold it– but the worst of them are wrapped in time for when there’s a knock at the door.

“Peter? Are you dressed?” Will says, just as Peter is throwing on the sweatshirt and pants.

With a cough, “Yeah– uh, yeah. I’m good. You can come in.”

The door clicks open, and the two volunteers step inside. Maeve’s eyes linger on the pile of damp clothes wrapped in the trench coat, but she doesn’t question it any further. She directs him to sit down while she works on his face. The two don’t talk much.

For once in his life, Peter doesn’t know what joke could lighten the mood here, and Maeve seems used to not asking many questions. She does ask one though, “How old are you?”

It stirs Peter out of his mind, out of the fog of the cold. “Oh, I’m– I’m 19.” It’s a lie. One that Maeve eyes him about suspiciously, but Peter keeps his mouth shut. The last thing he needs is a social worker being called down. If they even have those here. Better to assume they do before one jumps out to grab him. May had mentioned that there was a struggle when he was little, just after his parents’ deaths. Luckily, nothing more had come of it. It had still given him nightmares when he was younger.

Maeve apparently accepts it for now, sighing when she finishes securing the bandage. “You should shower before bed, Will’s getting one running for you. After, there’s cots in room 203. It’s surrounded by empty bookshelves. It’s a little colder than some of the other rooms, but you’ll have more privacy, and bed options.”

Peter tries to hang onto her words, but some don’t reach him fully. He nods anyway. He heard shower and that’s all he needs.

A few minutes later, he gets his wish. Peter sinks into the warmth of the shower, hating and loving the aching burn that comes with it. He’s thankful he can still feel it, it means he wasn’t, isn’t, too far gone.

There’s a first aid kit that he raids, treating the burns he has left. Again, it’s not his prettiest work– but his fingers are a little bit more nimble after the shower. Room 203 is a short distance away from the showers, and he finds the room almost empty. Thank god.

The aisles between cots and beds are tight. There’s not much walking room. Peter has to admit he doesn’t like the idea of sleeping next to so many people. He feels more vulnerable than ever. It’s what always bothered him at F.E.A.S.T. He wished he could give everyone a private room of their own. A space to recoup. But this is efficient. And sadly, even programs designed to help those in need have to be efficient.

This room is less crowded than the others he’d shuffled past walking through the facility; he can be thankful in that regard.

Peter feels ashamed that he’s even taking a bed. These are supposed to be for people in need, people who are hurting. He thinks of all the people back home, his family, friends. God, he’s failed them. Failed all of them. Strange thinks he’s failed. That’s why he hasn’t come to retrieve him yet. Had he closed the portal or had Cauldron? Had Strange stranded him as punishment?

Peter collapses onto a corner cot with a wince and a groan. Staring up, he counts the cracks in the old lay-in ceiling. Pretending to not think about the boiling anxiety in his throat. He’s stuck here for now.

He had a date scheduled with MJ tonight. They were supposed to take some sky pictures together with her incredibly nice camera. Looks like he’s not going to make it. A laugh bubbles past his lips, voice cracking with the effort. This morning, he had woken up with a smile; it’s going to be a stark contrast to tomorrow’s. Battered, bruised, half-drowned, and stranded in another universe. What a joke.

Sleep finds him soon enough. Arms still wrapped around the trench coat, with his suit tucked inside. As one small mercy, he rests dreamless.

Chapter Text

Waking the next morning feels like he’s been sleeping in a pile of glass and fire. He mumbles a curse as he shifts, back cracking in ways he doesn’t remember possible. His burns are tight, feeling as if they might pull themselves apart, shredding his skin to pieces. As he sits up, his head gives him an angry pang. Alas, sleep hasn’t rid him of the headache.

At the very least, he’s dry, he’s alert, and he can finally process more of his surroundings. He tries to recall the previous night, finding that much of it is blurry. He remembers the fall, ish. He remembers getting out of the water, stumbling around, Ted, Crime Alley, and then this place. Whatever its name might be.

A lot of things are running through his mind; maybe he should attend to important things first. Like finding himself food, and maybe some more medical attention. Then he can work out a plan.

Peter finds the still-damp trenchcoat with his suit beneath him, having held it close the whole night. He’ll need a dryer; no way it’s drying on its own in the dead of winter. Room 203 is pretty quiet. Most people are still wrapped in blankets and coats across the room. Those who are up and about are picking up their things.

The only volunteer in here is chatting to an older lady. Nodding along as she packs up. When she waves him goodbye, the volunteer’s eyes sweep over the room. Landing on Peter. Seeing the obvious injuries and bandages on his person, they immediately start toward him. “Good morning, did you sleep alright?” Their nametag reads ‘Marcus’. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, but not imposing.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. Thanks,” Peter flashes him a shaky smile. He’s still testing out his joints to make sure there isn’t any more permanent damage from the fall. He twists to check his spine. His movement is limited, making it probable it’s a sprain or fracture. He doesn’t think it’s broken, but if it were, it’s not like he could go to a doctor. In any case, most of his breaks in the past reset themselves naturally and quickly. It’s saved him a fortune in medical bills. His spine will be fine.

As for his ribs, he doesn’t have to test that. They’re definitely bruised. Every breath comes in with a sharp pain, never feeling as if he’s getting enough air. As a final check, Peter rolls his wrists; they’re aching, but that’s about it. All in all, it could’ve been a lot worse.

The volunteer has watched him stretch with little interest, but he extends out a hand. “My name is Marcus, I’m upper management here at The Lighthouse. I like to think I know most people around here. You’re definitely a new face.”

Peter shakes it. “I’m Peter. I’m new in the neighborhood, I guess.”

“You look like you’ve been through the ringer, kid.”

“People keep saying that. I’m alright, just had a bad day.”

Marcus folds his arms, an eyebrow raising. “It wasn’t any of Black Mask or Redhood’s guys, right? I hear they’ve been giving each other, and crime alley in general, issues lately.”

Noted. “Um, no. Don’t think so, I swear. Just got mugged. Someone random.” Peter shrugs, because honestly, it had been random. Peter had been minding his own business when a portal appeared with Crockpot barreling through it onto Queen Boulevard. He’d barely started taunting him when Strange showed up, demanding the monster surrender. Multiverse magic rules or something like that.

Peter had only managed to follow so much of his magic jargon. It was only after Cauldy flaunted the device, ‘The Dimensional Wave Maker,’ or something similar, that they realized it was tech. That’s more his wheelhouse; it definitely wasn’t in Cauldron’s. It was pretty evident it’d taken it from someone way more talented than itself.

Still, Peter gave the piece of scrap credit; jumping between universes is a pretty good way to escape. Or it would’ve been, if Peter hadn’t had the totally brilliant and not stupid idea to attach himself to it immediately.

He could’ve thought about that plan a little bit more. His ribs really hurt. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Marcus rubs a thumb over his chin. “Common as can be, unfortunately. Was there family involved?”

Peter shakes his head, “No one I knew, like I said.”

Marcus hums, appraising him. “Sorry, I just wanted to be sure. I don’t like seeing kids on their own. There’s more medical supplies in the front if that needs changing out. And Wayne Enterprises, or, really, the Wayne Foundation, is providing breakfast in an hour.”

Sounds pretentious. It reminds him of Tony Stark. “Oh, cool, man. Thanks for the heads up.”

“That’s my job,” Marcus idles before moving off to greet another person gathering their things.

“Hey! Wait! Do you guys have a dryer?”

The man blinks, “Check in with the front desk, they’ll hook you up.”

“Awesome.”

Peter gathers his thing, the trenchcoat, before moving off to explore a little more. This mansion is kind of crazy, or at least it was. It’s obvious where chandeliers would’ve been hung, or where massive portraits would have taken over the walls. Sconces probably lined the hallways with massive curtains draping over the expansive windows.

Maybe there would’ve been fancy side tables with crystal glasses. Peter assumes that’s a rich people thing. He can’t one hundred percent confirm they were crystal, but Mr. Stark had a set on his desk at one point. Instead of whiskey, Mr. Stark had offered him lemonade in one; it wasn’t half bad.

Now, it’s all barren. There are a few furniture pieces, but they’re purely functional. The old owners didn’t leave anything behind, it seems. Or it could be the shelter owners removed it all once they moved in. The walls are all a yellowed white, chipped and peeling in some places. It’s likely it had wallpaper at some point.

New additions to the place are the tile flooring and the rubber baseboard, making it easier to clean, he can only assume. His first stop is the rickety front desk; after a bit of back and forth with The Lighthouse’s receptionist, no way is he letting her handle his suit, sorry, he’s allowed to stand beside the dryer for his things. A few volunteers give him some odd looks, but no one goes further than that. Less than an hour later, his clothes are dry, and Peter heaves in a breath of relief.

He’ll have to find something to do about the blood. At home, he’d always used a liquid dish soap with a toothbrush to scrub. It takes forever, but eventually the blood always comes out. Maybe he’ll try it tonight.

Peter makes his way into what would’ve been the main hall, which now functions as a cafeteria. He’d briefly seen it last night following that volunteer, Will. The tables had been folded up and pushed to one side of the room. Now, they’ve all been set out.

More tables line the back wall; this time, they’re filled with food. Stacks of it. Workers buzz back and forth, setting up whatever is left.

Those setting up the tables are dressed simply in black t-shirts with white W’s emblazoned on their backs. Peter frowns; he’s seen that somewhere before. ‘Wayne Foundation’ is what Marcus had said. Maybe he’s seen their logo in town somewhere. It’s not totally out of the question.

It’s not much later that Peter is creating a mountain of food on his plate. He’s waiting to be scolded for it, but the worker at the first table just smiles at him. Peter pauses. Maybe this is a good place to start getting some answers. “Hey, can I ask how often you guys serve here?”

The woman working the counter smiles again, “Oh! Pretty often, I’d say, at least twice a month. Our team makes rounds to all the shelters in Gotham.”

“I’m new around here, sorry, who funds all of this? Donations?” He tentatively takes a bite of a roll while talking.

“A little, but most is funded by Bruce Wayne himself. Sometimes I can’t believe he can spare that much, but he is a billionaire, I guess.” She laughs, scooping some hash browns onto another woman’s plate.

“Are you a volunteer or are you paid?”

“This is actually my job, yeah. I even get benefits. Were you interested in applying? Seems like you’ve already run into us.” She gestures at his sweatshirt. Peter glances at it, noting the same ‘W’ printed on his chest. That’s where he’d seen it before.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, “Haha. Thanks, but not right now, I think. I’m just trying to get to know this place a bit better.”

The Wayne Foundation worker nods. “You know, we have a few other branches if you need other help. Like the Martha Wayne Foundation, they help out a lot of families and school-age kids.” She eyes him pointedly. Peter withdraws. These people have got to stop clocking him. Does he really look that young?

At first, he’s totally going to refuse, but he can’t quite get the words out. Instead, he lets out a tiny sigh, “Do you guys have like, a place I could reach you? If I needed anything, I mean. Or the other one you mentioned.”

“Absolutely,” the employee steps back, stooping to rifle through some bags. “Aha”, she says, grabbing a card from under the table. She scribbles something on the back before offering it to him. “Here, that’s our card. My extension is on the back. Might help you get connected to someone a bit faster.”

Peter takes it, looking over the card. It doesn’t even have a slogan, just the name ‘Wayne Foundation’ and a phone number. Plus, the handwritten extension on the back. He flips it over to look at it. ‘Ext. 842’. He grins, “Thank you, seriously.”

“Aw, it’s no problem at all. Hope to hear your call.”

Peter isn’t sure how useful these foundations will be to someone who didn’t exist before last night. “Yeah, maybe.”

She serves someone else before she makes a small “Oh!” She points at the last table in the line. “Before you sit down, don’t forget a free backpack.”

Nice. Peter gives her a thumbs up, grabbing one before sitting down to eat. The food is warm, rich, and filling. Peter can’t ask for more than that. He gets the chance to shove the trenchcoat into the pack. That’ll make carrying it around way less weird.

He cleans his plate quickly, finding himself watching the outside street from a small seating area in the next room over. It has one of the clear windows, no stained glass to be seen. The street is almost empty, with overcast clouds hanging over the area, shrouding it in a sullen, dark air. Peter can see a little more of the cityscape beyond the rooftops, and faintly— a massive ‘W’ on the skyline. Wayne Enterprises, it’s got to be. Man, that company really is everywhere. ‘Bruce Wayne.’ Though he sounds like a Tony Stark type, he could just as easily be another Norman Osborn. Ew.

Peter’s eyes drift up to the sky, watching for a nonexistent portal. Strange should be here by now. The longer he’s taking, the more worried Peter is becoming. What happened to him? Should he start prepping for a longer stay? What in the world could be holding Doctor Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, back?

He misses Aunt May, he misses MJ. He misses the Avengers. He misses New York. God. He wants to go home.

Maybe Strange is in trouble, but even then. Peter could help! Even if he’s not in tip-top shape, he’s always ready to help.

It’s an hour or so later that Peter feels he’s about ready to venture back into the city. He’d spent this last hour treating his wounds in a bathroom stall. Marcus had been genuine when he said they had medical supplies he could borrow.

He wishes he could’ve asked one of the volunteers to help, but he’s not sure how willing they’d be to help stitch up a gash on his side. They’d probably get him to a hospital, no thanks. Fortunately, he had padded it enough last night that it hasn’t bled through.

Still, he wants to stitch it, just in case he catches it on something. Peter’s insanely good at that. A few months ago, Kingpin’s guys had gotten a lucky knife swipe in, Peter had thought it’d be fine– until he bumped a desk in second period while wearing a cream colored shirt. Safe to say that wasn’t a fun call to Aunt May.

Peter bites his tongue to keep quiet as he ties off the last stitch. Snagging the thread hadn’t been too hard; he hopes no one will notice its disappearance. One of these days, he’s got to start packing a first aid kit into his suit. Surely it could fit in with some of his gadgets. Once he unfries his tech, maybe he’ll look into it.

The stitches are probably some of the nicer work he’s done. He’s pretty sure they’ll hold. He’ll just have to remember to take it out. Please remember. With one final look around for any leftover bloody tissues and bandages, Peter heads out.

He’s decided that finding a library is the best course of action today. They might have computers, and if not, a few history books will suffice. If he wants to survive here, he needs a lay of the land. He knows New York. He can feel it breathe, he can feel its heartbeat. Peter can feel the life pouring out of it. Here, he’s at a loss.

Gotham doesn’t seem like it has much life left. It feels like he’s wandering through its decaying insides. It feels downtrodden. There shouldn’t be people weaving through this graveyard, yet here they are.

The library takes an hour to walk to, not helped by all the side routes he has to take in order to stop his spider sense from twinging. Peter’s learned by now that not listening to that sense will always take Parker luck from bad to exceedingly worse.

The worst sense he gets today, one that makes his ears ring and his hands twitch, is spotting a black car turning onto his road. Peter takes cover behind an overflowing dumpster, watching them carefully. They look like Gotham’s version of police officers. Sure enough, a large ‘GCPD’ is emblazoned on the car’s side. The two men don’t look overly intimidating, but better safe than sorry. He’ll be sure to avoid them in the future.

Afterward, ‘Gotham City Public Library’ is what Peter Parker raises his eyes to. It’s carved above the double doors. Rotting leaves and black snow are tucked into its creases. Water stains run down its walls, almost like it’s crying. Peter’s seen quite a few old buildings here, but this looks the oldest. It could’ve been the most impressive, too. Now, it’s been sanded down with time and neglect. Dead vines coat the right half of the three-story building, even covering the windows.

Peter makes his way up the steps and opens the withering wooden door. It’s cozy inside, if not a little empty. The silent aisles of books await him with the soft buzz of overhead lighting. A scuffed blue carpet lines the floor, torn in heavy traffic areas. Everything wraps around a clear central area, which houses a single row of computers. The reception sits off to the left side. No one’s manning it currently.

Peter settles down at the computers, noting that out of seven, only two appear to be operating correctly. One’s screen is completely gone, another is cracked beyond recognition. He assumes the furthest of the two; it really does feel like he’s alone, but there’s at least one heartbeat he can hear in the vicinity. Peter sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Above him is a clear shot to the third-story skylight. Each level of the library wraps around the middle, leaving it exposed. He should track down the stairs in this place. It looks like a cool place to explore.

The computer turns on with the press of a button, and the screen thrums to life. It takes Peter aback. These look older than the tech he’s used to. He can’t be that judgmental; a public library never gets funding in any universe. He navigates to a browser called ‘Optine’. That’s disgusting. He’s incredibly glad that it exists nowhere near his own universe. Maybe they went out of business in the 90s. He prays they did.

First on his list is pulling up a map. And man, it's weird. Gotham is situated in New Jersey, across the river from a few other towns. His hunch was right, though. It’s beside the ocean and not a really big lake and river. He’s breathing out a sigh of relief to see that New York and Queens still exist here, albeit smaller than his. It looks like Gotham and Metropolis are some of the big places. Metropolis is even bigger than his New York. That’s when the first mention of a hero comes up. ‘Superman’, in Metropolis.

Peter frowns. That’s definitely a new one. Another name draws his eye, ‘The Justice League’. Sounds like a knock-off Avengers– Oh. Is it really a knock-off if the Avengers don’t exist here? They have a ton of heroes listed, and their home base is called ‘The Hall of Justice’. He can taste the entitlement from here. ‘Avengers’ is pretty terrible too, though, if he has to be honest. He’d have to be on his deathbed to admit that to Mr. Stark and Cap, though. Hall of Justice is a teensy bit more creative than Avengers Tower. Just a little.

It’s at this point that Peter wishes he had a notepad; this is all vital information to know. He switches over to information on Gotham’s heroes. Man, that’s a lot of bat dash something names. He recognizes ‘Batman’ first and foremost. He’d seen the caped man in the Justice League articles. Apparently, he’s a founding member and the main protector in Gotham.

‘Even the Bat won’t save you from them,’ Peter has to assume this is who Ted was talking about. The pictures of Batman look like they’re taking pictures of a cryptid; they’re blurry– he always looks like he’s running, swinging from a grappling hook, imagine not having webs, or attacking some criminal. A few of the better pictures are of him looming over the roofs of buildings.

For a hero, he’s insanely intimidating. Peter doesn’t like that much; he prefers the bright colors. Sure, black can come with some stealth benefits, but the second Peter had a little boy cry at the sight of his black suit, it was more than over. That was on top of all the other awful stuff, but it was still a factor in getting rid of that terrible suit.

The villains here are concerning, to say the least. No wonder Gotham looks so weary, these guys are total psychopaths. He does question a few though, the Joker, for one. He just kind of looks like a normal guy. No powers, no huge combat advantages, just an unnerving smile and too much free time in that asylum, Arkham. He’s ranked as ‘avoid at all costs’ by the GCPD. Curious, he begins to thumb through a handful of victim testimonies posted. The number makes his jaw drop. For someone supposedly human, that shouldn’t be possible. Just how many deaths is this man responsible for?

Why in the world is he still being held in an asylum and not a prison? Of course, the Raft back home isn’t incredible at keeping people locked away, but he can’t imagine an asylum is any better. The counter on Arkham breakouts this year is a good indicator. It’s not a nice number.

Fortunately, it looks like most of them are inside Arkham at the moment, giving Gotham a respite from their terror. It probably doesn’t help the gang situation much.

The list of them is longer than Peter would like as well, two are familiar to him. The Red Hood Gang, for one, and the Sionis Crime Family. On further inspection, it looks like it’s run by Black Mask. Marcus had mentioned them. Both have been fighting over Crime Alley. Great.

Peter has no idea how he’s going to be able to keep track of everything. It’s evident this city has been falling apart for decades. Only held together by the likes of Batman and his allies. It really is hard to stomach. New York had its bad moments, a lot of bad moments, but ‘defeated’ is never a word Peter would use to describe his city. He can’t say the same about Gotham, everyone seems so exhausted. At least there are places like The Lighthouse and all those foundations up and running. Batman might be taking care of the villains, but Wayne is trying to keep its people afloat.

Are these two the only ones keeping Gotham from sinking into the bay?

“Oh, hello! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in!” A voice calls from across the room. Peter looks up, finding a woman in a wheelchair trying to heave a stack of boxes onto a desk. They’re filled with a ridiculously heavy number of books.

He’s about to offer help when she manages it, pushing them all onto the desk with a contented smile. She’s fair-skinned with a light dusting of freckles and blazing ginger hair. The color reminds him of MJ. God, he hopes she’s doing alright. She is, obviously, because she’s MJ. She can get through anything.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” Peter half laughs.

The worker huffs, focusing on her task for a moment longer. “Oh no, I’m mainly surprised to see someone in this early–” as she looks over, her words die out completely. Her expression, previously warm, now freezes into surprise and confusion.

Peter’s a little taken aback by that, but tries to smile anyway. He’s never had so many people react to a cut and a bruise like this. “Oh, I got mugged the other day, jumpscare part two? Sorry.”

Her intensity flares for just a moment before her face smooths over in less than a second. She looks almost embarrassed. Peter can’t help but be put off; he gets the sense that none of her scrutiny has actually ebbed away. “It’s alright, you do look a bit frightening with all that on.”

He smiles in an effort to look less intimidating. He probably looks like some psycho with a multicolored face and a massive bandage covering his forehead. “Trust me, it’s way worse without it. I think I’d make an insanely good scare actor, though.”

“What are you doing here?” Based on her nonexistent reaction, he can assume the smiling hasn’t helped this situation much. The force in her tone doesn’t mesh with her calm expression. It’s incredibly unnerving.

Peter coughs. “This is a public library, right? I just wanted to access the computers and maybe check some stuff out. If it’s private, though, I can totally leave.” He distinctly remembers reading ‘Public’ on the sign outside, but who knows. Maybe he has a different definition of public in his universe.

“This is a public library.”

Peter shifts in his seat under her stare. “Looks like I’m in the right place then. Do I need an account to check things out here? Last library I went to had those. Not sure if you do, though.” That was in Queens. Can he say Queens in this conversation? What if there aren’t libraries in Queens here?

“We do. You want to make one?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, bouncing his foot up and down. Unsure if that would be wise. It’s not like it can be used to track him, though. No one is going to link the guy falling out of a portal in the sky to the homeless kid getting a library card, surely. “I’m thinking about it. I’m new to Gotham, I don’t know much about the place. Some books to take home might be helpful.”

She hums. Peter can almost see cogs turning in her head. He really wishes he knew why they’re turning. “What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Peter.” Every time he speaks, it feels like he is deepening this lady’s confusion. Her eyes narrow just slightly at his response. If he didn’t have spider powers, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Thank god for spider powers.

“Barbara,” she says, voice pulling taut.

How does he appease a woman he’s just met? Flowers? No, definitely not. “Good to meet you, Ms. Barbara. You have a really nice library?”

As if being reminded, she carefully takes down the top box on the desk, removing several books to set on her lap. She still keeps an eye on him, like he might jump her. “Please, just Barbara. But yes, I work hard to keep it this way.”

“I’m sure you do, um, and actually, I think I’ll pass on that account for now. I’m okay just reading them in here.”

Barbara wheels over to the closest section, children’s, before she starts slotting books into their proper place. “That’s more than fine. Though I did just realize, shouldn’t you be in school?”

Shit. He searches his brain for an excuse, “Actually, I’m a college student. Weird class times.”

She angles a look back at him, this time blatantly disbelieving him. “Isn’t it your winter break then? Gotham University is out, right?”

Peter seizes the lifeline, “Yeah, actually, it’s–”

“Or is it next week?”

Oh. “It’s this week.” He really hopes it’s this week.

Barbara treats him with a smile, leaving Peter with no clue if his fifty-fifty guess proved true. “Gotcha. I hope to see you here reading then. Lord knows I don’t get many newcomers here. Especially ‘new to Gotham’ newcomers.”

“Oh, sure, yeah. I’m a good reader, so probably.” Smooth.

She finishes stocking the bookshelf, moving to face him properly. “The library's the perfect place for you then. I have some work at the front desk, but you take care, Peter. Happy reading.”

“Right back at you, Ms. Barbara,” he replies, before realizing it doesn’t quite work in this context.

Barbara smiles again before making her way to the reception desk Peter had passed on the way in.

Peter stays inside the library for the rest of the day, trying to avoid Barbara’s near-constant surveillance. Even when it looks like she’s not, he can feel her eyes on him still. Despite that, he’s seen her on her phone quite a bit as well, biting at her nails as she types. Peter can’t help but wonder what’s holding her attention like that. He also can’t tell if she seems concerned or just concentrated. Who knows, maybe it’s a bit of both.

It’s really none of his business anyway; a library job has got to be pretty boring. Peter continues his research, hoping to retain the information he’s gathered despite the sheer amount of it. Like, he knows libraries exist in Queens now.

He’s not sure he can get another word to stick in his head when the sun starts to sink in the west. He’d made a good dent in everything he should know. Tomorrow, he’ll definitely be back to dig into Gotham-specific information. His stomach rumbles unhappily, and Peter sighs. He’ll have to figure out a money situation soon. One meal just isn’t sustainable for him. It’ll definitely complicate his healing. As for how he could earn money, he’s at a total loss. Maybe that’s something he could research tomorrow, too.

On his way out, he gives Barbara a small wave, which she returns, looking up from her phone. “Will you be coming in tomorrow, Peter?”

“Think so. I have a report on Gotham due after break. I’ll need all the history books you have.”

“That can definitely be arranged. Get home safe.” She gives him a curt nod, turning back to her computer.

“You too,” Peter replies before taking his leave, starting the long walk back to the shelter.

Peter’s probably been walking for around ten minutes before he starts to feel something is amiss. He can’t help but speed up a little; he has no indication as to what’s bothering him, but he knows it’s there, and he knows it’s following him. It takes another few minutes for him to finally start looking up, catching a glint of passing red off a streetlight. Someone’s on the rooftops.

He’s not a big fan when it happens to him, he has to say. He much prefers being the silent stalker. Peter has to admit he’s a little impressed they’ve stayed so quiet. It’s pretty clear they know how to go unnoticed. It’s just too bad Peter’s really good at noticing.

His route starts to get a little odd once he notices the tail. He keeps trying to test the limits of their sight. He finds pretty quickly that he’s really bad at shaking off a tail as Peter Parker. Spider-Man is quick, but injured Peter Parker sticks out like a sore thumb and is way too slow. He has no choice but to tune it out, making his way to The Lighthouse.

Peter gets back three minutes before Gotham’s curfew is in place. He’s glad he’d actually learned about it today. The last thing he wants is to be arrested or something of the like. He gives a nod to the night shift worker, it’s Maeve tonight, before heading inside to claim a bed. Thankfully, the eyes stop following him.

It was probably a bad decision not to confront them or to come back here. Really, though, what else was he supposed to do? That person was trying really hard to go unnoticed; it would be a red flag if he’d acknowledged them. He couldn’t risk getting on anybody’s radar, any further than he already might be, that is. He really hopes no one saw him literally fall out of the sky.

Peter maneuvers through the facility and sets down his pack on the cot, getting a chance to look around. Most people are already settling down for the night, a few groups sit close together, muttering amongst themselves, and others sit alone.

Despite his attempts at blocking the world around him out, Peter is a natural when it comes to eavesdropping. His hearing is incredibly helpful in a fight. No one ever gets a chance to hide from him if he can hear their heartbeat. But in an enclosed space like this? He really can hear everything and everyone.

It used to drive him insane, not being able to regulate the information in his head. It’s gotten easier with time. His brain rewired itself to handle it all. A part of him does find comfort in hearing small conversations, though. It’s always a nice reminder that he does what he does for a reason. So people can continue to exist as they are, peacefully.

Today, he listens to two older women exchanging stitching tips for a crochet project. He listens to an older man reminisce about his mother to a few friends. He listens to a young woman humming under her breath. What catches his interest the most, however, is a pair of men standing beside an open window, talking quietly.

The lights are dim at this point, the space being lit by standing lamps. Bright enough to see, dark enough to get some shut-eye. The shorter of the two faces is briefly illuminated by his companion’s lighter, and he draws back to blow out a puff of smoke from his cigarette. His companion tucks the lighter back into his pocket.

“Is it worth trying to go out tonight?” The taller mumbles, rubbing at his forehead.

The shorter man clicks his tongue, “Heard from Francis that Redhood’s gaggle is out. Not worth it.”

“Maybe a good idea. Black Mask’s operation got shot up last week.” Peter can hear the man flicking his lighter lid open and closed in his pocket. “One guy made it out. Til Redhood hunted him down day after. Heard he got gunned down in broad daylight, Redhood took his intestines and strung them up like tinsel.”

His friend treats him to a scoff. “That’s a load of horseshit and you know it.”

“Alright— fine. But he’s still a monster. I’m tellin’ you. Give him a few years, and he might just run this town.”

The shorter nods glumly. “I’d take Batman over him any day.”

As soon as the name leaves his mouth, his friend flinches. Ripping his attention to the open window. “Don’t say his name.”

He’s met with a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Fucking hell, Randy, he ain’t a demon. You can’t summon him with a word.”

Randy just shivers again. “He looks like a devil and acts like a devil. Good enough for me.”

“You’re stupid as fuck, Randy.”

“Fuck you, Aaron.”

“Fuck you too.”

Peter withdraws from the conversation, drawing in a long breath. He doesn’t want to listen to petty criminals argue right now. His back aches, his ribs creak, and his burns itch. He can feel tears gathering in his eyes, and he bites back the urge to let them fall. The cot is incredibly uncomfortable, but he’s grateful it’s not the cold floor, or the sidewalk outside, or Gotham’s harbor.

If he were home, he’d be at Aunt May’s right now, straining to come up with a good excuse as to why he’s sporting so many bruises. Oh god, Aunt May. It’d been such a busy day, he’d hardly thought about home. Like, actually thought about home. He craves a hug from his aunt, some of her world-class cooking, and her handmade quilts he could wrap himself in. He misses MJ and her smile, her quick remarks, and teasing.

He misses Mr. Stark, even Doctor Strange. He misses home. He’d never been away from Aunt May, not like this at least. He’s seventeen, and the most he’s travelled has been thanks to being Spider-Man, and even then, he was never alone. Here, it’s Peter Parker against the world. He curls up on his side, too exhausted to push away the loneliness. He needs to make a plan, but he has no idea where to even start.

Growing up, Peter always had the label ‘gifted’ in school. Anything stem-related, he was immediately drawn to. Teachers had a habit of telling him he was going to ‘make it,’ whatever that means. It’s a rude awakening to finally be in a situation where he needs to ‘make it’ and has no idea what to do. This feels like something for Spider-Man to handle, to deal with the brunt of life. It doesn’t feel like Peter Parker should be the one facing it all head-on.

Only, he is. And there’s nothing he can do except hope that tomorrow is the day he learns to ‘make it.’

Chapter Text

Bzzt!

Peter curses, shaking out the burn in his fingertips. Folding himself into one of the shelter's bathroom stalls to work on his suit is hardly comfortable. Less so when his only tools available are those he borrowed from the maintenance closet. Sorry Mr. Janitor.

This electrical burn is the latest of many. Peter curls his fist, squeezing away the last of the pain before pointing his screwdriver like the daintiest of needles, shifting bits and pieces around. He’s biting a flashlight, attempting to aim it properly while avoiding crushing it to get better eyes on what he’s doing.

He really didn’t give it much thought this morning, the suit itself, put simply, is fucked. No way is Peter even going to try to resurrect that with maintenance closet tools. However, his flash drive is another matter altogether. He wants his file storage back and some peace of mind. And access to some of the documents Mr. Stark left him.

Another electric shock has him setting down the tools with a huff. Maybe that’s a good place to stop for the day. The flash drive seems functional enough, enough to probably plug in at one of those library computers. At any rate, Peter thinks most of his files will still be accessible. He can only pray.

The walk today has a multitude of sights and sounds, the most prevalent being distant sirens and black smoke hanging in the air. He hopes everyone is okay, wherever they are. A part of him desperately wants to follow, the other lets him know that crossing the city quickly with little to no webs at his disposal is a terrible idea.

With guilt on his shoulders, he walks away, reaching the library with a dreary expression. The doors make an uneasy creaking sound as he opens them.

“Hey Peter,” a voice to the left greets. Peter glances over his shoulder to get a look at Barbara. The employee is resting her face on her hand, face illuminated by a blue laptop screen that’s sitting on the reception desk. Her face is totally void of the surprise and intensity she had yesterday. She even looks pleased to see him. “Good to see you came back.”

It’s nice to see her a little more comfortable, but her attitude yesterday won’t be leaving his head anytime soon. “Hello, Ms. Barbara,” Peter steps inside, dusting off frost and snow from his damp shoulders. His sweater doesn’t do much to protect him against the wet snow but it’s leagues above his burnt suit. “And how could I not? I love an invitation. How are you today?”

She closes the laptop’s lid, wearing a weary smile. “I’m doing good, just stayed up too late I think.” As if to prove her point, she yawns.

Now that she’s mentioned it, she does look a little tired. Like her eyelids weigh a hundred pounds and she might pass out on her desk. Her hair is tied up in a bun, half has fallen out at this point. Her glasses are also askew, crooked on her face. If Peter were legally allowed to bet, he’d say she’ll be passed out on her desk by noon. “I did get those books out for you though.”

“What books?” Peter queries, dusting off more snow from his shoes.

There’s a soft thump as Barbara sets down three books on her desk. Her laptop is moved to the side, Peter catches another bright white ‘W’ stamped on its lid. The books are massive, dusty, and adorned with peeling covers. Barbara has to lean to the side to see him around the towering stack. “The history books you wanted yesterday?”

It takes far too long for his brain to catch up to him. When it does, his smile wavers. Get your lies straight, Peter. “Oh yeah, the report! Sorry, I don’t think I slept very well either.”

“That’s expected. High schoolers. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have three energy drinks in that bag of yours.”

“Maybe you would be surprised, because I actually have five.” In truth, if Peter had any energy drinks, he would need around six to actually feel the effects. Of course, he’d only tried that once or twice. MJ had looked ready to rip them out of his hands after she saw the third one. Even Flash Thompson had looked at him like he was crazy. “And I’m a college student.” He tacks on at the last second. This web of lies is going to ruin him.

She snorts, expression stuck between concern and amusement. “Uh huh. But have you tried drinking water instead of pure caffeine? I hear it’s good for you.”

“Are you a doctor? Where’s the proof?”

“When I call emergency services once you overdose on caffeine.” She waves a flippant hand, flicking the laptop lid open again.

“I’d die happy.” He leans over to take the books into his arms. The first’s title looks like it’s been coated in gold leaf. Fancy stuff.

Barbara huffs, rolling her eyes. “Teenagers, you all sound alike .”

“I’m 18.”

“Sure.”

As much as Peter would like to deny it again, he’ll probably dig himself a deeper pit by speaking again. He’s avoided doing something stupid. It feels like character growth. Mr. Fantastic would be so proud. Time to keep his streak going. “I think I’m going to dig into these, but thanks for grabbing them Ms. Barbara. Much appreciated.”

She waves him off, “My pleasure Peter. Happy reading.” Her attention turns back to her laptop screen and Peter moves deeper into the library. Yet again, the place seems empty. He can’t hear much more happening save for Barbara’s rapid-fire typing. He can’t help but wonder if she’s the only employee. Of course, he’s only been here twice; hardly enough time to make an assumption like that.

Peter settles into a corner with an ancient looking couch and an outward facing window, curling up with the book resting on his knees. Frost has gathered on the small window panes, making it a bit harder to look outside. Cool air flows in from glass, opposing the warmth of the interior.

Thank god for libraries. Peter would have zero idea what he'd be doing right now without one. Maybe tracking down a job? He is lacking in the financial department. His stomach grumbles, apparently agreeing with him.

Hopefully all this research will be worthwhile, though. Too often he leaps into things unprepared. Maybe he’s trying to turn a new leaf, it seems like a good opportunity when everything is new.

Peter flips to page one of his book with a grimace, he should really stop being such a downer. He’s here to learn an alternative world’s history, that’s pretty cool. Super cool actually.

Without any other distractions, he reads. Learning that the city was founded in 1635 by a Captain Jon Logerquist, Swedish mercenary. Early on, it was a settlement founded to flee religious wars in Europe and was first called Fort Adolphus.

It was turned over to the British in the 1670s where it got its new name, Gotham City. In the 18th century it was known as Gotham Town, then by the 1840s it was back to Gotham City. The book moves in to explain that Cyrus Pinkney is responsible for the gloomy construction Peter finds himself fascinated by. Pinkney's design was supposed to be "bulwark against the godlessness of the wilds wherein we may nurture the gifts of Christian civilization and be protected from the savagery which lurks in untamed nature."

Peter thinks it’s interesting to ward off evil by building ‘evil’. Apparently, the style worked, drawing in more industry by the end of the century. In doing so, it also brought crime, poverty, and complete corruption. By the 1930s, it was nationally renowned as a dark stain on the map. A place to avoid. The emergence of superheroes did little to take back control of the city.

The coming years note the city changing with the times. Becoming modernized in some places, and falling into total disrepair in others. There’s a sour tone from the writer as they detail Gotham’s present. As if mourning the loss of something that could have been great.

The fact that Gotham is still standing is a feat. It’s been rebuilt several times over, which isn’t too far off from his own New York. Hell, there’s probably an invasion going on right now.

Gotham’s history, admittedly, is hazy at points. Apparently old leaders had done an excellent job of editing history to the point where modern-day historians are still picking through real events and propaganda.

Peter wishes he could reflect on what he’s reading, but he has to admit that he feels mindless. Absorbing this knowledge only gives him the benefit of an alibi in this universe. His thoughts feel muddy, without wanting to reflect on that further, Peter turns back to the book. Maybe he’ll find clarity. Somehow.

The words are neverending, and so are the hours that tick away on the clock 20 feet away. Peter can hear it ticking. It’s not ticking fast enough. His ‘research’ has turned into him staring at a ripped piece of carpet a small piece away; thinking about nothing in particular.

If he thinks about home he’ll get sad. If he thinks about his situation he’ll panic. It’s better to take a chance to think about nothing at all, to let time move through him. Time moving through him isn’t very useful though, maybe he has to face the thoughts he’s been avoiding. Just for a second. He clearly isn’t taking in any more information from the reading.

Peter rubs his forehead in frustration, wincing as he jostles the bandage. He’s not sure what he’s actually looking for here, is he actually needing any more information? He sinks into the couch a little more, scrunching up his face. He could leave. But where would he go?

At least it’s warm in here, it’s quiet. It’s nice to pretend he’s just having a calm day in a library. Even if there’s no food, he’s starving. It’s the type of hunger that lingers in his joints and adds a small shake to his movements. If he wants to heal, he needs to track some down. Man, he really needs money. And needs a job before that. It’s not like there’s an Aunt May or some billionaire friend of his to give him a sandwich.

His thoughts are interrupted by someone clearing their throat. He peeks over the unread book pages to see Barbara a few feet away, a small paper bag sitting on her lap. “How’s the research going?”

Peter shrugs. Very poorly. “It’s going, I can definitely say Gotham is an interesting place.”

Barbara pushes up her glasses, sympathy on her face. “No one will argue with you there, I once heard someone say they think it’s a pocket dimension full of everything no one wants to think about.”

“Sounds like they’re fun at parties,” Peter mumbles.

Barbara laughs, leaning forward to set the paper bag on the table. “Here, I came to give you this.”

Peter shifts his gaze, focusing on the bag for the first time. He can smell food. Automatically, he sits up, suddenly becoming much more engaged in this conversation. “I’m sorry?”

“I ordered food and realized I wasn’t actually that hungry. It’s yours if you want it.” She offers him a smile.

Peter shuts the lid on his book, shifting it off of his lap. He doesn’t have to see it in order to know it’s amazing, the smell alone has been enough to get his stomach to grumble. “Really? You’re sure?”

She pushes it closer to him. He wishes he could read her better, wishes he could understand why she’s doing this. “I am.”

He can’t say that he isn’t at least a little bit suspicious. Barbara went through all the effort of ordering it, just to give it to him? She didn’t have to do that, she could’ve put it in the fridge for later.

It’s a waste on him.

He’s still immensely grateful for the offer. “Oh, wow. Uh. Thank you. Ms. Barbara. You really didn’t have to. I can’t, um, pay you back today though.”

Barbara seems contented to see him take it. “Oh, please, you don’t need to pay me back at all. I’m glad someone can take it off my hands.”

Peter takes the bag after another glance at her. He still gets the sense she’s watching him closely. Maybe she’s just worried? He’s only met her twice, she wouldn’t have any reason to be worried. Peter is just Peter.

He’s still puzzled by her. Peter would like to think he’s good at reading people, but she really has him stumped. “Hey, I actually thought about it some more and maybe it would be nice to be able to check these out. No way I can read them all today. Could I get a card at the front?”

He doesn’t quite know why the words fall from his mouth. But maybe it’s a small way he can repay her. Peter’s also not sure why getting a library card would be equivalent to paying someone back for something, but he thinks he hits it right on the head. Barbara, for the first time since Peter has met her, looks almost ecstatic. “Sure! I have all the paperwork up at the front desk, whenever you’re ready, just head on up and I’ll get you sorted.”

Cool. “I’ll do that then, after this chapter.” Really, he just wants time to devour this.

“Of course, I’ve interrupted your reading time enough already.” With a nod, she leaves him be.

As soon as she’s rounded the corner, Peter’s grabbing the bag and tearing it open. It’s even better than he could’ve imagined. There’s a cup of stew, kimchi and beef, and a wrapped sandwich, pastrami rye. He could cry. Where did she get this? Peter owes them a brand new regular. The soup is hearty, filled with a little bit of everything and the sandwich is massive, warm, too. It has Peter on the verge of thanking a higher power.

It reminds him of Aunt May’s cooking. She had a simple approach when it came to food, ‘make it rich and make it filling’. It brings a small smile to his face just thinking about her famous pot pies. He scarfs down the food, incredibly satisfied. Peter decides to not think about how many calories he’s still missing for the day. How hungry he still is.

After he finishes his meal he heads up to the front desk where Barbara is waiting. She’s balancing a phone in one hand while she types one-handed on her laptop with the other. Seeing him approach, she clicks off the phone and shuts the laptop lid. “How’d you like the food?”

“It was amazing Ms. Barbara.” Understatement of the year. “Seriously, thank you. Where in the world did you find that?”

Barbara nods, “There’s a place a block down on the corner, they do a lot of stews and stuff like that. They’re actually only my second favorite around here. My first favorite in all of New Jersey closed just last year, I was sad to see them go.”

Peter nods solemnly, grieving with her. The loss of a beloved restaurant is a feeling he deeply resonates with. A hot dog place three blocks away from Aunt May’s apartment had sustained him from seventh grade to sophomore year. The owner had joked Peter was the only one keeping him in business. Unfortunately, even Peter’s poor spending habits couldn’t prevent the inevitable.

“Well, library card right? Here.” Barbara reaches into a filing cabinet, pulling out a small pair of forms to put before him.

Peter can’t help but inquire a bit more. “Gee, paper stuff. Feel like I haven’t filled stuff like this for like, over five years. Do you guys not do digital accounts?”

He’s met with a short guffaw. But as soon as Barbara catches sight of his genuine bemusement her mouth snaps shut. “Oh! You’re serious. Sorry.” She taps her fingers on the desk. “Gotham is a special case. Our power grid is unstable enough that most places around here use computers sparingly. The city doesn’t find it worthwhile to put in a better one when it’s going to get destroyed once a year by some cataclysmic disaster. A lot of citizens just don’t trust that their information will be available when they need it. Hence— paperwork.”

Oh. That answer is more depressing than he would’ve liked. “That sounds stressful.”

“It is, but don’t let it get you down.” She grabs a pen from across the way and offers it to him. “If you want to be a true Gothamite your bar for weariness should be way, way higher.”

Peter blinks. “You don’t think I’m a Gothanight?”

Her answer is a pointed smile.

Psh. He’s totally Gotham material. “Oh, c’mon, is it really that obvious?”

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Peter, your accent is the most obvious thing ever. A New Yorker in New Jersey, it’s not even a question.”

She has a point, admittedly. Even living through one of the worst weeks of his life, he has more of a smile than most of these people, he sticks out, for sure. “I thought I’d been doing so well, too.”

“Keep dreaming.”

Shaking his head, Peter picks up the pen, looking over the forms. Easy peasy. He stands at the front desk, leaning over to scribble in his answers. It’s pretty basic stuff, Peter makes a mental note of the information he’s taking down. He’ll need to keep that straight if he does anything more ‘official’ in this universe.

To his non-surprise, Barbara watches him fill it out closely, breaking the silence with a quiet question. “So, what brings you to town then, mister New Yorker? It’s rare for me to get someone in here two days in a row.”

Peter doesn’t look up from the paperwork, but bites the inside of his cheek. “My aunt and I just moved from Queens last month.”

“Ah, so you’re a brand new Gotham newbie?”

“Definitely.”

“You’ve only been here a month?”

Peter can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. He also hears her putting a pencil to paper. It’s unclear what she might be writing about, he refrains from lifting his head to look at it. He really needs to stop being so paranoid. This is just some nice library worker. That’s it.

He clarifies, “Less than a month.” It’s technically not a lie while still feeling like one. However, three days is probably not a good answer here. “Haven’t even finished unpacking.” Okay. That one is definitely a lie.

“Less than a month and you’ve already had a run in?”

Peter looks up, prepared to ask what she means– before she gestures at her own face. It clicks. “Oh– um, yeah. Like I said yesterday, got mugged. Nice bit of welcome from the locals,” he laughs, touching his face without much thought. He really needs to take the bandage off. It’s not an enjoyable conversation piece.

Barbara hums in sympathy. “Yeah, that sounds about right. GCPD and the bats do what they can, but crime is always a problem. I’m surprised your aunt wanted to move here.”

“Wanted is probably an overstatement,” Peter grimaces. Before he cares to elaborate and lie some more, he pauses on the last two lines of the paper. “Wait, hey– this says I need an ID?” And a home address.

Barbara smiles, and Peter knows there’s more behind it. “Yeah, just like a driver’s license or some other form of government identification. We’re county run so it’s required, unfortunately. You said you’re a teenager, a school ID card would work too.”

“I’m 18. But I just lost mine,” Peter lies. “And I don’t drive.”

Barbara waves her hand like she’s heard it all before. “In that case, you’d need your aunt to come in. Guardian authorization.”

All of this for a library card? “That’s probably not going to happen anytime soon.”

The librarian raises an eyebrow, as if expecting a confession. She totally knows he’s alone. He’s going to make her work for it though. His brain is going a million miles a minute when he blurts out, “She’s stuck in the hospital.”

Whatever angle she’d been expecting, this had not been it. Her air of victory is quickly dispelled. “Hospital?”

“Yeah, we’re down here for cheap treatment. Nothing cheaper than Gotham right?” Hopefully. He has no idea if that’s true. Maybe it’s the most expensive treatment in the country.

Barbara’s face scrunches up in consideration. “I mean, we have some good funding and programs from Wayne Enterprises.” Then, as expected, her expression and tone softens with a conscious thought. “It sounds like you’re going through a lot though. I’m sorry to be giving you grief over something as silly as a library card. And I’m sorry about your aunt.”

Peter hates being a liar. This random person deserves better, Peter’s sorry he can’t offer it. “It’s okay, I get it. You’re just doing your job.”

Barbara readjusts her glasses, breaking eye contact with him. “Once you get your school card replaced, we can try this again.” Barbara grabs the papers he’s mostly filled out, filing them into a desk drawer. “It’ll be as quick as can be.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I can help you find any more books you need though? Set you up in the nicest corner we have? I’ll hold them for you for when you come back, too.”

The gesture is appreciated. “It’s okay, I like searching for this stuff. Just call me Kraven, because I love hunting down a good book.”

Barbara’s blank stare does not provide him confidence. It takes Peter seconds longer to realize that Kraven doesn’t exist here. Damn. That joke would’ve gone over great back home.

“Well.” She moves on, ignoring his comment. “As much as I appreciate students supporting their local library, I do wonder why you don’t just use a laptop? I know Gotham University rents them to students for free.”

Peter only shrugs, dreading spinning the next thread of lies. It’s starting to get hard to keep all of it straight. He won't deny that some of the week's exhaustion creeps into his head. The lies are becoming a little too much.

Barbara continues, “You should put in a request, that way you don’t have to rely on our terrible ones.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

She gives him a minute smile. “You seem like you’re running out of steam. Don’t mean to be talking your ear off.”

He returns the smile, “It’s no problem. I like talking to you. But it’s probably time for me to hit the books again, I’ll see you on the way out, Ms. Barbara.”

“Sounds good, Peter.”

He moves off after that, cleaning up his reading nook from earlier to assume a spot at the computers. Unfortunately, it gives Barbara a chance to send him a glance every so often. Peter closes his eyes to it. People sure like to worry here.

Peter slips out his spider flash drive and plugs it into the computer. For a moment, he’s worried it won’t work, but a folder pops up on the home screen.

Peter allows himself a stupid grin, finally. Something from home. He opens the folder, sorting through available files. This is his treasure trove of information, his master file. From suit designs to tech to web fluid formulas, this is the behind the scenes for Spider-Man.

Originally, he’d kept a journal detailing everything, however, Aunt May had almost discovered it three times and MJ twice before Flash ended up clogging a toilet with it. Peter supposes it was the best possible outcome. Flash hadn’t even flipped through it before destroying it.

The flash-drive is considerably more secure, and he keeps it on a necklace under his shirt most of the time. Only MJ has noticed it so far, and even she’s not that interested in why he does it. She’s just used to some of his habits, no matter how bizarre they are. The drive is supposed to be water proof, but Peter supposes the whole hitting the bridge thing first might’ve banged it up a bit first. Peter’s lucky he managed to get it working again at all.

Peter first does a run-through of everything, ensuring nothing has been corrupted. Once satisfied, he moves to what he’s really looking for. Emergencies, written by Tony Stark himself. He planned for everything, that included sending a list of everything that could possibly happen to every avenger. Peter’s list is annoying, admittedly, in half of them Mr. Stark seems to think he’ll have gotten caught changing into his suit in some alleyway. Which has only happened once. He’s pretty lucky the guy was blackout drunk too and could barely remember his own name, otherwise he would’ve had to consult the emergency plan.

Scrolling through them gives him little, except for one. ‘Alone and with no communication.’ It doesn’t list being in a separate universe, but still, it’s a pretty good summary. Peter clicks into it, scrolling because Mr. Stark loves to ramble on that Peter should’ve avoided the situation in the first place but he supposes he can figure out a way to help. There are several options, ranging from tech routes, mainly consisting of connecting to a Stark satellite, to magic routes. Like drawing runes on the ground to summon Thor. Both of those aren’t very likely, one does possibly stick out to him though.

The Mystic Arts, used by Doctor Strange. Several documents are linked with instructions on spells, also noted is that this is a ‘Last Chance’ type of scenario. The Mystic Arts take time, and there’s no guarantee what else he could mess up while trying to achieve a result. A communication spell might work. Peter sits back in his chair, thinking. Of course, there’s no guarantee this universe follows the same magic rules, and that it works across the barriers of the universe. But what’s the harm in trying? After that he’ll try the Thor thing. After that.. Well. He’d better get enrolled into college to somehow start studying multiversal travel.

Peter spares a moment to review his web recipes. He’s made several over the years, this is an easy way to keep it straight. Luckily for him, his earlier versions are relatively simple. Before Peter had access to Avengers-level materials, he used his middle school lab. The webbing isn’t as strong, or long lasting, but it’s better than nothing. He’ll have to track down a lab he can use, for sure.

It’s almost close when Barbara comes to find him again. She wheels herself down the aisle, giving him a wave. He looks up from his book. “Hey, sorry, just wanted to let you know we close in five. Buses are going to stop running in twenty, I know you’ll need one to get a ride to the hospital. It’s a long walk from here, I’m sure you know.”

He clears his throat, “Oh, yeah. Good point.” He doesn’t want to leave, the cold is getting worse by the day. He still has nothing to his name here, save for the lie he’s been spinning to this library worker. She must think he’s staying at the hospital with his aunt. “Hey actually I was wondering, uh, is there any work around you know of? If there’s not, I get it, but I can do most things. I can clean, work a register, shovel snow, anything anyone needs. Small one off jobs.”

Barbara goes quiet, her expression becoming unreadable again.

“If you don’t it’s no worry, seriously. I, uh, just thought it was worth a look around you know? Real jobs take away from school. But the small stuff I can work in anywhere!” He laughs awkwardly, getting up to shut down the computer. He’d slipped the flash drive into his pocket the moment he’d seen her approaching.

As if stirred into the moment again, she coughs. “I– uh. Peter, sorry. I was just going to say if you came around tomorrow morning, I might have some jobs for you around here. That’s all. If it works with your school, of course.”

“Oh.” Peter nearly falls apart in relief. Finding under the table work can usually be a lot harder than this, but he’s starving. And he needs to heal.

“We open at eight, I’ll have figured some stuff out for you. I’ll pay, too.”

“That’d be nice, thanks Barbara,” he gives her a real, genuine smile that she returns just as fast.

Barbara purses her lips, as if thinking something over. “And– do you have a proper jacket, Peter?”

Peter scoffs, “God, you sound like my aunt.”

“It’s getting pretty cold out there. Gotham blizzards are no joke. I could bring you one if you’d like?”

“No thanks, I run warm. Thanks for the offer, though.” He’s sure that turning her down is the best decision, even if he wants to accept her offer. There’s something he still can’t quite put his finger on when it comes to her, and he doesn’t want to owe any favors in his current position. He’s sure she doesn’t mean him any harm, but then again, he’s known her for less than a week.

Barbara replies with a polite smile and a small wave. Peter takes his chance to duck back into the cold.

Barbara watches the teen leave, sitting by the front window. Peter doesn’t even look in the direction of the bus stop. He shifts past it, heading straight for what she knows is Crime Alley. The opposite direction of Gotham’s hospital.

Peter is a terrible liar, she’s decided.

He reminds her so much of Dick when he was younger. An exhausted, beat-up variation sure, but they even share the same beauty marks. She can picture Dick’s face with total accuracy. The two have got to be 90% identical. Dick’s permanently twisted nose from the amount of breaks pretty much makes up for the last 10%. She’ll have to compare their handwriting, but from what she remembers, they’re remarkably similar as well.

The only major difference would be their build and their hair color. Dick, being an acrobat, had broad shoulders with well-defined arms. He was never scrawny, Peter is. It’s a little alarming to see in all honesty. Peter’s hair is much lighter than Dick’s as well. Dick’s hair has always been an inky black, Peter’s is a mousy brown. She supposes he could be dyeing it.

Peter holds himself a little differently as well. Dick, even as a kid, had confidence in everything he did. She vividly remembers his exuberance, his quips, his fun facts. He was enjoyable to talk to, if not a little all over the place. He would happily do a backflip on a table at a crowded event if you had asked him to.

Peter shies away from that, appearing more reserved than his dopple ever has. His smile appears more out of politeness than anything. Of course, she’s only known him for a day. Maybe if she could get him more comfortable, she could get a better sense of him.

Even if it’s a clone situation, she hesitates to call it in. He seems sharp and observant, but very skittish. Getting Batman and co. involved feels like too serious of a step right now. She’s not looking to interrogate the kid. And Jason wouldn’t help any more if they got involved, anyway.

At first, she’d been concerned he was a distraction, or a threat directed at her at her place of work. Now, she’s just confused. She’d done some homework, the last name he’d written down, ‘Parker’ had been vital to know. Despite that, she’s found no record of a Peter Parker matching his description at Gotham University or any high school in the area. More evidence to the clone theory, but not enough to be conclusive. She’s dug through hospital records, not finding anyone with the surname Parker that could possibly be his aunt. There’s the possibility she goes by a different last name, of course. Barbara will have to ask about her more next time.

Not at a point to call it in yet though. Not yet. She’s relying on Jason to get the information she can’t, perhaps it’s a little ethically dubious, but it’s been her way of killing two birds with one stone. Keeping Jason close and Peter close by. She’s lucky Jason agreed to help her at all.

Barbara flips back open her laptop. She’ll keep her phone on, ready for an update from him. But it’s time to get back to her regularly scheduled shift as Oracle.

On the way home, Peter spots someone sitting on the rooftops, watching over the street. He hates the feeling of eyes on him. That glimmer of red reflecting off streetlights. Peter will have to do something about his shadow soon, but for now, Peter ignores it. He’s not in a state to fight anyone yet.

Thankfully, the feeling fades away in the last half hour of his walk, and Peter decides to avoid the dreadful twinge he’s getting from the main street. He looks around, ensuring no one is looking, before he easily scales a building to hop up on the roof. Once clear, he leaps the first gap with ease.

It’s good to stretch again, three days of lounging around makes everything feel tight. Though, it could just as easily be the still-healing burns. He takes it slow, just in case. The added benefit is that if anyone sees him, he just looks like some dumb teen practicing parkour.

Peter shoves his hands in his pockets as he leaps over another ledge, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. He’s starting to get a little concerned over it. Peter’s no nutritionist, but he can guess he’s roughly getting less than a third of the calories he should be eating. His powers take up so much energy, and his fast metabolism doesn’t let him take a break.

He lands, feet dispersing a small amount of pebbles that line this particular roof.

This type of life isn’t going to be sustainable for much longer. When will he start seeing the really bad effects? A week? Two? How long before he should start worrying about starvation? He can’t help but scowl. Oh woe is him, on track to die from not eating enough fast food.

Sometimes this spider stuff can be incredibly frustrating.

Peter’s thoughts keep him entertained until he’s about ten minutes out from the shelter. His sense offers a small thrum, and he ducks behind a roof access structure. There’s a heartbeat not 20 feet away. There’s a soft breath, an electronic hum, and the fluid breeze in the night air. Peter closes his eyes, focusing in order to listen in to the figure perched on the edge of the roof.

“—you called?” The voice asks, it’s masculine, but he sounds pretty young. “Yeah, I’ve been poking around. Energy signatures were crazy above Madison, and someone online claimed they saw a portal and monster hit the bridge then fall into Gotham Harbor. Not finding enough evidence of that though.”

The voice on the other end is too quiet for Peter to hear. His heart seizes at the mention of the bridge. He had really thought the cloud cover might’ve been enough.

“Mhm. Personally, I think it could’ve been leftover from that meteor Superman blew up last week. Small enough to escape his notice, especially when he was helping out after that tornado. But still big enough to make an impression here.”

…

“No, I looked into it already. Just your average space rock, if I remember right it was considered a mesosiderite. I think. And before you ask, I did follow some remnants of the signature. It went straight into crime alley. It faded quickly though, took too long to follow up. It’s gone. I suppose someone could’ve fished it out of the river?”

…

“That works for me, like you said. I’ll keep an eye on it just in case. Let’s hope we didn’t just receive another Kryptonian.”

…

“Pft, yeah. Alright, I’ve got to get to my normal patrol route. I just know Red Hood is upset I’m here, even if it’s only for a minute or so. And I’ve still got that financial district murder to follow up on. Cobblepott’s being a real pain but I’ll figure it out.”

…

“I’m not a detective for no reason. I’ll catch him, I’ll just need some prep time. But I better get going. See you. Red Robin out.”

Peter waits for the figure to disperse before creeping out from his hiding place. In the distance, he can make out a dark shape grappling across rooftops. So someone had noticed his dramatic entrance into the universe. Sort of.

‘Red Robin’ didn’t seem all that interested though. For now, his secret appears to be safe.

Chapter Text

“Hey! Do you need some help with that?” Peter calls out, breath coming as a cloud of white in the chill morning air.

The man attempting to balance a whole couch on his back squints. “What?”

Peter’s standing on the sidewalk, looking up at him. “Do you need any help? Those stairs look really evil with just one person.”

Gotham’s housing situation looks less than ideal. Peter is staring up at an old apartment building that seems like it’s starting to lean a little too far to the left. The brick is chipped in places, stained with black. The stairs are made from rusted metal, and the couch the man is balancing is a sun-bleached green. Gotham’s ongoing urban decay sinks into his mood; living in places like this must be difficult. Far more difficult than anything he has to deal with. “What’s a scrawny thing like you going to do? You better not have a gun in your pocket, son, I got nothing to give.”

The teen shakes his head emphatically. “No– No, nothing like that! I just thought that looked heavy. And I weightlift. As a hobby.”

The older gentleman squints again, as if trying to see if Peter’s lying. “Alright then, fine, don’t get crushed.”

Peter grins, taking the chance to leave the sidewalk, running up the stairs to meet the older man and couch. He grabs the front part of the frame. “You can grab the back, I got the front. The load will be less intense back there.”

“You sure?” The man asks, still eyeing him like he’s doing something stupid.

“Yup.”

He grumbles something before shuffling to the back of the couch. Peter wishes he could lift the whole thing in front of him, but that might be a little suspicious, though. So he plays along.

Together, the two maneuver the couch down the stairs and into the moving truck on the street. The older man wipes a few beads of sweat from his brow. “Maybe you do weightlift.”

Peter smiles, “Told you. Hope the rest of your move goes well.”

“Hey– wait, here.” The man pulls some cash from his pocket and offers it. “Here’s a five. I don’t got much, but thanks for the help.”

The bill is crumpled around the edges, crinkled, and stained with time and use. As if its home for the past few years has been underneath the floor mats of a car. Or stashed deep within someone’s pocket. Peter wishes he could find a few bills on his person like that. It’d be a welcome surprise. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Just take the bill.”

He can’t find it in himself to say no again. The refusal was mostly for politeness. The guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders, but he needs to eat today. This is his ticket. He takes the money, slipping it into his jean pocket. “Thanks.”

His brief employer nods, something warmer settling between the pair. “Have a good day, son.”

“You too!” Peter waves, skipping on his way to start back down the street. Soon his brisk walk turns to a jog. His first day— and he’s already going to be late.

Wonderful.

“So, everything makes sense?”

“Sure does.” Peter stands at attention as a show of respect and a slight bit of mockery. Barbara seems amused; that’s the most he can hope for. He’s already been assigned his uniform, a pack of wet wipes, a duster, and a rag. The ultimate toolset for his newest task, to deep clean every shelf this place has.

Barbara claps her hands, “Perfect, let me know if you need anything. I have to sort out some stuff in the back, give me a shout if anyone wants to check anything out.”

“Understood, Ms. Barbara.”

He earns a pained smile for his efforts, but Barbara doesn’t press. She just shakes her head and wheels to the back room. “Okay, Peter.” Her voice is heavily warped by a tangled sigh.

The door closes behind her, and Peter is left standing with his arsenal of cleaning supplies. He'd better get started.

Peter hops up a stool, wipes in hand, beginning to go through the motions. His work is monotonous and steady, his hands seeking out grooves in shelving to scoop out dust. Wiping down books is slow and purposeful, giving him a chance to finally breathe. Even if most of it is just dust.

It’s a nice chance to finally let himself drift. These past few days have thrown him for a loop, a loop he hasn’t quite figured out how to break out of. The only thing fueling him has been total desperation and panic.

Right now, he has a chance to focus on the grit beneath his fingers, the pang of tension behind his eyelids, and the rapid beating of his heart. It hasn’t slowed down much since he arrived. Maybe it’s time to pick himself up and take things into his own hands.

Doctor Strange apparently has better things to do than pick him up. That could mean a few things, like that he’s dealing with a bigger threat. Peter doesn’t want to think that he could be the most important thing on the man’s mind. But it sure would be nice right about now.

Perhaps there’s the possibility that Dr. Strange is trapped in a universe himself. Locked in by Cauldy spamming portals open and closed before it turned to scrap metal, exploding over the sky and plummeting alongside him. Taking the Wave Inducer with it. Hell, the metal probably hit the river moments after he did.

Red Robin was probably tracking the leftover traces of the explosion, which had absolutely covered Peter from head to toe.

Though there’s a possibility it could be from the Wave Inducer. Universe-hopping energy is probably pretty potent. Peter hums in thought, if it was the Wave Inducer, examining the type of energy could potentially lead to reverse engineering the device, or inventing a new way to produce it. Peter’s ongoing theory is that it’s a smaller version of a collider. More reliable than a collider, too. It’s not too far to say that Peter could have a real chance of getting home if he could get some proper data on this.

And more traces of that energy. Red Robin had said the signature had died away in Crime Alley, just a few days after his unfortunate arrival. That’s a tight timeline to get anything done. Cauldron’s scrap might be the answer. Surely that metal is going to have a lot harder time shaking off whatever energy the Wave Inducer was producing than him.

But if Peter wants to recover the scrap, which definitely fell into the river or slightly adjacent, he imagines a metal detector won’t get the job done. He needs something a little more advanced to dig it out. He knows exactly who has the tech to do it, with a few tweaks.

Peter takes a second to rub at his forehead, wanting to stab out his sudden, stupid idea. But he can’t think of an alternative with his current resources. He needs what Red Robin has, and with no way to make it, less inviting solutions come to mind.

He’ll need stealth and anonymity. Much easier to accomplish as Spider-Man rather than Peter Parker. Perhaps it’s time to start looking at repairing his suit properly. Not with janitor tools this time.

In the suit, he doesn’t feel like homeless Peter Parker stranded in a different universe. He feels like Spider-Man, swinging through city neighborhoods, ready to take on the world. Even if it’s not his own.

When lunch comes around, Peter can’t help but grimace at his progress. So far, he’s made it through three shelves on the first floor. Only a million more to go. The upside is that maybe Barbara will let him stick around for a little longer. This really is the only thing going for him; losing it would definitely cripple his progress for a good while.

His break is half an hour, plenty of time to make his way to a gas station a few blocks away. His options are limited, to say the least. But soon he’s pulling out the five dollar bill with a small smile, it's the first money he's made here. He hands it over to the cashier with a victorious air. This is an achievement, right? No matter how small? All he can afford is an overpriced protein bar. Stupidly poetic for Peter Parker.

Peter eats his meager meal beside a thrumming mechanical box attached to the gas station exterior. Honestly, he has no clue what it is, but it’s warm to the touch and vibrating under his fingertips. A pleasant enough space to peel back the wrapping and eat his lunch as he watches the street.

For such a large city, he thought there'd be more cars. To his surprise, the streets are proving relatively quiet and empty today. Maybe there’s a subway? It’d make sense; the few bridges in Gotham aren’t effective enough for buses to be the only method of public transport. He watches citizens go about their days, most bundled up in the cold. One or two sport t-shirts and shorts. Freaks.

That’s when his eyes land on a familiar face. Peter pushes himself off the wall to come up to a man making his way down the street. “Ted!”

The man in question blinks, bleary eyes looking Peter up and down. “I don’t have any money to give ya’.”

“No– No. I just wanted to thank you. I don’t know if you remember me, but you helped me out a few nights back.”

Ted squints, “Oh– you were the one who looked like he crawled out a sewer.”

Peter grins. “Right in one. Look, you probably saved my life. I want to repay you. I– I don’t have a lot right now but.. You want to split this?”

“You don’t owe me nothin’. But I won’t say no to scamming some poor soul out a few crumbs.”

“Awesome. Thank you, again– here.” Peter breaks the remaining portion of the protein bar in two; he offers one to Ted. He takes it with gloved fingers and a small smile.

On the way back to the library, Peter’s stomach might be close to empty, but his heart feels much, much lighter.

Barbara’s still on lunch when he pushes in the doors, fighting against the frosty breeze outside. The library is empty, only filled with the low thrum of a heater and the occasional buzz of overhead lighting. Not a heartbeat in the whole place.

It’s the perfect time to start casting spells. Literally. Peter holes himself up in one of the back storage rooms, eyes and ears assessing the area. Looks clear. From his jean pocket, he withdraws a crumpled-up napkin from yesterday. Peter’s not one to let such good writing material go to waste. His joke turns sour in his head. His writing on the paper is quick, nearly illegible. Good old-fashioned security.

‘By the mind of the Outer Rings, Communi Quaero.’

Tony wrote that it was a spell meant to reach out, to contact someone. All Peter had to do was say the words, practice the movement, and smash it all together to make one magic spell. Sounds easy enough.

“By the mind of the Outer Rings, Communi Quaero!” Peter says into open air.

It stays quiet. There’s no feeling in his gut, no sparks from his fingers, just meaningless words and a hand movement that probably has him looking like a fish flopping around on shore. Peter shrugs it off; he hadn’t been expecting to get it first try. It would’ve been really, really cool though.

“By the mind of the Outer Rings, Communi Quaero!”

Nothing.

“By the mind of the Outer Rings, Communi Quaero.”

Silence.

A flare of irritation blooms in his chest. There’s obviously something wrong, but what could it be? “Communi Quaro. Quaro. Am I saying that right? It’s not Quaroo, right? Comunie?”

There are no notes on Latin pronunciation, just the words, the hand movement, and a note that this was a last-shot type of solution. Peter’s starting to see why. Magic is hard. He always knew that, obviously. It still feels like he’s doing something stupid, something beyond him.

Which, in all fairness, it probably is. Peter’s not a magic user. He’s a kid from Queens who took a bug bite to the extreme. He’s no serious grumbler like Strange, he’s more like a sing-songy theater kid. “Where the fuck are you Strange?” he murmurs, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his necklace.

Peter hears the distant click of the front door opening. Looks like magic time will have to be postponed for now.

His shift wraps up relatively undisturbed until he’s staring at the cash placed in his hand by Barbara. He looks up, immediately offering back the money. “Hey, this isn’t right.”

She frowns, looking over to examine the bills. “What? There’s two-hundred right? I counted before I gave it over.”

She must have made a mistake. “No, that’s– it’s too much. I’ll take a quarter of that. Less even.”

“Peter, it’s fine.” Barbara pushes his hand back toward him.

Why is she doing this? Peter’s a nobody. He’s a nobody. She’s going too far. “You’re a library worker, Barbara, this is basically stealing. Take it back.”

“I won’t, I promise you it’s fine. I wouldn’t give it to you if I didn’t think otherwise.”

Like that’s any comfort. This feels like highway robbery. He’s undeserving. Completely undeserving. But when he looks up to say as much, he’s met with a hard stare. An uncompromising expression. God. She’s really made up her mind, hasn’t she?

Peter grimaces, staring at the cash. Holding it cements something guilty in his throat. “Okay. Thank you, Ms. Barbara.”

The stare morphs into a minute glare. “I’m going to start calling you Mr. Parker if you don’t quit that.”

“No can do.” Aunt May would have his head if he ever forgot his manners.

Her stance on this particular matter remains weak. She folds. “Fine, will you be in tomorrow? You made some good progress, but there’s still plenty to do.”

“Yes, if you’ll have me.” He’s keeping his voice tight, easy-going. Pretending that he isn’t still reeling from all the cash he’s holding.

“Of course I will, I’ll pay every time you come in, too. Get yourself a good coat. Okay?”

Not a bad suggestion. It’s really fucking cold. “I will. Thank you. I– I should get going.”

“See you, Peter.”

“See you, Ms. Barbara.” He steps away, lingering by the front door for a second longer. Barbara stacks some papers before heading into the back room, leaving him be. Peter uses the chance to stuff $120 into the library donation box.

There. That feels more fair. The heaviness on his chest dissipates a little.

On the way home, he stops by the general store again, picking up a cheap coat, shirt and gloves. This should be more than enough to keep him going. He only needs two sets of clothes. Plus– it’s really all that will fit in his backpack. And besides, he actually has three outfits, if he counts his suit. He’s actually doing pretty great if he looks at it like that.

Peter’s still celebrating his small victory when his eye catches a poster on an unassuming diner window. ‘TRY OUR JERSEY-RENOWN 1,600 CALORIE HAMBURGER. ARE YOU BRAVE ENOUGH?’

Holy shit. He’s saved. Maybe he won’t starve to death after all. Peter isn’t embarrassed to say he walks out with four.

‘Oh my friends are I are college students, we call this the ‘perfect’ meal.’ He’d told the cashier. The lies come easier, the guilt weighs heavier, but Peter does not want to admit that all these burgers are for his dinner. And he’d still be undereating. Man.

His first bite leaves him stunned momentarily; it’s as if his feet have forgotten how to walk. Are the restaurants here magic? Truly?

Peter is finishing off the third one when he slips into the Lighthouse’s restrooms, finally taking off the large bandage on his face. Don’t get him wrong, he still looks like he lost a fight with a baseball machine, but the wounds have closed. The edges of them are raised and a light pink, but it’s unlikely they’ll bleed more. Now, it’s the bruising that raises the most alarms.

Peter’s confident it’ll be gone within the next few days; ff he keeps getting these hamburgers, that is.

The next day rolls by without incident. Peter tracks down a hot dog place for lunch, and Barbara seemingly gives him space until the end of the day. She tracks him down to let him off for the day, it’s only four. Peter isn’t against leaving; he actually has some plans today.

“Oh, here, don’t forget to take this–” Barbara shoves a stack of bills into his hand. This is way more than yesterday.

Peter gawks. He flips through it quickly. $320. He looks up accusatorily.

She offers him a flat but knowing glance. “Peter, that box had nothing in it yesterday morning. It wasn’t your greatest cover. Keep the money.”

Peter is learning that Ms. Barbara is a lot more observant than he thought. This feels like a stain on his reputation as a stealth extraordinaire. “Thanks.” Peter grits out. He’s been beaten here.

Barbara’s satisfied expression makes Peter want to throw the whole stack of money at her and run. However, he still needs to buy food with this, and counting out a correct amount to throw back at her feels like too much time and effort.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yup.” What else is there to do?

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

“See you.” He slips out the front doors, ready to go track down that diner from yesterday.

Ten minutes or so later, Peter eases into the faded red cushions at the diner. Ace’s Diner. It’s the perfect amount of broken in by years of use, while not being totally destroyed.

He nods his head to a nonexistent tune as he writes in his notebook. It’s splayed out over the table, once blank pages slowly being overtaken by hastily written notes and calculations. Suit repairs and modifications, including a list of materials he’ll need for both. The repairs are the most important part, modifications are the ones to only day dream over. Especially here in Gotham.

On another page, he details labs in the area, he’d managed to sneak a few minutes at the computers to make up a short list. Getting access to any of these will be difficult. His best luck would definitely be one of the high school labs. Or Gotham University's. That one is tempting.

Peter could probably have a chance to make something a little more complex if he managed to get in. If. It doesn’t sound too difficult, but Peter’s just recently gotten a taste that the simplest of things can turn into a nightmare all too quickly.

Curse Parker luck.

And curse Ms. Barbara. He has so much money in his bag, it’s too much. Way too much. He understands– okay, not really, but he can respect her opinion that he needs help.

It’s just that he doesn’t need her help. He appreciates it, of course; she’s been accommodating and kind. But Peter needs Strange’s, or Mr. Stark’s, or Mr. Fantastic’s kind of help. People from his own universe. People who know who he is and how to get him home.

He’s too focused on his work and in his thoughts to see the sun set over the horizon, or for the quiet street lamps to flicker on. “Hey. You.”

Peter blinks back to awareness. “Uh– yeah?”

“We’re closed.”

He looks around, finding the owner, Allan, he had gotten his name earlier, wiping down a nearby table. Outside the windows, it’s black.

“Oh.”

“You were quiet. Would have told you to leave sooner, before curfew started. Didn’t even know you were here.”

“Sorry.” Peter flips his notebook closed, tucking it into his bag.

“Don’t be sorry. Just get on home. After curfew ain’t a nice time to be out.”

“Of course, thanks, Allan.” Peter gets up from the table, giving the owner a wave before pushing out the door– the entry bell ringing with his exit. It’s colder tonight, a low fog hangs over the street, and it’s beginning to snow. How pleasant.

This curfew thing is weird. Peter gets it, but it just doesn’t feel like anyone’s enforcing it. He hasn’t seen a single cop out and about after hours. Probably for a reason. Peter scoffs to himself. That’s paranoid talk. He’s Spider-Man. There’s no room for paranoid talk.

It doesn’t take long for eyes to be on him again. God, Peter feels creeped out by this place in the dark. He can hear movement from above as he walks along the sidewalk, keeping his head down to avoid drawing more eyes from civilians around him.

He knows that a certain someone is watching him, again. Don’t they have anything better to do?

His spider sense prods him. Peter rolls his eyes. He can hear his stalker leaping over another building. That guy has got to give it a rest. Peter isn’t even doing anything! He’s just walking! What did he ever do to deserve a tail of all things–

“–Hey! Kid!”

Peter’s eyes snap up, finding a group of men sidling out of an alley. Oh. The stalker wasn’t what his spider sense was referring to this time. Fuck.

They’re gruff, looking worse for wear with ragged coats and gaunt faces. In the dark, their eyes look sunken in, giving them the effect of skulls peering out of the fog. Two are lean and short, but the third is built like a proper tank.

Peter keeps his voice light, peppy even. “What’s up, guys?”

“Oh– nothing much, kiddo. How about you?”

“Just walkin’.” Peter flashes his hands to prove he’s passive. It’s not like these guys would know he could probably knock off any of their jaws with just a punch.

Tank cocks his head. Man, he just looks like a bully. You are what you eat. Metaphorically. Peter is not proposing he eats bullies. “It’s a little late, ain’t it, kiddo?”

“Not that late.” Peter knows he has zero concept of late these days. He’s lucky to find three hours of sleep every night, plus an extra one in study hall. He’s fortunate enough that his teacher doesn’t care what he does at all, otherwise, Peter would be in some real trouble.

“Too late for a kid.”

“Are you seriously trying to lecture me? Not a kid, guys. Actually, can we stop saying kid and kiddo? Don’t want to start a trend.”

“Nah, you’re a runt. An’ everyone knows runts after dark carry a little something so no one takes a swing. Whaddya got to convince me tonight?”

Over $300 in cash and a suit that took him a year to engineer with his billionaire friend’s resources. “Literally nothing. You want a protein bar wrapper? It’s a day old. Maybe you could lick a crumb off or two?”

Stick number one hees and haws, sounding like someone aimed a punch for his throat and succeeded. Stick number two fiddles with his sleeves while Tank replies, “Aw, that’s a shame, kiddo. But I think the boys and I want to take a look for ourselves, aye?”

Peter finds himself very aware that the three are spreading out, corralling him toward the alley they emerged from. A very obvious trap. One that might serve him more than them. They’re a little confused about who the actual threat here is.

He can’t have anyone see, including that stalker of his. All three men have something stashed up their sleeves. Knives or guns, Peter doesn’t know. He’d prefer guns. Guns are easier to rip out of people’s hands. He allows himself to be corralled.

“You got any family, kid?” Tank asks, yellow teeth surprisingly vibrant in the dark.

Looks like the other guys are just for show; maybe he really does just have to take out one guy. “I live in Crime Alley, do the math.”

Shortstack two chimes in, “Doesn’t hurt to check! We’re jus’ doing our homework, yeah?”

Homework, oh, they think they’re funny. “I can’t wait to give you guys a C-. Maybe a D, for lack of effort. Three vee one is weak.”

“Empty your pockets and maybe we’ll make it fair.” Tank replies.

Peter steps further back into the alley, the three following, blocking off the exit. As irritating as it is, it’s a good thing they picked Peter instead of someone else. “Aw, no can do. I’m self-conscious about them, actually.”

“About your pockets?” Shortstack one looks bemused, examining his own pockets as if to ensure they’re both referencing the same thing.

“They’re too empty, I’d feel so sad going through all the effort just to disappoint you guys.”

“You’re a mouthy fucker aren’t ya’.” Tank growls.

Peter’s back lightly knocks against the back wall of the grimy alley. “Maybe a little.” Peter looks up, not seeing his stalker peering down from above. Maybe they’re the one orchestrating this.

“I’ll give ya’ one more chance though. Because I’m such a nice guy, drop your shit.”

“No can do.”

Tank rolls back his sleeves. “Fine. Jus’ remember, your broken face is your own fuckin’ fault.” The tank swings, Peter ducks, letting the fist fly over his head. The tank cries out in pain– fist ramming straight into the brick wall that was previously Peter’s head. Peter bounces up with an uppercut, and the larger man’s head snaps backward– forcing him to stumble back. Clutching his surely bruised jaw. Peter’s still careful not to break or dislocate it; it’s a bad look. To anyone else, it just looks like a lucky shot.

Peter steps toward the men. “I’m dropping your grade to an F, for failure.”

The tank, with his shattered ego, pulls something out of his sleeve. Oh joy, it’s a gun. “You– fucker.” The barrel raises, ready to fire at Peter’s chest.

Any other day, Peter might have let this go on a little while longer– but he really wants to get home. His spider-sense rings, and Peter scoops up a discarded trash can lid– imagining it’s a certain friend’s shield, and chucks it at the tank. The gun fires into nothing as the tank cries out, the lid smacking against his arm.

Peter takes his chance, stepping up to yank the weapon out of the would-be robber’s hand. “Dude, I already told you. You failed. You want detention?”

The tank blinks, apparently blindsided by the fact he no longer has a weapon. None of the three men move or try to speak. The tension in the air settling on their shoulders.

Peter snaps his fingers, getting all of their attention. Clearly displaying the gun now in his hand. “Hello? You guys should get out of here before I teach a lesson on target practice.” Peter keeps the gun firmly pointed at the ground, his finger off the trigger. It still has the desired effect.

The three make a run for it. Shortstack one and two must’ve had knives. Sucks for them. Peter sighs, emptying the chamber and magazine before snapping the thing in two. He’d gotten pretty good at breaking these, ensuring they won’t be useful to anyone again.

He’s a little disappointed he had to resort to threats. But Peter Parker can’t be seen throwing guys three times his size into walls. Peter dumps the gun in the trash, setting the thrown lid back onto it. He’s glad he’s wearing gloves. No fingerprints to frame him for anything today, no sir.

Peter’s sense lightly twinges, and Peter’s movements pause. A certain someone is back. The realization leaves something bitter in his mouth. Had they watched that? Oh god, he hopes they hadn’t seen him snap the gun. He hadn’t even thought about it. He’s really getting sick of this. Peter bites the inside of his cheek, debating. His choice is made up when he hears a steady heartbeat high above him.

Yeah. He’s beyond fed up. He looks up, calling out, “Hey! I know you’re up there! I just want to talk!”

There’s no answer, just the quickened flutter of a heartbeat.

“Were those your guys? Please answer. I’ll climb up there if I have to.”

It takes a few more moments, but there’s a sigh from above. The figure appears, leaping over the edge of the roof, descending on a grappling line before hitting the pavement beside him. The line coils into a heap at his feet.

Ten points for style. “Hi,” Peter tries, getting a good look at the man standing across from him.

There’s no mistaking the full-face red helmet and brown distressed jacket. He has thick riding pants and armored boots that glint in the dark. He looks ready to lead a biker gang. And on top of all of that, he has a gun holstered at each hip. Peter’s heard enough talk these past few days to know Redhood when he sees him. Decidedly not great. “Good to meet you, Mr. Red? Or is it Mr. Hood?”

Mr. Red or Hood doesn’t acknowledge the greeting. Peter was so polite, too. A businessy type of guy, apparently. “Most people don’t look up.” His voice is a lot deeper than Peter expects, but he picks up on the faint static that lines the edge of his words. Voice changer.

Peter shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah, well, hard to miss when I can hear you tripping over your own feet up there. Jumping between buildings isn’t that quiet, you know.” Technically a lie, Redhood is probably the quietest tail Peter’s ever had. In all fairness, he hasn’t been tailed that many times. At least by guys trying to be quiet, that is. “Why are you following me?”

The mask betrays nothing about Redhood’s reaction. "There's a curfew, you know."

So far. Peter’s confused. All these tales about Redhood, and he’s asking about curfew? "You’re actually enforcing that?"

"Doesn't have to be enforced. Those who don't follow it won't do it again. Busy bleeding out alone in some alley."

Is this a set-up? "Some guys just tried that, didn’t work.” Peter folds his arms. “Did you just sit back to watch it happen?"

Redhood tsks, the sound pitching thanks to the voice modulator. "Wasn’t my problem. Next time you might not be as lucky, though."

The angle that Redhood is playing isn’t making sense. Is he trying to threaten him? What does he have to gain by threatening some random kid? "Watching some guy get jumped ‘wasn’t your problem’?”

“You weren’t scared. And I’m a crime boss, kid. ”

In all fairness, it makes total sense why a crime boss wouldn’t care about a robbery. But in Peter’s experience, they don’t typically hand out advice to those being robbed. “Consider that I’m an excellent actor. But were those guys yours?”

“No.”

Peter’s confusion spirals. Presumably, Redhood is the one who’s been tailing him since he first left the library. There shouldn’t be any reason for his doing so. He could’ve just as easily sent one of his own guys to do it. The only reason guys like Redhood attend to matters personally is if the task is vitally important. Peter should not, in any circumstances, be classified as vitally important.

Could he be following the same trail as Red Robin? If so, he’s fucked.

Peter’s hands tighten on his bag. Getting on everyone’s radar is in the negatives of what he can handle right now. Good or bad guys. Redhood continues, oblivious to his conclusions. “You’re new. Gotham doesn’t get a whole lot of new. You’ll have to learn quick, or you’ll find yourself dead. You’re lucky you even get a heads up. Most homeless kids don’t.”

“Not a kid, seriously, all of you guys need to cut that out. And I appreciate the concern, Mr. Red, but I think the real heads up came from the guys trying to rob me. I can keep myself safe. As long as your guys don’t stab me or something.”

Redhood shrugs. “Where’d you learn to punch like that?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

Liar. Peter hears his heartbeat quicken and fall away. It’s slow for a heartbeat, far slower than it should be. There’s definitely a possibility that this guy is enhanced. He needs to tread lightly. But why did he lie? Why would he care? Peter bites the inside of his cheek. “My uncle taught me.”

The criminal scoffs, “Keep practicing that shit. Make it harder to stab you.”

No shit. “Thanks for the advice.” Peter huffs, breath coming out in a white fog. His brain churns to make sense of the interaction, hoping that if he smashes pieces together, he’ll find an angle that works. Maybe this is Redhood’s poor attempt to recruit him. If so, Peter might not say no to the thought of accidentally going undercover to take out a whole gang.

“What about the gun?” His words cut across his brain.

“What?” The gun. Did he see? Is Peter beyond fucked? Enhanced kids on their own are a terrible mix back home. All too often, kids are snatched from the street to be pawned off for their abilities. Peter’s frown deepens. If Redhood is trying anything like that, Peter might not have a choice but to deal with him now. Maskless.

“Where’d you stash it?”

Just like that, relief washes over him. He didn’t see. His secret’s safe. Peter’s opening his mouth to spout some garbage when a soft electronic buzz rings out from Redhood’s helmet. He lifts a hand to press something on the side of it. Peter can’t make much more out, other than “Hey, boss–”

It really bothers Peter that electronics continue to defy him. What’s the point of super hearing if it struggles to discern the highs and lows of electronic voices? He can hear every heartbeat in any room but this? A comm from a few feet away? That’s too complex to sort through.

Some of the smarter people back home made the conclusion that discernment comes with ‘training’ and ‘discipline.’ They probably have a point, but it’s still annoying. He shifts his focus to something he can observe. The man himself.

Redhood rolls his shoulders as he listens. Peter’s noticing the guy doesn’t like staying still very much. He’s been shifting his weight from foot to foot, stuffing his hands in his pockets, or looking over his shoulder. He fits the shifty type, not out of character for a crime boss. Still, he’s a bit of a curiosity.

“Alright,” is the only reply Redhood gives before he turns his attention back to a momentarily quiet Peter.

“Sounds like you’ve got to quit stalking me for the night.”

Even with a helmet, Peter can feel the other’s fierce glare. Peter’s sense doesn’t twist under it. No danger, for now.

Redhood unhooks the grappling gun from his belt, making a point to avoid touching his pistol. “Suppose so.” The gun aims skyward and fires, launching a line. "Tt, til next time, kid." Redhood is up and over the side of the roof in a half-second. Footsteps fading as he leaps away.

Peter listens to him go with a confused sigh. That conversation got cut off abruptly. Better for him, though. He really hadn’t wanted to explain away the gun.

Crime bosses are a type of villain Peter is very familiar with. And for supposedly just meeting one of the most dangerous ones in Gotham, Redhood doesn’t quite live up to the hype. Sure, he had the intimidating and imposing look down to a tee, but Peter hadn’t sensed any outright malice from him. He’s not keen on disregarding the crime boss’s entire reputation, though. Peter will have to keep an eye on him, if Redhood isn’t too busy keeping tabs on him, anyway.

He never did answer why he was following him.

Chapter Text

Peter’s finally gotten to work early. Twenty minutes too early. Barbara might not even be here.Shit. He hadn’t thought about that after getting up or at any point on his hour-long walk.

There are a couple of reasons for his early rise. The number one being to shake a potential stalker. Definite evening stalker, potential morning stalker. This week, he hadn’t seen a glimpse of the man in the early hours of the day, not even a feeling, but after the confrontation last night, he’s not taking any chances.

Redhood had scared him. And not in the usual way either. When Spider-Man is scared, his options are limitless, and his escape routes are everywhere. Spider-Man never feels like prey. Peter Parker wishes he could say the same. He can still feel Redhood’s glare boring into him.

Peter is realizing he doesn’t know how to deal with a threat removed from his mask and web-slinging. It makes him feel small, vulnerable. The crime lord didn’t seem to have any intention of hurting him but Peter doesn’t have any clue as to why. That’s something to worry about. As a civilian, Peter isn’t supposed to be anyone of note. The idea that he is scares the hell out of him. He hadn’t slept all that well as a result, tossing and turning and glancing at the windows, dreading catching a glint of red.

The night passed without a trace of him.

The teen steps onto the library’s exterior landing. Pausing at the entry doors, biting his cheek as he debates heading in. It should be fine. He works here. Besides, there’s a miserable chill out here. The coldest Peter has dealt with so far. The coat he bought two days previously has proven an excellent purchase. He pulls it up further, shielding his face from the wind.

Peter heard word there’s supposed to be a big storm this evening, one that might complicate his trip home. He decides that that’s a problem for future Peter. Present Peter needs to make up his mind. He groans, shoving the door without thinking. To his immediate regret, there’s a sharp crack and a splinter— and the previously locked door swings open, slamming against the wall.

“Fuck.”

“Who’s there?” A sharp voice demands from inside, and Peter immediately throws up his hands in surrender.

“Woah— hey! Sorry, it’s me. Door broke..?” Dumbass. Three years into being Spider-Man, and he still forgets he has to hold back. He thought those doors were open; he thought they could take it. He was wrong. With a trace of a grimace, he imagines himself lucky it was a door and not someone’s ribcage.

The library is silent for a beat, the overhead lights buzzing incessantly. Out of view, there comes a short breath and a quiet “Oh.” Barbara peeks her head around the desk, rolling out in front of Peter. There’s a baseball bat set across her lap.

Despite that, he doesn’t spot her sporting an ounce of fear. Just confusion. And exhaustion. She looks at least four steps beyond ‘student pulling three all-nighters for finals.’ “Sorry, Peter.”

“No— I’m sorry, I broke your door.”

Barbara sets the bat to the side, breathing out in a quick exhale. “It’s fine. It was... an old door.” She glances to the left. Adjusting her glasses.

Peter tests the door, swinging it side-to-side. “Hinges are good; had to have been the deadlock.” He kneels in front of it, blocking Barbara’s view to examine the bolt. This thing was heavy-duty, new-looking, and he bent it. “Oh— yeah man, this thing was a piece of garbage. It’s screwed.” Peter, veiled from Barbara’s prying eyes, reaches up and snaps off the end. Better to think it was faulty rather than bending a literal deadbolt.

He stands up, tucking it into his pocket with the air of a practiced magician. In part because he is a magician, though an amateur one. He’d been practicing after school and between patrols, determined to see if card tricks and a few quips would be confusing enough to stop petty thieves in their tracks. He’s yet to test it out, but right now, his sleight of hand has never been smoother. “I’m so sorry, Barbara, I can go buy the tools to fix this one if you like?”

Barbara has watched his actions with intense observation. Peter is used to intense people, just not typically outside of a mask and suit. Maybe Gothamites are just built different at the end of the day. Peter had half expected her to be holding a shotgun at his head when he stepped inside.

She tries to downplay that intensity with people, Peter’s noticed. There’s purpose to her smile, her easy words. It’s calculated, carefully crafted. He’s just not sure why. Peter had taken more precautions than usual to hide his slight bit of criminal damage, but he’s relying on that intentional restraint of hers so he can get away without her asking too many questions.

As far as he’s aware, she falls for it. Her eyes are firmly on Peter’s face when he slips the broken bolt into his pocket. There’s no sign that she saw the action. No enhancement discovery today, no sir.

“That’s okay, Peter. I might have a spare in the back. I can take care of it.”

He doesn’t believe that for one second. Still, he accepts it. He’ll definitely be stashing more money in the donation box tonight, though. “Well— I really am sorry, Ms. Barbara. I thought coming early might be a nice chance of pace, but apparently not. I’m a walking tornado.”

She huffs in amusement before starting to make her way back behind the desk. Peter follows, intent on grabbing his supplies from a back closet. He’s not sure what causes him to look over just before he opens the door, but he catches a glint of something on Barbara’s desk just before her arm shifts just enough to cover it.

“What’s that?” He asks, immediately curious.

“What?”

“On your desk?”

Barbara’s expression flickers. Appearing more surprised and tense than when Peter had broken in the damn door. She tries and fails to form a sentence before she smiles tightly. “It’s a friend’s engineering project. I’m fixing some code.”

“Woah! Cool, I didn’t know you were into computer science.”

“It’s kind of my whole thing, that and the library.” Barbara laughs it off, adjusting her glasses yet again.

“Sick, could I see? I have a bit of engineering and coding experience.”

She frowns. “You do?”

“Back in Queens, I have some friends who give me pointers. Plus, I was on the robotics team in high school.” And he’s got a really, really cool spider-bot just waiting to be fixed in his backpack. “So yeah— I’d love to see what you have going on.”

There’s an uncomfortably long moment of hesitation before Barbara shifts to the side, allowing him to move closer.

Peter seizes the invitation, his eyes latching onto the object that had caught his interest earlier. A set of lenses, smaller and more compact than Peter’s spider-ones, but of the same air. They’re connected by wire to Barbara’s computer, which displays a ridiculously huge amount of code. “Woah, what are these?”

“My friend’s project. Could be useful for law enforcement in the future. It provides night vision and thermal readings on a much smaller scale.”

His brief assessment of them is that they can probably do a hell of a lot more. “Nice. Are they using the same lens? I mean, it sounds like a nightmare to figure out. How did you fit the phosphorus screen and the lens for the thermogram? Where’s the MCP plate in something that small?”

Barbara flashes him a curious look, and more of that appraising air settles on Peter’s shoulders. He shifts from foot to foot. “I’m not an engineer, sorry, Peter. I’m just fixing the code here.”

“I— did you somehow digitize this all?” Peter gawks. “Oh my god, you totally did, is it capturing real footage, sending it elsewhere to be reworked, then translating it back to the lens in real time?”

“I’m sorry what—“

“Is the issue the delay? I can’t imagine you guys have managed to bounce it back and forth fast enough for it to be unnoticeable to the person wearing them.”

“I’m noticing you have an interest in tech?” Her smile is appearing more genuine, twisting out of confusion and intrigue.

“Eh, a passing one at most.” Enough to make his gadgets, but it’s not his true passion. Maybe she has a chemistry set in the back or something. Then he could actually rattle on about something interesting.

She eyes him. “What kind of robotics club were you in? Pretty sure they don’t talk thermal imaging.”

“My science class did, though. Infrared light, I looked into it after that.”

Barbara huffs, “Does Queens have good science classes?”

“They do if you bother the teachers enough.” Peter gives her a grin. “I hope your code fixing works out. I’ll get to work and stop committing time theft.”

“Oh noo, all my minutes are being stolen.”

“Call Batman! Call the Justice League! I’m going to get away with it!”

“The horror!”

“You’ll never financially recover from this, I swear.” Peter crosses his heart and hopes to die. As a final touch, he gives a final salute to his boss before diving headfirst into the broom closet to grab supplies.

Peter’s work is briefly interrupted by the ding of the front bell. It’s a little odd to get anyone in here this early; it’s odd to really get anyone at all. But it does make him smile a bit, regretting the action as a plume of dust from the bookcase attacks him. Ew. Besides that fact, it’s nice to know that Peter isn’t the only one here all the time.

“Hey! Babs! What’s up, got a delivery for you.”

Technically, Peter should mind his own business, but he’s got nothing going on in life between ensuring he’s not wearing one of his two shirts two days in a row and making sure his teeth are dust-free every time he looks in a mirror. He shifts the books on his current shelf just enough to peek between them.

There’s someone leaning over the front desk, offering Barbara two binders chalk full of papers. He’s around Peter’s height and build, with barely brushed black hair and a dark, puffy coat with grey slacks.

Barbara’s face is etched with surprise, and she takes the binders before looking around. If her eyes linger on Peter’s hiding spot for a fraction too long, Peter can’t be one hundred percent sure.

“Hey Tim, thanks for stopping by—

“Of course, just got out of a meeting and thought this would be a great chance to drop in. You know— I’m realizing now I totally spaced talking to you about that education program. I really think that WE is seriously lacking in that area. I’d love to grab coffee if you wanted to hash it out more? I’m really trying to hear out everyone’s ideas.”

“Okay, first of all, there is no way in the world that you need more coffee. And I’d love to, just.. not today. I think.”

Tim nods along with her. “Yeah, alright, I totally get it.” The silence between them grows a little. “Everything alright though, Babs? Haven’t heard from you much lately. And you look like you haven't slept in a month.”

“For god's sake, like you have any right to say anything.”

The teen sighs. He leans to the side, actively looking over Barbara’s shoulder. His fingers tapping on the desk’s surface. “Can I get one sentence in without you turning it around on me?”

Barbara lets out a small huff. “I’m sorry, I just. I’m thinking. And maybe a little tired and frustrated. Thanks for dropping these off.”

Tim hums. “No problem, more fun than emails. Little bit longer than emails.” This time, he looks to his left, staring off at the entrance.

“Oh, I’m sure. I’m surprised you managed to find time.”

“God, so do I. Sometimes I surprise even..” Tim looks to his right, eyes sweeping over the library. Face fixed with an easy smile. Peter’s sense isn’t enough of a heads-up before blue eyes meet grey. “..myself.”

The teen’s brows furrow, he blinks in surprise— but Barbara clamps a hand on his arm. “Hey, Tim, how about you help me in the back? I just remembered I might have more work for you.”

Peter and Tim’s brief stare breaks, and Tim turns away. Expression smoothing out remarkably similar to how Barbara’s does. “Lead the way.” And she does, leading him to a back room and letting the door close behind them.

No way anyone can convince Peter that that wasn’t weird. He’s one thousand percent missing a couple dozen puzzle pieces here. That’s the second time someone’s looked at him like that. The first one being Barbara.

His conclusion? He doesn’t have one. Peter’s a chemist, not a detective. All he knows is that this is weird, and despite it being weird, it doesn’t feel like he’s in danger. It isn’t setting off the red flags that it probably should be. He can’t decide if that means he’s not in immediate danger or long-term danger.

Peter makes a mental note of the interaction. Of the people involved. He may not be a detective, but this is a mystery obviously involving him to some degree. He’s not about to let that one slide.

He doesn’t get the chance to eavesdrop. The two are exiting, not even a minute after, Tim holding a pile of boxes.

“You know,” Tim shifts the boxes in his hands. Peter can’t pin down exactly what’s different about his speech. But something has definitely changed. “You could always invite the family over to help. I feel bad we don’t stop by more often.”

“Ah, but what’s the point? I mean, I have an employee. Hey– Peter, come meet Tim!” Barbara catches his eye, waving him over.

Peter blinks, setting down his cleaning materials to meet the two. Withdrawing from his hiding spot that had been discovered twice in the span of a minute. “Hey– I’m Peter. She just said that, though.” He throws out a hand. The other teen sets his stack of boxes on a table before he takes it, shaking it once. Peter can’t help but think he shakes hands like Mr. Richards. It’s stiff, firm, and formal. The scientist had mentioned he’d taken a few courses on professionalism. This kid holds the same air.

Mr. Fantastic has also not so subtly urged Peter to get into the same class. Miss Storm clued him into the fact that he was the one running the class, and he’d already failed to sell the idea to Johnny.

Peter’s still offended that Mr. Richards could ever compare him to the total menace that is Johnny Storm.

“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Tim. Drake.” Tim Drake could probably be a banker, his ironed shirt and slacks giving him away as a business-type.

People who dress like that under the age of 25 freak Peter out. “Oh, and I’m a Parker, sorry.” Like that means anything here.

The teen just smiles, “Don’t be. Babs told you’re helping out here?”

“A bit here and there. I’ve been here less than a week, really.”

Tim glances over his shoulder to look back at Barbara, as if asking to confirm. She nods once. Peter wishes he could listen in on whatever telepathic conversation they’re apparently having. Tim angles his head back, expression not giving away a thing. “Well, that’s sick. Really something.”

Peter hums. “Yeah, Barbara’s a great boss. She’s a library wizard.”

Tim folds his arms, nodding knowingly. “Ah, so, you’re like the library apprentice?”

“One hundred percent, Barbara’s teaching me the secret magic of the Dewey Decimal system.” He’s not sure if he’s trying to play an angle in this conversation; Tim’s comments are lighthearted enough. His heartbeat is steady compared to the uptick when he’d first spotted Peter. For all intents and purposes, he seems casual. It’s just a weird juxtaposition from a few minutes ago. He supposes Barbara could’ve said something. But what?

“Wow, riveting stuff.” Tim laughs. Peter knows a laugh for the sake of politeness when he hears one. “You know, I have to ask, have you been in Gotham long?”

Either Barbara told him that, too, or Peter is just really, really bad at blending in. It’s probably a bit of both. In high school, he’s considered a red flag for just existing. “Nope, I guess it’s really that obvious, huh?”

The other waves a hand, rolling his eyes. “Sorry, New Yorkers just usually avoid Gotham like the plague. It’s rare to see one ‘in the wild’, I guess you could say.”

Seems like everyone sees Gotham that way. “Can’t wait to read the award-winning paper. ‘Endangered New Yorker Sparks Outrage In Gotham.’”

“The GCPD is hunting him down in the streets as we speak.“ Tim throws up his hands, as if framing the article between his fingers.

“How will we ever sleep soundly with him on the streets!” A direct quote courtesy of his ultimate, ultimate nemesis, JJJ. No courtesy ‘Mr.’ for him.

“Hey— Sorry to interrupt, boys, but it’s almost noon. You’ve got a brother to pick up, Tim.” Barbara’s voice cuts into the conversation. “It’s a half-day.”

Tim doesn’t glance over this time, but upturns an eyebrow. “You know him, he’s probably manipulating B into picking him up.” His tone loses the lightheartedness as it eases into something pointed.

Barbara rolls her eyes. “And yet, I seem to recall B specifically saying you’d do anything possible to get out of the chore wheel.”

He tilts his head, brow furrowing. “Hey! You don’t even live at the house, why do you know, let alone care, about the blasted chore wheel?”

The older replies with a soft grin. “Because I like knowing everything. Now go. Pick up the gremlin.”

“Ugh, fine, don’t tell B about my ‘reluctance.’ The child will probably try to convince him I’m trying to steal away his inheritance.” He sighs, pulling out his phone.

“I won’t if you don’t.” She says. Eyes burrowing into the teen.

Tim huffs, looking to Peter again, “It was nice to meet you, Peter.”

Peter nods along. “Right back at you. And you know— if it were me, that chore wheel would find a home in the river.”

“Someone gets it. But cool, I’m out. Babs, give me a call if you want any more help.” The last word is strung out, with more weight on the final ‘P’. He hangs back for an answer, something expectant in his eyes.

Barbara’s response is light, “I will, Tim, I might even give you a call tonight.”

Whatever understanding is reached between them seems to be sufficient for the teen. “Perfect.” Tim waves, pushing against the front doors and wading back into the depths of Gotham City.

Is this supposed to be considered a normal interaction in Gotham? Peter looks to Barbara, who’s pursing her lips again, still watching Tim’s back.

“He seems fun.” Peter idles, breaking Barbara out of her short silence.

She regains her softer composure, smiling. “Oh! Yes, sorry, Tim’s a family friend. I thought he’d be here tomorrow to help. He’s lucky I had everything prepped early.”

Peter hums, that does explain away everything weird. Most of it. “He seems nice, maybe a little serious.”

“The sign of a true Gothamite.”

Peter faux gags, “As you’ve said. Guess I’ll just have to be the light that steps into every room.”

“Pf, I can’t wait to see everyone’s disdain for you.”

“They’ll learn to love it.”

”Doubtful, but you’re definitely welcome to try.”

“I think I’m succeeding instead of ‘just’ trying. You’re smiling, you know.”

Barbara’s smile drops instantly, assuming the dark eyes and expression of Gotham’s atmosphere once more. “No, I’m not.” Any sense of warmth evaporates, and for a moment her stare turns to ice.

Peter’s lips part in surprise. He hadn’t thought she was capable of that. There’s nothing recognizable or familiar in her expression; it’s just cold. “I feel like you just stopped my heart with a look.”

“It’s not that dramatic.”

“No, seriously, you could strike fear into all the criminals of Gotham with one glare. Have you considered donning a cape?”

Barbara gives a small laugh, eyes flicking down to her phone. Peter just knows it’s another politeness laugh. “If you say so, funny guy. But I have stuff to mark off in the back. I think you can get through, what, six more shelves?”

It’s Peter’s turn to grimace. “Maybe three, if the universe smiles on me.”

“I hope it does. I really do.”

It’s a nice hope. But currently, Peter is seventeen, homeless, and far away from everything familiar. He has an aunt, a relationship that he hopes to make official one of these days— and a few superheroes he occasionally drops in on. “It couldn’t. That’d make life way too easy. It likes to watch everyone struggle a little.”

“Amen to that.”

“Can you tell me about Redhood?” Peter is on a ladder, cleaning out the disgusting light fixtures above the front desk. Barbara is below, nose in her laptop again. She squints, looking up at him.

“The crime lord?” She adjusts her glasses. “What do you want to know?”

“I saw him the other night.” He grimaces as another round of dead bugs falls onto his shoulders. “Does he just— walk around often? You’d think he'd lie low thanks to vigilantes.”

She hums in acknowledgement. “Not from what I hear, vigilantes give Crime Alley some space. Redhood’s made it pretty clear it’s his.”

“And they accept that?”

Peter can hear her small sigh and the resuming of typing. “The gang’s methods are.. Cruel, to say the least. But crime has been down in the area, believe it or not. Maybe everyone is just trying to keep the peace.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” It doesn’t sit right with him. They’re just letting Redhood’s gang control unopposed? That feels out of character.

“Have you seen Redhood?” Barbara asks quietly.

“No.” He says quickly. “But I saw Red Robin.” A crude attempt to deflect. “He was watching the street, could see his cape in the wind. Feels like everyone has a cape here.”

“What?”

His try at changing the subject is a success, leading straight into a line of thought he’d been turning over the past few days. It seriously feels like everyone has a cape in Gotham. Sure, there are a few capes in New York— but not like this. “They just look impractical, like, a tripping hazard. I’m just waiting for a video of Batman falling on his face. There’s no way he hasn’t done it at least once.”

Barbara snorts before her eyes gain a sharp glint. “You know? I have the perfect video for you.” Peter looks down. With her beckoning, he rejoins her on the ground floor. She grins as she types something in on her laptop before turning it around for Peter to view.

The screen displays a grainy image of an alley, security footage. She clicks the spacebar, and the graininess springs to life. At first, Peter isn’t sure if it’s playing, but the silent video continues to play. Displaying the dark, empty alley for a few seconds more. A shadow creeps over the wall. In almost an instant, a dark shape is descending and landing in a smear of black fabric. The cape splays out perfectly around the Caped Crusader, fanning out like Dracula’s.

Peter won’t deny he looks cool. A little scary, but cool.

Batman draws himself up to full height, cape ends still touching the ground. He only ends up taking one step before he trips on the absurd amount of fabric. Losing any coolness that had been previously established. The Bat just barely remains upright, stumbling forward before staring at the cape, incredulously.

A smaller shape leaps down beside him, clad in brilliant yellows and greens. Looking a bit different from what Peter’s researched of Batman’s newest little shadow. Since when has wearing shorts and knee pads been a good idea in vigilante work? The kid begins to laugh, doubling over before the video comes to a halt.

“Yeah– this went viral a few years back. It’s rumored that his cape got a teensy bit shorter after this incident.”

“The World’s Greatest Tumble.”

“Good god.”

“The Stumbling Knight, The Caped Flounderer.”

“Stop.”

“Ms. Barbara, I think I’ll recommend a name change to him if I see him.”

“Be prepared for a batarang to the face, kid.”

“I hope the bruise is shaped like a bat.” Bat-bruise. Sick.

Barbara groans as if it’s physically paining her to hear him speak. Peter’s exceptionally proud of his use of free will.

“Hey— you know? That’s a different Robin than the one now. Don’t you think?” On a whim, Peter leans over, rewinding the video to get a better look at Robin.

The librarian recovers from her pun-related injuries. “Ah, so you did notice. There’s a joke that Batman secretly runs an adoption agency, or an orphanage.”

“How many has he had?”

“Five. Estimated.”

Peter can’t help but smile, imagining the big and scary Batman surrounded by a gaggle of brightly colored children is incredibly silly. “That’s a lot of kids.” Is that how all his fellow New York heroes see him? Oh god. He has to apologize to Daredevil. Maybe.

Barbara laughs, nodding.

“Is the one in the video a younger Red Robin?”

Barbara tilts her head, thinking for a few moments before she answers. “Potentially. Video’s pretty old though.”

Ah, so maybe an older Robin. He wonders what other heroes running around here are just grown-up Robins. “Sure. But I mean, do they just get new names when they graduate from bat-school?”

The librarian appears a bit flabbergasted, “Bat-school?”

“There’s obviously a bat-school. Bat-arang, Bat-computer, Bat-house, Bat-cave, Bat-everything.” The Bat has a brand to upkeep. Peter has to respect it; he has his very own Spider-bots. If he could, he’d totally have a spider-plane. Spider-skates, even spider-laser pointers. Some of his local billionaires would surely invest, surely.

Barbara grimaces. “I think you need to get your head checked out, again.”

Peter pouts. “I think you need to get more creative with your theories.”

She takes back her laptop, setting it on her lap. “And I think that there’s a lot more artistic freedom than logic there, Peter.”

“Well, my aunt encourages imagination and manifestation.” He refutes.

“Pft, okay buddy.” Barbara hums, tapping her fingers against her keyboard. “But speaking of, how’s your aunt?”

“Oh! Uh, she’s doing well. Treatment is slow, but she tells me everything is fine.” Peter is lying right now, there’s no doubt. But at one point, Peter was more than familiar with hospital visits, diagnoses, and treatments only guaranteed to have a 30% chance of working. Two years ago, Peter almost lost his aunt to something that ultimately was his fault.

Without Dr. Connors, May wouldn’t have made it. It’s a grim mood dampener.

“I don’t mean to push, but what’s she diagnosed with?”

“Type of leukemia, chronic lymphocytic. It was– well it was a little weird. But it was assumed it came on from a blood transfusion.” His fault. For two years, he’s lived with that. He imagines it’s going to stick around a lot longer than that.

Barbara nods along. “Stranger things have happened; we live in a world full of impossibilities.”

“Tell me about it.” Peter’s tone pulls from the most exhausted parts of his being.

The librarian continues to type, eyes kept to the screen. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. Your parents can’t help at all?”

His brows furrow. Barbara’s not stupid. It’s pretty obvious his parents aren’t in the picture. “They’re dead.” It’s blunt and there’s little emotion tied to it, but Barbara asked; he answered. His parents had died when he was too young to remember them. Hell, he’d taken on Ben and May’s last name. It felt right, despite May’s protests. His parents weren’t the ones to raise him. Even if May still sometimes acted like they did. She still talks about Mary quite a bit.

Peter likes her stories, her memories. He can’t help but feel a bit guilty every time she gets that misty look in her eyes. May thinks of Mary every time she sees him. It feels unforgivable– but Peter can’t do a thing about it.

In recent years, her stories have died down, but occasionally, she’ll let slip that she’s sorry Peter never got to meet them. He can’t quite relate to her; she never let go, and he never had the chance to hold on in the first place. How do you miss something you don’t remember having? May and Ben are his parents. They have been for as long as he knows.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sorry. Like that does anything. He doesn’t appreciate the prying. Her attempts had grown more bold during the week. He wonders if there’s going to be a climax to her questions. “Yeah. Well. Life goes on. I have my aunt.”

Barbara looks ready to say more, but Peter’s not willing to entertain that. “I should get back to cleaning before the dust decides to get rid of all my work.” Peter turns his back, scaling the ladder again. Knowing that Barbara’s questions have only been quelled momentarily.

Barbara doesn’t try to engage with him again until the clock strikes six o'clock.

“Peter.”

“Oh– hey, Ms. Barbara. What’s up?” He’s had some time to decompress, plastering a wide smile on his face again.

She’s pursing her lips again, expression even more reserved than when he’d last seen her. She opens her mouth once, shuts it. Then tries again. “You can take the back room.”

Alright, well, that throws his cleaning schedule a little out of sorts; he’ll definitely have to remember what shelf he’s on right now. But that’s alright, Barbara’s the boss, after all. “I was planning to start cleaning that after I finished this floor, but yeah, if you want– I’ll start on that now.”

Her expression flickers, and Peter can see the tenseness in her shoulders heighten. Her heartbeat quickens, likely a stress response. “No, sorry. I mean that there’s a cot and a blanket in the back room already. You can stay there.”

Wait what.

“I– I’m staying with my aunt at the hospital.” He tries, pulling back on this now overused excuse. Perhaps it still has a chance of working again. It’s a good thing Barbara can’t hear his heartbeat. It feels like it’s leapt into his throat.

“I don’t want to be rude. But I also don’t believe you. You haven’t taken the bus once.”

“Yeah, well. I like the walk.”

“That walk would take you at least two hours. And considering you walk toward Crime Alley and the opposite of the hospital, it wasn’t hard to figure out.” The librarian spreads her hands in a gesture of peace.

Peter covers up the hitch in his breath with a loud cough. Peter can’t accept this, he won’t. It’s not his place. Barbara doesn’t owe him anything, and Peter can’t owe her anything in return. “I have a place in Crime Alley–”

She shakes her head the moment he opens his mouth, cutting across him. “D– Peter. Please. I know you’re lying so I’ll think you’re okay, but I have plenty of evidence to prove that you’re not.” She purses her lips, which might be the only tell Peter has been able to get a grasp on with her. She feels bad. “You need help, and nothing you say is going to change my mind. So just– accept. Please.”

Peter twists his jacket in his hands. Not understanding why the thought of saying yes is akin to having a gun barrel propped up under his chin. He has to say no, but there’s no logical reason why he should be turning this down.

He grits his teeth together, eyes flicking to the floor. He can still feel her eyes on him, pressuring him to just accept. Because he should. The shelter has a limit of a week, and that week is nearly up. Peter is going to be wandering the streets soon enough. Frustratingly, he needs help.

He pushes back tears. He just didn’t want to need help. He didn’t want to be in a position so bad that he has to rely on the kindness of others. It makes guilt flare up in his chest. He hasn’t proved good enough. He isn’t fast enough, resourceful enough. How can he be a hero if other people have to help him back up?

Then again. He doesn’t know if he can handle going back to stumbling around in the dark. The feeling of clawing his way onto a frozen shore and forcing numb feet to shift forward.

He doesn’t want to feel alone again. He doesn’t want to disappoint Barbara. There’s only one way he can think to do that. As frustrating as that is, if it’ll make her feel better then... What else is there for him to do?

“Okay.” He murmurs. “Thank you.”

She offers him a key ring; her soft expression remains. There’s no victory, just empathy. That makes him feel a little better. Peter takes the ring from her hands, examining it. There are around five keys included. “These unlock the back door and most things in the employees' only area. I’ll still have the front doors and security room key, though. Just as a safety thing.”

“That makes sense. But why.. Well, can I ask why you have a cot set up already?”

“I work late sometimes, lose track of time. Safer to sleep here than head home after curfew, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it. Thank you. Seriously. I don’t– how much for rent?”

“No rent.”

“I’m paying you rent.” His tone is final, gaining an edge he only uses when people are about to be hurt. He doesn’t want to admit that the only one getting hurt here is him.

Barbara looks ready to argue some more, but once again, her face shifts. Peter can almost see the cogs turning in her head. “If you insist. $300 a month.”

It’s a lowball offer, considering she’s been giving him $200 a day. But Peter will take it, for now. He juts out a hand. “Deal, if you cut my paycheck. Please. It’s– it’s too much.”

Barbara shakes it. “Fine. Will you take $150? Rent due the first of every month? That– and you have to apply for this.”

She pulls out a pamphlet, turning it around to show him. It details a job fair advertisement for WayneTech. “They cut good deals for students; their internships always come with good scholarships and school options. I want you to interview there.”

Peter blanches. “I– I don’t have experience for a job like that.” Or a resume. Or a record of existing before last Wednesday.

“You’d do well there. I’m not saying you have to get the job, but I’d like you to at least interview. They’re this Friday. Take the day to head over there, please.”

“I’ll accept that. I guess. That and the rent deal.” Peter isn’t the biggest fan of this still. “And I’ll– I’ll try to be out of here as soon as I can.”

“You really don’t need–”

“Yeah. I do.” Peter insists. Shit, it wasn’t supposed to sound that snippy. “Look I– I really appreciate this. I really, really do. But I– this is a lot. You’ve been generous to an almost unbearable degree.” He tacks the last part on with an awkward laugh.

Barbara listens to his words, but she gets that sympathetic look again. “I know that we aren’t close friends yet, but I’d like to think I know a few people like you. I want you to know that I’m not offering any of this out of obligation, and you’re not taking away an opportunity from anyone else. It’s okay to acknowledge when you need a little help, and you’re deserving of help. You don’t have to face everything on your own.”

Peter feels like he’s been slapped. Red flushing his cheeks. “But I–”

“No buts. I think you’re a nice kid, and I want to help you. You won’t owe me anything.”

As much as Peter wants to argue again, he can’t bring himself to. There’s another pinprick in his eyes, and he quickly ducks his head so she can’t see the tears building up again. She doesn’t understand, that’s okay. She doesn’t understand that he’s the one supposed to be offering help. It’s just his job.

Peter feels tossed into the deep end. He can swim to shore, he always swims to shore, but they’re trying to pull him into a lifeboat and ignoring everybody else drowning.

Barbara pats his arm as a comfort. Evidently, she understands that he doesn’t have a clue how to respond. “I need to head out. But get some rest, kid.”

“Only if you do,” Peter hates how his voice shudders, even if it’s slight.

“I’ll consider the compromise. Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

The librarian sets down the pamphlet on the desk, gives him a wave, and makes her way through the front doors. Locking them behind her.

Peter can’t bring himself to move from the desk’s side for a long, long time. Staring at the branded paper. He should probably check out his new room.

Chapter Text

By morning, Peter is wrapped up in a provided blanket, rising to faint streams of sunlight peeking through the flimsy window blinds. It’s a small room; if Peter wanted, he could touch both sides of it at once. The hardwood flooring is scuffed and worn, probably original. The white paint has yellowed with time, slowly chipping off the walls.

The cot takes up the majority of the space alongside a small desk beneath the window. The radiator thrums in the early morning air, hissing and buzzing with age. Its warmth had made the night more comfortable than Peter had imagined possible. While sleeping on a cot, that is.

He grumbles his way upright, clutching the blanket like a lifeline against the morning chill.

“Good morning, Gotham,” he murmurs, “How will you surprise me today?” He reaches out an arm from his little nest and tugs out his backpack from beneath the cot. With a stretch and a yawn, he unzips it. Time to unpack.

He hadn’t been in a state to get everything out last night. Too focused on solving his WayneTech and Barbara-related problems. As well as keeping an eye out for a certain crime lord. He reaches into the bag, pulling out his meager supplies: winter gear consisting of gloves and a coat, a spare set of clothes, including the dumpster jacket, some basic hygiene products; combined with his suit and notebook, along with a little less than $400 in cash.

All in all, it takes two minutes to set the notebook on the desk, to lay the spare clothes in one of the small desk drawers, and to hang the coat on the door. The rest stays in his bag.

Homey. He can’t help but think as he sits back to evaluate it all. Something that’s his. That’s a nice thought. When Barbara gets here, he’ll have to thank her again. Properly this time, without all the drama and emotions of yesterday.

He needs to be like that Tim kid, all business. The type that can turn off the emotions and lock in when it’s time for something important. He’s not entirely sure that Tim is always business, but for the sake of his motivation, he’s going to imagine he is. He’s the type that can focus where it counts. Peter grabs his notebook to crunch the numbers he’s been avoiding. He can try to emulate some of that energy, to keep his mind off of worse things.

-Income at $3,000/month, rent $300/month

-Food $500/month, $125/week (Note STOP EATING OUT AS MUCH.)

-$100+/month public transport (at least in Queens)

-$32/month..? for laundromat

-$100-200/month unexpected stuff ($25-50/week)

-actual work clothes $100 (MAX MAX MAX, aim for $50)

-Mini-fridge $100

-Suit repairs ?? (Please be under $300)

Damn, showers. He’d totally forgotten.

-$30/month gym membership

All in all, he’s looking at around $1,400 spare. Hah. Take that, universe. Maybe the luck train finally decided to roll Peter Parker’s Station. But then again, this is all calculated based on an income from Barbara. If he gets a job at WayneTech, there’s no way in hell he’ll have the same income.

He grimaces. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. So much for that luck station. The bridge he’s crossing now is plotting how to get his hands on an ID and Gotham papers for his interview. Surely, this will be an enjoyable endeavor. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing again. He could really use some of his trademarked Parker Optimism right now.

Peter walks out of the library, a list of addresses scribbled into his journal. Working up the nerve to ask Barbara to let him take the day had taken all morning. It’s well after eleven now, at least it means shops should be open. The cloudiness has cleared up for once, letting a few glimpses of the sun peek through the clouds. It’s a welcome surprise to accompany him on his mission.

His plan is a shot in the dark, a needle in a haystack. Hopefully, the $200 in his pocket might make the darkness a little lighter, the haystack a little less dense. He needs a print shop, hopefully one that won’t ask too many questions. If he had his usual tech and resources, he wouldn’t be on this dumb mission, but then again, with his normal resources, he wouldn’t even be here.

The most promising shops are definitely in Crime Alley; it’s earned its name for a reason. Sure, what he’s doing is a crime. But it isn’t really a crime? He’s just very reasonably trying to get paperwork he doesn’t currently have, and never had. That’s fair, right?

Super fair.

Despite the sunshine, it’s colder today. There’s less cloud cover to help insulate whatever heat remains on the ground. The December chill nips at his exposed face. Breath coming out in short puffs as he tugs his collar a little higher. He probably looks like a penguin with the way he’s waddling in this coat.

He peers at the addresses, glancing up and down at the street signs. Or at least– where the signs should be. There’s nothing there; only holes in the ground or occasional twisted pieces of metal. He’d noticed a similar problem on his route from the Lighthouse to the library, but he didn’t think it expanded over the entire area.

That definitely complicates his ability to navigate. He should’ve tried being a damn cartographer instead of using written addresses. Or maybe Crime Alley should get some signage. That would also be incredibly nice.

Peter’s busy trying to play a guessing game of just how far North one of his addresses is when someone coughs. Peter’s eyes flick up over the top of his notebook, assessing the man standing in front of him.

He’s tall, bulky, and dressed in a not-so-warm-looking leather jacket. His unkempt hair falls over his face, white and brown hair mixing together. Odd mix for hair dye. Unsurprisingly, he looks cold.

“You lost?” His voice is deep and gravelly, unbefitting for this guy who’s definitely younger than 30. Peter notes the heavy scarring criss-crossing over his face. Not too out of place in a place like Crime Alley, he supposes.

Peter lowers the notebook. Automatically looking around for another ambush, but the guy looks to be alone. “You know what, I think I am. Happen to know where I could find ‘Black Cat Printing?’” After another second, he flips over his address list, gesturing to it. “Not sure how far North I need to go.”

The man shifts his glance, looking between it and Peter. “You want to go further into Crime Alley?”

Peter shrugs, “It’ll be cheaper here than outside of it.”

“Eh. Probably. But yeah, I know of it. Bit hard to get there though.”

“Because of the lack of signs?”

“Mostly that. But you gotta know what you’re doing to avoid the places you need to avoid. You get around crime alley by knowing it like the back of your hand. Those addresses won’t do shit in that maze. And your printing place is in some nasty territory.”

“Oh.” Black Mask or Redhood?

“Lucky for you, I’m somewhat of a Crime Alley expert. Hell, I’m the closest thing to a professional you could get.” The man gives him a half-hearted grin. Peter gauges it’s the closest the guy has to a polite smile. “The name’s Jason,” he sticks out a hand, which Peter hesitantly takes.

His hands are massive and heavily calloused, dwarfing Peter’s own. Peter’s all too aware he could do some serious damage if he’s not careful. He’d accidentally sprained if not broken some guy’s at the market a year or so back. Peter was still working off that debt emotionally, buying from his stand whenever he could.

“I’m Peter,” he says, giving the man a nod. Peter’s trying to keep this light; he hasn’t been met with friendliness much here, just Ted. And tolerance from everyone else. Though it’s a change from New Yorkers, it does feel remarkably similar to the superhero community back home. “And isn’t a professional just someone who gets paid for a job?”

“I meant what I said.” Jason shrugs, crossing his arms. Probably in an effort to conserve warmth. He definitely needs a better coat. “But about your place, I know where it is. I can lead you there, make sure we avoid all the nasty bits too. If you want.”

Peter smiles, tucking the notebook into his pocket. “Really?” This is more generosity than he’d expected. It’s equally possible he’s about to be mugged.

“Yeah. I’m headed that way anyway.” Jason jerks a thumb North.

“Okay, yeah! I can totally follow you. Have you been inside it, though?”

Jason takes it as the sign to turn, steps swift and deliberate. Peter falls in line a few steps behind, keeping his eyes peeled for any side alleys and red glints from above. No dice. “No.”

"I'm just wondering if they carry the right type of paper and printer I need.” And people are willing to glance the other way. Preferably not call the GCPD. Or a vigilante.”

“The right printer.” The taller man restates.

“Yeah.” The path Jason is leading him on feels relatively straightforward. Peter is starting to think he’s been cheated when Jason makes a quick right turn, straight into an alley. Peter holds his breath, ready to get jumped, but as he looks around the corner, Jason’s alone. Well. What could go wrong? Peter nearly falls flat on his face rushing to catch up.

When he does, Jason aims a wary look at him. “I’ll bite. What kind of printer?”

This guy’s pushy, Peter’s not a fan. “Do you have a master’s in printing science?” Peter shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

“What—?” Jason appears a bit baffled, brow scrunched, and mouth pulled into a frown. As if he’s contemplating whether Peter’s making shit up. He is, but if it did exist, it probably would have way more use than a philosophy major.

Peter waves a dismissive hand. “Didn’t think so. I know what I’m doing, so thanks, but uh. You’re just my GPS.” Too harsh? “My very professional GPS.”

Jason scoffs. “If that’s supposed to soften the blow, kid, you need to work on your bedside manner.”

“I’m in Crime Alley with a stranger.”

“Fair enough.” The said stranger makes another quick series of turns. When the two come across a concrete wall at the end of a particularly decrepit alley, Jason nimbly vaults over it. Leaving Peter a bit shocked, that was smooth as hell for a guy of Jason’s height and size.

For his part, Peter goes a little slower. Poking his head over the wall to see Jason waiting for him on the other side, pulling out a cigarette. He lights it in one swift movement, sucking in a breath. Peter swings up and over the wall, landing with a dramatized oof. “So are we like, deep in ‘about-to-be-murdered territory.’”

Jason half-shrugs. “No more than the rest of Crime-Alley, I guess. It’s just that if you get caught by these guys, they’ll make it a bit more painful. Hence, ladder.” He turns on his heel, presenting the rustiest, most structurally questionable ladder Peter’s ever seen behind him. It’s attached by three bolts. The others lie on the ground around it. Jason begins to climb with zero hesitation.

The younger teen hangs back. Inspecting the first of the rusty bolts. He flicks the ladder, accidentally sending a chip of metal and rust flying off. Oops. “Hey! Uh, this feels like a bad idea. I don’t like heights that much, you know.”

“Relax, shortstack, we won’t be up here long. Hell, we’re basically taking the freeway.”

“Do Redhood and Black Mask’s guys not hang out up high or something? I feel like they’d be used to looking up with all the bats around.”

Jason reaches for another rung. “No, because it’s just… wait.” He freezes mid-climb, whirling his head down to glare at Peter. “Redhood?”

The rusty ladder looks about ready to give way. The longer Jason lingers, the higher the chance he has of landing on his ass under a heap of metal. Peter won’t deny that he might laugh, as long as he wasn’t seriously injured, of course. “Yeah, the Crime Alley guy? Red helmet?”

He had no idea someone could manifest so much distaste in one glare. Jason looks about ready to disembowel him. “Fuck no. It’s Red Hood. Two words.” Jason’s physical repugnance looks remarkably similar to how Peter feels when someone calls him Spiderman. Disgusting.

Peter flashes his gloved hands in surrender. He can’t imagine any of his spider-fan club getting this worked up over his name. Why is so much care thrown at a literal crime lord. “One-time mistake, won’t happen again.”

Jason nods once before completing the climb, somehow avoiding the fall to certain injury. Lucky bastard. “Good. But c’mon kid, not sure what else I can say to convince you. The sights are waiting and I’m one hell tour guide, too, you know.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Peter places a hand on the ladder, pulling himself up and over the edge of the roof.

“Holy shit. You made it. Did you almost die?” The taller says flatly.

Peter flips him off for dramatic effect. It only earns a laugh “Don’t get pissy, I’m just making conversation.” Jason begins to lead once again, easing into a flow as he begins to cross buildings. He’s easily able to find the best paths and simplest places to cross. Peter hangs back, letting himself take obstacles slower. He lets himself trip over upended shingles and pretends to take serious care while on a ledge. With this performance? He should be in his high school play. Lead role.

Of course, karma would come in the form of every bully having some new material to work with. Flash Thompson should count his days, metaphorically.

For a hardened Crime Alley professional, Jason is pretty patient. Taking the time to scout ahead to look for an easier path. It’s a little funny making someone else do all the path clearing. And when Peter does take his time, Jason waits patiently, only looking a touch irritated. That could just as easily be his permanent expression, though.

After he scales down onto a partially collapsed landing, it reeks of rot in that pit, gross, Jason holds up a hand, gesturing for him to stop. Peter can already hear the footsteps, the soft twinge of danger tapping at his brain. In sync, the two hunch down below the rooftop parapet, obscured from view. There are two– three sets of footsteps milling about right beneath their feet. This area looked to be an abandoned warehouse, looks like it’s not that abandoned after all.

Peter represses a shiver as a cold gust of wind washes over them. The men below don’t speak; their heartbeats are steady. There’s only the sound of shuffling and the occasional cough. It’s much more likely that these guys are just guards. Guarding what is more the question. Peter can’t hear a thing inside this building. It really does just seem like these three guys out on their own.

The two sit in the cold, bundled up against the wall, waiting. It must be nearly five minutes of sitting before Jason grunts, apparently deciding they’ve waited long enough. The guys below don’t seem to have any plans of leaving. Surprisingly quiet, Jason begins to work forward, barely making a sound. Peter follows, tapping into his own skills to pass by unnoticed.

It only takes a few moments for Jason to turn back, appearing a bit surprised that Peter is as close as he is. Had he thought Peter had stayed back? Maybe he’s being a little too quiet for some random New Yorker. But it’s not like he’s going to pretend to be worse and accidentally expose their location. That sounds stupid.

They follow the wall until its end at the edge of the roof. Jason glances back at him, a silent ‘Jump?’ forming on his lips.

Peter nods, more than confident. If anything, he’s more worried about Jason.

With a near-silent huff, the bigger man leaps and lands with a gracefulness that leaves Peter a bit dumbfounded. This guy is full of surprises. Peter follows, quick and precise. Perhaps a little too precise for someone supposedly afraid of heights. To make up for it, Peter manages a shaky expression with pursed lips. Jason rolls his eyes, flips up his collar, and continues to move.

It’s another five minutes of silence before Jason stands to his full height, assessing the area with narrowed eyes. “I think we’re good.”

They’ve been ‘good’ for two minutes now, but Peter’s just fine to let the ‘professional’ take the lead. “Who were they?”

“Black Mask’s guys, big and ugly ones that shoot first and never ask questions.” Jason . “We’re good now, they don’t come out this far.”

“That’s what you meant by this being in a nasty part of town?”

“Yup. Don’t know about you, but I don’t like getting shot at. Thanks for not falling over yourself and alerting the whole Alley, by the way.”

“If anything, it would’ve been your grunting to screw us over.”

“Learned habits die hard,” Jason mumbles.

“But hey, thanks. Turns out a GPS was pretty helpful.”

“Like I’d let a kid go wandering straight into their arms. What, would you just stand there and wait while they debate about murdering you?”

“Not a kid. And I would’ve been okay. Maybe one of those vigilantes would step in and save me at the last second. I hear it’s pretty common.”

“Not as common as you’d think.” Jason’s smile is a lot less tolerable and more forced. Like a predator baring his teeth. Peter acknowledges the fact that he’s somehow stepped on a nerve.

“Yeah, well. They’re only human. Most of them. You know what I mean.”

“Humans with a god complex. Sure. Deciding their code is more important than everybody else on the ground.”

“Guessing you’re not a fan..?” Peter tries.

Jason half cackles. “You got that fucking right. Because hey– look over there.” Jason points at a side alley across the way from where they’re maneuvering over rotten shingles. “That’s where Batman chucked a guy off the roof. That was six years ago, and he’s still in a coma.” He drags a hand down his face. “In a way, it’s fucking hilarious. They fuck up everywhere when it comes to Crime Alley. Over there is where the first Boy Wonder got his ass beat by a couple of carjackers. And that dumpster you see? I hear the newest Robin had an accident with a grapple line, fell face-first into that shit. Batman had to pluck him out by his cape.” The image, admittedly, does make Peter repress a small smile; vigilante mishaps are common. Civilians don’t tend to let them go easily, either. Peter knows several people out there who collect images of Spider-Man flat on his face after a bad landing.

Unfortunately, it’s a bigger collection than he would ever like to admit. “You weren’t kidding about the tour-guide thing.” Peter idles.

His guide is turning red in the face, intensity reaching new heights as he stalks forward. “They’re a bunch of hypocrites and liars. Batman’s broken skulls and sent people into permanent comas because he was ‘in a phase’, but killing people is a step too far? It’s the same fuckin’ thing!” He jabs out an emphasizing hand, apparently not getting that Peter isn’t one who appreciates it.

Peter, in response to this whole rant, just frowns. Offering a light roll of his eyes as he curls into his coat. Jason’s heartbeat is through the roof, and he has a feeling this is getting more personal than he’d originally bargained for. Best not to encourage it, but he has a feeling the guy is already on a roll.

“The big bads here got no issue killing a couple dozen innocent people just for being in the wrong bus stop at the wrong time. If they could, they’d level this place to the ground and put a bullet in all of our heads. They’ve murdered countless. Why is it so wrong to avenge them?”

Peter’s half shivers at the avenging mention. “More will just come up in the power vacuum; it’ll just keep the cycle going.”

“Not if you put a bullet in them first,” Jason bites. Flashing an accusatory glare.

“How long until you’re as bad as them?”

Jason stops fully, turning to face him. Disdain morphing to outright scorn in his eyes. The green almost feels suffocating. Man. Peter really hopes those are contacts. “God. Okay, Boy Scout. You’ve yet to see what being righteous gets you in this shithole.”

“It’s just about preserving life.” He counters, unrelenting under the older man’s scrutiny. “People change. It’s not fair to judge everyone at their lowest.”

Jason flicks an irritated hand, lighting a new cigarette before breathing it all in. “Oh, but it is.” Jason laughs to himself, breath coming out in more of a wheeze. “You know, you sound just like everyone else. Someone ought to knock you on the head.”

“Someone tried that. Hate to say I’m still the same. Just with a cool bruise.”

“Yeah, well, next time they'd better hit harder. Knock that nonsense out of you.”

“If anybody is talking nonsense, it’s definitely you. Have you ever looked at Arkham? I read they’ve got a ton of programs–”

“There’s your place, kid.” Jason cuts across him with a scowl. Stepping out of the way for the grand reveal. Across the almost war-torn looking street is a decrepit, halfway collapsed block. Bricks have imploded from the walls, scattering over the sidewalk and tumbling into the street. Withered plants peek out from its toppled storefront, dappled with a dusting of snow. Dark burn marks stretch over whatever’s left, adding to the dystopianess of it all.

“Who could’ve guessed it’s been blown up by four– five different villains over the years.”

“Fuck.”

“I thought it was closed, didn’t know it was irreparably torn apart.”

“You knew?”

“Course’ I knew. Professional Crime Alley inhabitant here.” He says, as if he hasn’t led Peter on the most useless hour and a half excursion of his life.

Peter curses again, breath coming out in sharp clouds. “You’re kidding. You dragged me all the way out here knowingthat–” he breathes again. Balling his hands into fists. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Who cares that this was all just a waste of time? “God– I’m like, trying really, really hard to be nice right now.”

“Eh, yeah. You’re trying. But you’re a shitty liar, kid. Not much of a performer.”

“A performer?” Peter had tried that once. It ended with his hands covered in blood and a dead uncle. He can’t help but flick his eyes to the ground. It’s a lot more comfortable than staring into the other’s freakishly bright eyes.

He continued, “Dude, I just don’t have to lie that much.” It’s another lie. May has never heard the end of his tales of ‘being held up by traffic’ despite not having a car. Peter takes another stabilizing breath. “You know. You’re seriously vying for my number one nemesis spot.” Peter forces down the bitter taste in his mouth. Happy-go-lucky Peter is going to be way more helpful in getting out of this than inches-from-punching-a-man-Peter.

“You have a nemesis?”

“Yeah, like, more than one. Several actually. You just made it onto the top ten list.” He dislodged the Spider-Slayer. He can just lump it right in with JJ. Same thing.

“What’s your top three then?”

“Johnny Storm at number one, Flash, then JJ,” and technically Spider-Slayer.

“Like… Flash the speedster?”

“What? I didn’t– oh. Forgot about him.” Peter is mentally kicking himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Idiot. People don’t just ‘forget’ about world-class superheroes. “No. That’s actually his name. Flash Thompson.” Number one Peter Parker hater and number one Spider-Man enjoyer. A true fence-sitter at the end of the day. “He’s a dick,” he adds for good measure.

Jason hums knowingly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets for warmth. The wind is picking up again, and the sun is slowly being consumed by dark clouds. “Half-hearted curb stomp always does the trick. Sends a clear message.”

“You’re delightful.”

“Glad people are finally noticing.”

“Just a bundle of joy and daisies.”

The comment is met with more than the standard scoff. Jason turns his head, as if genuinely curious. “Daisies?”

“Purity and goodness, obviously.”

“Nah. Maybe dahlias.”

“Huh?”

“My mom liked ‘em.”

It’s such an innocent comment that it gives Peter pause. He’d been so swept up in Jason’s grumpy loner act, he hadn’t considered he’d be interested in something as small as knowing what flowers his mom liked. But then again. It’s not that small. May’s favorite flowers were Chrysanthemums. “Alright then, you’re a bundle of joy and dahlias. Happy?”

“Yup.” He says, popping the ‘p’.

It feels a little absurd to be talking about flowers on a roof with a possible gang member. Peter’s not necessarily upset about it. Some of his previous anger is ebbing away, and he feels a little better. A little less annoyed. He really, really wishes Jason had mentioned it was at least closed when they first met, but he won’t deny that talking to this guy is interesting.

It’s obvious there’s more to Jason than meets the eye. He doesn’t seem like the type to do something out of the goodness of his heart, let alone to inconvenience himself. His scrutiny is a familiar one, too; he can’t help but wonder if all Gothamites are like this. Sure seems like it. Barbara, Tim, and this guy all trying to dissect him? That’s a pattern if Peter’s ever seen one.

Trying to read these people’s actual feelings and intentions feels like ramming into a brick wall at full speed. It’s not very likely that everyone in Gotham is trained for this sort of thing. It’s much more likely that his spider-senses just aren’t as potent in this universe. That’s unbelievably frustrating. So frustrating, it might belong on the bad luck counter, never mind the fact that he lost count years ago.

When Jason finally speaks again, Peter feels himself jump. Eyes flicking up to find a duller green. “Kid, what are you doing all the way out here?” He sounds tired, flat. Like the small talk from earlier has drained whatever energy he has left.

The last streams of sunlight are extinguished by the clouds, throwing Gotham into the throes of winter once more. “I told you already. Print shop. And you’re the one who led me to a hazard zone.”

The exasperated sigh comes back in full force. Jason waves a dismissive hand, wafting through the cool puffs of breath. “In general. I know damn well any other Gotham print shop can handle whatever you need. To say this angle was a long shot is an understatement. Anywhere else could help you out.”

“Not with this.”

“Never heard of anyone being sad they don’t have to go to Crime Alley for business. Unless they’re doing something criminal, ‘course.” The tone is lighthearted, but Peter isn’t fast enough to cover up his guilty expression. “Holy shit, you are? Give me that.” The man pounces on his split-second of truth, making a move to grab the notebook sticking out of his pocket.

Peter instinctively dances just out of reach. “Actually, I’d rather you butt out of my personal space. Not just going to sit here and let you pickpocket me.”

The other fixes him with a minute glare. “I might be able to help, you know.”

“You’ve done plenty. Five stars. Probably wouldn’t recommend.” Peter shifts from one foot to the other, looking around. Maybe it’s time he starts thinking about how he can get back. If he uses the roofs, he can probably cut down on travel time by at least half an hour. Depends on whether this Jason character sticks by. Peter’s pretty confident he could lose him, though. Crime Alley, professional or no.

As if reading his thoughts, Jason puts up his hands in surrender. “Even after all my Bat facts? Look. If you just tell me what you need, maybe I can help a tiny Boy Scout out. If I can’t, I’ll leave it at that. Swear on my own grave.” He motions as if he is slitting his own throat, eyes glinting.

Peter feels his shoulders hike up, the move accentuated by the massive coat. That’s not an offer that fills him with comfort. Half of him wants to split, make way for the library. Give up on this print shop crusade and maybe ask Barbara for help. The thought alone is enough to make him ill. Barbara doesn’t deserve to get wrapped up in his problems. She’s already offering him a place to stay; he can’t ask for more.

Jason’s bizarre. Peter probably can’t trust him as far as he could throw him, which is pretty far, but he doesn’t sense outright malice. Maybe some misdirected anger issues, but Jason had shown some genuine worry for him today. Maybe that’s quelling his spider-sense to some degree. As much as he wants to turn down yet another offer he’s been handed, he hesitates.

He can’t rely on Strange to show up at a moment’s notice. For the first time since landing here, Peter has an opportunity to get somewhere. An actual job. And now, someone is offering to help out with the means. Sure, he’s probably a criminal. Likely wouldn’t think twice about trying to jump him if he thinks it’ll benefit him. But he doesn’t have much else to threaten him with; Peter’s just some kid. There’s no Aunt May to hold over his head. The thought almost makes him smile. There’s a lot less to be wary of here. It feels great. “I need papers and an ID.”

All the build-up from his silence to his short answer explodes, and Jason’s intense expression melts away into a fit of nigh-hysteric laughter. “Holy shit. All that drama? And you just want an ID?”

It digs a little deeper than it should, Peter grimaces, shoulders hiked up to his chin in indignation. “I’m not a criminal!”

“Good thing too, you’re going to fucking print shops around the city to get an ID! God, that’s good.”

“It’s not like I had many other options.” Peter’s cheeks are beet red; he can’t believe he’s feeling embarrassed over this.

Jason’s laugh eases into a hum of acknowledgement. He draws back, letting out another puff of his cigarette. “I get that.”

It’s not exactly the answer Peter’s looking for. Not that he knows what he’s looking for anyway. “So.. I don’t. Do you have like, printer spawning powers I could use?” Nothing like a stupid comment to break the re-forming ice.

If Jason hears, he doesn’t acknowledge the comment. He’s frowning, eyes trained on his cigarette. The older finally sighs, releasing tension from his shoulders, and by extension, the air. “What if I said I know a place you could get it done?”

“Don’t say the DMV.”

“Nope. I just know a guy.” He flicks his cigarette on the ground, putting it out with his foot. “But you have to tell me why you want it.”

Peter purses his lips. Well, there’s no harm in that, is there? He glances back at the abandoned print shop before facing Jason with an anxious air. “I’m new to Gotham, I don’t have anything. No papers, no ID. I don’t think I could get something official either. I can’t even get a library card. I’m just trying to get a job, I need this stuff for it.”

The taller of the two nods, setting his jaw. “Fine then. I’ve got nothing against kids trying for a different start. Gimme those, Boy Scout.” He extends a hand, indicating his notebook.

Peter doesn’t hand it over just yet. “I can’t pay you a lot,” he admits.

“It’s whatever.”

“I won’t owe you any favors either.”

“I don’t care,” Jason maintains, meeting Peter’s eyes. He finds himself put off by the eye contact. Wordlessly, Peter tears out the pages of his notes and offers them over. No way he’s handing over the full journal. The man reads them over quickly, clicking his tongue at one note in particular. “This everything you wanted to include? You’re obviously not twenty-three.”

“What?”

Jason taps the paper. “Any dumb fuck around here is going to know that, even those idiots at GCPD. How old are you really? Stick to that.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Peter shrugs. It really doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. “I can pass for an adult.”

“You look like you’re fifteen.”

Peter gawks, offended, “I’m seventeen!”

The man across from him actually snickers.

Feeling an urge to defend his pride, Peter folds his arms and cocks his head. Aiming for maximum pettiness. “Okay, mister thirty-five.”

It’s Jason’s turn to glower, “There’s no way you pass for twenty-three. I’m twenty-one, Dick.”

Peter is already rolling his eyes, letting out a small hiss of pity. Missing Jason’s near-flinch of a reaction. “I have a great moisturizer brand to recommend,”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jason waves the paper around, crinkling it a small degree. “When do you need this shit by?”

“Friday.”

He grumbles something under his breath. Peter’s pretty sure it’s nonsense, because even he can’t make it out. Jason then flicks those green eyes onto him again. “That’s a tight deadline, Boy Scout.”

“It’s my interview day. I can’t exactly move it. I’d be fired before I even got the job.”

“Interview with who?”

“WanyeTech.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he bites back a curse. For a vigilante, he’s incredibly loose-lipped. Damn it all.

Jason whistles. “Fancy.”

He’s quick to put up an excuse, some reason to explain why this isn’t important and why Jason should probably forget about it within the next minute. Preferably. “It’d probably just be an internship.”

“Still, any homeless kid would consider that lucky.”

Can he technically be homeless if me has a cozy back room with a cot and a radiator? “I think I have a friend to blame.”

“Quite the friend.” Jason raises an eyebrow.

“I’d say so.” Peter smiles.

Jason stares at him for a second longer. Before he sighs, giving him a small smile back. “C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch. We can talk more about this. Pretty clear you have no fucking clue what actually needs to be on a Gotham ID.” Jason begins to walk, and Peter follows yet again. “Keep up this time. I want to make it by sundown.”

“I told you already, I looked it up. It seemed like everything was in order, okay?” Peter grumbles. The two haven’t been walking for long; Jason’s even allowed them to scale back down onto the street.

“You looked up the fastest way to get caught,” Jason argues.

“Most people would think it’s a good thing I’m not a criminal mastermind.”

He’s met with another grumble. “Eh. They’re survivors. You have to respect that. Like–” He slips out a plastic water bottle from his jacket. “Well, I guess it’s just this.” Peter’s spider sense is already ringing before Jason cocks his arm. “Normies don’t–”

The water bottle flies harmlessly into space, where Peter’s head had been only a split second before. “Oh.. Maybe you do have potential. Boy Scout.”

“What was that?”

Jason waves a hand, clearly irritated. “I was going to say that a criminal would have a better chance of dodging that because they’re always expecting it.” He sighs. “But you dodged it.”

Spider-senses for the win. What in the world would he do without them? Get hit with a bottle, probably. “Yeah, because it was a god awful throw.” He lies.

“Hey. I’m a good shot, you’re just fucking quick.” Jason’s shoulders hike up in indignation, clearly offended.

“Obviously not. Couldn’t even hit me with a bottle.”

“In Gotham, that could’ve been a bomb. Doesn’t matter if it hits you then.”

“How about we don’t throw bombs.”

“Maybe I will. Just to prove a point,” Jason growls, before stopping in his tracks. Peter’s spider sense stops him before he barrels right into the taller man. “This is the place.”

It’s a relatively dirty alleyway. Par for the course in the deep city. “This empty alley?”

“Look alive, Scout, that’s very clearly a door.”

True enough, a door sits a few feet away. There’s no sign, no door mat, absolutely nothing to indicate it’s a business.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek. Looks like a prime place to lure someone in and murder them. “I feel like you get more suspicious every time I blink.”

“You’ve had plenty of time to run,” Jason points out. He pushes open the door, letting loose a cacophony of voices, laughter, and is that country music? Jason ducks inside with a grin. As it begins to shut, he calls back, “Still have time.”

Peter is left standing alone, tapping his foot. He could leave, could head back to the library empty-handed. It sounds disappointing. And Peter won’t deny that he’s curious, even if it comes down to a fight, Peter’s confident he can hold his own. He’s healed enough; he could totally play it off as being a good boxer. Cool.

He pushes open the door.

The place is a little grimy, a little dirty, but Jason is quick to tell him that’s what the best places always are.

The two are sitting in a rugged corner booth, burgers and drinks laid over the table. Jason spreads out, treating three-quarters of the table as his. Peter represses a sigh and a scowl as he takes the last fourth of the table space for himself.

Jason raises a beer and half-cheers to Peter’s measly glass of water. “So. Tell me about yourself, Scout. Keep it in bullet points, would you?”

“Alright.” He picks up the burger, approving it as poison-free in a second before taking a bite. “I was born overseas. Parents died, got taken in by my Mom’s sister. Did the whole growing up thing in Queens; now it's just my aunt and me in Gotham.”

Jason appears to be waiting for more. When it doesn’t come, he flashes his hands in confusion. “I think you skipped a fuckin' year or two.”

“You said you wanted bullet points.”

“That was a lot less than bullet points.”

Peter aims a fry at him. “Nothing about my life story needs to be on that ID other than the hospital and city I was born in.”

Jason, to his credit, looks a shade guilty. Just a shade.

“Just put Queens down, Queens Hospital Center, maybe. If you want to pry, you’re free to ask without making excuses.” Not that Peter plans on giving this guy offering to do something illegal for free, good answers.

Jason fixes him with a flat sneer. He seems less than pleased with this development. “Fine then. Call me curious. Why the hell are you in Gotham? Queens sounds cushy.”

“Wasn’t exactly my choice.”

“Oh?”

“That’s all I’m saying.”

The reply is a scoff. “Alright. Have anything to say about New York? I went there once. The vigilantes there were less than welcoming. You ever meet the Titans?”

“Eh, as much as anyone does.” Who the hell are the Titans?

“Fair.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Jason repeats.

Peter sighs. Wrapping up the remains of his burger. Perhaps he’s overstayed his welcome. Barbara is sure to be getting worried. And suspicious. “Look, this has been nice and all, and thank you for the food. But I have to get going.”

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t fight him on it. “You know the way out of Crime Alley?”

And he does. Mostly. “Yeah.”

Jason drains the rest of his beer before actually unwrapping his food. “Then sure. Stick to the roofs if you know what’s good for you.” Jason indicates with his burger. Peter nods. If only he knew.

“Drop it off by Ace’s Diner on Friday. I’ll be there.”

“Works for me. See you ‘round, Boy Scout.”

“Bye.” With that, Peter takes his leave.

Jason watches as the kid works his way through the diner, letting the door close with a click. He finishes off his meal, crinkling the leftover napkins and paper in a ball before tossing them in the trash. With a huff, he shoves his way through to the back, flipping off an employee who raises an eyebrow. He locks the door in an empty storage room, pulling out his phone.

He jabs at a contact, holding it up to his ear as it connects. “Barbie. Got an update for you. If you can pull yourself away from the bookworms.”

Her voice buzzes out from the speaker with an eyeroll he can sense across the city. “They’re not holding me hostage, Jay.”

“They’re nerds, don’t defend them.”

“I seem to remember you checking out a Jane Austen novel not too long ago.”

He internally curses. Is no one going to let that go? “Yeah, yeah. I picked one up once, never again.” Jason squints at his reflection on the metal door. There’s some shit in his teeth. How long had that been there? Had the fucking Boy Scout not said anything? Rude.

“According to this file, you still have it checked out. How are you liking it?” She idles; he can hear her typing on her computer. Probably pulling up his library history at that very moment.

Jason grunts. “Burn that file before I do. Look, we’re getting away from the point here, your boy just left Bluelight.”

“What? What was he doing down there?”

“Trying to get his hands on a fake ID.”

Babs audibly curses, too late to hide it with a cough. He can hear her muffled apology to some wretched woman on the other end before she whispers into the receiver. “What?”

“Don’t worry your little head, I got him. Said he didn’t have one, couldn’t get one. Didn’t seem too happy to be doing business with a guy like me.”

“Did you threaten him? Jason, we talked about this.”

Someone knocks on the storage door. They promptly get ignored. “I can be plenty charming when I have to be. Just like you. You didn’t mention you’d gotten him an interview at WayneTech.”

The brief silence on the other side of the line is the perfect admission of guilt. “It wasn’t important.”

“Pft. I can’t decide if you’re being stupid or not. Bruce and Tim will fucking find him instantly.”

“It’s not the end of the world.”

“Hey, you seemed hell bent on keeping this between you and me. You know just as well as I do that if they’re involved, I’m out. The kid is on his own when it comes to Crime Alley.”

She sighs. “Alright. I promise that they’ll stay out of it. Just.. please, I need your help with this. You know Crime Alley better than anyone. You know kids like him.”

Someone knocks again, muffled voices on the other side. Jason strolls over and leans against it. Just in case they decide a spare key is the play. “Fine. But you’ll owe me. And for the record, my guys said he didn’t even leave the library last night.”

“I know.” She confirms. “I offered him the back room.”

“The fuck do you need me for then?” He can’t help the irritation dripping from his words. Why the hell is Babs doing all this?

“I don’t have endless resources, contrary to popular belief. I want to be absolutely sure of all the cards on the table before I confront him. I need to find out if he’s reporting to anybody. I’ve come up with next to nothing on my end.”

He huffs, mulling it over before he gives a tolerating hum. “Fine. I’ll have someone posted nearby. And I’ll get these printed and sent to the library by Thursday.“

“Thank you.” And goddammit, she sounds genuine. He feels a bit guilty for being a dick. But he also knows he’s biased when it comes to this particular bat. He won’t deny that he’s always been a little weak to her asks since his revival. Call it respect over shared trauma.

“Oh. And he’s a meta. Hundred percent sure.”

Babs hums. “What makes you say that?”

“That robbery the other night, he snapped a gun in half, Barbie. And today, I chucked something at his head. He moved before I threw it, before he even looked up. Like he knew it was coming before I’d even decided I was going to do it.”

“It makes sense. He snapped my new deadbolt like it was candy. At first I thought it was just faulty, but.. Yeah. Also. Don’t throw things at children.”

The voices outside raise a little, but no gunshots. They really need to learn how to get a guy’s attention. “No. But I’m just sayin’, there’s something else going on with the little Boy Scout.”

“I agree. I’m starting to think this might be more of a Kon situation. Perhaps it’s time to reach out to Dick. Could you–”

Jason cuts across her. Good will nearly spent for the day. “No. I told you already that I would do you a solid because of.. The fucking clown. But you’re not dragging me back, Babs, I know what you’re up to. I don’t want any part in the family. I think I‘ve made that pretty fucking clear these past two years. Tell Dick yourself, but if he tries to talk to me about any of this– I can’t guarantee Goldie won’t get a boot to the head.” Maybe a bullet. No. Probably not a bullet. He’s past that. Mostly.

He tolerates the bats and by extension they don’t try to toss his ass in Blackgate 24/7. It’s not a nice deal, but it could be a hell of a lot worse since his identity was found out. Goldie won’t stop inviting him over for dinner. Babs keeps asking for him to join in on missions. B’s just a bitch about it all. Still. Could be worse.

“Alright, Jay. Alright.”

“See you.”

“Get home safe.”

Click.

There’s another, harsher knock at the door.

“Alright! I’m leaving, hold your horses. Assholes..”