Chapter Text
“Are you serious?”
Peter Parker was currently staring at Timothy Drake-Wayne, the current heir to Wayne Enterprises, in front of the cash register. Timothy had a polite smile, an aggravating one if Peter had anything to say about it.
Timothy ignores him and makes a show of looking at the menu, “Let me get... a large Americano, extra five shots of espresso, and a blueberry lemon cream muffin. Please and thank you.”
Peter’s right eye twitched as he put in the order; he had to put extra effort into not breaking the screen. “Your total is $11.64, Mr. Wayne.”
Timothy goes into his wallet and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “I didn’t give a name.”
Peter takes it and opens the register, barely even looking at him. “Did you have to?” He begins to count the change.
“Fair enough, keep the change. A tip, for you…” Timothy squints at his name tag as if he didn't already know his name, “Peter.”
No matter how much Peter would like to decline money from this creep, he needed every dollar he could get his hands on. He pockets the bills immediately. “Thanks.” There is absolutely no sincerity in his voice, and he couldn’t care less. Timothy the creep has been stalking him for almost two weeks now, and Peter has been in this world for two and a half. He’s tired, hungry, and broke, and then here he comes, asking too many questions and showing up where he’s not wanted.
Timothy slinks out of the line and sits in the seat closest to the counter, not even trying to be subtle about it. He scrolls through his phone, glancing up every now and then. A coworker of Peter’s, Myra, calls out his name, and he takes the cup and bag with a press-worthy smile. Timothy sits down in the same spot and takes a sip of the coffee, not even touching the muffin.
Peter tends to the last customer in line for now and goes to clock out for lunch. He walks around the counter to the door, and Tim springs up, grabbing his cup and bag, “Wait for me, Peter!”
Peter does not wait for him and keeps walking, letting the door close right in his face. Timothy takes it in stride and pushes the door open with his shoulder, jogging to catch up with him. He matches Peter’s steps and walks casually as if they know each other. Peter stops suddenly, “Can I help you, Mr. Wayne?”
He has the audacity to look sheepish, “I… I just wanted to hang out with you. I saw you at the library with Barbara a couple weeks ago, and you seemed pretty cool. And please, just Tim.”
Bullshit. Peter heard their entire conversation that day, only a few days after he arrived in Gotham. He remembered that day too well; he looked like hell and probably smelled like it too. It didn’t help that he resembled a twelve-year-old after only a few days without food; a fast metabolism is a curse most of the time, if not all the time. Exhaustion and hunger had riddled his body, but he had to reassure them that he was okay before they called CPS. Although Ms. Barbara was still skeptical, she let him use the computers for some info gathering.
With his super-hearing that they didn’t know about, of course, he listened in. Apparently, Tim here was going to do some digging on the obviously homeless teen and see about his situation. It didn’t help that Peter knew that Tim didn’t get a single piece of information about him. He had no social security, previous jobs, permit, license, etc. Peter could tell it was bugging the creep over the past few days, with him showing up conveniently at the library whenever Peter was there, bumping into him at the park, convenience, and hardware stores; he saw Tim everywhere, and it was grating on his nerves.
Always prying for information, no matter how subtle Tim seemed to think he was, and Peter won’t lie, he was pretty good about it. A normal person wouldn’t be able to see or hear it, the information Tim was digging for, and what he could deduce from any answers he gave. Fortunately, Peter was not your average person; he did his best to keep his answers to one word or outright dodge the question.
So, in conclusion, Tim was full of shit but was lying on a professional level. Peter was only a little impressed. “Yes, well…I don’t want to hang out with you. You’ve been stalking me, and it’s creepy.”
Tim faltered, making a noise of disbelief, “Stalking?”
Peter raised an eyebrow, “Dude, don’t be dumb about it. You really think I believe we ended up at the same tech thrift store by chance? You, the son of a billionaire and the CEO of Wayne Enterprises?” Peter says nothing else as Tim staggers for a response, and he begins to walk away.
Tim thinks fast, “Lunch! You’re going to lunch, right? I’ll buy!” He yells after him.
That stops Peter in his tracks. Tim paying for lunch? That's more money that can go towards buying tech, “...I pick the place.”
Tim nods, “Of course.”
Peter continues walking, and Tim takes that as a sign to follow.
“...So—”
“If your next words are a question about me, then you can stop right here and walk the other way.”
“Noted. Shutting up now.”
Tim sips his coffee as they walk silently for a good five minutes, only a step behind Peter. He takes out his phone, scrolling through the family group chat. Suddenly, he bumps into Peter. He stopped. Tim furrows his brow in confusion, “You good, Peter?”
Peter looks back at him and steps to the side to give him a view, “Isn’t that your big brother across the street?”
Lo and behold, Dick Grayson was indeed across the street. They make eye contact, and a smile erupts on Dick’s face. Tim closes his eyes in resignation, “Shit.”
Peter doesn’t stop staring as Dick comes running across the crosswalk, not even looking both ways, but trusting someone not to hit him with their car. He’s fast. Dick comes barreling toward Tim, squeezing him into what looks more like suffocation than a hug, “Timbo!”
Tim struggles, his face going red as onlookers watch with plainly seen judgment, “Put me down, Dick! We’re in the middle of the sidewalk!’
Dick follows his request and sets him down, but not without one last squeeze and a constant arm on his shoulder, “I missed you.”
Tim scowls, “We saw each other this morning.”
“My statement still stands.” Dick finally notices Tim’s company, “And who is this?”
Peter swallows hard as he’s now up close and personal with Dick. The eyes, the face shape, the skin color, the smile. It was all the same. Not every day you get to see your dead father alive and kickin’. He thought he would be ready whenever he saw him, thought he had a big enough mental breakdown to prepare himself. Guess not because he’s about to cry. Cry over a total stranger that looks and sounds like the man from the too-bright photos and grainy videos that he’s watched over and over again alone in his room. Peter knows he hasn’t answered, knows he’s creating an awkward silence, and knows they’re looking at him a bit weird, but he just…can’t speak.
Thankfully, Tim takes over, “This is a friend of mine, Peter.”
That’s what snaps Peter out of his stupor as he blinks back tears, “Whoa—whoa. Let me stop you right there. Friend?” he repeats back incredulously. He couldn’t believe how bold Tim really was, but then again, CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, confidence had to come with the position, right? But Peter had to clear something up, “We’re not friends. You’re my stalker, and I’m your victim. You’re only going to lunch with me because you offered to pay.”
Tim winces at the admission, his shoulders drawing up. Dick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look surprised. Wow. Must be a common occurrence.
“You’re stalking a teen? And he knows about it?” Dick smacks Tim on the back of the head, “Don’t you have any sense of shame?”
“Ow!” Tim rubs the back of his head, glaring at the sidewalk. Saying it aloud made it sound a bit worse.
Peter looks at the beat-up watch on his wrist. The face was cracked, and the strap had a few tears. Not enough to be of concern, it worked, it was under three dollars, and that was all that mattered. The time was 2:23. Forty-seven minutes left, he didn’t have any more time to waste. “Yeah, thanks for the big brother defense, Mr. Grayson, but I do have a lunch break I need to take.”
Tim pushes Dick off of him, “Move Dickface.”
Dick may or may not have pouted, and Peter doesn’t particularly want to confirm that, so he begins his walk once more, only a building away from his usual spot. Tim predictably follows behind, Dick unpredictably squeezes himself in the middle of the two boys, wraps an arm around each of them, and smiles wide, much too pleased, “I’ll tag along then.”
Peter is tense, tense enough for his body to start aching. And Peter knows Dick notices the rigid posture, that’s why Dick casually slides his arm off, not saying a word as he sees Peter release a breath. Peter was not in the mood to memorize what it would be like to have his father hug him, kiss him, love him—That’s enough of that. But Peter already knew it was too late, knew that Dick's warmth, his father’s warmth, was in his head. Stuck there forever. He was going to cry. Not here, but soon.
Peter leads them into The Deli Table, a sandwich place. It was Peter’s favorite since it reminded him so much of Delmer’s back in his world. This place so far has been the only familiar thing, and he almost fell to his knees after finding out they can smush them real flat.
The bell rings as they walk in, and the owner of the store, an older African-American man who goes by Sam. He was rough around the edges, clearly seen by the large shotgun propped on the counter, but Peter quickly learned, in Gotham, who wasn’t?
Sam was wiping his hands with a dish towel, “Pete, my boy. Who you with today?” Sam’s voice was gruff, and it always gave Peter shivers with how low it was.
Peter shrugs, “Timothy Drake-Wayne and Richard Grayson. They followed me here.”
Sam furrows his brows as the two sons of Bruce Wayne stand there a bit awkwardly, “They not tryna turn you into a prostitute, is they?”
Peter lets out a snort as Dick chokes on his own spit, and Tim turns red within a second; they couldn’t even say anything to that.
“I don’t think so, Sam. And even if they were looking for a prostitute, a fifteen-year-old boy would not be their first choice, I’m sure.”
Sam begins to make his usual, an Italian foot-long smushed real flat. No pickles. Peter’s spider side has been real weird about vinegar lately, and even the smell of them makes him gag.
Sam shrugs, grabbing a handful of lettuce, “I don’t know Pete, rich people are fuckin’ weird.”
Dick is finally able to get his voice out, “We—” he takes a breath and rubs the bridge of his nose, “The Wayne family does not recruit prostitutes, sir.”
Sam hums noncommitingly as he bags the sandwich with chips and a chocolate-chip cookie; he always throws a free one in there despite the multiple attempts to get him to stop.
“$8.18, Pete.”
Peter steps aside as Tim doesn’t forget his offer, Sam raises an eyebrow, “Rich kid payin’?”
“For today, yeah.” And hopefully never again.
“Good for you, I’ll put three more on the tab then.” The price suddenly increases, “$32.72.”
Peter shakes his head vehemently, “I don't…I don't need that many sandwiches, Sam!”
Sam starts to prepare the other sandwiches anyway while shaking his head with a snort, “Kid, I’ve raised three boys, so I know what a hungry teenager looks like. That one foot-long never does it for you, but you can’t afford more.” He waves a hand at Tim, “Learn to take advantage sometimes, Pete.”
Peter runs a hand down his face in exasperation as Dick looks on in amusement, and Tim is appalled to see Sam talking about him like he’s not standing right in front of the counter.
Sam packs the rest of the sandwiches and pairs the same to each of them, a bag of chips, and a cookie, “Go ahead and swipe the card since rich people are following poor teens around now.”
Tim sputters but takes out his card and swipes it anyway, “I am not following him, Peter said I could come!”
The receipt prints, and Sam tears it to hand it over, “Uh-huh.”
Tim continues to try and convince Sam that not all rich people are weird, while Peter carries the four sandwiches to the table and Dick follows with the chips and cookies in hand. Truthfully, Peter couldn’t thank Sam enough. The one sandwich a day was the only thing he could afford, and the calories had to last him the entire day. By the time 4:00 rolled around, it felt like his stomach was trying to eat itself. If he were lucky, pastries would be left in the case at the cafe at the end of the day, which he was allowed to eat for free.
Peter sits down quickly and digs in; he was starving in a way no one would believe. Tim comes a few moments after, looking disgruntled. He plops down and crosses his arms, “Now he thinks I’m a weirdo who follows children in poverty.”
Dick lets out a laugh, and Peter swallows and opens his mouth, “You are though. Like, that’s literally what you’re doing right now.”
Tim shakes his head, “No, no, I’m going out to lunch with an…acquaintance!" He nods to himself in delusion.
Peter ignores his attempts and opens his mouth wide for another bite, Tim pauses and furrows his brows, “...You have sharp teeth.”
Peter doesn’t stop as his canines are on display, “Ate a lot of meat growing up.” Peter looks at him as he chews, daring him to say anything else about it. They had a deal and Tim is on a thin line.
Dick senses the growing tension and aims to break it up, “So, Peter.”
Peter glances at him briefly as he opens a bag of chips; he’d rather not really look at Dick more than he has to.
“You said this was a lunch break. Where do you work?”
“Cafe down the street.” That was free information since anyone could find that out.
A perfect smile came over Dick’s face; it could be seen as charming, but Peter’s spider sense had turned into a dull ring. The same ring that made itself known every time he was in a conversation with Tim, warning him that they’re prying for information, that a slip-up could result in CPS, no job, and school.
“No school, Peter? And what place is hiring a thirteen-year-old?” He asks these with the same smile, looking playful, like his resulting answer won’t uproot his whole life, like it’s just curiosity. Peter could now see that Tim’s whole family was like this; Tim was just more obvious about it. They all stick their noses into things that don’t concern them, that won’t affect their own rich lives.
“What are you, a cop?” Peter keeps any hostility out of his tone but makes it known that the line of questioning was not appreciated in the slightest.
Dick sniffs, “Yeah, I am actually.”
Peter only pauses briefly, glancing up to see the apprehension on Tim’s face. He must be expecting Peter to run. Peter glances at Dick’s choice of clothing for today, a faded black t-shirt and gray sweats, “You’re not on duty right now, so do us both a favor and stop with the interrogation.”
Dick puts his hands up in surrender and still has that same stupid smile in place, “Just curious about Tim’s new acquaintance.”
“We’re not even that! I told you both where we stand, and it’s not going to be more than that.” Peter looked at his watch and found that it was time to go. He begins to pack up his trash and stuffs it into each other, “I would say thanks for the food, Timothy, but you’ve been stalking me for two weeks, so I think it’s only fair. Now, we’re even.”
Tim purses his lips at the jab but says nothing.
Peter stands, “Stop following me, stop talking to me. I don’t know what this little obsession a billionaire has with me, but it ends here. I don’t want to see you again, dude, seriously.” Peter doesn’t even acknowledge Dick as he walks out of the shop. The bell rings after him.