Archive of Our Own

As he stands in the gravel driveway of Wayne Manor, Peter begins to believe that he has made a grave error.

Maybe he shouldn’t say it like that. Not when he passed by an old family graveyard on the way up the stretch of land. Otherwise, he’ll get a chill down his spine unrelated to that spider-sense of his, imagining being buried in one of those many plots.

A flash of lightning cracks across the midnight sky and thunder shakes him to his core. The brief light casts the sharp shadows of the mansion over Peter, who has been standing frozen in place since he got there some few minutes ago. The longer he stands there, staring at the giant, intricately carved double doors, the bigger the manor seems to get. He’s been trying to avoid eye contact with the golden gargoyle brass knocker smiling down at him.

There are many stone steps that lead up to the entryway, nestled back into a large porch. There is an arched overhang that keeps the entryway very, very dry. Peter, who has been shivering in the cold rain for the last few hours, should take the opportunity to get out of the rain while he can. It’s October- almost Halloween, actually. That means it’s not just cold rain, but freezing rain. His thermoregulation issues means he’s not built for the cold on most days, let alone when he’s only wearing one thin (and now wet) jacket like he is right now.

But that same overhang is like… the length of a mile. Okay, an exaggeration. But when Peter is looking up, up, up from the driveway, still at the bottom of the steps, and the entryway has only a single lit lamp above it, the flames flickering behind green tinted glass, and it’s so dark…? Sure looks like a damn mile.

Peter doesn’t believe in ghosts. Or haunted mansions. He stopped believing in stuff like that when he was, like, five.

…But this might just convince him to believe again.

Someone who cared about his well being might ask how Peter managed to get himself here in the first place. That question has a double meaning and therefore, many ways to answer it. Peter would choose to be an ass and pick the easier way to answer.

He’d tell them that he simply climbed the old brick fencing. They would point out that it was nearly ten feet tall. He’d tell them he can stick to walls and press on with his answer because that isn’t the point. He climbed the fencing after finding that the gate was locked, and all he had to do was walk the many miles up the driveway, through a huge storm, to get where he is now.

While he is an ass, he isn’t stupid. He knows they would have really been asking how he came to even consider hopping a fence to get to Wayne Manor in the first place.

Actually, any Gothamite would be asking that question, even if they didn’t care about his well being.

‘Why in the world did you decide to go to Wayne Manor?’ Is what any Gothamite who managed to concern themselves over him (or just thought he was plain stupid) would reword their question to.

They’d also ask why he was considering staying despite the growing assurance that he had, in fact, made a terrible, no good, awful mistake. He’d sigh dramatically, of course, to off set his nerves and pretend that it didn’t bother him as much as it did. And then tell them the harder answer.

Or not. The harder answer only makes sense to him. And any Gothamite that asked him about his stupidity would not understand what led him to conclude that Wayne Manor would be the place to go. No matter the context, they’d believe he was just another example of ‘survival of the fittest.’ Which isn’t actually what most people believe it is. What they’d be looking for is ‘natural selection.’

It’s an important distinction to make.

However, while they might not believe that context would make him look less like a moron, Peter thinks that context changes everything. Including why it’s not actually that crazy that Peter is standing in a stranger’s yard right now like a creep. It’s not weird at all, actually.

When he got to this strange universe almost a month ago, he hadn’t expected it to feel so much like home.

Okay, scratch that. It doesn’t feel like home at all, and he means that in the metaphorical sense. He doesn’t feel like kicking his feet back and relaxing where he is, and he sure as hell doesn’t feel like he belongs here. But it’s just that when one thinks of another universe, wouldn’t they expect it to be… different in a more obvious way?

Like having flying cars for the regular folks, or maybe people can be born with colors of the rainbow, or maybe everybody’s a fish with guns. Whatever, Peter’s not the best at examples, but the point has gotten across, yeah?

The city that he landed in during this Unapproved Field Trip (led by a guy with a snake mutation and two branches short of Sanity) is called Gotham. And it wasn’t all that different from a city that he’d find back in his universe. The technology was a few years out of touch, yeah, but not by much. And it wasn’t like Peter was seeing anything that stood out as “another universe.” It was as much of a place like any other he’d known.

Or, well…

Look, the city itself was a little odd in a way that was distinctly not-homeish.

The attitude of the citizens of Gotham made him wonder if he’d somehow stepped into the world of a comic book about a gruff but well meaning detective solving murders. And like, that said detective hunted monsters in his spare time. They were more on edge than Peter was, and he was the one that was lost. They looked over their shoulders like they expected someone to come swooping out of the shadows to drink their blood, they could get loud and boisterous when drunk but oh so quiet when a noise went off in the distance.

But that could be explained by the not-so-normal crime rates. Not ghosts, or vampires. Real people problems, but dialed up to eleven.

He’d done his due diligence with his research in that department, so he knows it’s way worse than he’d ever seen before. His research? Using his eyeballs, common sense, and deduction skills. And then using “Abacus” which is the stupidest name he’d heard for a search engine, but whatever. Closest thing he could get to Google in this world.

Other than that? Not too far off from what it was like back home.

Sure, Peter has to constantly keep an eye out so he doesn’t get mugged or killed or mugged and killed. And he has to make a conscious effort to stay out of trouble. But he’s done that before. He thinks of it like playing a game. Before he came to live with Tony and the other Avengers, he was playing life on a hard difficulty setting. Living in Gotham was like playing an extra hard difficulty setting.

It’s not hard to compare the two situations and come to that conclusion.

Peter had been bitten by a radioactive spider when he was 12. Life went… as well as it could have gone from that point forward.

He’d grown an extra set of arms under his original set, making a total of six limbs, unfortunately. (It’s annoying to not have eight just for the spider-isms of it all, but also annoying to think about if he did get a third set.) The arms are easy enough to hide since his bones are less like a human’s and more like a spider’s exoskeleton in many ways. He’s able to contort his body in a way that could petrify people, if they hadn’t been scared off by the second set of eyes first. Those rest on the sides of his forehead, giving him a much larger view of the world around him, but are fully black and beady like the arachnid he was bit by.

(The first time someone had seen him in an alley after his transformation, it had been a group of college kids with trust funds that would do nothing to help them in a horror movie type situation. They screeched in blood curdling terror when they spotted him lurking in the shadows, and the corvette tires squealed like a banshee as they drove away, leaving marks on the pavement.

Talk about dramatic.)

It isn’t even that Peter would be shunned, in his world. There are a lot of people who have mutations, a gene, whatever that makes them stand out from a typical ‘human’ look. It’s just that Peter happened to get one that wasn’t as ‘cool’ and what most would consider disturbing.

He’d ran away from his last foster house for a reason that was unrelated to his mutation, but it sure was a helpful incentive to not go back no matter what. Kids with mutations or powers had to go through an entirely different CPS branch, and he’d already had enough problems with the regular. He’d heard plenty of horror stories about the kids that went missing after they got their powers. So he just… didn’t go back.

He was constantly hiding from the world, not really knowing what to do with himself, but knowing he had to do something. That something turned out to be surviving.

He’d gotten the hang of the weirdness that was his new body, and he lived well enough by keeping to the dark. When he went out during the day, he would hide his second pair of arms in a backpack, and he’d cover the second pair of eyes with a baseball cap and long hair. His front facing eyes could look human if he took the time to let them change back, and he often had to.

He’s done this while in Gotham too, of course. He’d been walking to school when he was grabbed by that psycho scientist, so he had the jacket on that Tony designed for him. He doesn’t advertise his arms at this school even if it was made for kids with mutations in mind (though people like his friend, Ned, who don’t have mutations, also go there). The jacket has a sleeve on the inside of the back of it, so he can keep his hands covered but not strain them.

(He’s wearing the jacket right now. Sure, his arms are hidden, but it wasn’t designed with the rain in mind.)

Crime wasn’t hard to keep away from in this new version of himself. His senses were heightened to a point that almost drove him into living in the sewers away from any and everyone when he first turned. Nowadays, he relies on these spider senses of his to tell him when danger approaches.

(Specifically the one that literally helps him know when danger is around him.)

The only big difference between back home and Gotham was that Gotham had a worse crime rate than New York. Instead of there being a chance of getting mugged like once a month, there was the chance that Peter would be mugged twice a day.

…There was also the added dangers of not having any sort of base ground knowledge of this world. He found out very quickly what people think of magic and ‘metas’ in this world. He didn’t know what would happen to him if someone figured out what he was, just that it could be bad. And that made him stand on alert at all times.

He didn’t stay in one place for too long, not wanting to get comfortable anywhere. Getting comfortable meant getting complacent and complacency gets people caught. No, it was better to keep moving, and to keep in mind some hidey holes he’d found if he couldn’t find a new one before the next time he needed to sleep.

It was also what kept him from taking up the offer of a man that owned a burger joint Peter went to the first few days he got here. The man meant no harm to Peter then, but if he learned that he was sharing a space with what most people could view as a monster? Peter would rather not find out how quickly that attitude could change.

So other than the fact that Peter was exhausted, dirty, tired, constantly on edge, and felt like he was slowly wasting away from not getting enough food? Yeah. It could be worse. And if he ignores all of the uncertainty around being a stranger to this place, then he can affirm that it’s not too far off from what his home universe is like.

There are even heroes. He had found them the very first night he’d gotten here, after sneaking into a public library after hours. He spent the rest of his time until morning reading about the Justice League and their ventures.

They’re… cool, he supposes. Nothing like the Avengers, but he’s probably biased given that he is one, and all of his mentors are Avengers. There’s Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter- a whole load of heroes. Certainly more than the amount Peter knows they have back home.

And yet, not a single one of them dares to step foot inside Gotham.

No one knows why, which is a huge bummer for Peter and also explains the crime rate, he guesses. There’s rumors of a “Batman and Robin” that don’t take kindly to ‘the meta kind’ in Gotham… But Peter has a hard time believing in them.

That’s because Gotham has a lot of rumors and ghost stories.

It’s hard to differentiate between what is and isn’t possible. Especially with a new universe at play. It doesn’t act that different from home, but that could change once Peter looks closer. He supposes it could be believable that there’s a Bat Man out there. He’s literally part spider now, so it’s not too far fetched an idea to think that a guy got bit by a radioactive bat and grew a pair of wings.

But no one has ever been able to confirm that the man or his sidekick, Robin, even exist.

That’s right- no pictures, no interviews. Only eye witness accounts that sound like someone spotted Bigfoot. A lot of people claiming that they saw him flying overhead one night when they were out partying with their friends, or saying they saw Batman and Robin take down a crocodile man with their bare hands, or that Robin carries five swords, or that Batman is a vampire and has vampire friends. He even saw one man online claim that he saw that Robin was the one with wings like a bat.

Like, come on. You can’t change up your local lore for funsies. Is he a Robin, or a bat? Pick a lane.

The city is riddled with people that make up stories. Peter went investigating the other day to find out if a man actually spotted a “werewolf” on his way home one night, but all it turned up was evidence that the man had been the one to kill his wife. He’d been arrested the very next day. No werewolves around as far as Peter could tell.

So yeah, Batman? Robin? They sound as conceivable as the ghost stories that Gotham makes up on a daily basis. And it was in no way a help to Peter’s search for heroes that could help him get back home.

For one, he’d have to travel out of the state. Peter could hitch a ride on a bus (read: hang out on the undercarriage or on the roof and pray no one spots him). Or he could hitchhike his way there. But he’d have to 1) figure out what hero would be his best bet to get him home 2) figure out which one wouldn’t automatically assume he’s there to kick their ass or whatever 3) hope that they’re even in the state that their wiki claims they live in and 4) hope that they want to help him.

There’s also the fact that traveling out of state meant possibly making it harder to Tony to find him if he manages to get to Peter.

Did he say ‘if’?

He means when.

When Tony manages to get to Peter.

This last month has been a lot of moving around the city while circling inside of it, praying for Tony to appear out of nowhere, or a chance sighting of that Superman guy with a sign that says “Need Help?”, and stopping crime whenever he sees it. He hasn’t seen even a single scale of the Snake man that brought Peter here in the first place since that first day.

And honestly? He’s tired.

He’s exhausted of constantly moving around from place to place. It used to be so easy for him, like breathing, but after the months he’s been with Tony and hadn’t had to do so? It’s like he’s forgotten how draining it actually is to be so paranoid.

It’s finally time to pick somewhere to settle his ass down and wait. But he can’t afford to risk a spot where anyone could stumble across him. Problem is, as good as he is at hiding, Gotham has a dense population and a lot of them live on the streets like he is currently. Which means that no where is safe. Not even the sewers are safe, nor are the “abandoned” railway stations aren’t actually abandoned. He had ran into people down there a couple times and… Let’s just say that he decided to stay above ground when he heard them talking about the kinds of things they do.

There is, however, one place in Gotham that no one dares go to.

Peter is looking at it right now.

This is where he’s thinking he’s made a mistake.

Gotham has many ghost stories. Wayne Manor is one of them, and Peter thought that he had it all figured out. He was sorely mistaken.

Peter had heard so many rumors about the Wayne family. In fact, the first day he got here, he saw someone had set up a “haunted manor” attraction that was supposedly based off of the Wayne Manor. There were kids outside playing a game of tag where they pretended to be Bruce Wayne, coming outside of his house to “get them” and drag them back to the Manor to “eat them.”

(That’s not how they were in real life, he hopes.)

What was more based in fact was that they used to be so personally involved in Gotham before Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered many years ago. Their family came in on the Mayflower, they’re an old money family that looks at other old money families like they’re new money. The Wayne Enterprise logo is practically slapped onto every building in Gotham, they do so much charity work that it’s like they’re throwing away as much of their riches as they can, but still only getting richer.

But the source of the rumors comes from the untimely deaths of Thomas and Martha, and the fact that no one has seen Bruce Wayne, their son, since he was 20 years old.

He disappeared off the face of the map one day when he was 18 and freshly graduated high school. People thought he was dead in a ditch somewhere in a random part of Europe, but then he came back some 3ish years later to make one appearance when headed back to his home.

Ever since then, Bruce Wayne is a myth. A legend that lives in the creepiest, oldest, and most isolated home in Gotham- no, New Jersey (ugh). Hell, maybe even the United States in general.

No galas, no parties, no interviews, no public appearances, not even a doctor’s visit or a trip to the grocery store. The closest he’ll get to a public appearance is a phone call. It’s been about two decades since Bruce Wayne was seen. At this point, no one would know what he looked like if he did step outside. Maybe he’s been walking among them for years, and their eyes slide right over him.

There’s rumors that he has kids despite his absence, and they all live together in the Manor that no one goes near. He doesn’t know where these rumors started, however.

And Peter tried to find them. He looked it up when he visited the library the other night, and ended up spending two entire nights trying to figure it out, only to find nothing of value.

There was talk of a boy who’s name was never released to the press, not too long after Bruce got back from whatever he was doing after graduation. But no one has his picture and he’s been kept quiet if he really was adopted. There were whispers about where Timothy Drake- a rich kid that lived nearby the Wayne Estate- went after his father died that led to no definitive proof that Bruce adopted him. If he’s still in Gotham, no one’s seen him in a couple of years.

That information he did get was about as ‘real’ as the other stuff Peter saw about Wayne Manor itself. People claim it’s haunted by the Wayne Family’s ghosts, that they’ve seen zombies leave the property before, that all the lights turn red on a night with a full moon. Bruce Wayne is secretly a cannibal, and he only adopted those kids so he could eat them and no one notice. Supposedly, a demon guards the gate.

Well.

Peter decided… Why not go see it?

He hasn’t believed in ghost stories since he was a kid, after all. And if it was anything like chasing stories about a werewolf, or the ridiculous rumors about Batman and Robin, then… What if Wayne Manor has been sitting empty all those years?

Mr. Wayne still owns it, obviously. Selling an estate that large would be a very public affair, Peter thinks. He’d have to sell it to another billionaire, or if he was really so giving, he might have split it up to make more housing for Gotham citizens. But it’s likely that Mr. Wayne isn’t even there anymore.

If he really hasn’t been seen in decades, then maybe he’s actually just chilling on some remote island sipping a margarita (with one of those silly umbrellas) and enjoying the sun, away from the gloom and doom of Gotham. He keeps his land because it’s his family’s land, but he’s basically rid his hands of it all.

…Or what if he’s been dead for a while and no one knew because he was a recluse?

If it was empty, then Peter would have found the one place that everyone would avoid in fear of getting possessed or chased by vampires or eaten by zombies. If it was riddled with any of those things for realsies, then Peter could fight them off.

(…He could fight a ghost. Maybe.

But he knows he could fight a vampire or a zombie. He can feel it in his bones. Any fantasy creatures that popped up out of the woodwork has nothing against Spider-Man. A vampire might have fangs, but Peter has fangs, six limbs, four eyes, and a hell of a lot of spider powers behind him to put it back in a coffin while saying “Nighty Night!” And he’s not allergic to garlic.)

And if he somehow came across Mr. Wayne’s dead body, then Peter could call the cops? Or like… bury him somewhere nice? He’d be bones by now. Probably.

Peter really started to delude himself that he was right.

(Not about the bone thing.)

When he got there, he couldn’t see the Manor, it was so far back. And there was a perpetual fog resting on the many acres of land, persisting even through the ice-cold rain. There was certainly no demon guarding the gate, since Peter scaled the damn wall and nothing happened to him. He passed by the family graveyard and got a little unnerved, but there were no zombies crawling out of the dirt trying to eat his brains.

(He could bury Mr. Wayne there?? Please don’t let there be a dead guy. But if he is then he could bury him as a thanks for using his house??)

He hadn’t been greeted by the existence of anyone or anything on the way up. His determination to get out of the cold and the seeming emptiness of the estate lured Peter into a false sense of security. It wasn’t until he was in the driveway that he got close enough to see the Manor, with the rain and the fog and the darkness.

And he stopped dead in his tracks because…

The lights are on.

A lot of them are on, actually, like anyone who wouldn’t have to care about a light bill would have, if they lived in a place as creepy as this one. He doesn’t see anyone in the windows but some of them are half drawn, or closed all the way and…

Peter feels goosebumps raise on his skin, unrelated to the cold. The windows look like they know secrets. Hundreds of years of secrets, and now that they’ve spotted Peter, they want to know his. They twinkle down so innocently, such a stark contrast to the world around it, that it sets off alarm bells in his head.

And alright, he only stopped because he was a little baffled that he turned out to be wrong. He’d been so confident of his theory, is all. It’s not like he nearly had a heart attack when he saw that the lights were on, and for a brief moment, was so convinced of his theory that no one lived there that he entertained the idea of a ghost house. That didn’t happen.

The baseball cap on his head does very little to keep him dry. The rain trickles down through his hair, slides down his neck, behind his ears and in his eyes. He’s soaked all the way down to his socks. His damn socks. As the totally-not-fear wears off bit by bit and he feels these awful sensation, Peter is able to bring himself back to the situation at hand.

There’s absolutely no way that he can go all the way back down this stupidly long driveway, then all the way back to Gotham, all on foot. He started feeling sluggish hours ago, before he even stepped foot on the Wayne estate. His eyes had started drooping when he was walking up, his exposed fingers closed tightly on his backpack straps.

(Fingerless gloves were… a choice. But he doesn’t have the money to get new ones, and it wasn’t this fucking cold in New York yet. Gotham is hell on Earth, and he’s convinced it’s because it’s New Jersey that he’s so miserable.)

Even his extra hands hidden inside his jacket are starting to feel numb. His toes, too, because his socks and shoes are so disgustingly wet. He can hear the squelching of his shoe as he shifts from foot to foot, trying to keep them somewhat warm.

If he turns around now, Peter is definitely going to slip into hibernation. Lightning flashes overhead like it agrees: You’re fucked, dude.

…He stares at the stupid gargoyle knocker on the front door. In theory, he could go up to the door and knock, hope that someone heard him, and have someone let him in. But holy shit that’s a terrible idea.

This dude is a recluse! He’s hidden from the public for years. He has a locked front gate and a big ass driveway to deter people from going all the way to his house like Peter has done. If Peter knocks on his door like he’s just asking to borrow a cup of sugar, the man would have every right to be suspicious and paranoid of him. Peter would look absolutely insane for this. There’s no world where he can claim that Wayne Manor was the closest help he could find!

But Peter can’t go back. He’ll die.

That’s a bit dramatic. Maybe. He’s never actually gotten so far into hibernation that he died, clearly. But it’s like… implied. By his ‘survival instincts’ that he swears he has. Falling into a state of consciousness where he can’t get himself to safety sounds like he’d get frostbite at some point. And getting frostbite here is a big no-no. A lot of him is spider now, but a lot of him is still human.

The only option, of course, is to do the most insane and creepy thing ever and he can’t believe he’s saying this seriously: Find somewhere to hole up in this man’s house until the rain is gone, he’s not shivering, and high tail it out of there.

Peter hates the idea, but it’s not so bad, right? Sleep in one of the many, many rooms that this mansion castle place has, keep warm and quiet… And in the morning, if he steals a few coats and pants on his way out, it wouldn’t kill the billionaire, right? Peter’s sure he doesn’t check every room before he goes to bed and count every clothing item he owns.

…Oh, god, this is the stupidest and weirdest and most delusional thing Peter has ever considered doing. And he once thought of using a magnet to pull a bullet out of his stomach. Why had he thought coming here was a good idea?

The deep rooted cold tells him exactly why. It echoes further with the pang of his empty stomach. Desperation had dug deep into Peter’s very bones, and was what drove Peter somewhere like this straight-out-of-a-horror-movie hell. He just wanted to feel safe, if just for a night.

Idiot. He won’t feel safe until he’s back with Tony and Pepper and the rest of his family.

Okay. Whatever. What’s worse? Being creepy or dying? Everyone would be so mad if he chose ‘die’ and Peter also doesn’t feel like this is where he wants to end things. He imagined his death would be a little more grandiose and dignified. He used to squat in abandoned buildings with less conflicted feelings.

…Maybe Peter should choose an attic? An attic is the best vantage point for getting in the Peter Parker Way, and maybe during the night he could find an abandoned room to hole up in.

He takes a few steps back to try and see the Manor it it’s entirety. There’s three floors, and the building is very, very wide… but he can maybe see a section of the roof here and there that could be for storage and stuff. He doesn’t know how attics differ in mansions than a regular home, but it ought not to be too big of a difference.

??? getting close hello?

Peter sucks in a sharp breath and backs up even further. His shoe slips on the wet gravel but he catches himself before he can fall back. The hairs on his body tingle as it tries to detect the movement, at the same time he hears the distant click of the front door opening, much to his horror.

Panic swoops in his gut and Peter searches for a place to hide with wide eyes, heart thumping loudly in his chest. (Bruce Wayne is secretly a cannibal and he has vampire friends! His mind reminds him oh so unhelpfully at this very moment.) He eyes the sheer amount of distance between him and the bushes next to the entryway and takes a few hasty steps in that direction.

But it’s too late.

The door swings open with no sense of urgency but in so little time. Peter freezes in place as the light from inside the foyer drapes across the entryway, the steps, and then over him. Like a spotlight of shame, branding him as the creep that tried to stalk his way into a man’s home.

He sees the moment that a man at the door spots him. His terrified gaze drops from the man’s bony, shadowed face, to the long black object in the man’s hand. what’s that? his spider sense hisses. A million thoughts race in his mind as they both try to comprehend what’s going on. And then, they speak at the same time:

“My word,”

“I’m sorry!”

The apology tumbles out of Peter’s mouth without really thinking ahead. The rain dripping in his eyes isn’t helping him see what the man could possibly be holding. But his heart rate picks up as Peter swears that it’s a sword, or a really oddly shaped gun.

Holy shit. Peter’s gonna fucking die.

“I’m sorry, I’m leaving!” Peter turns on his heel. Should he zigzag if that’s a gun? Zigzagging is supposed to be fun!

“Hold on!” The man shouts back, but Peter is most assuredly not fucking doing that, thank you very much. He picks up the pace, in fact, as fast as he can go. Which ultimately is probably a normal human jogging pace, given how freezing he is. It’s like walking through molasses. Peter’s gonna die because of molasses limbs.

The man calls out again for Peter to wait. He looks over his shoulder to see where the man is because he sounded way too close, only for his heart to quit on him right then and there.

Peter falls backwards onto the gravel, hissing in pain as the rocks dig into him. His ballcap falls behind him and Peter doesn’t think to catch it, too busy trying to scramble away. He’s sure that he’s never going to get his heart to start going again as he looks up.

The man who had been at the door only a second ago was now standing above Peter, craning his head to look down.

“Are you quite alright, young sir?”

Huh?

“Huh?”

The man’s brow furrows. Oh.

Peter takes a second for his brain to reboot. The old man isn’t actually a skeleton like Peter first presumed in his panicked state. He’s just… old and bony looking. Like a skeleton. The light from the doorway does cast a faint enough glow on his features that Peter can see he’s…

???

Human?

His spider sense doesn’t know what to think about this man. Peter doesn’t either. He’s wearing a crisp black suit with a black bow tie, a pin on his lapel with a five pointed star. He has very little hair left on his head, but what he does have is whispy and white. His mustache moves when he purses his lips, staring down at Peter with dark colored eyes, almost black. If Peter could get his thoughts back into agreement with real life and not ghost stories, he would likely be more understanding that the man looks concerned.

He’s also holding an umbrella.

And… he’s British?

“Let us get you off of the ground, shall we?” The man holds out his free hand to Peter. The white glove is so pristine that it makes the man appear deathly pale.

He hesitates, gaze traveling up from the extended hand and back to the man’s ever steady expression.

He doesn’t sense… danger. He doesn’t sense much of anything, really. What he feels is confusion on all accounts, but the man is not holding any weapons, and for that reason, Peter takes his hand. When he’s back on his feet, the man takes that gloved hand to pat Peter’s shoulders, giving him a once over.

He tuts like something has disappointed him. “Come now. We need to get you out of this weather. You look almost blue.”

Blue? Peter would have used the words ‘like you shit your pants.’ Maybe the guy was being nice. For why Peter can not possibly understand.

“I’m-”

“None of that, now. I don’t know what you are doing here, young sir, but you are not getting far in this state.” The man keeps the hand on Peter’s shoulder to guide him towards the steps. He’s stronger than he looks- Peter fears, for a moment, that a regular human would not be able to steer Peter anywhere. But this guy looks very very human. Peter tries not to dig his heels in when they get to the top and he’s brought down that feared, mile-long entryway.

The warmth that hits him once he’s at the door is incredible but overwhelming. Peter’s eyes sting harshly and tear up, unprepared for heat. He tries to blink the discomfort away as the man shuts the door behind them, lowering the umbrella. His entire body feels like it’s being stung by pins and needles, and he can’t stop his body from trembling.

He thought the Manor was big on the outside? It looks even bigger on the inside.

He’s in a giant grand foyer, two hallways on either side of him that stretch down, down, down. There’s art hanging on the walls in old frames, there’s detailed woodwork everywhere he looks. The staircases on either side of the grand foyer, leading upwards to a second floor landing, have… Halloween decorations on them.

It’s so unexpected that Peter can’t think of anything to say.

There are fuzzy black spiders clinging to fake cobwebs all over the banisters, cut out paper ghosts on the walls leading up the stairs, and there are orange string lights weaving in and out of the bars on the railing. Peter doesn’t know what to do with the sight of the obviously homemade decorations right next to a chandelier the size of the sun, so he drops his gaze to the floor…

…Where he’s dripping water all over what looks like the world’s most expensive rug, and the cleanest hardwood flooring he’s ever seen.

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs again, more on autopilot than anything. He’s so confused he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s apparently not about to die. And the inside of the Manor is far more… homely than he expected.

The man turns towards Peter. He’s no longer holding the umbrella, but… Peter doesn’t see a holder anywhere. The man hadn’t stepped away for even a moment, but the umbrella is nowhere to be found.

There’s only one trail of water on the ground. It leads to Peter, not the man. There’s not a speck of rain anywhere on the man, but surely there should be some on his shoes, at least?

Peter dares to look up at the man’s face.

“Whatever for?” The man asks him. His expression is not unkind, but not openly welcome, either. Peter blinks at him, caught off guard.

“F-F-For the- the f-floor.” He stammers out with chattering teeth. It’s most definitely only from the cold.

“Nonsense. Floors can be cleaned.” The man says. “I am more worried about you.”

“Mmme?”

The man raises a brow at him. “Is there something odd about not wanting a young child to freeze to death?”

“No,” He shakes his head. But- “I’m not a ‘y-y-young ch-child.’”

“Doubtful.”

“Well yo-you’re like, old. Everyon-one looks you-young to you.”

Peter swears he sees the flicker of a smile on the man’s apathetic face.

“You can tell me what you are doing here and how old you are once we get you into some warm clothes.” The man reasons. He gestures towards the hallway to their left. “Follow me, if you will.”

Peter doesn’t think to argue with him, even if a huge part of his brain is saying that following the nice… butler? Following the nice but strange butler is a bad idea. Hello, isn’t that a horror movie trope? The house is super creepy from the outside, the main character has nowhere else to turn to, but it all is so pleasant on the outside that they think they were just being judgy?

He reminds himself that he’s not a regular human, and therefore should be harder for the supernatural or a potentially cannibalistic billionaire to kill (and try to eat.) He hopes the butler isn’t a vampire.

He follows next to the butler until they reach a laundry room. Peter tried not to gulp at the pitch black night outside, and how isolated they are all the way up here. It’ll be fine.

“I suppose something of Master Damian’s might fit you,” The butler starts looking through a few of the many hampers inside. …How many people live here for there to be that many clothes? Who’s ‘Master’ Damian? “Or perhaps Master Timothy’s would suit better.”

“A-And who are they?” Peter dares to ask. “Wait, Timothy?”

Timothy Drake? The one Peter swore had probably moved out of Gotham when his dad died? That Timothy?

The man doesn’t glance over at Peter, who hangs in the doorway, balanced on his toes and ready to run. “The young masters of the house, Master Bruce’s children.”

Holy shit. Good to know he sucks so bad at investigation.

“Right.” Peter hums. He checks the windows again. Some of them can open, but some of them can’t. He’ll have to keep an eye on which ones do in case he needs a quicker escape.

“Here we are.” The butler pulls out a set of sweatpants, underwear, and a t-shirt all a little too big for Peter. “Master Timothy has more clothing deigned for comfort.”

“Uh huh.” Peter’s not a big fan of wearing someone else’s clothes, but he’s not gonna complain about getting out of his wet and freezing ones.

Then his stomach sinks. His jacket has the sleeve, and it’s far easier to hide his extra limbs. When he thinks about the arms, he tucks them closer to his body, the nerves eating at him. Will the t-shirt and sweatshirt be enough to hide his arms?

The butler also grabs three towels, all of various sizes. He slings two over his shoulder and plops the smallest one on Peter’s head. Peter flinches, but the butler starts drying off his hair. Peter stares at the ground, confused. He pries cold fingers off his backpack strap and reaches up to take over drying his hair.

“There is a room next door where you can change.” The butler guides Peter out of the room, and points towards the door. “Stay put, I will be right back.”

“Um, sir, I-” Peter sets one hand on the doorknob, then nervously turns back to where the man should be.

Should be. Because he’s not there.

Peter blinks at the empty space and sucks in a breath. It’s just him in the hallway, and now Peter knows that shit isn’t natural.

He swallows down his nerves and keeps looking around. Maybe the old guy is just really fast for his age. Maybe Peter is overreacting. That’s all it could be, right?

Then again, his spider-sense hadn’t felt a hint that the man had disappeared. Not until Peter had already noticed. He rubs at the back of his neck and hurries into the room, locking the door behind him. It’s a servant’s room. There are two bunkbeds in the space- not that they don’t look extremely comfortable. It’s just noticeable that they aren’t complete luxury like the rest of the house as seemed so far. Peter thinks the real horror isn’t the creepy butler, but the rich.

He changes as fast as he can, unwilling to be undressed for very long. The door is locked, but this place really freaks him the fuck out. Also, he doesn’t want the old guy to know about his arms.

Peter throws off his wet socks and shoes, not knowing what to do with them except keep them off the rug. Once out of his clothes, he rubs at his second pair of arms, moving them around just to get some better bloodflow. That spider DNA comes in handy for it taking a long time for Peter’s body to start aching, but if he’s gonna be here all night, that means it’s gonna happen sooner or later. No doubt Peter won’t feel comfortable enough to let his arms breathe while he might be sleeping.

(Because that storm isn’t going to let up any time soon. And if the butler was so insistent that Peter get warm and dry, he might insist that Peter stay until the storm is over.)

His mind races with a bunch of excuses he could use while he pulls the t-shirt and then the sweater on. He’s doing a school research paper? He’s a daredevil? He… lost his dog? Maybe he could say that his dad was insistent on coming to visit, but he never came back and Peter got oh-so-worried?

No, absolutely not. The dog thing is the most believable.

He doesn’t have anything to help him double check his arms are hidden, but they feel that way, he thinks? He runs his visible hands down his back and side. If anyone touches it, they’ll feel it, but the bagginess of the clothes is coming in handy. Thanks Timothy Drake, for letting Peter borrow your Wendy the Werewolf sweatshirt. He’ll try to return it.

hello!

A rap at the door. Peter reaches for his ballcap-

Agh, shit. He should have noticed that sooner. He dropped it outside when he fell. It’s good thing his hair is still so long and thick. It’s not down to his shoulders anymore, but his bangs cover the second pair of eyes very well. And when they’re closed, it’s sort of hard to notice at first glance unless they’re very exposed.

He opens the door with a thin smile, acting totally natural and cool and calm. The butler looks down at him, and nods in approval. “Wonderful, they fit as I expected.” He then lifts up his hand to show Peter a pair of- surprisingly- Superman slippers. In the other hand, a pair of Martian Manhunter socks.

“Those don’t really go with your outfit.” Peter advises sagely.

The butler stares at him. “I am glad the cold has not dulled your sense of humor.”

“I’d have to be frozen in a glacier for that to happen.” Though that might not be the case. Steve Rogers can crack enough sarcastic jokes to keep up with Peter, a teenager from another century.

He takes the socks and slippers when handed them, putting them on. He notices the butler’s gaze to his own socks and shoes along with his wet clothes and backpack, and he says, “I didn’t know where to put them…”

“Leave them here. I shall make sure everything is washed and dried for you.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but Peter’s of the opinion that it feels wrong having someone do what should be his chores for him, in a house that doesn’t belong to him.

As soon as he sets his feet down, the man clears his throat.

“Come along now, I prepared the den.”

“What’s a den?” Peter’s mind briefly flashes with the thought of a bazillion wolves chomping at the bits to eat him. And then bears. Wolves and bears and cannibals, oh my.

“A secondary living room. It has a fireplace and you could use one of them right about now.” The butler says dryly. Peter resists the urge to put his head in his hands out of embarrassment, because how the hell was Peter supposed to know what old or rich or British people call their living rooms? Nay, a secondary living room?

It’s a long way up to the stupid den, Peter figures out. Not even Tony has a house this big- and the penthouse is bigger than any house or apartment Peter had ever lived in his entire life. As they walk, with the butler offering literally zero conversation to ease the silence or Peter’s growing tension, he looks around the home. He finds more signs that… ease some of the nervousness he had about them being secretly cannibals.

There were a lot of home pictures. Sure, Peter passed portraits far older than him of Mr. Wayne’s relatives, but mostly he was seeing new pictures. There were pictures of… kids. Teenagers, a lot of them. They were at the park, ice cream shops, school events, vacations. There were photos of dogs, a cat, a… cow? They looked like exceedingly normal people.

Peter comes to a stop in front of one picture. There’s a man that must be Mr. Wayne, arm slung around the shoulder of another man from many of the pictures on the wall. He has shaggy dark hair, blue eyes, and something about him looks…

Familiar.

But that can’t be. He’s in an alternate dimension, there’s not a lot of familiar faces around here. Maybe it’s the smile? He looks like someone that would be on a billboard.

“What did you say your name was?”

Peter startles. The butler had stopped at a door a few paces down. Peter hurries to catch up to him, embarrassed to be caught staring at their family photos- the butler himself had been in quite a few.

“I- I didn’t, sir.” Peter states. The butler continues to stare. “Peter. My name’s Peter.”

“Peter.” The butler repeats like the name should remind him of someone. There’s a beat of silence where Peter worries he’s about to press for a last name, but he doesn’t. “My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Mister Peter.”

“…Nice to meet you, Mr. Pennyworth?” Peter cringes. How is this a nice way to meet someone?

“Just Alfred, Mister Peter.”

“Then I’m just Peter, Mister Alfred.” Peter replies. It feels weird for anyone to call him ‘mister.’ He’s fourteen, not forty. And his Aunt May taught him to be respectful to old people. She might smite him from the afterlife if he wasn’t polite.

“Just Alfred.”

“Just Mister Alfred. Got it.”

Alfred’s mustache twitches. Peter takes that as a sign of a smile. Nonetheless, he opens the door with a short huff.

The ‘den’ is… not what Peter was expecting. Multiple giant couches, all centered in a U shape around a fireplace on one wall. There’s a wall of windows that show the pitch dark outside and the rain dripping down the pane, and opposite that wall are bookshelves, a door, and tables of decorations like it’s one of those ‘dark academia’ Pinterest boards. The carpet muffles Alfred and Peter’s footsteps and all he can think about is how much May would have killed to have one of them, as big and opulent as it is.

That, he had been expecting. It was the very lived in feel that he was not.

It’s definitely like he had stepped into someone’s living space. There are blankets everywhere that do not match the decor at all, scattered notebooks, coloring books, someone’s Nintendo Switch on the table. It’s not messy, per say. Peter gets the idea that Alfred would never let it be. But it’s not meticulous in a way that makes someone think that no one occupies this room on a daily basis.

How much worse can Peter feel about this? He was going to break into their home. Ben and May would be so mad at him for this, he just knows it.

The fire is going, like Alfred mentioned. Peter stands awkwardly in the doorway until Alfred gestures for him to sit down on one of the couches. Even then, he sits perched on the edge, and Alfred shoots him a look.

“Mister Peter, I have been around a long enough time to know when a young man is hiding something.”

Peter’s gonna die. Not even because Alfred might be a cannibal vampire ghost guy, but because he might be disappointed in him. What has the world come to, that Peter Parker crumbles when someone is disappointed in him? They’re usually disappointed! This isn’t new!

“I bet you are old enough.” Peter retorts, but his voice cracks. Alfred grabs one of the many blankets and wraps it around Peter in one big flourish.

“What brought you all the way up to the Manor on a night like this?” Alfred is buying none of Peter’s brilliant deflection.

He shrinks back a little bit, grimacing and wondering if someone can drop dead from embarrassment. “I…”

There’s no way that Peter can say the truth, not without sounding so super awful and terrible and idiotic. “I didn’t believe you were real” doesn’t sound like something a sane person would say. Peter’s not wanting to get booked into that Arkham place any time soon, and they’ll surely call if they figure him out in any capacity.

“I…” He can’t look Alfred in the eye. “My friends dared me?”

Okay.

Not the worst lie Peter has had to come up with on the spot. He and Ned have done dares before… but that was stuff like watching rated-R movies at sleepovers when they aren’t supposed to. Not… this.

“You need new friends.” Alfred replies. Peter gives a hollow laugh. “What was the dare, to get yourself killed?”

Peter thinks about that long possible sword maybe gun that Alfred had, and shakes his head to rid that memory fast. “To knock on your door.”

Alfred is apparently unsatisfied with Peter only having one blanket. He picks up another and tucks it again, this time on Peter’s lap. He feels like he’s being cocooned. Which would be fine and dandy any other time, but is hard right now since the spider in him (and maybe the human, too) wants to curl into the warmth and knock out for a good few days. Makes it harder to lie.

“Your friends dared you to knock on the door of Wayne Manor in the middle of a storm on a school night, of all nights, and didn’t come with you?” Alfred… Is not buying it, is he?

Too bad, so sad. Peter is dying on this hill. It’s this or Arkham. Or regular prison. Or meta prison, since he’s… like this.

“We were having a sleepover, and I’m like, real good at dares.” Peter tries to keep the waver out of his voice. He can tell a joke like nobody’s business, but it’s a miracle he’s kept his identity as Spider-Man and, uh, his identity as a spider man, a secret for so long. “So they knew they had to come up with something hard. And what’s harder than the haunted ghost Manor?”

Peter pauses. “I mean. Your house is very nice and not haunted at all.”

“I shall ask again why they did not come with you.” Alfred doesn’t ask at all.

“Hah, well, uh-” Parker, what do guys say about friends? Peter’s only ever had Ned. “They were too chicken sh- I mean-” Peter stops mid curse because Alfred raised his brows. “Too cowardly-” The correction was the right call. “-to come up here with me. They got scared at the gate.”

“And what a brilliant young man you are for continuing. Especially in this weather. No better time for ding-dong-ditching.”

“You get it.” Peter’s smile wobbles. Why does lying make his tummy hurt? Not fair.

Alfred stares at him for a long beat of silence. Peter almost takes it back right then and there, but thankfully, Alfred buys into it. “Which parent?”

Peter blinks at him. “Um?”

“Pick a parent to call.” Alfred’s words make Peter freeze in horror.

He forgot about parents.

“I can walk back, actually-”

“Mister Peter, might I remind you that you are a child-”

“I’m 14, that’s practically an adult-”

“-So, a child.” Alfred reiterates, much to Peter’s frustration. “Who was left unsupervised long enough under another parent or parents’ care during a sleepover-” Oh shit. “-for you and multiple other children to sneak out all the way to Bristol. Unless you live in the neighboring houses?”

Peter shakes his head when Alfred pins him with a look. No way he can play off being a rich kid.

“On a school night, no less.” Alfred might actually sound annoyed. Peter feels dread wash over him. “In a storm. You could have very well perished had I not gone outside to turn off the lamp when I did.”

“…Turn off the lamp?” Is all Peter catches on. Alfred stares at him.

“Yes. I was turning out the light.”

“…Why’d you have that… Um…” It’s starting to sound like Peter is more of an idiot than he thought he was.

“The lamplighter?” Alfred asks when Peter doesn’t supply anything.

“A what?”

“It reaches up to turn out the flames in the lamps.” Alfred tells him. “Mister Peter, what did you think I had?”

“…A gun?” Peter goes for the less stupid option. He hadn’t known if it was a gun or a sword.

Alfred takes a deep breath. “That explains a lot. I am sorry for scaring you.”

“Nah that was definitely my fault.” Peter can relax a little knowing Alfred wasn’t gonna shoot him.

“So,” Alfred guides back on track. “Which parent?”

Peter should have gone with the missing dog excuse.

He chews the inside of his cheek with worry. What does he say? It’s not like Alfred can contact Tony from the other side of a universal wall. If he called, all that he’d get was-

Oh!

Peter takes it back. He’s a genius of epic proportions.

He called Tony when he first got to this universe, but that number had led to a disconnected line. What was once the worst feeling ever in Peter’s life was no going to save his ass so hard.

“My foster dad, Tony.” Peter tries to continue looking pathetic and sad, rather than relieved at his stroke of brilliance for once in his life. It must work, because something in Alfred’s demeanor softens.

“I will call him while I make you some warm soup.” Alfred says. Peter almost protests being fed as well as given so many clothes, but shuts up when Alfred shoots him a pointed look. “Stay put right here and stay under the blankets. You are still shivering. Do not leave this room, understand?”

“Y-Yes sir.” Peter stammers. He can’t believe this might work. He gives Alfred the number, and watches the man go… When he’s left alone, Peter slumps back on the couch with a huge sigh of relief.

That could have gone much worse. The phone call will keep Alfred stalled until the morning, at least. It shouldn’t take but a few hours for a storm like this to pass. They’ll go to bed once it becomes clear that Tony won’t be picking up anytime soon (sorry to his reputation, but Peter needs this), and maybe his clothes will be dry by morning, since Alfred said he was going to wash them. He’ll switch out his clothes, steal whatever looks like they won’t miss for warmer jackets, and get the hell out of dodge as soon as the storm has passed and before the sun is truly out.

He stares at the ornate ceiling above him. The light from the hearth flickers, casting long shadows across the room as the only light source. Despite the fact that the dark should make him feel like getting the hell out of there, it’s… not so bad. He settles into the warmth around him, the quiet chattering of the firewood and patter of the rain making him sigh.

He doesn’t want to feel too comfortable here, wrapped in cozy blankets and protected from the storm, with the promise of not going hungry. He’ll miss it once he’s back out on the streets tomorrow morning. It’ll suck having to deal with the withdrawal of a comfortable bed all over again. Unless he’s gonna be back in that phase where he’s used to sleeping on floors, and a comfy bed or couch might be too much for him… Then he wouldn’t have to worry, he supposes.

He doubts that’s the case. His eyelids have started to droop already despite his best effort to remain alert. No doubt the couch’s fault.

Peter gets lost in thought as the time ticks by ever slowly. His life is so insane… How he wishes for it to be more mundane. What he wouldn’t give to have actually just been ding dong ditching, or lost his dog. It would beat out his current situation by a mile, that’s for sure. A more normal life… It would hopefully include Ben and May, maybe even his parents. He’d want to have a dog. But he wouldn’t mind if Tony and Pepper were there too…

At one point, he gets a little too warm, and he takes off the second blanket, leaving the one on his lap untouched. Just as he does so, the back of his neck tingles and he jolts upright, awake in seconds.

coming closer- hello!

The biggest dude Peter has ever seen in his life walks into the den, eyes practically closed but navigating around the furniture like second nature. He’s wearing a lot of layers of warm clothes that make him take up even more space. His black hair is wild and messy like he’d lost a fight with a pillow, and there’s a stark white streak in the middle of his bangs. He has a jagged scar through his eyebrow like something had gotten caught in it. Another scar on his cheek that’s cleaner, like it had been sliced with a sharp blade.

Peter freezes, not knowing whether it’s smarter to announce his presence or pretend he’s not there at all. He tracks the stranger, the scars standing out to him. It’s not… unusual for Gothamites to have scarring, but something about this guy feels like the stories he’d tell aren’t a Gothamite usual.

The stranger yawns loudly, not even sparing a glance towards Peter as he makes his way to the couch opposite him. Peter almost thinks he’s gone completely unnoticed, until he hears a tired, “How’d you get up here so fast, Tim?”

The dude flops down onto the couch face first, then rolls over onto his back with an exhausted groan, kicking his feet up. Peter spots a pair of Wonder Woman and Hello Kitty themed slippers.

That… does not match the image Peter had of this guy.

Maybe he’s not so scary? What murderer wears Wonder Woman and Hello Kitty merch?

“Um, hello?”

The stranger grunts in reply. Peter’s astonished, because, well, it’s midnight. Unless it’s common practice for the Wayne family to be up so freaking late- Alfred is up and dressed for work, this guy is… semi awake, and he made no sign that it’s weird for this Tim guy to be up- Peter can’t imagine why he’s here at all.

It’s his house, Peter reminds himself. He can be wherever he wants. Peter is the weird one for almost breaking and entering.

There’s a beat of silence. Peter waits and waits for anything else, wondering if the slow rise and fall of the man’s breathing meant that he had fallen asleep so fast. But then Peter hears the uptick of his heartbeat.

And then he sits up, oh so slowly. He pries his eyes open and Peter falls very still under his gaze- wide (and now alert) eyes, something almost haunted flashing across his expression. The man is looking at him like he’s seen a ghost.

“…Hi.” The man slings his feet back to the floor to face Peter properly. His expression shuts down from the brief fear, and trickles into… suspicion. “Are you a hallucination?”

Peter blinks. “I… don’t think so?”

“You don’t think so?”

“How would I know?” Peter is probably not helping this guy with any reality issues he might be having. But Peter’s in an alternate one, so he’s got way more ‘reality issues.’

The man is squinting at him- No. Glaring, almost. His gaze is searching Peter’s face like it’s a puzzle he just got. “You’re real.”

“How can you tell?”

The stranger picks up a throw pillow and promptly throws it at Peter. He catches it before it hits his face, so startled that he doesn’t know what to do with it. He puts it in his lap, fingers fumbling with one of the tassels.

The man grunts. “That’s how.”

“How often are you having hallucinations that you knew to do that?” Peter tilts his head. The man ignores him.

“Who the hell are you, kid?”

“You thought I was Tim.”

“I saw the sweatshirt and the dumb look on your face.” The dude huffs.

“I’m Peter.” He decides to show mercy just this once.

His brows knit together. “Hey, Peter.” He might be feigning nonchalance, since Peter can still hear his heartbeat is faster than usual. “What are you doing on our couch?”

“Ding dong ditching.” He hopes it doesn’t start sounding more stupid the more he says it. Because that would be awful. The stranger squints at glances at the window. To nip that in the bud before it starts, he asks, “What’s your name?”

“Jason.” He grunts, still scowling at Peter. “You know, you look familiar.”

“I doubt it.” Peter can’t imagine that this guy would have seen his face before. Mostly because Peter doesn’t exist here, the most obvious reason. But also because Peter would remember meeting a dude who’s 6’4” and looks like he wrestles alligators for fun or something equally as dangerous. No way he’d pass this guy on the street and be unaware.

hello friend!

“Nah, you really do-”

The door bangs open and Peter winces. “Jason! Tell Steph that I would taste awesome if I got cooked in a stew.” Another unfamiliar voice calls out. Jason waves him off with annoyance.

“Not now, nerd, I’m thinking. Keep your weird conversations out of my headspace.”

“You? Thinking?” A girl snorts, pushing past the boy in the doorway so she can rush into the room, jumping on top of Jason. She falls back between him and the back of the couch, stretching out comfortably and pushing blonde hair out of her face. “Danger-”

“You go to Gotham Academy or something?” Jason squints at Peter, still unsure.

“No.” Peter shakes his head.

The girl startles, but the boy in the door was fully aware that Peter was there. He’s pale, but like, naturally pale, not because he’s startled. He is startled, but Peter just doesn’t think he’s startled enough to be pale. His dark hair is pulled out of his face by a headband and he’s bundled up in warm clothes like Jason and the girl are. His eyes are almost grey, they’re so bright blue. For a moment, though he and Jason don’t look that much alike, he has the same expression that Jason did a moment ago: like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Where do you go to school? I swear I’ve seen your face before.” Jason insists.

“What are you doing at a school?” Peter fires back. He does not know the name of any other schools in Gotham.

“I tutor there sometimes while I’m getting my Master’s.” Jason explains impatiently.

“Hello strange child on our couch?” The girl sits up, facing Peter. She doesn’t look as surprised as the other two, but more… wondrous. She’s got a twinkle in her blue eyes when she observes Peter, and she sounds amused more than anything. “How did you get here?”

“Door.” Peter answers vaguely.

“Did you let yourself in?” The boy asks.

“No, Mister Just Alfred did.”

Jason snorts at that. Peter is relieved that he can do that, because when he’s so serious, he’s kind of scary. “He must have really met Alfie then. But, kid, mind explaining a little more?”

“I already told you. Ding dong ditching. Alfred let me in.”

“I mean, I guess that’s a story you can make conclusions with. Good enough.” The girl points out helpfully. Peter perks up in response, grinning at her. She smiles back, standing up and crossing the area to sit down next to Peter. “Aw, you’re so cute! Can we keep him?”

She slings an arm around Peter’s shoulder, squishing his face with her other hand. Peter tenses up, but when he realizes she’s not going to hurt him, he relaxes a smidge. Only a smidge. She makes a pleading face to Jason and the boy, who both glance at each other like they know something.

“…Sure, why not?”

“That’s how we got Damian.” Jason shrugs and relaxes back on the couch.

“Um-” Peter tries to cut in, because he feels like he’s missing important context.

“You’re so cold, kiddo!” Steph presses the back of her hand to Peter’s cheek and tuts with displeasure. She brings back that second blanket Peter had ditched to wrap him in. Normally, Peter would be a little annoyed with a stranger being so close. But the combination of the night’s events and now their nonchalance has confused him, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to be thinking anymore.

“What’re we calling him?” The boy asks Jason as he sits down next to the man on the couch. Peter shakes out of his confusion in order to glare in his direction. They’re making it sound like he’s a stray dog they picked up.

“My name is Peter.” He tries not to sound too annoyed, because he did almost try to break into their home. But they don’t know that, and he doesn’t take kindly to sounding like a pet that a rich kid wants to play with.

The boy’s lips split into a lopsided grin. A shiver runs down Peter’s spine. They’re a little too unfazed by Peter’s presence in their house. He needs to get the hell out of here before he ends up dead like some idiot in a horror movie.

“Sorry, Peter, I thought you were busy with Steph.” The boy slaps Jason on the arm without looking at him, though how he knew that Jason rolled his eyes is beyond Peter. “I should have asked you directly.”

“Uh huh.” He doesn’t believe that excuse for a second.

“Peter, you do look really familiar.” The girl, Steph, he presumes, has leaned back to look at him more properly. She goes to brush some of Peter’s hair out of his face, but Peter leans away from her touch quickly.

His hair, though still damp, is the only thing keeping those second pair of eyes properly hidden. They’re closed, but they bulge out a little and would be noticeable. Steph retracts her hand, not even commenting on Peter’s aversion to her touch. She just smiles at him.

“Maybe you just have one of those faces.” She comments.

“Yeah, maybe.” The boy comments under his breath, but Peter hears it well.

“What’s your name?” Peter asks him. This one makes him feel uneasy more than the other two. Where Jason was vaguely scary because of his unexpected appearance, and Steph is unnerving in her nonchalance, this guy looks at Peter like Peter is the most interesting thing he’s seen in a while.

“Tim Drake-Wayne.” Tim promptly stands up from the couch and reaches a hand out to shake Peter’s. “You’re wearing my clothes, for some reason.”

So this is Tim Drake. He must have been adopted after all. Peter needs to reassess his stance on Gotham rumors. At this rate, he’s going to find out that the man did see a werewolf, and Batman and Robin aren’t only figures of the night.

what’s it? know it

“Alfred’s drying mine.” Peter glances down.

The air around Tim’s hand is… warbled, like… like a heat is radiating off of it.

He feels his stomach drop and he looks up at Tim, who is smiling amicably as though nothing is off. It hits Peter now more than ever that he should have left the moment Alfred left him alone, no matter if he had his clothes or not. No, he should have never come to Wayne Manor in the first place. He should have taken his chance with the not-really-abandoned subways.

I’ve made a mistake.

Magic is a difficult subject for Peter. It’s not like he’s magic, and therefore sensing it because he uses it. (If that were the case, Peter would have gladly used magic to get his original body back, powers or no.) Magic is energy like any other matter of the world, except it one that only certain people can hone and use. That means that Peter can pick up on this energy and often times, Peter sees it before he can feel it.

He can’t ever do anything with it, but he knows it’s there. When he met Wanda, he hadn’t been able to see her face unless it was in a picture. She was so ingrained with magic that the “heat wave” made it impossible to see her.

Tim’s got an enchantment on the hand that he wants Peter to shake. It hadn’t been there a moment ago.

All the hairs on his arm raise- goosebumps that travel down his body. Peter tries not to visibly shrink back or bolt upright out of his seat and make a break for the window. He might not get very far with everyone so close in this room.

There’s no prickle of danger in the undercurrent of his spider-sense, but nonetheless, how else is he supposed to react to finding out that this Tim guy has magic? And is apparently trying to use it on him? What could he possibly be trying to do to Peter with a spell? Read his mind? Make him spill all his secrets? Kill him? Force a contract or something?

He sees Jason’s eyes fall on the back of Tim’s head and down at his hand. He knows too, that Tim is trying something. He’s aware that Tim has magic.

Do all of the Waynes have it? It explains Alfred’s… everything. It explains why they wouldn’t be more alarmed by Peter showing up out of the blue. What would they have to fear of a ‘regular’ human kid?

Oh, shit, is this like a Hansel and Gretel situation? Those are the kids that left the crumbs and almost got eaten by a witch, right? Peter didn’t leave any fucking crumbs, but he’s totally about to get eaten by a witch.

Thankfully, Peter is saved from the handshake before he can figure out what to do about it.

“Master Timothy.” The scolding tone makes Steph wince.

Tim startles and draws his hand back, spinning to face Alfred, Peter’s savior. Very much like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Tim plasters an innocent grin, hands behind his back. Alfred raises a brow and glances at the arm. The air around Tim’s hand changes back to normal, and Tim clears his throat.

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Do behave yourself.” Alfred remarks, walking into the room. Tim makes a break for the couch to sit almost behind Jason like Jason will shield him from getting fussed at, grin turning sheepish.

“I’m always behaved, Alfie.” Tim insists. Peter highly doubts it.

“Are any of you three hungry?” Alfred carries over a silver tray with one of those silver bowl thingies on top. (Peter doesn’t know the name, nor does he care to remember it. All he knows is it has food underneath it, and he’s so, so hungry.)

“Nah, not right now.” Jason sighs, elbowing Tim to get out from behind him. Steph makes a noise and shakes her head.

“All good, Alfie… Say,” He sits up, back to before he got scolded.

Peter eyes the exits in the room. If he wants to get to the door to the den, and eventually to the front door, then he’d have to run between Steph and Alfred. He’d also have to worry about running into people outside the den, too. Peter doesn’t know how many damn people are in this house. And the walls are so thick, that it’s hard to keep an ear out.

Alfred sets the tray down on the table and uncovers it. A glorious smelling soup is set in front of Peter (is that chicken and potatos?), and his mouth waters. For a moment, he forgets about running away before Tim can enact whatever evil plan he has. Apparently, Alfred is on his side and he runs the place. He’s probably safe?

“-have you seen Dick and Bruce since we got home, by chance?”

That’s not what Peter expected to be asked. He was sure Tim would press the matter about how Peter got here.

“I just so happened to see them pass by the kitchen, Master Tim, but I was rather busy, so I had not asked where they were off to.” Alfred turns to Peter and says, “The soup is rather hot, still, so do be careful, Mister Peter.”

“Thanks Mister Just Alfred.”

“Just Alfred, Mister Peter.” Alfred reminds him once again. It is futile, but Peter appreciates the effort.

“I think they’d just love to meet Peter.” Tim is smiling like he’s got something all figured out. Peter feels his stomach drop. He mentioned Mr. Wayne, didn’t he?

Cannibals… He eyes his soup warily. He can trust Alfred, right? He fussed at Tim for the magic, and he’s been nice. And really unnerving, but nice. Jason snorts and Peter shoots him a questioning look. The man’s grin ticks upward, a little teasing, drawing far too much amusement for Peter’s liking. He puts his hands behind his head, humming softly.

“You heard a rumor?” He guesses, looking at the soup.

Peter narrows his eyes. Cautiously, he replies, “I hear a lot of rumors.”

What the hell is with these weirdos? Are they aware of how Gotham as a whole views the Manor and Bruce Wayne? How many kids knock on their door at night for a dare? How many times do they hear people whisper about their family- no, not even their family. They’re so isolated from the world that no one knows they live up here, besides Bruce himself. Tim wasn’t confirmed, and neither was that Mystery Kid from a while ago.

Whatever. It’s not like Peter should be caring so much. He’s leaving as soon as he gets the chance. He’ll just have to avoid Tim and his magic… He’ll have to avoid everyone and their potential magic. Peter, admittedly, doesn’t know jack shit about witches. He met Wanda, but he didn’t interrogate her about her powers. (Looking at her face with the magic all over it would make him queasy.)

The only person here that Peter feels semi-comfortable with is Alfred. And that dude might secretly be the Flash.

Ha, that would be hilarious. Peter would finally meet a superhero from this world, but he’d ultimately decide to find someone else because said superhero is surrounded by the weirdest people Peter has ever met.

At the very least, Peter doesn’t think Alfred would Hannibal Lector him. The soup smells like chicken, and the potatoes are very much potatoes, so he decides to take a sip. If he turns out to be wrong about this he’s gonna leave and steal these clothes. Wait, hadn’t Tim said something about human stew earlier?

Too late, he’s already eating.

And wow even if it is human, Peter’s gonna eat it. Kidding.

But it’s delicious, more so than Peter’s ever had before. His mind nags at him about Hansel and Gretel again, and how happy they were to be fed, but he ignores the thought because who cares what those idiots got up to?

Steph chuckles softly and says, “Alfie is the best cook. He’s got hundreds of years of experience.”

Jason snickers, and Tim snorts. Alfred clears his throat and all three of them look anywhere but at the butler, acting innocent. Peter pretends the soup is so good that he doesn’t notice the comment.

“Mister Peter,” Alfred addresses him directly. “The most peculiar issue appeared when I attempted to contact your foster father.”

“Uh, yeah? What happened?” Peter feels so guilty he might die on the spot. Not guilty enough to stop eating, however. Steph leans her elbow on her knee, her chin on her palm, and watches Peter closely. That’s not weird at all. Nor is it weird that Peter sees her teeth are… sharper than a regular human’s. Particularly around the canines.

“Foster,” Tim is whispering to Jason. Jason kicks his knee and Tim punches him on the shoulder.

“The line says that it is not in service.” Alfred explains, ignoring the two behind him.

“That is peculiar.” Peter begs for forgiveness from whatever God can give it for lying to an old man who’s been so unsettling but so kind. “Maybe it’s the storm. He always picks up.”

Technically true. Tony does always pick up for Peter.

“Indeed, it must be the storm.” Alfred muses with the air of a man that knows Peter is lying. Peter almost chokes on a potato and Steph pats his back, her grin turning wicked.

He sees Tim whisper to Jason again, but- There it is again. That energy blocking them from view, like a wall has been put up between them. Peter really chokes on a potato this time and Steph hits his back with more vigor, smile dropping. “Dude, do you know how to eat?”

“I’m sure he is fine, Miss Brown.” Alfred says. “He’s not so young that he doesn’t know how to eat a soup.”

“Do you need me to cut up the potatoes more?” Steph tries. Peter shakes his head vigorously.

“I’m fine,” He insists. “Mister Just Alfred is right, I know how to eat.”

“You choked on soup.” Steph points out, mildly worried. Yeah… Peter earned that.

He vaguely sees Jason nod at something Tim is saying. The wall is gone after that, and Tim stands up. Peter pointedly keeps his gaze on the soup, but he’s well aware that Tim sneaks out of the room.

“I would continue trying to contact him, but if it truly is the storm, then doing so will be near impossible until at least tomorrow morning, I presume.” Alfred presses on, either unaware or all aware and not doing anything.

What were those two saying? Is Peter about to be kidnapped?

“Bummer.” He winces at a voice crack. “But I can walk back-”

“Nonsense, I shall set up a guest bedroom at once.” Alfred states with zero room for argument. Dread pools his stomach. He can’t believe this, but he’d rather Alfred have been unkind towards him. Firstly to keep Peter from ever having come in, but also because then he wouldn’t feel socially pressured to stay where he’s obviously about to be attacked. “The storm is far too rough even if we were to drive you home. We shall attempt to call again in the morning, and if we do not get through, then I shall drive you. Hopefully, the roads will be clear.”

Peter nods, not trusting his voice anymore because it’s a traitorous thing and will embarrass him further. There’s a reason he’s didn’t take up theater even though Pepper encouraged him to try it out. Though that was about the fact that costuming would be awkward with his mutation if he was an actor, and the thought of being a tech or whatever they’re called sounds like a lot of work for someone always busy superheroing.

But anyways. Put him in a situation where a tiny little lie will make a funny joke? Sure, no problem. But when said lie is gonna have a bigger impact? He might as well be down for the opposite of an acting award.

Alfred pulls out a watch from his coat pocket and tuts his tongue. He places it back inside the pocket, musing, “I shall set up the room now. When you finish eating, leave the bowl, and if you are still hungry, I can make more for you.”

Peter feels his face grow warm. Is it easy to tell how hungry he was? “That’s not necessary, I don’t want to keep you up.”

“Alfie’ll be fine.” Jason assures him, amused for some reason. He gets up from the couch and pats Alfred on the back. “I think I’m gonna pass out too, old man. See you in the morning.”

“Indeed. Goodnight, Master Jason.” Alfred nods as Jason makes his way out of the room. But not before Peter feels another tingle of his spider sense. When Jason opens the door, a head peeks around the corner, forcing Jason to stop and stare down at the newcomer.

The boy is about Peter’s age, nose wrinkled with disgust. He eyes Peter sitting on the couch like Peter is a stain that needs to be cleaned. Peter doesn’t care about that (he does, a little bit), because what’s more noticeable than the boy’s nasty expression are the bandages on his cheek and forehead. There are more tiny scratches all over his face.

“Did you lose a fight with a thorn bush?” Peter asks, minorly worried. Steph bursts out into laughter.

The boy bristles, shoving Jason aside to storm into the room. “I heard there was an intruder in the home, but I didn’t believe he could stupider.”

Peter had taken that moment to take another bite of soup, so he just jabs his spoon in the boy’s direction. Jason rolls his eyes and leaves, but Steph leans back to watch the show. Technically, the boy is not wrong. The idea that he knows something is up with Peter’s story before he even met Peter has him eyeing the exits again… Just in case. Did Tim tell him? Is that what he went to do?

“Master Damian.” Alfred sets a hand on Damian’s shoulder, grip a little tight. “That is not how we greet guests.”

Damian huffs indignantly, crossing his arms. “He is not a guest. He does not belong here, nor was he invited. He should have been kicked out the moment we saw him.”

“I invited him in.” Alfred’s voice is firm. Damian only prickles more.

“You know what I meant.” He retorts sharply.

Um, hello? Peter doesn’t know what he means, if that wasn’t the case? What kind of cryptic ass statement is that?

“Looks like someone needs a refresh on the gate…” Steph mumbles, twiddling her thumbs. The gate? Like the gate that Peter hopped over? Was it a little too crazy to think that a regular kid could hop that wall? Peter often forgets what humans can and can’t do…

Damian whips around at her, face growing red. He points at her, seething, “I told you not to talk to me.”

“Kid, did I talk to him?” Steph asks Peter.

“No, I suppose not.” Peter knows how to play along. The guy came in all hostile, and Peter needs more people on his side. Tim is winning, since he has Jason and apparently Damian as well. If he gets Steph, then he has Steph and Alfred.

“There we have it.” Steph shrugs.

“He has no sway in this conversation, he is an outsider!” Damian protests. Peter sits up, feeling a chill down his spine. Two people are walking down the hallway towards them. He can tell better since the door is open now.

“Whoa, Dami, chill, kiddo.” Another new person says as the swing around the corner. The man laughs jovially, walking into the room towards Damian. Peter expects Damian to shove the man away, but Damian accepts it when the newcomer slings an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair. “I heard about it from Tim. Sounds like it wasn’t a big deal.”

Damian bites his tongue, but he doesn’t let it go, either. He side eyes Peter, unhappy with the outcome. If only he knew how much Peter also wants to get up out of here.

It’s the man from the picture Peter stopped to look at. He’s taller than the photo, his hair more wet like he just got out of the shower. Blue eyes look over at Peter, a smile that Peter thinks he’s seen before, somewhere, but he doesn’t recall when. He’s just as bundled up and cozy as the rest of the family has been.

He looks normal.

He’s not.

Peter knows what a healthy heart sounds like. Steph’s is a little faster than a normal human’s resting pace, but not a cause for alarm. Damian’s is fine, even Alfred. Jason hadn’t sounded off, neither had Tim’s.

This man’s heart is so slow, it might as well not be beating.

It’s there. The slow da dump, da dump, da dump. But it’s so quiet, so feeble, that Peter can’t compute that it’s connected to the man in front of him, who looks… So alive.

It must show this time, that Peter is afraid. Because the man’s smile drops ever so, and Steph isn’t laughing anymore.

Peter has made a mistake.

And that man should not be alive right now.

Something is not right with the Wayne family.

“Peter, right?” The man stretches out his hand, still as amiable as before he noticed Peter’s reaction, but softer. “I’m Dick. It’s nice to meet you.”

Peter's hand shakes as he actually accepts the hand this time. He tries not to let it show that he can feel how cold the man's hand is, or the way his canines stick out a particular bit like Peter's do. Like he has fangs.

"Nice to meet you too."