Chapter Text
Mistakes were made.
And by that, Peter means that he never should have crashed on the sofa, because apparently even high end fancy schmancy hotel couches are still couches, and therefore, they are the devil. He’s barely managed to sleep an hour and his back is radiating pain like it picked a fight with a baseball bat… and then a whole baseball stadium… and went for a secondary round… maybe even a third— anyway, point is, his back hurts.
Kneeling on the floor is definitely not helping though, but, alas, these tiles aren’t going to clean themselves, and he can’t exactly call the hotel to get help, considering the floors are absolutely coated in blood (actually, most of the kitchen is, counters and walls included, and even a little of the ceiling), so here he is, kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing his own blood out of the granite at almost four in the morning, with his head throbbing and his back aching.
Lightning cracks across the sky, and Peter all but jumps.
“Calm down Parker… it’s just nature…” He sits back on his hunches and glares at the floor. Whoever decided to use porous grout in a kitchen is not just stupid, they’re straight up sadistic. Peter has been scrubbing for FORTY FIVE MINUTES! HOW IS IT STILL RED. And it was at this moment, when Peter was about to go defenestrate himself in frustration, that he realized he was, in fact, the stupid one, because the grout was, in fact, red.
It was red grout.
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—”
He resists the urge to smash his head against the floor, but just barely.
Ok, so, apparently the floor is clean. Cool. Walls next. Peter gets up, albeit painfully, and cracks his spine to release some of the tension before getting to work. The stretch sends pins and needles down his arm and makes his vision white out a little, but Peter ignores it.
Thankfully the kitchen has full floor to ceiling backsplash, so he doesn’t need to painstakingly swipe dried blood out of the textured monstrosity that is drywall. (Peter had to do that a few too many times in his old apartment in Queens. After a while he gave up and just hung posters under the window and covered the cracked sill in Iron man stickers.)
The wall goes pretty quick and easy, aside from the fact that he almost punches a hole in it when he mistakes a shadow for a silhouette, and hey, his back hurts a little, but its less then before. The counter is arguably even faster, since the area is both smaller, easier to clean and straight up less stained, but he stops about halfway when his eyes land on the perpetrator of this whole crime scene.
The Envelope™
It’s sitting innocently on the counter, exactly where Peter had thrown it during the fight last night, unsealed top, suspicious bend and all.
Peter should burn it.
Don’t get him wrong, it's not that Peter doesn’t want to know what Timothy sent him, it’s just that he doesn’t know if it's worth it. Jason had been pissed at the idea of Peter working with his brother, and sure, extenuating circumstances and all that, but Peter can’t help but feel like he would be betraying Jason.
Peter groans in frustration.
He should open it, right? But why does part of him feel like Jason is going to appear from the shadows to beat the shit out of him if he does?
(“Choices, choices…” a voice that sounds suspiciously like the green goblin echoes in his ear, and since when does he listen to the green goblin?)
Peter extends his hearing to catch Jason's heartbeat, but the man is still dead asleep in the master bedroom.
“No time like the present, right?”
He grabs the envelope and yanks it open, unceremoniously dumping the contents on the clean part of the table—
He should finish cleaning first. That’d be smarter. It’d also probably be extremely suspicious if he showed up at SI with a bloody piece of paper from WI. He’d probably get Timothy accused of murder or something… although that would be pretty funny.
“Oh my god, Timothy Jackson Wayne: murderer…. that’d be one hell of a headline, wait—”
If Jason is Red Hood, and he used to be Robin, and his dad is Batman…. then….
“Whose Timothy? Robin is like five and also not white, so probably Damien, Signal is also not white, so most likely Duke, the other are all girls and I mean come on Dick Grayson is 100% Nitghwing, so Timothy either cross dresses to fight crime, which would honestly be a pretty genius way to keep a secret identity, or he’s Red Robin.”
Has Red Robin killed? Who knows, maybe. Peter can’t really judge him even if he did—
Table. He should clean the table.
Peter picks up the rag and squeeze a little soapy water on the counter, thankfully only having to scrub lightly to unstick the blood. The last place with blood is the ceiling. Peter could probably just jump up and stick, but it's not like he can bring the bucket with him if he did, so he should probably get a ladder… Where would that even be? A closet Maybe? Could be worth a try.
Peter takes off down the hall to the extra linen closet, which has, unsurprisingly, no ladder in it.
“Right. Hotel room. They don’t exactly have a reason to keep a ladder in here…” He does, however, spot a hair dryer, which might be useful in precipitating the whole ‘drying the floor’ process, since he was a little… generous with his soap water. He grabs it.
Back to square one in the ladder department though… oh well, he should just open the letter now.
He puts the hairdryer down on the sink counter and goes back to the island to check out the letter.
The white stack is neatly folded in thirds, and the crease that was so prominent on the envelope doesn’t even show on the actual pages. Peter unfolds them slowly, not sure what to expect, only to come face to face with—
A blank page.
Peter blinks. Once. Twice. It stays blank.
“Huhh.”
He turns it over. nothing.
Flips to the next page. nothing.
Back of that one. still nothing.
The entire stack is blank.
“Is this… a prank?”
Timothy doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to pull pranks, but then again maybe Jason told him about the wedding and he decided to pull a harmless joke or something. Is pranking your brothers in law a thing? Maybe it's a Wayne thing? God knows the Parker had their fair share of weird traditions. Wait, should Peter plan a prank on the Waynes? He doesn’t want to disrespect their traditions… Unless—
The Waynes are Detectives… Could this be a test? Like a ‘are you family material’ kind of thing? Is it… Actually blank? Peter goes back to the paper stack.
There’s no discoloration or smell that would indicate tempered paper, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be a red light thing, or black light, could be miniature text like the exam or heat paper… Probably not ph, considering it’s stark white, and texture is out of the question, since Peter would be able to feel it, especially with his powers.
The current problem is that Peter has a grand total of zero equipment to prove or disprove this. He doesn’t even have a camera for the zoom… but magnifying glass is just glass with a concave bottom, and you can make a red light by using a red cloth over a flash light… he’d need a floppy disc to make a black light though… and he doesn’t have a lighter… he has a hairblower thought, that could work. Or maybe Jason has a lighter, Jason seems like a lighter kind of guy. It’s not like Peter can just ask him though, the guy’s asleep…
Well, he better start with what he can do.
The sun is well and truly in the sky when Jason wakes up, and he somewhat regrets not closing the blinds the night before —the morning?— it doesn’t really matter, they’re open now, which means he has to get up.
He pushes himself out of the nest of blankets and stalks towards the window. Judging by the height of the sun, it's probably only 8 ish in the morning. Jason stretches his arms over his head and cracks his spine, letting out a content sigh as his stiff muscles loosen a little. He should head to the kitchen to get started on breakfast, Peter’s probably starving by now…
Honestly with the long hallway and separate area’s, the hotel room feels almost like an apartment. It’s got basically everything too: laundry machines, full kitchen, two bathrooms… Hell, Jason’s lived in apartments smaller than this, with multiple people.
Peter’s already in the kitchen when Jason gets there. He’s sitting on the counter, surrounded by pieces of paper… blank pieces of paper.
“Good morning?”
Peter startles, his head snapping up to lock eyes with Jason, and the look he gives him is almost enough to send shivers down his spine. Peter looks frazzled, like borderline hysterical.
“Are you… okay?”
“I’m fine!” He looks down at the papers around him, “I just need to figure out how to make a saline solution that I can use on the paper without potentially damaging the structure to avoid—”
“Okay, wow, Peter. What are you talking about?” (And why are you starting to look like Tim after working on a case for 3 days straight?)
Peter snatches one of the pieces and shoves it in Jason’s face. “This! I need to decipher this!”
Jason blinks in confusion as he slowly takes the offered paper from Peter's hand. “Peter… This is a blank sheet of paper. Are you sure you’re ok?”
Maybe yesterday had affected him worse than Jason had first thought. Of course experiencing something like that would fuck up someone… Not to mention that Jason is 80% sure he threw Peter into a wall, and backlash is the easiest way to get a concussion— Wait, does Peter have brain damage? He said he healed fast but can his healing heal anything? Can he grow back limbs? Irrelevant. Current problem first.
“See I thought so too, but why would Timothy send me a blank letter? There’s no logical reason, right? Unless your brother is super into pranks, which — well, is your brother super into pranks?”
“Wait, this is what Tim sent you?” Jason looks down at the paper still in his hand and, sure enough, it’s the same paper Tim always uses, with the trademark WE coat of arms stamped in the corner and everything.
“Yup. I opened it this morning. I was getting restless and the couch was super uncomfortable and my back got stiff. Have you ever tried to sleep on an uncomfortable surface when your back is already stiff, it’s literally hell. Actually hell might be more comfortable, at least it'd be nice and toasty, have I mentioned that I hate the cold, because I hate the cold.”
Okay, definitely a concussion or something, that is not normal.
“Hey, Peter, do you mind if I check your pupils, I think you might have hit your head…”
Peter hums. “Oh yeah, I hit it yesterday, dented the wall and everything,” He points vaguely to the wall and holy shit, there is a literal Peter sized dent in the stone wall, “But the concussion healed pretty quick, I’m aaaaaalllllll good now.”
“What?” Jason’s pretty sure he’s never been this confused in his life. (Except maybe that one time he asked Dick to summarize a book and his brother decided an interpretative dance was the best way to portray the main character’s mental struggle.)
Peter’s head snaps back up. “ ‘What’, what?”
Now that Peter is closer Jason can really see the frazzled look in his eye and speaking of his eyes, why are his pupils so dilated—
(Oh fuck)
“Peter, are you high?”
“Huh?” Peter’s head tilts to the side, “ ‘course not, that would violate my DARE oath… Anyway I was thinking we should…”
Peter’s voice stops registering over his heartbeat. Peter is high as a fucking kite. And lying about it. Jason should have known something was up with how he reacted yesterday, of course he wasn’t just okay with the whole thing, he must have— must have what? Faked it long enough to come home and get a hit? People don’t just randomly do hard drugs like that. He looks like he’s on coke. It’s not exactly unheard of for rich men to dabble in the stuff but to just do it like that…. Even if Peter was a regular user he’s been sober for at least a month, with no withdrawal. Something’s not adding up. Where would he have even gotten the stuff, Jason’s seen him fill up and empty out his bags a hundred times he would have noticed something—
The warehouse. The warehouse last night. The building had been filled to the brim with the stuff, it would have been easy to snag some. Maybe Peter was a past addict and he was relapsing? But that doesn’t make sense either, because Peter said something about a DARE oath so maybe…
( “It’s a normal sized helmet, Peter, you just have a tiny head.”
“No, no, no, you have a giant head! I’ve worn motorcycle helmets
before and they always fit!”)
How could he have been so stupid? The helmet Jason had given Peter was one of his. If even his normal motorcycle helmets were too big for Peter, then the one he wore last night must have also been, meaning there easily could have been a gap… a gap where whatever shit cut cocaine they had been distributing from that warehouse could have easily slipped past his respirator.
(FUCK! Shit, shit, shit, shit….
Okay, calm down, what are the facts?
- Peter spent upwards of an hour breathing in hard drugs.
- Cocaine high typically only last about 15 minutes, yet he’s still drugged over 6 hours later
- Peter has an enhanced metabolism
Okay, how does that metabolism treat substances? …Jason has no idea.
All he knows is that Peter once told him that he needs specialized pain killers strong enough to overdose an elephant (which Jason genuinely doesn’t know if it was an exaggeration or not) and that putting him under anesthesia is a nightmare. None of that is exactly enough information to figure out what he should do. Should he wait it out? Get him something to help sober up? Get meds to help with withdrawals? Should he be worried about Peter overdosing—
It was cold in the apartment, the windows had never closed all the way and even if they had, they were single pans. His mom Catherine laid on the floor, motionless. She looked disheveled and her lips were slightly blue, but otherwise she could have looked like she was sleeping… Jason had thought she was sleeping…
No. Peter isn’t going to overdose. Jason is going to make sure, he’s going too— he’s going too… (Fuck) Okay, who can he call to help? Dick is out of the question, he’d probably zeta all the way here if he thought Jason was doing drugs. The younger kids wouldn’t be much help… He could call in a favour or a contact, but he doesn’t think he could keep his voice steady enough to talk to a stranger right now. Bruce would know…. No. No Bruce. Not today…
Alfred. Alfred wouldn’t ask questions, and he knows everything.)
Jason all but runs back into the bedroom to grab his phone from the dresser, barely stopping to take a breath before he opens his contacts and selects Alfred’s. The phone rings once, then twice, before the connecting clique cuts of the third ring.
“Hey, Alf! Sorry to call out of the blue, but you wouldn’t happen to know what you're supposed to do to make sure someone doesn’t OD on cocaine, would you? Also whilst you're at it could you give me a list of things they commonly cut it with to make it cheaper and their neutralisers too?”
They’re a sharp inhale on the lane, then: “Jason?”
That’s not Alfred’s voice… that’s Bruce. Jason looks down at the phone in his hand and realizes with a sinking feeling that he didn’t call Alfred’s personal phone, he called the manor. (FUCK)
Jason has never hung up a phone so fast in his life, never thought he’d have too, honestly. The green lunrches in his throat but he pushes it down. (Okay, okay… what now? Fuck, what does he do? Fuccckkk, fuck, fuck—)
“Who were you just talking to?”
The line goes dead just as Bruce is starting to process what just happened. Did… did Jason just call him, well Alfred technically… to ask about cocaine? Did Jason take cocaine? Why would Jason take cocaine? He despises drugs, especially hard ones. Hell, as a kid he was so afraid of them he often refused to take medicine, even when he was sick. Something isn’t adding up and Bruce desperately wants to call back his son and ask for an explanation, but he knows better than to think Jason would appreciate it, or even answer the call for that matter.
He could look into it himself though, provided that Jason doesn’t find out. It’s most definitely a terrible idea and a breach of trust that he’s going to beat himself over for later, but right now his child’s safety takes priority… even if his child is an adult… who is currently most likely still on the other side of the country.
Sometimes Bruce daydreams of wrapping all his children in bubble wrap and endless blankets and making sure no one and nothing could ever hurt them. Things would be easier that way for all of them, and sure, they’d all hate him, but does that really matter if they're safe? Is it so wrong of Bruce to rather have his kids live to hate him then die loving him? A year ago he would have said ‘no’ with the certitude of a man who’s never been wrong once in his life… but Bruce isn’t that man, he arguably never was. He has been wrong, so often he sometimes forgets he’s ever been right, and his children have paid the price. If, or when, they hate him, it certainly won’t be for wrapping them up in too many blankets… but it will be deserved.
“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s stoic reprimand cuts through the Batcave like a blade and Bruce isn't afraid to admit he freezes like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Hey Alfred…”
He desperately wishes he could close all his tabs before Alfred gets close enough to read what he was looking at, but he knows that'll only make him look guilty. Or, well, guilty-er.
“And just what could you possibly be doing down here at,” He makes a show of looking down at his watch, despite Bruce knowing he definitely already knows what time it is, “11:36 in the morning?”
Bruce gringes, “I am… concerned about Jason.”
“Ah. I see. You are stalking young master Jason,”Alfred comes closer, finally taking in the screen in front of Bruce, “And doing so quite unsuccessfully might I add.”
“Alfred, please—”
The older man holds out a hand, effectively cutting off any protest from Bruce. “I am willing to hear you out, Master Bruce. However, I expect a good explanation for this… behaviour.”
Bruce nods. “He called the Manor about 15 minutes ago.”
With nothing better to do now that he’s too far from his keyboard, Bruce’s fingers tap rhythmically against the armrest of the chair. “He sounded pained… I think it was urgent but he,” Bruce takes a breath, lowering his head in shame, “He hung up on me when he realized you hadn’t been the one to answer the phone.”
“He asked for me?” Alfred’s eyes narrow in slight suspicion.
“Yeah, he, hum, he needed your expertise on—I—I’m not…”
“Well,” Alfred says after a second of silence, “I suppose I should call him back. The young lad seems to be expecting an answer, after all.”
Bruce blinks after the retreating form of his father. That seems like such an obvious solution, why didn’t he just immediately ask Alfred to call him back? If there’s anyone in the world that can get through to Jason, it’s Alfred.
Jason drops the phone like it burned him. “Peter.”
If Jason was worried about Peter getting mad at him for calling Bruce (albeit accidentally), he doubts that will be an issue now, since Peter doesn’t appear to be… all there. His whole body is swaying and his eyes are struggling to keep open. Clearly he’s coming down from his high.
“Nobody, Peter, don’t worry about it…” He could explain the situation, but something tells him Peter isn’t in a state to receive explanations.
Peter hums. “Are you already cheating on me?”
He looks at Jason with an unreadable expression and Jason kinda freeezes, because WHAT THE FUCK. Maybe Jason should have explained himself…
“No?”
Peter hums again and his body sways forward dangerously. “That’s good… I don’t think Wade’d be happy if you did.. he’d probably kill you… and make a joke about second times… around…”
Jason surges forward to catch him but, against all odds, Peter stays standing. “Peter, I think you should lay down for a bit.”
Peter sways again. “It’s fine… just exhausted.”
“Yeah, then lay down.”
Peter blinks at him slowly, so slowly. before nodding. “M’kay.”
Jason takes that as permission to grab his arm and guide him to the bed. Peter lets himself get manhandled without any fuss, which is just… unsettling. Normally this would be the point where Jason would hightail it out of the bedroom to let Peter sleep, but unfortunately he still has no idea what Peter + Drugs does, and he can’t risk Peter overdosing like— Stop. Present moment.
“Peter? Do you know how your body usually treats drugs?”
Peter blinks. “It burns through it like candy… it’s… a lot of… work… though…”
Jason nods. So like the flash? But that doesn’t make sense, if his body burns through drugs faster than a normal human’s, then his ‘high’ should have lasted less time than a normal one, not more. Then again, who knows what that drug was cut with, it could have some sort of elongated effect or something. Jason really wishes he’d taken a sample from the scene to test, he’d be so much more prepared if he had.
“How are you feeling now, Peter?"
Peter closes his eyes and breaths out. “I’m starving.”
“Ok, ok, I’ll get you something to eat, yeah?”
“Yeah…”
Jason nods and watches as Peter's breath evens out. He wants to get him a good meal, but it’s probably not a good idea to leave him alone for more than a few minutes, not to mention he kind of already did when he called Bruce… Mind made up, Jason jogs to the kitchen and grabs some snacks, including a few meal bars and some protein stuff he knows Peter eats. The stuff tastes disgusting and Jason couldn’t be paid to eat it, but Peter swears by it, so Jason imagines he must like it. Or maybe it’s just the only way Peter can manage to reach his absolutely obscene calorie goal.
Peter is somewhere between asleep and awake when Jason comes back in. His eyelids are fluttering and clinching like he’s trying to block out something, and only then does Jason remember the blinds are still open. Idiot. He drops the snacks on the nightstand and rushes to close them, plunging the room in a semblance of darkness. Silence follows for a second, before Peter suddenly sits up in bed, making the mattress creak loudly. He turns to look at Jason with eyes so dilated he can’t even see the sclera.
“Peter?”
“Why’d you call Timothy ‘replacement’?”
Jason blinks in confusion. “I called him that?” He hadn’t done that in almost a year.
Peter’s head tilts lightly to the side, but he keeps his unblinking eyes straight. “You did… spat it… like it was an insult …”
Jason’s heart stutters. “Yeah—it—it used to be?” He’s not sure how conscious Peter is right now, or how much he’ll remember later, but he can’t find it in himself to lie around the ball forming in his stomach, “Him and I, we didn’t always get along. It was my fault, I—I was a dumbass, but we got better I think? He’s—he’s my brother, you know?” And since when are words so hard? Peter’s the one who’s high off his ass right now.
Peter’s brain feels like mush. Like a thick slug of jello that he has to dig and swim through just to grab fragmented pieces of sentences he can’t seem to grasp. His voice feels slippery, like does ridiculously expensive silk pyjamas Tony had gotten him for christmas one year. He wonders where they went, they were left in temporary storage at their old apartment when he moved in with Happy… maybe Aunt May had another next of kin to give the things too? Or maybe they went to charity? Peter hopes they did, someone would probably be really happy to have them, happier than him at least, he never really liked silk… What was he saying?
“I always wanted a brother…Ned… I wish I could… see him… them again… apologize…I miss them…”
The bed dips, probably under Jason’s weight as he sits down. “I’m sure they miss you too.”
And, well, what is Peter supposed to say? ‘Actually I'm such a trouble magnet they’re probably better off without me’? ‘No, a wizard cursed me to non-existence’? After a moment of contemplation that could have been a minute as easily as an hour, he decides to just say the truth.
“The spell… that sent me here, it erased all their memories… of me.”
Peter really wishes he could see the look on Jason's face right now, but he doesn’t have the strength to turn his head at the moment, so he just pretends instead. He thinks he’s probably surprised, and a little concerned… Jason likes to act like he doesn’t care, but he carries all his concern in his eyes, and there’s a lot of it. Sometimes, Peter thinks Jason would have been a really loving, kind person if he hadn’t been dragged into this life, and then, when he looks into his eyes, he realizes Jason is that kind loving person, he just… hides it.
There’s a strange buzzing sound, and for a second Peter thinks it’s coming from his spider senses, but then Jason leans forward and grabs something off the bed, and Peter realizes: it's coming from a phone.
Jason settles back next to Peter as he presses the ‘accept call’ button, and Peter drops his head on the side of his shoulder to hear the conversation better. He’s well enough to realize he’s out of it, but he’s always been a good listener, and his memory is usually good enough to remember stuff he hears even when he doesn’t quite register it at the moment.
Jason stiffens a little as he rasps out a “Hey, Alfi.”
Alfi… Peter doesn’t know an ‘Alfi’… Is it one of Jason’s… brothers? He has a few, right? But don’t most of them have ‘D’ names? Except Timothy, but Jason calls him Tim…
“Hello, young master Jason.” The voice that answers from the other end of the phone is definitely too old to be one of Jason’s brothers… and too British. “I was told you required my expertise on an important matter, possibly urgently.”
“Yeah,” Jason sounds oddly relieved, had he been waiting for this call? “I need to pick your brain about drugs for a sec.”
“Well, do go ahead, master Jason.”
Jason puts a hand to Peter’s head to lightly scratch it, and Peter can’t help but purr softly. It feels incredible. Jason’s hand freezes for a split second at the sound, before resuming his ministrations.
“How familiar are you with cocaine usage? And what do they cut it with too?”
‘Alfi’ seems to pause before answering, but it doesn’t feel like hesitation, more like gathering thoughts. “I have no personal experience with the substance, however from my knowledge cocaine tends to cause hypertension and delirium during its high, but it is also known to cause a drastic ‘down’ after the effects wear off, leaving the user fatigued, ravished, uncomfortable and often with reduced psychomotor, as well as odd nightmares and anxiety. I would recommend giving benzodiazepines to the patient and keeping them close by to monitor. Melatonin should help with sleeping if required, but I would discourage the use of other medications. Taking regular prescription medications is also ill advised at this time. As for the additional substances, depending on the… class of its clients, it may be cut with adulterants, levamisole or synthetic opioid, all of wi…”
The British man keeps talking, but Peter zones him out. Jason seems interested though if the way he sits ramrod straight and nods periodically is any indication.
‘Alfi’ had recommended a nap, right? A nap sounds good… Peter should nap. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Jason’s hand in his hair. He could have slept eighteen hours and he still probably would have fallen asleep right then, because that’s just how comfortable he feels.
The last thing he hears before he’s out is Jason's voice, whispering ‘thank you’ into the phone, and he can’t help but be grateful for the volume consideration.